the widow's dog. by mary russell mitford one of the most beautiful spots in the north of hampshire--a part of the country which, from its winding green lanes, with the trees meeting over head like a cradle, its winding roads between coppices, with wide turfy margents on either side, as if left on purpose for the picturesque and frequent gipsy camp, its abundance of hedgerow timber, and its extensive tracts of woodland, seems as if the fields were just dug out of the forest, as might have happened in the days of william rufus--one of the loveliest scenes in this lovely county is the great pond at ashley end. ashley end is itself a romantic and beautiful village, struggling down a steep hill to a clear and narrow running stream, which crosses the road in the bottom, crossed in its turn by a picturesque wooden bridge, and then winding with equal abruptness up the opposite acclivity, so that the scattered cottages, separated from each other by long strips of garden ground, the little country inn, and two or three old-fashioned tenements of somewhat higher pretensions, surrounded by their own moss-grown orchards, seemed to be completely shut out from this bustling world, buried in the sloping meadows so deeply green, and the hanging woods so rich in their various tinting, along which the slender wreaths of smoke from the old clustered chimneys went smiling peacefully in the pleasant autumn air. so profound was the tranquillity, that the slender streamlet which gushed along the valley, following its natural windings, and glittering in the noonday sun like a thread of silver, seemed to the unfrequent visiters of that remote hamlet the only trace of life and motion in the picture. the source of this pretty brook was undoubtedly the great pond, although there was no other road to it than by climbing the steep hill beyond the village, and then turning suddenly to the right, and descending by a deep cart-track, which led between wild banks covered with heath and feathery broom, garlanded with bramble and briar roses, and gay with the purple heath-flower and the delicate harebell,* to a scene even more beautiful and more solitary than the hamlet itself. * one of the pleasantest moments that i have ever known, was that of the introduction of an accomplished young american to the common harebell, upon the very spot which i have attempted to describe. he had never seen that english wild flower, consecrated by the poetry of our common language, was struck even more than i expected by its delicate beauty, placed it in his button-hole, and repeated with enthusiasm the charming lines of scott, from the lady of the lake:- "for me,"--she stooped, and, looking round, plucked a blue harebell from the ground,- "for me, whose memory scarce conveys an image of more splendid days, this little flower, that loves the lea, may well my simple emblem be; it drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose that in the king's own garden grows, and when i place it in my hair, allan, a bard, is bound to swear he ne'er saw coronet so fair." still greater was the delight with which another american recognised that blossom of a thousand associations--the flower sacred to milton and shakspeare--the english primrose. he bent his knee to the ground in gathering a bunch, with a reverential expression which i shall not easily forget, as if the flower were to him an embodiment of the great poets by whom it has been consecrated to fame; and he also had the good taste not to be ashamed of his own enthusiasm. i have had the pleasure of exporting, this spring, to my friend miss sedgwick, (to whose family one of my visiters belongs,) roots and seeds of these wild flowers, of the common violet, the cowslip, and the ivy, another of our indigenous plants which our transatlantic brethren want, and with which mr. theodore sedgwick was especially delighted. it will be a real distinction to be the introductress of these plants into that _berkshire_ village of new england, where miss sedgwick, surrounded by relatives worthy of her in talent and in character, passes her summers. it was a small clear lake almost embosomed in trees, across which an embankment, formed for the purpose of a decoy for the wildfowl with which it abounded, led into a wood which covered the opposite hill; an old forest-like wood, where the noble oaks, whose boughs almost dipped into the water, were surrounded by their sylvan accompaniments of birch, and holly, and hawthorn, where the tall trees met over the straggling paths, and waved across the grassy dells and turfy brakes with which it was interspersed. one low-browed cottage stood in a little meadow--it might almost be called a little orchard--just at the bottom of the winding road that led to the great pond: the cottage of the widow king. independently of its beautiful situation, there was much that was at once picturesque and comfortable about the cottage itself, with its irregularity of outline, its gable ends and jut-ting-out chimneys, its thatched roof and penthouse windows. a little yard, with a small building which just held an old donkey-chaise and an old donkey, a still older cow, and a few pens for geese and chickens, lay on one side of the house; in front, a flower court, surrounded by a mossy paling; a larger plot for vegetables behind; and, stretching down to the great pond on the side opposite the yard, was the greenest of all possible meadows, which, as i have before said, two noble walnut and mulberry-trees, and a few aged pears and apples, clustered near the dwelling, almost converted into that pleasantest appanage of country life, an orchard. notwithstanding, however, the exceeding neatness of the flower-court, and the little garden filled with choice beds of strawberries, and lavender, and old-fashioned flowers, stocks, carnations, roses, pinks; and in spite of the cottage itself being not only almost covered with climbing shrubs, woodbine, jessamine, clematis, and musk-roses, and in one southern nook a magnificent tree-like fuchsia, but the old chimney actually garlanded with delicate creepers, the maurandia, and the lotus spermus, whose pink and purple bells, peeping out from between their elegant foliage, and mingling with the bolder blossoms and darker leaves of the passion-flower, give such a wreathy and airy grace to the humblest building;* in spite of this luxuriance of natural beauty, and of the evident care bestowed upon the cultivation of the beds, and the training of the climbing plants, we yet felt, we hardly could tell why, but yet we instinctively felt, that the moss-grown thatch, the mouldering paling, the hoary apple trees, in a word, the evidences of decay visible around the place, were but types of the fading fortunes of the inmates. * i know nothing so pretty as the manner in which creeping plants interwreath themselves one with another. we have at this moment a wall quite covered with honeysuckles, fuchsias, roses, clematis, passion flowers, myrtles, scobsea, acrima carpis, lotus spermus, and maurandia barclayana, in which two long sprays of the last-mentioned climbers have jutted out from the wall, and entwined themselves together, like the handle of an antique basket. the rich profusion of leaves, those of the lotus spermus, comparatively rounded and dim, soft in texture and colour, with a darker patch in the middle, like the leaf of the old gum geranium; those of the maurandia, so bright, and shining, and sharply outlined--the stalks equally graceful in their varied green, and the roseate bells of the one contrasting and harmonising so finely with the rich violet flowers of the other, might really form a study for a painter. i never saw anything more graceful in quaint and cunning art than this bit of simple nature. but nature often takes a fancy to outvie her skilful and ambitious handmaiden, and is always certain to succeed in the competition. and such was really the case. the widow king had known better days. her husband had been the head keeper, her only son head gardener, of the lord of the manor; but both were dead; and she, with an orphan grandchild, a thoughtful boy of eight or nine years old, now gained a scanty subsistence from the produce of their little dairy, their few poultry, their honey, (have i not said that a row of bee-hives held their station on the sunny side of the garden?). and the fruit and flowers which little tom and the old donkey carried in their season to belford every market-day. besides these their accustomed sources of income, mrs. king and tom neglected no means of earning an honest penny. they stripped the downy spikes of the bulrushes to stuff cushions and pillows, and wove the rushes themselves into mats. poor tom was as handy as a girl; and in the long winter evenings he would plait the straw hats in which he went to belford market, and knit the stockings, which, kept rather for show than for use, were just assumed to go to church on sundays, and then laid aside for the week. so exact was their economy. the only extravagance in which mrs. king indulged herself was keeping a pet spaniel, the descendant of a breed for which her husband had been famous, and which was so great a favourite, that it ranked next to tom in her affections, and next to his grandmother in tom's. the first time that i ever saw them, this pretty dog had brought her kind mistress into no small trouble. we had been taking a drive through these beautiful lanes, never more beautiful than when the richly tinted autumnal foliage contrasts with the deep emerald hue of the autumnal herbage, and were admiring the fine effect of the majestic oaks, whose lower branches almost touched the clear water which reflected so brightly the bright blue sky, when mrs. king, who was well known to my father, advanced to the gate of her little court, and modestly requested to speak with him. the group in front of the cottage door was one which it was impossible to contemplate without strong interest. the poor widow, in her neat crimped cap, her well-worn mourning gown, her apron and handkerchief coarse, indeed, and of cheap material, but delicately clean, her grey hair parted on her brow, and her pale intelligent countenance, stood leaning against the doorway, holding in one thin trembling hand a letter newly opened, and in the other her spectacles, which she had been fain to take off, half hoping that they had played her false, and that the ill-omened epistle would not be found to contain what had so grieved her. tom, a fine rosy boy, stout and manly for his years, sat on the ground with chloe in his arms, giving vent to a most unmanly fit of crying; and chloe, a dog worthy of edwin landseer's pencil, a large and beautiful spaniel, of the scarce old english breed, brown and white, with shining wavy hair feathering her thighs and legs, and clustering into curls towards her tail and forehead, and upon the long glossy magnificent ears which gave so much richness to her fine expressive countenance, looked at him wistfully, with eyes that expressed the fullest sympathy in his affliction, and stooped to lick his hand, and nestled her head in his bosom, as if trying, as far as her caresses had the power, to soothe and comfort him. "and so, sir," continued mrs. king, who had been telling her little story to my father, whilst i had been admiring her pet, "this mr. poulton, the tax-gatherer, because i refused to give him our chloe, whom my boy is so fond of that he shares his meals with her, poor fellow, has laid an information against us for keeping a sporting dog--i don't know what the proper word is--and has had us surcharged; and the first that ever i have heard of it is by this letter, from which i find that i must pay i don't know how much money by saturday next, or else my goods will be seized and sold. and i have but just managed to pay my rent, and where to get a farthing i can't tell. i dare say he would let us off now if i would but give him chloe; but that i can't find in my heart to do. he's a hard man, and a bad dog-master. i've all along been afraid that we must part with chloe, now that she's growing up like, because of our living so near the preserves--" "oh, grandmother!" interrupted tom, "poor chloe!" "but i can't give her to _him_. don't cry so, tom! i'd sooner have my little goods sold, and lie upon the boards. i should not mind parting with her if she were taken good care of, but i never will give her to him." "is this the first you have heard of the matter?" inquired my father; "you ought to have had notice in time to appeal." "i never heard a word till to-day." "poulton seems to say that he sent a letter, nevertheless, and offers to prove the sending, if need be; it's not in our division, not even in our county, and i am afraid that in this matter of the surcharge i can do nothing," observed my father; "though i have no doubt but it's a rascally trick to come by the dog. she's a pretty creature," continued be, stooping to pat her, and examining her head and mouth with the air of a connoisseur in canine affairs, "a very fine creature! how old is she?" "not quite a twelvemonth, sir. she was pupped on the sixteenth of last october, grandmother's birthday, of all the days in the year," said tom, somewhat comforted by his visiter's evident sympathy. "the sixteenth of october! then mr. poulton may bid good-bye to his surcharge; for unless she was six months old on the fifth of april, she cannot be taxed for this year--so his letter is so much waste paper. i'll write this very night to the chairman of the commissioners, and manage the matter for you. and i'll also write to master poulton, and let him know that i'll acquaint the board if he gives you any farther trouble. you're sure that you can prove the day she was pupped?" continued his worship, highly delighted. "very lucky! you'll have nothing to pay for her till next half-year, and then i'm afraid that this fellow poulton will insist upon her being entered as a sporting dog, which is fourteen shillings. but that's a future concern. as to the surcharge, i'll take care of that. a beautiful creature, is not she, mary? very lucky that we happened to drive this way." and with kind adieus to tom and his grandmother, who were as grateful as people could be, we departed. about a week after, tom and chloe in their turn appeared at our cottage. all had gone right in the matter of the surcharge. the commissioners had decided in mrs. king's favour, and mr. poulton had been forced to succumb. but his grandmother had considered the danger of offending their good landlord sir john, by keeping a sporting dog so near his coverts, and also the difficulty of paying the tax; and both she and tom had made up their minds to offer chloe to my father. he had admired her, and everybody said that he was as good a dog-master as mr. poulton was a bad one; and he came sometimes coursing to ashley end, and then perhaps he would let them both see poor chloe; "for grandmother," added tom, "though she seemed somehow ashamed to confess as much, was at the bottom of her heart pretty nigh as fond of her as he was himself. indeed, he did not know who could help being fond of chloe, she had so many pretty ways." and tom, making manful battle against the tears that would start into his eyes, almost as full of affection as the eyes of chloe herself, and hugging his beautiful pet, who seemed upon her part to have a presentiment of the evil that awaited her, sate down as requested in the hall, whilst my father considered his proposition. upon the whole, it seemed to us kindest to the parties concerned, the widow king, tom, and chloe, to accept the gift. sir john was a kind man, and a good landlord, but he was also a keen sportsman; and it was quite certain that he would have no great taste for a dog of such high sporting blood close to his best preserves; the keeper also would probably seize hold of such a neighbour as a scapegoat, in case of any deficiency in the number of hares and pheasants; and then their great enemy, mr. poulton, might avail himself of some technical deficiency to bring mrs. king within the clutch of a surcharge. there might not always be an oversight in that shylock's bond, nor a wise judge, young or old, to detect it if there were. so that, upon due consideration, my father (determined, of course, to make a proper return for the present) agreed to consider chloe as his own property; and tom, having seen her very comfortably installed in clean dry straw in a warm stable, and fed in a manner which gave a satisfactory specimen of her future diet, and being himself regaled with plum-cake and cherry brandy, (a liquor of which he had, he said, heard much talk, and which proved, as my father had augured, exceedingly cheering and consolatory in the moment of affliction,) departed in much better spirits than could have been expected after such a separation. i myself, duly appreciating the merits of chloe, was a little jealous for my own noble dash, whom she resembled, with a slight inferiority of size and colouring; much such a resemblance as viola, i suppose, bore to sebastian. but upon being reminded of the affinity between the two dogs, (for dash came originally from the ashley end kennel, and was, as nearly as we could make out, grand-uncle to chloe,) and of our singular good fortune, in having two such beautiful spaniels under one roof, my objections were entirely removed. under the same roof they did not seem likely to continue. when sent after to the stable the next morning, chloe was missing. everybody declared that the door had not been opened, and dick, who had her in charge, vowed that the key had never been out of his pocket but accusations and affirmations were equally useless--the bird was flown. of course she had returned to ashley end. and upon being sent for to her old abode, tom was found preparing to bring her to aberleigh; and mrs. king suggested, that, having been accustomed to live with them, she would, perhaps, sooner get accustomed to the kitchen fireside than to a stable, however comfortable. the suggestion was followed. a mat was placed by the side of the kitchen fire; much pains were taken to coax the shy stranger; (dick, who loved and understood dogs, devoting himself to the task of making himself agreeable to this gentle and beautiful creature;) and she seemed so far reconciled as to suffer his caresses, to lap a little milk when sure that nobody saw her, and even to bridle with instinctive coquetry, when dash, head and tail up, advanced with a sort of stately and conscious courtesy to examine into the claims of the newcomer. for the first evening all seemed promising; but on the next morning, nobody knew how or when, chloe eloped to her old quarters. again she was fetched back; this time to the parlour: and again she ran away. then she was tied up, and she gnawed the string; chained up, and she slipped the collar; and we began to think, that unless we could find some good home for her at a distance, there was nothing for it but to return her altogether to mrs. king, when a letter from a friend at bath gave a new aspect to chloe's affairs. the letter was from a dear friend of mine--a young married lady, with an invalid husband, and one lovely little girl, a damsel of some two years old, commonly called "pretty may." they wanted a pet dog to live in the parlour, and walk out with mother and daughter--not a cross yelping blenheim spaniel, (those troublesome little creatures spoil every body's manners who is so unlucky as to possess them, the first five minutes of every morning call being invariably devoted to silencing the lapdog and apologising to the visiter,)--not a pigmy blenheim, but a large, noble animal, something, in short, as like as might be to dash, with whom mrs. keating had a personal acquaintance, and for whom, in common with most of his acquaintances, she entertained a very decided partiality: i do not believe that there is a dog in england who has more friends than my dash. a spaniel was wanted at bath like my dash: and what spaniel could be more like dash than chloe? a distant home was wanted for chloe: and what home could open a brighter prospect of canine felicity than to be the pet of mrs. keating, and the playmate of pretty may? it seemed one of those startling coincidences which amuse one by their singular fitness and propriety, and make one believe that there is more in the exploded doctrine of sympathies than can be found in our philosophy. so, upon the matter being explained to her, thought mrs. king; and writing duly to announce the arrival of chloe, she was deposited, with a quantity of soft hay, in a large hamper, and conveyed into belford by my father himself, who would entrust to none other the office of delivering her to the coachman, and charging that very civil member of a very civil body of men to have especial care of the pretty creature, who was parted with for no other fault than an excess of affection and fidelity to her first kind protectors. nothing could exceed the brilliancy of her reception. pretty may, the sweet smiling child of a sweet smiling mother, had been kept up a full hour after her usual time to welcome the stranger, and was so charmed with this her first living toy, that it was difficult to get her to bed. she divided her own supper with poor chloe, hungry after her long journey; rolled with her upon the turkey carpet, and at last fell asleep with her arms clasped round her new pet's neck, and her bright face, coloured like lilies and roses, flung across her body; chloe enduring these caresses with a careful, quiet gentleness, which immediately won for her the hearts of the lovely mother, of the fond father, (for to an accomplished and right-minded man, in delicate health, what a treasure is a little prattling girl, his only one!) of two grandmothers, of three or four young aunts, and of the whole tribe of nursery attendants. never was debut so successful, as chloe's first appearance in camden place. as her new dog had been pretty may's last thought at night, so was it her first on awakening. he shared her breakfast as he had shared her supper; and immediately after breakfast, mother and daughter, attended by nurserymaid and footman, sallied forth to provide proper luxuries for chloe's accommodation. first they purchased a sheepskin rug; then a splendid porcelain trough for water, and a porcelain dish to match, for food; then a spaniel basket, duly lined, and stuffed, and curtained--a splendid piece of canine upholstery; then a necklace-like collar with silver bells, which was left to have the address engraved upon the clasp; and then may, finding herself in the vicinity of a hosier and a shoemaker, bethought herself of a want which undoubtedly had not occurred to any other of her party, and holding up her own pretty little foot, demanded "tilk tocks and boo thoose for tloã«." for two days did chloe endure the petting and the luxuries. on the third she disappeared. great was the consternation in camden place. pretty may cried as she had never been known to cry before; and papa, mamma, grandmammas, aunts, nursery and house-maids, fretted and wondered, wondered and fretted, and vented their distress in every variety of exclamation, from the refined language of the drawing-room to the patois of a somersetshire kitchen. rewards were offered, and handbills dispersed over the town. she was cried, and she was advertised; and at last, giving up every hope of her recovery, mrs. keating wrote to me. it happened that we received the letter on one of those soft november days, which sometimes intervene between the rough winds of october and the crisp frosts of christmas, and which, although too dirty under foot to be quite pleasant for walking, are yet, during the few hours that the sun is above the horizon, mild enough for an open carriage in our shady lanes, strewed as they are at that period with the yellow leaves of the elm, whilst the hedgerows are still rich with the tawny foliage of the oak, and the rich colouring of the hawthorn and the bramble. it was such weather as the americans generally enjoy at this season, and call by the pretty name of the indian summer. and we resolved to avail ourselves of the fineness of the day to drive to ashley end, and inform mrs. king and tom (who we felt ought to know) of the loss of chloe, and our fear, according with mrs. keating's, that she had been stolen; adding our persuasion, which was also that of mrs. keating, that, fall into whatever hands she might, she was too beautiful and valuable not to ensure good usage. on the way we were overtaken by the good widow's landlord, returning from hunting, in his red coat and top-boots, who was also bound to ashley end. as he rode chatting by the side of the carriage, we could not forbear telling him our present errand, and the whole story of poor chloe. how often, without being particularly uncharitable in judging of our neighbours, we have the gratification of finding them even better than we had supposed! he blamed us for not having thought well enough of him to put the whole affair into his management from the first, and exclaimed against us for fearing that he would compare the preserves and the pheasant-shooting with such an attachment as had subsisted between his good old tenant and her faithful dog. "by jove!" cried he, "i would have paid the tax myself rather than they should have been parted. but it's too late to talk of that now, for, of course, the dog is stolen. eighty miles is too far even for a spaniel to find its way back! carried by coach, too! i would give twenty pounds willingly to replace her with old dame king and master tom. by the way, we must see what can be done for that boy--he's a fine spanking fellow. we must consult his grandmother. the descendant of two faithful servants has an hereditary claim to all that can be done for him. how could _you_ imagine that i should be thinking of those coverts? i that am as great a dog-lover as dame king herself! i have a great mind to be very angry with you." these words, spoken in the good sportsman's earnest, hearty, joyous, kindly voice, (_that_ ought to have given an assurance of his kindly nature,--i have a religious faith in voices,) these words brought us within sight of ashley end, and there, in front of the cottage, we saw a group which fixed our attention at once: chloe, her own identical self--poor, dear chloe, apparently just arrived, dirty, weary, jaded, wet, lying in tom's arms as he sat on the ground, feeding her with the bacon and cabbage, his own and his grandmother's dinner, all the contents of the platter; and she, too happy to eat, wagging her tail as if she would wag it off; now licking mrs. king's hands as the good old dame leant over her, the tears streaming from her eyes: now kissing tom's honest face, who broke into loud laughter for very joy, and, with looks that spoke as plain as ever looks did speak, "here i am come home again to those whom i love best--to those who best love me!" poor dear chloe! even we whom she left, sympathised with her fidelity. poor dear chloe! there we found her, and there, i need not, i hope, say, we left her, one of the happiest of living creatures. 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? [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) mrs. wiggs of the cabbage patch by alice caldwell hegan new york . . mcmii copyright, 1901, by this little story is lovingly dedicated to my mother, who for years has been the good angel of "the cabbage patch" contents mrs. wiggs's philosophy ways and means the "christmas lady" the annexation of cuby a reminiscence a theater party "mr. bob" mrs. wiggs at home how spring came to the cabbage patch australia's mishap the benefit dance mrs. wiggs of the cabbage patch chapter i mrs. wiggs's philosophy "in the mud and scum of things something always always sings!" "my, but it's nice an' cold this mornin'! the thermometer's done fell up to zero!" mrs. wiggs made the statement as cheerfully as if her elbows were not sticking out through the boy's coat that she wore, or her teeth chattering in her head like a pair of castanets. but, then, mrs. wiggs was a philosopher, and the sum and substance of her philosophy lay in keeping the dust off her rose-colored spectacles. when mr. wiggs traveled to eternity by the alcohol route, she buried his faults with him, and for want of better virtues to extol she always laid stress on the fine hand he wrote. it was the same way when their little country home burned and she had to come to the city to seek work; her one comment was: "thank god, it was the pig instid of the baby that was burned!" so this bleak morning in december she pinned the bed-clothes around the children and made them sit up close to the stove, while she pasted brown paper over the broken window-pane and made sprightly comments on the change in the weather. the wiggses lived in the cabbage patch. it was not a real cabbage patch, but a queer neighborhood, where ramshackle cottages played hop-scotch over the railroad tracks. there were no streets, so when a new house was built the owner faced it any way his fancy prompted. mr. bagby's grocery, it is true, conformed to convention, and presented a solid front to the railroad track, but miss hazy's cottage shied off sidewise into the wiggses' yard, as if it were afraid of the big freight-trains that went thundering past so many times a day; and mrs. schultz's front room looked directly into the eichorns' kitchen. the latter was not a bad arrangement, however, for mrs. schultz had been confined to her bed for ten years, and her sole interest in life consisted in watching what took place in her neighbor's family. the wiggses' house was the most imposing in the neighborhood. this was probably due to the fact that it had two front doors and a tin roof. one door was nailed up, and the other opened outdoors, but you would never guess it from the street. when the country house burned, one door had been saved. so mrs. wiggs and the boys brought it to the new home and skilfully placed it at the front end of the side porch. but the roof gave the house its chief distinction; it was the only tin roof in the cabbage patch. jim and billy had made it of old cans which they picked up on the commons. jim was fifteen and head of the family; his shoulders were those of a man, and were bent with work, but his body dwindled away to a pair of thin legs that seemed incapable of supporting the burden imposed upon them. in his anxious eyes was the look of a bread-winner who had begun the struggle too soon. life had been a tragedy to jim: the tragedy that comes when a child's sensitive soul is forced to meet the responsibilities of manhood, yet lacks the wisdom that only experience can bring. billy wiggs was differently constituted; responsibilities rested upon him as lightly as the freckles on his nose. when occasion or his mother demanded he worked to good purposes with a tenacity that argued well for his future success, but for the most part he played and fought and got into trouble with the aptitude characteristic of the average small boy. it was mrs. wiggs's boast that her three little girls had geography names; first came asia, then australia. when the last baby arrived, billy had stood looking down at the small bundle and asked anxiously: "are you goin' to have it fer a boy or a girl, ma?" mrs. wiggs had answered: "a girl, billy, an' her name's europena!" on this particular sunday morning mrs. wiggs bustled about the kitchen in unusual haste. "i am goin' to make you all some nice irish pertater soup fer dinner," she said, as she came in from the parlor, where she kept her potatoes and onions. "the boys'll be in soon, an' we'll have to hurry and git through 'fore the childern begin to come to sunday-school." for many years sunday afternoon had been a trying time in the neighborhood, so mrs. wiggs had organized a sunday-school class at which she presided. "if there don't come chris an' pete a'ready!" said asia, from her post by the stove; "i bet they've had their dinner, an' jes' come early to git some of ours!" "why, asia!" exclaimed mrs. wiggs, "that ain't hospit'le, an' chris with one leg, too! 't ain't no trouble at all. all i got to do is to put a little more water in the soup, an' me and jim won't take but one piece of bread." when jim and billy came in they found their places at the table taken, so they sat on the floor and drank their soup out of tea-cups. "gee!" said billy, after the third help, "i've drinken so much that when i swallers a piece er bread i can hear it splash!" "well, you boys git up now, an' go out and bring me in a couple of planks to put acrost the cheers fer the childern to set on." by two o 'clock the sunday-school had begun; every seat in the kitchen, available and otherwise, was occupied. the boys sat in the windows and on the table, and the girls squeezed together on the improvised benches. mrs. wiggs stood before them with a dilapidated hymn-book in her hand. "now, you all must hush talking so we kin all sing a hymn; i'll read it over, then we'll all sing it together. 'when upon life's billers you are tempest tossed, when you are discouraged thinking all is lost, count yer many blessin's, name 'em one by one, an' it will surprise you what the lord hath done!'" clear and strong rose the childish voices in different keys and regardless of time, but with a genuine enthusiasm that was in itself a blessing. when they had sung through the three stanzas mrs. wiggs began the lesson. "what did we study 'bout last sunday?" she asked. no response, save a smothered giggle from two of the little girls. "don't you all remember what the lord give moses up on the mountain?" a hand went up in the corner, and an eager voice cried: "yas'm, i know! lord give moses ten tallers, an' he duveled 'em." before mrs. wiggs could enter into an argument concerning this new version of sacred history, she was hit in the eye with a paper wad. it was aimed at billy, but when he dodged she became the victim. this caused some delay, for she had to bathe the injured member, and during the interval the sunday-school became riotous. "mith wiggs, make tommy thop thpittin' terbaccer juice in my hat!" "miss wiggs, i know who hit you!" "teacher, kin i git a drink?" it was not until mrs. wiggs, with a stocking tied over her eye, emerged from the bedroom and again took command that order was restored. "where is bethlehem?" she began, reading from an old lesson-paper. "you kin search me!" promptly answered chris. she ignored his remark, and passed to the next, who said, half doubtfully: "ain't it in alabama?" "no, it's in the holy land," she said. a sudden commotion arose in the back of the room. billy, by a series of skilful manoeuvers, had succeeded in removing the chair that held one of the planks, and a cascade of small, indignant girls were tobogganing sidewise down the incline. a fight was imminent, but before any further trouble occurred mrs. wiggs locked billy in the bedroom, and became mistress of the situation. "what i think you childern need is a talk about fussin' an' fightin'. there ain't no use in me teachin' what they done a thousand years ago, when you ain't got manners enough to listen at what i am sayin'. i recollect one time durin' the war, when the soldiers was layin' 'round the camp, tryin' they best to keep from freezin' to death, a preacher come 'long to hold a service. an' when he got up to preach he sez, 'friends,' sez he, 'my tex' is chillblains. they ain't no use a-preachin' religion to men whose whole thought is set on their feet. now, you fellows git some soft-soap an' pour it in yer shoes, an' jes' keep them shoes on till yer feet gits well, an' the nex' time i come 'round yer minds'll be better prepared to receive the word of the lord.' now, that's the way i feel 'bout this here sunday-school. first an' fo'most, i am goin' to learn you all manners. jes' one thought i want you to take away, an' that is, it's sinful to fuss. ma use' to say livin' was like quiltin'--you orter keep the peace an' do 'way with the scraps. now, what do i want you all to remember?" "don't fuss!" came the prompt answer. "that's right; now we'll sing 'pull fer the shore.'" when the windows had ceased to rattle from the vibrations of the lusty chorus, mrs. wiggs lifted her hands for silence. "o lord!" she prayed earnestly, "help these here childern to be good an' kind to each other, an' to their mas an' their pas. make 'em thankful fer whatever they 'are got, even if it ain't but a little. show us all how to live like you want us to live, an' praise god from whom all blessin's flow. amen." as the last youngster scampered out of the yard, mrs. wiggs turned to the window where jim was standing. he had taken no part in the singing, and was silent and preoccupied. "jim," said his mother, trying to look into his face, "you never had on yer overcoat when you come in. you ain't gone an' sold it?" "yes," said the boy, heavily; "but 't ain't 'nough fer the rent. i got to figger it out some other way." mrs. wiggs put her arm about his shoulder, and together they looked out across the dreary commons. "don't you worry so, jimmy," said she. "mebbe i kin git work to-morrow, or you'll git a raise, or somethin'; they'll be some way." little she guessed what the way was to be. chapter ii ways and means "ah! well may the children weep before you! they are weary ere they run; they have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory which is brighter than the sun." the cold wave that was ushered in that december morning was the beginning of a long series of days that vied with each other as to which could induce the mercury to drop the lowest. the descent of the temperature seemed to have a like effect on the barrel of potatoes and the load of coal in the wiggses' parlor. mrs. wiggs's untiring efforts to find employment had met with no success, and jim's exertions were redoubled; day by day his scanty earnings became less sufficient to meet the demands of the family. on christmas eve they sat over the stove, after the little ones had gone to bed, and discussed the situation. the wind hurled itself against the house in a very frenzy of rage, shaking the icicles from the window-ledge and hissing through the patched panes. the snow that sifted in through the loose sash lay unmelted on the sill. jim had a piece of old carpet about him, and coughed with almost every breath. mrs. wiggs's head was in her hands, and the tears that trickled through her crooked fingers hissed as they fell on the stove. it was the first time jim had ever seen her give up. "seems like we'll have to ast fer help, jim," she said. "i can't ast fer credit at mr. bagby's; seems like i'd never have the courage to pull agin a debt. what do you think? i guess--it looks like mebbe we'll have to apply to the organization." jim's eyes flashed. "not yet, ma!" he said, firmly. "it 'ud be with us like it was with the hornbys; they didn't have nothin' to eat, and they went to the organization ant the man asted 'em if they had a bed or a table, an' when they said yes, he said, 'well, why don't you sell 'em?' no, ma! as long as we've got coal i'll git the vittles some way!" he had to pause, for a violent attack of coughing shook him from head to foot. "i think i can git a night job next week; one of the market-men comes in from the country ever' night to git a early start next morning an' he ast me if i'd sleep in his wagon from three to six an' keep his vegetables from bein' stole. that 'ud gimme time to git home an' git breakfast, an' be down to the fact'ry by seven." "but, jimmy boy," cried his mother, her voice quivering with anxiety, "you never could stan' it night an' day too! no, i'll watch the wagon; i'll--" a knock on the parlor door interrupted her. she hastily dried her eyes and smoothed her hair. jim went to the door. "i've a christmas basket for you!" cried a cheery voice. "is this christmas?" jim asked dully. the girl in the doorway laughed. she was tall and slender, but jim could only see a pair of sparkling eyes between the brim of the hat and her high fur collar. it was nice to hear her laugh, though; it made things seem warmer somehow. the colored man behind her deposited a large basket on the doorstep. "it's from the church," she explained; "a crowd of us are out in the omnibus distributing baskets." "well, how'd you ever happen to come here?" cried mrs. wiggs, who had come to the door. "there is one for each of the mission-school families; just a little christmas greeting, you know." mrs. wiggs's spirits were rising every minute. "well, that certainly is kind an' thoughtful like," she said. "won't you--" she hesitated; the room she had just left was not in a condition to receive guests, but mrs. wiggs was a kentuckian. "come right in an' git warm," she said cordially; "the stove's died down some, but you could git thawed out." "no, thank you, i can't come in," said the young lady, with a side glance at jim, who was leaning against the door. "have you plenty of coal?" she asked, in an undertone. "oh, yes'm, thank you," said mrs. wiggs, smiling reassuringly. her tone might have been less confident, but for jim's warning glance. every fiber of his sensitive nature shrank from asking help. the girl was puzzled; she noticed the stamp of poverty on everything in sight except the bright face of the little woman before her. "well," she said doubtfully, "if you ever want--to come to see me, ask for miss lucy olcott at terrace park. good night, and a happy christmas!" she was gone, and the doorway looked very black and lonesome in consequence. but there was the big basket to prove she was not merely an apparition, and it took both jim and his mother to carry it in. sitting on the floor, they unpacked it. there were vegetables, oatmeal, fruit, and even tea and coffee. but the surprise was at the very bottom! a big turkey, looking so comical with his legs stuck in his body that jim laughed outright. "it's the first turkey that's been in this house fer many a day!" said mrs. wiggs, delightedly, as she pinched the fat fowl. "i 'spect europena'll be skeered of it, it's so big. my, but we'll have a good dinner to-morrow! i'll git miss hazy an' chris to come over an' spend the day, and i'll carry a plate over to mrs. schultz, an' take a little o' this here tea to ole mrs. lawson." the cloud had turned inside out for mrs. wiggs, and only the silver lining was visible. jim was doing a sum on the brown paper that came over the basket, and presently he looked up and said slowly: "ma, i guess we can't have the turkey this year. i kin sell it fer a dollar seventy-five, and that would buy us hog-meat fer a good while." mrs. wiggs's face fell, and she twisted her apron-string in silence. she had pictured the joy of a real christmas dinner, the first the youngest children had ever known; she had already thought of half a dozen neighbors to whom she wanted to send "a little snack." but one look at jim's anxious face recalled their circumstances. "of course we'll sell it," she said brightly. "you have got the longest head fer a boy! we'll sell it in the mornin', an' buy sausage fer dinner, an' i'll cook some of these here nice vegetables an' put a orange an' some candy at each plate, an' the childern'll never know nothin' 'bout it. besides," she added, "if you ain't never et turkey meat you don't know how good it is." but in spite of her philosophy, after jim had gone to bed she slipped over and took one more look at the turkey. "i think i wouldn't 'a' minded so much," she said, wistfully, "ef they hadn't 'a' sent the cramberries, too!" for ten days the basket of provisions and the extra money made by jim's night work and mrs. wiggs's washing supplied the demands of the family; but by the end of january the clouds had gathered thicker than before. mrs. wiggs's heart was heavy, one night, as she tramped home through the snow after a hard day's work. the rent was due, the coal was out, and only a few potatoes were left in the barrel. but these were mere shadow troubles, compared to jim's illness; he had been too sick to go to the factory that morning, and she dared not think what changes the day may have brought. as she lifted the latch of her rickety door the sobbing of a child greeted her; it was little europena, crying for food. for three days there had been no bread in the house, and a scanty supply of potatoes and beans had been their only nourishment. mrs. wiggs hastened to where jim lay on a cot in the corner; his cheeks were flushed, and his thin, nervous fingers picked at the old shawl that covered him. "jim," she said, kneeling beside him and pressing his hot hand to her cheek, "jim, darling lemme go fer the doctor. you're worser than you was this mornin', an'--an'--i'm so skeered!" her voice broke in a sob. jim tried to put his arm around her, but something hurt him in his chest when he moved, so he patted her hand instead. "never mind, ma," he said, his breath coming short; "we ain't got no money to buy the medicine, even if the doctor did come. you go git some supper, now; an', ma, don't worry; i'm goin' to take keer of you all! only--only," he added, wearily, "i guess i can't sleep in the wagon to-night." slowly the hours passed until midnight. mrs. wiggs had pulled jim's cot close to the stove, and applied vigorous measures to relieve him. her efforts were unceasing, and one after another the homely country remedies were faithfully administered. at twelve o'clock he grew restless. "seems like i'm hot, then agin i'm cold," he said, speaking with difficulty. "could you find a little somethin' more to put over me, ma?" mrs. wiggs got up and went toward the bed. the three little girls lay huddled under one old quilt, their faces pale and sunken. she turned away abruptly, and looked toward the corner where billy slept on a pallet. the blankets on his bed were insufficient even for him. she put her hands over her face, and for a moment dry sobs convulsed her. the hardest grief is often that which leaves no trace. when she went back to the stove she had a smile ready for the sick boy. "here's the very thing," she said; "it's my dress skirt. i don't need it a mite, settin' up here so clost to the fire. see how nice it tucks in all 'round!" for a while he lay silent, then he said: "ma, are you 'wake?" "yes, jim." "well, i bin thinking it over. if i ain't better in the morning i guess--" the words came reluctantly--"i guess you'd better go see the christmas lady. i wouldn't mind her knowin' so much. 't won't be fer long, nohow, cause i kin take keer of you all soon--soon 's i kin git up." the talking brought on severe coughing, and he sank back exhausted. "can't you go to sleep, honey?" asked his mother. "no, it's them ole wheels," he said fretfully, "them wheels at the fact'ry; when i git to sleep they keep on wakin' me up." mrs. wiggs's hands were rough and knotted, but love taught them to be gentle as she smoothed his hot head. "want me to tell you 'bout the country, jim?" she asked. since he was a little boy he had loved to hear of their old home in the valley. his dim recollection of it all formed his one conception of heaven. "yes, ma; mebbe it will make me fergit the wheels," he said. "well," she began, putting her head beside his on the pillow, so he could not watch her face, "it was all jes' like a big front yard without no fences, an' the flowers didn't belong to folks like they do over on the avenue, where you dassent pick a one; but they was god's, an' you was welcome to all you could pull. an' there was trees, jim, where you could climb up an' git big red apples, an' when the frost 'ud come they'd be persimmons that 'ud jes' melt in yer mouth. an' you could look 'way off 'crost the meaders, an' see the trees a-wavin' in the sunshine, an' up over yer head the birds 'ud be singin' like they was never goin' to stop. an' yer pa an' me 'ud take you out at the harvestin' time, an' you 'ud play on the hay-stacks. i kin remember jes' how you looked, jim--a fat little boy, with red cheeks a-laughin' all the time." mrs. wiggs could tell no more, for the old memories were too much for her. jim scarcely knew when she stopped; his eyes were half closed, and a sweet drowsiness was upon him. "it's nice an' warm in the sunshine," he murmured; "the meaders an' trees--laughin' all the time! birds singin', singin', singin'." then jim began to sing too, softly and monotonously, and the sorrow that had not come with years left his tired face, and he fearlessly drifted away into the shadowy valley where his lost childhood lay. chapter iii the "christmas lady" "the rosy glow of summer is on thy dimpled cheek, while in thy heart the winter is lying cold and bleak. "but this shall change hereafter, when years have done their part, and on thy cheek the wintered and summer in thy heart." late the next afternoon a man and a girl were standing in the olcott reception hall. the lamps had not been lighted, but the blaze from the back-log threw a cozy glow of comfort over the crimson curtains and on the mass of bright-hued pillows in the window-seat. robert redding, standing with his hat in his hand, would have been gone long ago if the "christmas lady" had not worn her violet gown. he said it always took him half an hour to say good-by when she wore a rose in her hair, and a full hour when she had on the violet dress. "by jove, stand there a minute just as you are! the fire-light shining through your hair makes you look like a saint. little saint lucinda!" he said teasingly, as he tried to catch her hand. she put it behind her for safe-keeping. "not a saint at all?" he went on, in mock surprise; "then an iceberg--a nice, proper little iceberg." lucy olcott looked up at him for a moment in silence; he was very tall and straight, and his face retained much of its boyishness, in spite of the firm, square jaw. "robert," she said, suddenly grown serious, "i wish you would do something for me." "all right; what is it?" he asked. she timidly put her hand on his, and looked up at him earnestly. "it's about dick harris," she said. "i wish you would not be with him so much." redding's face clouded. "you aren't afraid to trust me?" he asked. "oh, no; it isn't that," she said hurriedly; "but, robert, it makes people think such wrong things about you; i can't bear to have you misjudged." redding put his arm around her, and together they stood looking down into the glowing embers. "tell me about it, little girl; what have you heard?" he asked. she hesitated. "it wasn't true what they said. i knew it wasn't true, but they had no right to say it." "well, let's hear it, anyway. what was it?" "some people were here last night from new orleans; they asked if i knew you--said they knew you and dick the year you spent there." "well?" said redding. lucy evidently found it difficult to continue. "they said some horrid things then, just because you were dick's friend." "what were they, lucy?" "they told me that you were both as wild as could be; that your reputation was no better than his; that--forgive me, robert, for even repeating it. it made me very angry, and i told them it was not true--not a word of it; that it was all dick's fault; that he--" "lucy," interrupted redding, peremptorily, "wait until you hear me! i have never lied to you about anything, and i will not stoop to it now. four years ago, when those people knew me, i was just what they said. dick harris and i went to new orleans straight from college. neither of us had a home or people to care about us, so we went in for a good time. at the end of the year i was sick of it all, braced up, and came here. poor dick, he kept on." at his first words the color had left lucy's face, and she had slipped to the opposite side of the fire, and stood watching him with horrified eyes. "but you were never like dick!" she protested. "yes," he continued passionately, "and but for god's help i should be like him still. it was an awful pull, and heaven only knows how i struggled. i never quite saw the use of it all, until i met you six months ago; then i realized that the past four years had been given me in which to make a man of myself." as he finished speaking he saw, for the first time, that lucy was crying. he sprang forward, but she shrank away. "no, no, don't touch me! i'm so terribly disappointed, and hurt, and--stunned." "but you surely don't love me the less for having conquered these things in the past?" "i don't know, i don't know," she said, with a sob. "i honored and idealized you, robert i can never think of you as being other than you are now." "but why should you?" he pleaded. "it was only one year out of my life; too much, it's true, but i have atoned for it with all my might." the intensity and earnestness of his voice were beginning to influence her. she was very young, with the stern, uncompromising standards of girlhood; life was black or white to her, and time had not yet filled in the canvas with the myriad grays that blend into one another until all lines are effaced, and only the master artist knows the boundaries. she looked up through her tears. "i'll try to forgive you," she said, tremulously; "but you must promise to give up your friendship for dick harris." redding frowned and bit his lip. "that's not fair!" he said. "you know dick's my chum; that he hasn't the least influence over me; that i am about the only one to stand by him." "i am not afraid of his influence, but i don't want people to see you together; it makes them say things." "but, lucy, you wouldn't have me go back on him? dick has a big heart; he's trying to brace up--" "oh, nonsense!" cried lucy, impatiently. the fire in her eyes had dried the tears. "he could straighten up if he wanted to. he likes to drink and gamble, so he does it, and you keep him in countenance by your friendship. are you hesitating between us?" she demanded angrily. redding's face was clouded, and he spoke slowly: "you wouldn't ask this of me, lucy, if you understood. dick and i have been chums since we were boys. he came to kentucky three months ago, sick and miserable. one day he came into the office and said, 'bob, you 've pulled through all right; do you think it's too late for me to try?' what would you have said?" "what you did, probably," answered lucy; "but i would have profited by the one experience, for he has hardly drawn a sober breath since." she looked out of the window across the snowy landscape, and in her face was something of the passionless purity of the scene upon which her eyes rested. "you are mistaken," he cried fiercely. "because you have seen him several times in that condition, you have no right to draw such a conclusion. he is weak, nobody denies it; but what can you know of the struggle he makes, of his eagerness to do better, of the fight that he is constantly making with himself?" his words fell on deaf ears. "then you choose mr. harris?" "lucy, this is madness; it is not like you in the least!" the girl was cold with anger and excitement. "it is bad enough," she said, "to know that my defense of you last night was worse than useless, but to have you persist in a friendship with a man who is beneath you in every way is more than i can stand." she slipped a ring from her finger, and held it toward him. "i could never marry a man of whom i was ashamed." the shot went home; there was a white line about redding's mouth as he turned away. "i would not ask you to," he said, with simple dignity, as he opened the door. "please, ma'am, is this miss olcott's?" asked a trembling voice on the piazza. a shabby woman stood looking at them with wild eyes; her gray hair had escaped from the torn shawl that was pinned over her head, and stray locks blew across her face. lucy did not recognize her. "i will speak to you in a moment," she said. an awkward pause followed, each waiting for the other to speak. "i will come when you send for me," said redding, without looking at her, and, turning abruptly, he strode down the steps and out into the dusk. lucy caught her breath and started forward, then she remembered the woman. "what is it?" she asked listlessly. the woman stepped forward, and put out a hand to steady herself against the door; her face was distorted, and her voice came in gasps. "you said i was to come if i needed you. it's jimmy, ma'am--he's dead!" it may be experience of suffering makes one especially tender to the heart-aches of others; at any rate, the article that lucy olcott wrote for the paper that night held the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. she had taken aunt chloe, the old colored servant, and gone home with mrs. wiggs, relieving as far as possible the immediate need of the family. then she had come home and written their story, telling it simply, but with the passionate earnestness of one who, for the first time, has come into contact with poverty and starvation. she told of the plucky struggle made by the boy, of his indomitable courage, of his final defeat, and she ended by asking help of any kind for the destitute family. a week later she sat at her desk bewildered. her article, written on the impulse of the moment, with the one thought of making people understand, had fulfilled its mission. for seven days she had done nothing but answer questions and notes, and receive contributions for the wiggs family. money had arrived from all over the state, and from every class of society. eichenstine bros. sent fifty dollars, and six ragged newsboys came to present thirty cents. a lavender note, with huge monogram and written in white ink, stated that some of the girls of the "gay burlesque troupe" sent a few dimes to the "kid's" mother. the few dimes amounted to fifteen dollars. mrs. van larkin's coachman had to wait with her note while lucy answered the questions of a lame old negro who had brought a quarter. "maria done tole me what was writ in de papah 'bout dat pore chile," he was saying. "i sutenly do feel sorry fer he's maw. i ain't got much, but i tole maria i guess we could do without somethin' to gib a quahter." so it continued. old and young, rich and poor, paid their substantial tribute of respect to jimmy wiggs. lucy counted up the long line of figures. "three hundred and sixty-five dollars!" she exclaimed; "and food, clothes, and coal enough to last them a year!" it was like a direct answer to her prayer, and yet this poor little suppliant, instead of being duly exalted, put her head on the desk and wept bitterly. now that the need of the wiggs family had been met, another appeal, silent and potent, was troubling her heart. redding had neither come nor written, and she was beginning to realize the seriousness of their misunderstanding. chapter iv the annexation of cuby "they well deserve to have, that know the strongest and surest way to get." almost a year rolled over the cabbage patch, and it was nearing christmas again. the void left in mrs. wiggs's heart by jim's death could never be filled, but time was beginning to soften her grief, and the necessity for steady employment kept her from brooding over her trouble. it was still needful to maintain the strictest economy, for half the money which had been given them was in miss olcott's keeping as a safeguard against another rainy day. mrs. wiggs had got as much washing as she could do; asia helped about the house, and billy did odd jobs wherever he could find them. the direct road to fortune, however, according to billy's ideas, could best be traveled in a kindling-wagon, and, while he was the proud possessor of a dilapidated wagon, sole relic of the late mr. wiggs, he had nothing to hitch to it. scarcely a week passed that he did not agitate the question, and, as mrs. wiggs often said, "when billy wiggs done set his head to a thing, he's as good as got it!" so she was not surprised when he rushed breathlessly into the kitchen one evening, about supper-time, and exclaimed in excited tones: "ma, i 've got a horse! he was havin' a fit on the commons an' they was goin' to shoot him, an' i ast the man to give him to me!" "my land, billy! what do you want with a fit-horse?" asked his mother. "'cause i knowed you could cure him. the man said if i took him i'd have to pay fer cartin' away his carcass, but i said, 'all right, i 'll take him, anyway.' come on, ma, an' see him!" and billy hurried back to his new possession. mrs. wiggs pinned a shawl over her head and ran across the commons. a group of men stood around the writhing animal, but the late owner had departed. "he's 'most gone," said one of the men, as she came up. "i tole billy you'd beat him fer takin' that ole nag offen the man's han's." "well, i won't," said mrs. wiggs, stoutly. "billy wiggs's got more sense than most men i know. that hoss's carcass is worth something i 'spect he'd bring 'bout two dollars dead, an' mebbe more living. anyway, i'm goin' to save him if there's any save to him!" she stood with her arms on her hips, and critically surveyed her patient. "i'll tell you what's the matter with him," was her final diagnosis; "his lights is riz. billy, i'm goin' home fer some medicine; you set on his head so's he can't git up, an' ma'll be right back in a minute." the crowd which had collected to see the horse shot began to disperse, for it was supper-time, and there was nothing to see now but the poor suffering animal, with billy wiggs patiently sitting on its head. when mrs. wiggs returned she carried a bottle, and what appeared to be a large marble. "this here is a calomel pill," she explained. "i jes' rolled the calomel in with some soft, light bread. now, you prop his jaw open with a little stick, an' i'll shove it in, an' then hole his head back, while i pour down some water an' turkentine outen this bottle." it was with great difficulty that this was accomplished, for the old horse had evidently seen a vision of the happy hunting-ground, and was loath to return to the sordid earth. his limbs were already stiffening in death, and the whites of his eyes only were visible. mrs. wiggs noted these discouraging symptoms, and saw that violent measures were necessary. "gether some sticks an' build a fire quick as you kin. i 've got to run over home. build it right up clost to him, billy; we 've got to git him het up." she rushed into the kitchen, and, taking several cakes of tallow from the shelf, threw them into a tin bucket. then she hesitated for a moment. the kettle of soup was steaming away on the stove ready for supper. mrs. wiggs did not believe in sacrificing the present need to the future comfort. she threw in a liberal portion of pepper, and, seizing the kettle in one hand and the bucket of tallow in the other, staggered back to the bonfire. "now, billy," she commanded, "put this bucket of tallow down there in the hottest part of the fire. look out; don't tip it--there! now, you come here an' help me pour this soup into the bottle. i'm goin' to git that ole hoss so het up he'll think he's havin' a sunstroke! seems sorter bad to keep on pestering him when he's so near gone, but this here soup'll feel good when it once gits inside him." when the kettle was empty, the soup was impartially distributed over mrs. wiggs and the patient, but a goodly amount had "got inside," and already the horse was losing his rigidity. only once did billy pause in his work, and that was to ask: "ma, what do you think i'd better name him?" giving names was one of mrs. wiggs's chief accomplishments, and usually required much thoughtful consideration; but in this case if there was to be a christening it must be at once. "i'd like a jography name," suggested billy, feeling that nothing was too good to bestow upon his treasure. mrs. wiggs stood with the soup dripping from her hands, and earnestly contemplated the horse. babies, pigs, goats, and puppies had drawn largely on her supply of late, and geography names especially were scarce. suddenly a thought struck her. "i'll tell you what, billy! we'll call him cuby! it's a town i heared 'em talkin' 'bout at the grocery." by this time the tallow was melted, and mrs. wiggs carried it over by the horse, and put each of his hoofs into the hot liquid, while billy rubbed the legs with all the strength of his young arms. "that's right," she said; "now you run home an' git that piece of carpet by my bed, an' we'll kiver him up. i am goin' to git them fence rails over yonder to keep the fire goin'." through the long night they worked with their patient, and when the first glow of morning appeared in the east, a triumphant procession wended its way across the cabbage patch. first came an old woman, bearing sundry pails, kettles, and bottles; next came a very sleepy little boy, leading a trembling old horse, with soup all over its head, tallow on its feet, and a strip of rag-carpet tied about its middle. and thus cuba, like his geographical namesake, emerged from the violent ordeal of reconstruction with a mangled constitution, internal dissension, a decided preponderance of foreign element, but a firm and abiding trust in the new power with which his fortunes had been irrevocably cast. chapter v a reminiscence "it is easy enough to be pleasant when life flows along like a song, but the man worth while is the one who will smile when everything goes dead wrong." when miss hazy was awakened early that morning by a resonant neigh at the head of her bed, she mistook it for the trump of doom. miss hazy's cottage, as has been said, was built on the bias in the wiggses' side yard, and the little lean-to, immediately behind miss hazy's bedroom, had been pressed into service as cuba's temporary abiding-place. after her first agonized fright, the old woman ventured to push the door open a crack and peep out. "chris," she said, in a tense whisper, to her sleeping nephew--"chris, what on airth is this here hitched to our shutter?" chris, usually deaf to all calls less emphatic than cold water and a broomstick, raised a rumpled head from the bed-clothes. "where at?" he asked. "right here!" said miss hazy, still in a terrified whisper, and holding fast the door, as if the specter might attempt an entrance. chris did not stop to adjust his wooden leg, but hopped over to the door, and cautiously put an eye to the opening. "why, shucks, 't ain't nothin' but a hoss!" he said, in disgust, having nerved himself for nothing less than a rhinoceros, such as he had seen in the circus. "how'd he git there?" demanded miss hazy. chris was not prepared to say. all through breakfast miss hazy was in a flutter of excitement. she had once heard of a baby being left on a doorstep, but never a horse. when the limit of her curiosity was about reached, she saw mrs. wiggs coming across the yard carrying a bucket. she hastened to meet her. "mornin'," called mrs. wiggs, brightly, in spite of her night's vigil; "ain't we got a fine hoss?" miss hazy put the ash-barrel between herself and the animal, and hazarded a timid inspection, while mrs. wiggs made explanations, and called attention to cuba's fine points. "can't you come in an' take a warm?" asked miss hazy, as she concluded. "well, i b'lieve i will," said mrs. wiggs. "i ain't been over fer quite a spell. the childern kin clean up, bein' it's saturday." from seven to nine in the morning were the favorite calling-hours in the cabbage patch. mrs. wiggs chose the chair which had the least on it, and leaned back, smiling affably as she remarked: "we 're used to hosses; this here's the second one we 've had." "my!" said miss hazy, "you muster been well to do!" "yes," continued mrs. wiggs, "we was--up to the time of the fire. did i ever tell you 'bout how jim brought our other hoss to town?" miss hazy had heard the story a number of times, but she knew the duties of a hostess. "it was this a-way," went on mrs. wiggs, drawing her chair closer to the fire, and preparing for a good, long talk. "you see, me an' the childern was comin' on the steam-car train, but ther' wasn't no way to git the hoss here, 'ceptin' fer somebody to ride him. course jim said he'd do it. poor jim, always ready to do the hard part!" she paused to wipe her eyes on her apron, and miss hazy wept in sympathy. "never min', miss wiggs; don't cry. go on an' tell me what you done next." "well," said mrs. wiggs, swallowing the lump in her throat, "jim said he'd go. he never had been to the city, an' he was jes' a little shaver, but i knowed i could trust him." "i don't see how you could stand to risk it!" exclaimed miss hazy. "oh, i reckon whatever you got to do, you kin do. i didn't see no other way; so one mornin' i put a old fo-patch quilt over the hoss, tied a bucket of oats on behin' it an' fixed some vittles fer jim, an' started 'em off. it was a forty-mile ride to the city, so i calkerlated to start jim so's he'd git to dr. white's 'bout nightfall." "dr. white was your old doctor, wasn't he?" prompted miss hazy. "yes'm. he used to tend mr. wiggs before we moved over into bullitt county. you know mr. wiggs was a widow man when i married him. he had head trouble. looked like all his inflictions gethered together in that head of hisn. he uster go into reg'lar transoms!" miss hazy was awe-struck, but more dreadful revelations were to follow. "i guess you knew i killed him," continued mrs. wiggs, calmly. "the doctor an' ever'body said so. he was jes' gitten over typhoid, an' i give him pork an' beans. he was a wonderful man! kept his senses plumb to the end. i remember his very las' words. i was settin' by him, waitin' fer the doctor to git there, an' i kep' saying 'oh, mr. wiggs! you don't think you are dying do you?' an' he answered up jes' as natural an' fretful-like, 'good lan', nancy! how do i know? i ain't never died before.' an' them was the very las' words he ever spoke." "was he a church member, miss wiggs?" inquired miss hazy. "well, no, not exactly," admitted mrs. wiggs, reluctantly. "but he was what you might say a well-wisher. but, as i was tellin' you, dr. white was a old friend, an' i pinned a note on jim's coat tellin' who he was an' where he was going an' knowed the doctor would have a eye on him when he got as fur as smithville. as fer the rest of the trip, i wasn't so certain. the only person i knowed in the city was pete jenkins, an' if there was one man in the world i didn't have no use fer, it was pete. but when i don't like folks i try to do somethin' nice fer 'em. seems like that's the only way i kin weed out my meanness. so i jes' sez to jim, 'you keep on astin' till you git to no. 6 injun house, an' then you ast fer pete jenkins. you tell him,' sez i, 'you are hiram wiggs's boy, an' as long as he done so much harm to yer pa, mebbe he'd be glad to do a good turn by you, an' keep you an' the hoss fer the night, till yer ma comes fer you.' well, jim started off, lookin' mighty little settin' up on that big hoss, an' i waved my apron long as i could; then i hid behin' a tree to keep him from seein' me cry. he rode all that day, an' 'bout sundown he come to dr. white's. pore little feller, he was so tired an' stiff he couldn't hardly walk, but he tied the hoss to the post an' went 'round to the back door an' knocked real easy. mrs. white come to the door an' sez, real cross, 'no, doctor ain't here,' an' slammed it shut agin. i ain't meanin' to blame her; mebbe her bread was in the oven, or her baby crying or somethin', but seems to me i couldn't have treated a dog that a-way! "pore jim, he dragged out to the road agin, an' set there beside the hoss, not knowin' what to do nex'. night was a-comin' on, he hadn't had no supper, an' he was dead beat. by an' by he went to sleep, an' didn't know nothin' till somebody shuck his shoulder an' sez, 'git up from here! what you doin' sleepin' here in the road?' then he went stumblin' 'long, with somebody holdin' his arm, an' he was took into a big, bright room, an' the doctor was lookin' at him an' astin' him questions. an' jim said he never did know what he answered, but it must 'a' been right, fer the doctor grabbed holt of his hand, an' sez: 'bless my soul! it's little jimmy wiggs, all the way from curryville!' "then they give him his supper, an' mrs. white sez: 'where'll he sleep at, doctor? there ain't no spare bed.' then jim sez the doctor frowned like ever'thin', an' sez: 'sleep? why, he'll sleep in the bed with my boys, an' they orter be proud to have sech a plucky bedfeller!' "jim never did fergit them words; they meant a good deal more to him than his supper. "early the nex' mornin' he started out agin, the doctor pointin' him on the way. he didn't git into the city till 'long 'bout four o'clock, an' he sez he never was so mixed in all his life. all my childern was green about town; it made ever' one of 'em sick when they first rode on the street-cars, an' europena was skeered to death of the newsboys, 'cause she thought they called 'babies,' 'stid of 'papers.' jim kep' right on the main road, like he was tole to, but things kep' a-happenin' 'round him so fast, he said he couldn't do no more 'n jes' keep out the way. all of a suddint a ice-wagon come rattlin' up behin' him. it was runnin' off, an' 'fore he knowed it a man hit it in the head an' veered it 'round towards him; jim said his hoss turned a clean somerset, an' he was th'owed up in the air, an'--" "ma!" called a shrill voice from the wiggses' porch, "australia's in the rain-barrel!" mrs. wiggs looked exasperated. "i never was havin' a good time in my life that one of my childern didn't git in that rain-barrel!" "well, go on an' finish," said miss hazy, to whom the story had lost nothing by repetition. "ther' ain't much more," said mrs. wiggs, picking up her bucket. "our hoss had two legs an' his neck broke, but jim never had a scratch. a policeman took him to no. 6 injun house, an' pete jenkins jes' treated him like he'd been his own son. i was done cured then an' there fer my feelin' aginst pete." "ma!" again came the warning cry across the yard. "all right, i'm comin'! good-by, miss hazy; you have a eye to cuby till we git our shed ready. he ain't as sperited as he looks." and, with a cordial hand-shake, mrs. wiggs went cheerfully away to administer chastisement to her erring offspring. chapter vi a theater party "the play, the play's the thing!" billy's foreign policy proved most satisfactory, and after the annexation of cuba many additional dimes found their way into the tin box on top of the wardrobe. but it took them all, besides mrs. wiggs's earnings, to keep the family from the awful calamity of "pulling agin a debt." one cold december day billy came in and found his mother leaning wearily on the table. her face brightened as he entered, but he caught the tired look in her eyes. "what's the matter?" he asked. "ain't nothin' the matter, billy," she said, trying to speak cheerfully; "i'm jes' wore out, that's all. it'll be with me like it was with uncle ned's ole ox, i reckon; he kep' a-goin' an' a-goin' till he died a-standin' up, an' even then they had to push him over." she walked to the window, and stood gazing absently across the commons. "do you know, billy," she said suddenly, "i 've got the craziest notion in my head. i'd jes' give anythin' to see the show at the opery house this week." if she had expressed a wish for a diamond necklace, billy could not have been more amazed, and his countenance expressed his state of mind. mrs. wiggs hastened to explain: "course, i ain't really thinkin' 'bout goin', but them show-bills started me to studyin' about it, an' i got to wishin' me an' you could go." "i don't 'spect it's much when you git inside," said billy, trying the effects of negative consolation. "yes, 't is, billy wiggs," answered his mother, impressively. "you ain't never been inside a theayter, an' i have. i was there twict, an' it was grand! you orter see the lights an' fixin's, an' all the fine ladies an' their beaus. first time i went they was a man in skin-tights a-walkin' on a rope h'isted 'way up over ever'body's head." "what's skin-tights?" asked billy, thrilled in spite of himself. "it's spangles 'round yer waist, an' shoes without no heels to 'em. you see, the man couldn't wear many clothes, 'cause it would make him too heavy to stay up there in the air. the band plays all the time, an' folks sing an' speechify, an' ever'body laughs an' has a good time. it's jes' grand, i tell you!" billy's brows were puckered, and he sat unusually quiet for a while, looking at his mother. finally he said: "you might take my snow-money from las' week." mrs. wiggs was indignant. "why, billy wiggs!" she exclaimed, "do you think i'd take an' go to a show, when asia an' australia ain't got a good shoe to their backs?" billy said no more about the theater, but that afternoon, when he was out with the kindling, he pondered the matter deeply. it was quite cold, and sometimes he had to put the reins between his knees and shove his hands deep into his pockets to get the stiffness out of them. it really seemed as if everybody had just laid in a supply of kindling, and the shadowy little plan he had been forming was growing more shadowy all the time. "i 'spect the tickets cost a heap," he thought ruefully, as he drew himself up into a regular pretzel of a boy; "but, then, she never does have no fun, an' never gits a thing fer herself." and because billy knew of his mother's many sacrifices, and because he found it very hard to take jim's place, a lump lodged in his throat, and gave him so much trouble that he forgot for a while how cold he was. about this time he came within sight of the opera house, and tantalizing posters appeared of the "greatest extravaganza of the century." he pulled cuba into a walk, and sat there absorbing the wonders depicted; among the marvels were crowds of children dressed as butterflies, beautiful ladies marching in line, a man balancing a barrel on his feet, and--yes, there was the man in "skin-tights" walking on the rope! a keen puff of wind brought billy back to his senses, and as his longing eyes turned from the gorgeous show-bills they encountered the amused look of a gentleman who had just come out from the opera house. he was so tall and fine-looking that billy thought he must own the show. "some kindlin', sir?" the gentleman shook his head. the posters still danced before billy's eyes; if his mother could only see the show! the last chance seemed slipping away. suddenly a bold idea presented itself. he got out of the wagon, and came up on the step. "couldn't you use a whole load, if i was to take it out in tickets?" the man looked puzzled. "take it out in tickets?" he repeated. "yes, sir," said billy, "theayter tickets. don't you own the show?" the gentleman laughed. "well, hardly," he said. "what do you want with more than one ticket?" there was a certain sympathy in his voice, in spite of the fact that he was still laughing, and before billy knew it he had told him all about it. "how many tickets could yer gimme fer the load?" he asked, in conclusion. the gentleman made a hurried calculation. "you say you have three sisters?" he asked. "yep," said billy. "well, i should say that load was worth about five tickets." "gee whiz!" cried the boy; "that 'ud take us all!" he followed the gentleman back to the ticket-office, and eagerly watched the man behind the little window count out five tickets and put them in a pink envelope. "one for you, one for your mother, and three for the kids," said his friend, as billy buttoned the treasure in the inside pocket of his ragged coat. he was so excited that he almost forgot his part of the bargain, but as the gentleman was turning away he remembered. "say, mister, where must i take the kindlin' to?" "oh, that's all right; you can sell it to-morrow," answered the other. billy's face fell instantly. "if you don't take the kindlin', i'll have to give you back the tickets. ma don't 'low us to take nothin' that way." "but i don't need the kindling; haven't any place to put it." "ain't you got no home?" asked billy, incredulously. "no," answered the man, shortly. the idea of any one, in any walk of life, not having use for kindling was a new one to billy. but he had no time to dwell on it, for this new complication demanded all his attention. "ain't there nobody you could give it to?" he asked. the gentleman was growing impatient. "no, no; go along; that's all right." but billy knew it would not be all right when he got home, so he made one more effort. "how'd you like to send it out to miss hazy?" he inquired. "well, miss hazy, not having the pleasure of my acquaintance, might object to the delicate attention. who is she?" "she's chris's aunt; they ain't had no fire fer two days." "oh!" said the man, heartily, "take it to miss hazy, by all means. tell her it's from mr. bob, who is worse off than she is, for he hasn't even a home." an hour later there was wild excitement under the only tin roof in the cabbage patch. such scrubbing and brushing as was taking place! "it's jes' like a peetrified air-castle," said mrs. wiggs, as she pressed out asia's best dress; "here i been thinkin' 'bout it, an' wantin' to go, an' here i am actually gittin' ready to go! come here, child, and let me iron out yer plaits while the iron's good an' hot." this painful operation was performed only on state occasions; each little wiggs laid her head on the ironing-board, a willing sacrifice on the altar of vanity, while mrs. wiggs carefully ironed out five plaits on each head. europena was the only one who objected to being a burnt-offering, but when she saw the frizzled locks of the others, her pride conquered her fear, and, holding tight to billy's hand, she bent her chubby head to the trying ordeal. "now, billy, you run over to mrs. eichorn's an' ast her to loan me her black crepe veil. mrs. krasmier borrowed it yesterday to wear to her pa's funeral, but i guess she's sent it back by this time. an', billy--billy, wait a minute; you be sure to tell 'em we are goin' to the show." mrs. wiggs vigorously brushed her hair with the clothes-brush as she spoke. australia had thrown the hair-brush down the cistern the summer before. "asia, you go git the alpaca from behind the chest, an' sorter shake it out on the bed." "who's goin' to wear it, ma?" the question came in anxious tones, for the blue alpaca had been sent them in a bundle of old clothes, and though it failed to fit either of the girls, the wearing of it was a much coveted privilege. "well, now, i don't know," said mrs. wiggs, critically surveying the children; "it won't button good on you, and swags in the back on australia." "lemme wear it, ma!" "no, lemme!" came in excited tones. mrs. wiggs had seen trouble before over the blue alpaca; she knew what anguish her decision must bring to one or the other. "it really looks best on asia," she thought; "but if i let her wear it austry'll have a cryin' spell an' git to holdin' her breath, an' that'll take up so much time." so she added aloud: "i'll tell you what we'll do. asia, you kin wear the skirt, an' austry kin wear the waist." but when she had pinned the skirt over one little girl's red calico dress, and buttoned the blue waist over the clean apron of the other, she looked at them dubiously. "they do look kinder mixed," she admitted to herself, "but i reckon it don't matter, so long as they 're both happy." just here billy came in, with the veil in one hand and a bunch of faded carnations in the other. "look, ma!" he exclaimed, holding up his trophy, "i swapped 'em with pete fer a top an' a agate. he got 'em outen a ash-barrel over on the avenue." "well, now, ain't that nice?" said mrs. wiggs; "i'll jes' clip the stems an' put 'em in a bottle of water, an' they'll pick up right smart by the time we go. i wisht you had something to fix up in, billy," she added; "you look as seedy as a raspberry." billy did look rather shabby; his elbows were out, and two of the holes in his pants were patched and two were not. mrs. wiggs was rummaging in the table drawer. "i wisht i could find somethin' of yer pa's that would do. here's his white gloves he wore that time he was pallbearer to ole mr. bender. seems to me they do wear white gloves to the theayter, but i disremember." "naw! i ain't a-goin' to wear no gloves," said billy, firmly. mrs. wiggs continued her search. "here's yer grandpa's watch-fob, but i'm skeered fer you to wear it, you might lose it. it's a family remnant--been handed down two generations. what about this here red comforter? it would sorter spruce you up, an' keep you warm, besides; you know you 've had a cold fer a week, an' yer pipes is all stopped up." so it was decided, and billy wore the comforter. at seven o 'clock they were ready, and, the news having spread abroad that the wiggses were going to a show, many of the neighbors came in to see how they looked and to hear how it happened. "some of you all shake down the stove an' pull the door to fer me. i am jes' that skeered of hurtin' mrs. eichorn's veil i'm 'fraid to turn my head," mrs. wiggs said nervously, as she stepped off the porch. the little procession had left the railroad tracks far behind, when mrs. wiggs stopped suddenly. "fer the land's sakes alive! do you know what we 've gone an' done? we have left the theayter tickets to home!" at this australia began to cry, and a gloom settled upon the party. "billy, you run back, fast as yer legs kin carry you, an' look in that tin can behind the clock, an' we'll wait right here fer you." mrs. wiggs wrapped europena in her shawl, and tried to keep up the spirits of the party as they huddled on the curbing to await billy's return. "look how pretty it looks, all the lights a-streamin' out the winders on the snow. looks like a chromo ma used to have." but the young wiggses were in no frame of mind to appreciate the picturesqueness of the scene. it was very cold, and even the prospect of the show was dimmed by the present discomfort. by and by australia's sobs began anew. "what's the matter, honey? don't cry; billy'll be back in a little while, an' then we'll git in where it's good an' warm." "i want my supper!" wailed australia. then it dawned on mrs. wiggs for the first time that, in the excitement of preparation, supper had been entirely overlooked. "well, if that don't beat all!" said she. "i had jes' 'bout as much idea of supper as a goat has of kid gloves!" but when billy came flying back with the tickets, and the party had started once more on the long walk to the opera house, the enticing posters began to appear, and supper and the cold were forgotten. chapter vii "mr. bob" "if his heart at high floods swamped his brain now and then, 't was but richer for that when the tide ebbed again." a large audience assembled that night to witness "the greatest extravaganza of the century." the opera house was a blaze of light and color. from the recesses of one of the boxes, redding made a careful survey of the faces beneath him. first nights usually found him there, with the same restless, eager look in his eyes. tonight he evidently failed to find what he sought, and was turning listlessly away when he stopped suddenly, bent forward, then smiled broadly. he had caught sight of billy's red comforter. the boy's hair was plastered close to his head, and his face was transformed by soap and happiness. redding glanced quizzically at the rest of the party--at the mother's radiant countenance beaming from the dusk of her crepe veil, at the three little girls in their composite costumes, at the carnations pinned on each bosom. then he deliberately turned his back on "the greatest extravaganza of the century," and centered his attention on the parquet group. it was a singularly enthusiastic theater party, oblivious of surroundings, and lost in wonder at the strange sights. billy's laugh rang out frequently, with refreshing spontaneity. their enjoyment was so evident that redding was surprised, at the close of the first act, to see them put on their wraps and march solemnly out of the theater. he hastened to the lobby, and touched billy on the shoulder. "didn't you like the show?" he asked. "you bet!" said billy, his eyes shining and his cheeks flushed. mrs. wiggs was hopelessly entangled in the crepe veil, but her ideas of etiquette were rigid. she disengaged one hand and said, with dignity: "i 'low this is mr. bob, billy's friend. happy to meet yer acquaintance. asia, speak to the gentleman--australia--europena!" with a commanding nod at each. three small hands were thrust at redding simultaneously, and he accommodated them all in his broad palm. "but why are you going home?" he asked, looking from one to the other. "where else would we go to?" asked mrs. wiggs, in amazement. "why not stay and see the play out? that was only the first act." "is there some more, ma?" asked asia, eagerly. "why, of course," explained redding, "lots more. now, go back, and stay until everybody has left the theater, and then you will be certain it's over." so back they went, furnishing an amusing entr'acte for the impatient audience. after the curtain descended on the final tableau, redding waited in the lobby while the stream of people passed. the wiggses had obeyed instructions, and were the very last to come out. they seemed dazed by their recent glimpse into fairy-land. something in their thin bodies and pinched faces made redding form a sudden resolve. "billy," he said gravely, "can't you and your family take supper with me?" billy and his mother exchanged doubtful glances; for the past three hours everything had been so strange and unusual that they were bewildered. "you see, we will go right over to bond's and have something to eat before you go home," urged redding. mrs. wiggs was in great doubt, but one of the little girls pulled her skirt and said, in pleading tones: "ma, let's do!" and billy was already casting longing eyes at the big restaurant across the way. she had not the heart to refuse. as they were crossing the street, asia stopped suddenly and cried: "ma, there's the 'christmas lady' gittin' in that hack! she seen us! look!" but before they could turn the carriage door had slammed. redding took them into a small apartment, curtained off from the rest of the cafe, so that only the waiters commented on the strange party. at first there was oppressive silence; then the host turned to europena and asked her what she liked best to eat. a moment of torture ensued for the small lady, during which she nearly twisted her thumb from its socket, then she managed to gasp: "green pups!" mr. bob laughed. "why, you little cannibal!" he said. "what on earth does she mean?" "cream puffs," explained mrs. wiggs, airily. "she et 'em onct at mrs. reed's, the bourbon stock yard's wife, an' she's been talkin' 'bout 'em ever sence." after this the ice, while not broken, at least had a crack in it, and by the time the first course was served redding was telling them a funny story, and three of the audience were able to smile. it had pleased him to order an elaborate supper, and he experienced the keenest enjoyment over the novelty of the situation. the wiggses ate as he had never seen people eat before. "for speed and durability they break the record," was his mental comment. he sat by and, with consummate tact, made them forget everything but the good time they were having. as the supper progressed, mrs. wiggs became communicative. she still wore her black cotton gloves, and gesticulated with a chicken croquette as she talked. "yes," she was saying, "jim was one of these handy childern; when he was eight years old he could peddle as good as you could! i guess you heard 'bout our roof; ever'body was talkin' 'bout it. billy is takin' right after him; do you know what that boy has gone an' done? he's built his pa a monumint!" "a monument!" exclaimed redding. "yes, sir, a tombstun monumint! i was allers a-wishin' that mr. wiggs could have a monumint, and billy never said a word, but he set his head to it. one day he come home with a lot of these here tiles what they had throwed out from the tile fact'ry; some of 'em was jes' a little nicked, an' the others was jes' as good as new. well, he kep' on gittin' 'em ever' day or two, till he had a consider'ble pile. ever' night he used to set on the floor an' fool with them things, a-fittin' 'em here an' crackin' 'em off there, but i never paid no 'tention to him. one night, when i come in from mrs. eichorn's, what did i see on the floor but a sure-'nough tombstun-slab, an' spelt out in little blue tiles down the middle was: "'pa. gone, but not forgotten.' "i was jes' that pleased i set down an' bust out cryin'. we made a sorter box to hold it, an' chinked it up with cement, an' las' sunday me an' the childern took it out an' fixed it up on mr. wiggs's grave. some day we are going to make jimmy one; you know jimmy's my boy that's dead." her eyes filled and her lips trembled; even the sunshine of her buoyant nature could not dispel one shadow that always lay across her heart. at this moment billy, doubtless thrilled at being the topic of conversation, upset his glass of water, and the deluge descended full upon australia, drenching the waist of the blue alpaca. such a wail as arose! threats and persuasion were alike unavailing; she even refused to be mopped off, but slid in a disconsolate heap under the table. redding attempted to invade the citadel with an orange as a flag of truce, but his overtures were ineffectual, and he was compelled to retreat under fire. "i'd leave her be, mr. bob," advised mrs. wiggs, placidly, as she spread her salad on a piece of bread. "she'll git to holdin' her breath if you notice her." the shrieks gradually diminished to spasmodic sobs, which in turn gave place to ominous silence. "billy," said redding, taking mrs. wiggs's advice and ignoring the flood sufferer, "how would you like to be my office-boy?" "i'd like it a heap," answered billy, promptly. redding turned to mrs. wiggs. "you see, it's a newspaper office, and while the pay isn't much at first, still it's better than peddling kindling, and there would be a chance for promotion as he got older." "oh, yes," answered mrs. wiggs, complacently; "there wouldn't be no trouble 'bout billy promotin'. i 'spect he could take to writin' newspapers right away, if you could hold him down to it. he's jes' like his pa--the very spittin' image of him! mr. wiggs was so educated--the most fluent man in jography i ever seen!" "i'm goin' to be like mr. bob when i grow up," said billy, stoutly. his recollection of his paternal parent was not the sort ideals are made of. just here the waiter appeared with the final course, and asia lifted the tablecloth and whispered, "say, 'straly, we 've got ice-cream." no answer. then little europena, with baby wisdom, put her tow head under the cloth, and said, "'traly, it's pink!" and australia emerged, tear-stained but smiling, and finished her supper on mr. bob's knee. when the limit of capacity had been tested to the fullest, and billy had declared that "he couldn't swaller no more, he was jes' chawin'," redding filled their pockets with candy and, when mrs. wiggs was not looking, put a quarter in each hand. then he rang for a carriage, and, in spite of mrs. wiggs's protestations, he put them in, and repeated billy's directions as to the exact location of the cabbage patch. "my, my, ain't this nice!" said mrs. wiggs, leaning back against carriage cushions for the first time in her life, while redding lifted europena in beside her. "we 've seed a good time fer onct in our lives," said asia. it was the first time she had spoken since they left the theater. "lemme ride up on top, ma!" demanded billy, eagerly. "lemme, too, lemme!" came from the sleepy australia, who did not know what new attraction was being offered, but was resolved not to miss anything. "all right, billy; but, austry, you must stay with ma. good-by, mr. bob, and thanks--thanks fer one an' all!" redding stood on the corner where they had left him, and the smile died out of his face. within a block was a jolly crowd and a hearty welcome; across the street was the big apartment house where his dark and cheerless window promised him nothing. for a moment he stood irresolute. "there is certainly nobody to care where i go," he thought gloomily; then suddenly the smile came back. "but if i'm to be billy wiggs's model, i guess i'd better go to bed." he ran lightly across the street, and up the broad stone steps. chapter viii mrs. wiggs at home "she had a sunny nature that sought, like a flower in a dark place, for the light." on christmas day lucy olcott stood by the library window, and idly scratched initials on the frosty pane. a table full of beautiful gifts stood near, and a great bunch of long-stemmed roses on the piano filled the room with fragrance. but lucy evidently found something more congenial in the dreary view outside. she was deep in thought when the door opened and aunt chloe came in with a basket and a note. the old darky grinned as she put the basket on the floor. "you might 'a' knowed, it wuz fum dem wiggses," she said. lucy opened the note and read: "dear miss lucy the basket of cloths and vittles come. we or so mutch obliged, and asia wore the read dress to the soshul and enjoyed her selph so. much i wish you could a went. billy liked his hock and ladar and romcandons. me and the childern want to send you a crismas mess of some of all we lade in for to live on. they is pertaters 2 kines, onions, termaters, a jar vineger and a jar perservs. i boughten the peeches last sumer, they was gitting a little rotting so i got them cheep. hope you will enjoy them. i send some of all we got but cole and flower. thankes thankes to you for your kind fealings. "from yours no more "mrs. wiggs." "bless her old heart!" cried lucy; "that's the biggest widow's mite i ever saw. put the basket there with my other presents, aunt chloe; it's worth them all." she went over to the fire, and held her hands to the friendly blaze; there was a restless, discontented look in her eyes that proved only too plainly that her christmas was not a happy one. "i wish it was night," she said. "i hate christmas afternoon! mother is asleep; it's too early for callers. i believe i'll go down to the cabbage patch." aunt chloe stuck out her lip and rolled her eyes in deprecation. "don' you do it, honey. what you wanter be foolin' 'round wif dat po' white trash fer? why don' you set heah by de fiah an' bleach yer han's fer de party to-might?" "bother the old party!" said lucy, impatiently. she had begun disobeying aunt chloe when she was a very little girl. fifteen minutes later she was tramping through the snow, her cheeks glowing and her spirits rising. the wiggses, while always interesting, had of late acquired a new significance. since seeing them in the theater lobby with robert redding she had found it necessary to make several visits to the cabbage patch, and the chief topic of conversation had been mr. bob: how he had taken them to the show; had made billy his office-boy; had sent them a barrel of apples, and was coming to see them some day. to which deluge of information lucy had listened with outward calmness and inward thrills. to-day, as she entered the wiggses' gate a shout greeted her. billy let himself down from the chicken-coop roof, and ran forward. "them roman candles wasn't no good!" he cried. "one of 'em busted too soon, and 'most blowed my hand off." "oh, no, it didn't, miss lucy!" said mrs. wiggs, who had hastened out to meet her. "them roman candons was fine. billy's hand wasn't so bad hurt he couldn't shoot his gum-bow shooter and break miss krasmier's winder-pane. i'll be glad when to-morrow comes, an' he goes back to the office! come right in," she continued. "asia, dust off a cheer fer miss lucy. that's right; now, lemme help you off with yer things." "lemme hold the muff!" cried australia. "no, me--me!" shrieked europena. a center rush ensued, during which the muff was threatened with immediate annihilation. the umpire interfered. "australia wiggs, you go set in the corner with yer face to the wall. europena, come here!" she lifted the wailing little girl to her lap, and looked her sternly in the eye. "if you don't hush this minute, i'll spank your doll!" the awful threat was sufficient. mrs. wiggs had long ago discovered the most effectual way of punishing europena. when peace was restored, lucy looked about her. in each window was a piece of holly tied with a bit of red calico, and on the partly cleared table she saw the remains of a real christmas dinner. "we had a grand dinner to-day," said mrs. wiggs, following her glance. "mr. bob sent the turkey; we et all we wanted, an' got 'nough left fer the rest of the week, countin' hash an' soup an' all. asia says she's goin' to hide it, so as i can't give no more away. by the way, do you notice what asia's doin'?" lucy went to the window, where asia was busily working. this taciturn little girl, with her old, solemn face and clever fingers, was her favorite of the children. "what are you making?" she asked, as the child dipped a brush into one of three cans which stood before her. "she's paintin' a picture," announced mrs. wiggs, proudly. "looked like she was jes' crazy 'bout picture painting, an' i said, 'well, asia, if you have made up yer mind to be a artist, guess you'll have to be one.' seems like when folks kin do pianner playin' an' picture paintin' it ain't right to let 'em wash dishes an' clean up all the time. so i went to a store an' ast fer some paint to make pictures with, and they wanted seventy cents fer a little box full. ain't that a mighty heap, miss lucy, jes' fer plain paint, 'fore it 's made up into flowers an' trees an' things? well, anyway, i couldn't git it, but i come home an' got me three tin cans an' took 'em 'round to mr. becker's paint-shop, an' he poured me a little red an' yaller an' blue, an' only charged me a nickel, an' throwed in a brush. asia's painted a heap with it. i'll show you some of her things." it was not necessary, for in every direction lucy looked her eyes were greeted with specimens of asia's handiwork. across the foot-board of the bed was a spray of what might have passed for cauliflower, the tin boiler was encircled by a wreath of impressionistic roses, and on the window-pane a piece of exceedingly golden goldenrod bent in an obliging curve in order to cover the crack in the glass. "it's perfectly wonderful!" said lucy, with entire truthfulness. "ain't it?" said mrs. wiggs, with the awed tone one uses in the presence of genius. "sometimes i jes' can't believe my eyes, when i see what my childern kin do! they inherit their education after mr. wiggs; he was so smart, an' b'longed to such a fine fambly. why, mr. wiggs had real injun blood in his veins; his grandpa was a squaw--a full-blood injun squaw!" lucy made a heroic effort to keep a solemn face, as she asked if asia looked like him. "oh, my, no!" continued mrs. wiggs. "he was a blunette, real dark complected. i remember when he fus' come a-courtin' me folks thought he was a dago. pa wasn't to say well off in those days." mrs. wiggs never applied superlatives to misfortunes. "he had a good many of us to take keer of, an' after mr. wiggs had been keepin' company with me fer 'bout two weeks he drove up one night with a load of coal an' kindlin', an' called pa out to the fence. 'mr. smoot,' sez he, 'as long as i am courtin' your daughter, i think i orter furnish the fire to do it by. ef you don't mind,' sez he, 'i'll jes' put this wagon-load of fuel in the coal-house. i 'spect by the time it's used up nance'll be of my way of think-in'.' an' i was!" added mrs. wiggs, laughing. ordinarily lucy found endless diversion in listening to the family reminiscences, but to-day another subject was on her mind. "how is billy getting along?" she asked. "jes' fine!" said mrs. wiggs; "only he comes home at night 'most dead. i give him money to ride, but ever' day last week he et up his nickel." "who--who has charge of him now?" lucy blushed at her subterfuge. "mr. bob," said mrs. wiggs; "he's the gentleman that took us to supper. he's got money. asia said he give the nigger waiter a quarter. billy is jes' crazy 'bout mr. bob; says he's goin' to be jes' like him when he grows up. he will, too, if he sets his head to it! only he never kin have them big brown eyes an' white teeth mr. bob's got. why, when mr. bob smiles it jes' sort of breaks up his whole face." lucy's eyes were fixed on the mammoth butterfly upon whose iridescent wings asia was putting the finishing touches, but her thoughts were far away. "i jes' wish you could see him!" went on mrs. wiggs, enthusiastically. "i wish i could!" said lucy, with such fervor that mrs. wiggs paused on her way to answer a knock at the outside door. there was a scraping of feet in the passage. "i have been driving all over the country looking for you," said a man's voice. "i have some christmas traps for the kids." lucy rose hastily, and turned just as redding entered. "mr. bob, this is miss lucy," announced mrs. wiggs, triumphantly; "she was jes' 'lowin' she'd like to see you." if a blue-eyed angel straight from the peaks of paradise had been presented to him, redding could not have been more astounded nor more enraptured. but to lucy it was a moment of intense chagrin and embarrassment. during the long silence of the past year she had persuaded herself that redding no longer cared for her. to be thrust upon him in this way was intolerable. all the blood in her veins rushed to her face. "do you know where my muff is, mrs. wiggs?" she asked, after a formal greeting. "oh! you ain't a-goin'?" asked the hostess, anxiously. "i wanted you all to git acquainted." "yes, i must go," said lucy, hurriedly, "if you will find my muff." she stood nervously pulling on her gloves, while mrs. wiggs searched for the lost property. there was a deafening tumult in her heart, and though she bit her lips to keep from laughing, the tears stood in her eyes. "austry's under the bed," announced europena, who had joined in the quest. "i ain't!" came in shrill, indignant tones, as mrs. wiggs dragged forth the culprit, and restored the muff. "may i drive you over to the avenue? i am going that way." it was redding's voice, but it sounded queer and unnatural. "oh, no! no, thank you," gasped lucy, hardly knowing what she said. her one idea was to get away before she broke down completely. redding held the door open as she passed out. his face was cold, calm, inscrutable; not a quiver of the mouth, not a flutter of the lids, but the light went out of his eyes and hope died in his heart. mrs. wiggs stood watching the scene in perplexity. "i dunno what ailed miss lucy," she said, apologetically; "hope it wasn't the toothache." chapter ix how spring came to the cabbage patch "the roads, the woods, the heavens, the hills are not a world to-day- but just a place god made for us in which to play." when the last snow of the winter had melted, and the water was no longer frozen about the corner pump, the commons lost their hard, brown look, and a soft green tinge appeared instead. there were not many ways of telling when spring came to the cabbage patch; no trees shook forth their glad little leaves of welcome, no anemones and snow-drops brought the gentle message, even the birds that winged their way from the south-land hurried by, without so much as a chirp of greeting. but the cabbage patch knew it was spring, nevertheless; something whispered it in the air, a dozen little signs gave the secret away; weeds were springing up in the fence corners, the puddles which a few months ago were covered with ice now reflected bits of blue sky, and the best token of all was the bright, warm sunshine that clung to the earth as if to love it back into beauty and life again. one afternoon mrs. wiggs stood at her gate talking to redding. it was the first time he had been there since christmas day, for his first visit had been too painful for him to desire to repeat it. "yes, indeed, billy kin go," mrs. wiggs was saying. "i'm mighty glad you drove him by home to git on his good coat. he never was to the fair grounds before; it'll be a big treat. how's mr. dick to-day?" "no better," said redding; "he coughed all night." "he was takin' a nap o' sleep when i went to clean up this mornin'," said mrs. wiggs, "so i didn't disturb him. he ain't fer long, pore feller!" "no, poor chap," said redding, sadly. mrs. wiggs saw the shadow on his face, and hastened to change the subject. "what do you think of asia's fence?" she asked. "what about it?" "she done it herself," said mrs. wiggs. "that an' the pavement, too. mrs. krasmier's goat et up her flowers las' year, an' this year she 'lowed she'd fix it different. chris hazy, that boy over yonder with the peg-stick, helped her dig the post-boles, but she done the rest herself." "well, she is pretty clever!" said redding, almost incredulously, as he examined the fence and sidewalk. "how old is she?" "fourteen, goin' on to fifteen. asia, come here." the girl left the flower-bed she was digging, and came forward. "not a very big girl, are you?" said redding, smiling at her. "how would you like to go up to the tile factory, and learn to do decorating?" her serious face lit up with great enthusiasm; she forgot her shyness, and said, eagerly: "oh, yes, sir! could i?" before redding could answer, mrs. wiggs broke in: "you'd be gittin' a artist, mr. bob! them fingers of hers kin do anything. last fall she built that there little greenhouse out of ole planks, an' kep' it full of flowers all winter; put a lamp in durin' the cold spell. you orter see the things she's painted. and talk about mud pictures! she could jes' take some of that there mud under that hoss's feet, an' make it look so much like you, you wouldn't know which was which." billy's appearance at this moment saved redding from immediate disgrace. "you come to the office with billy in the morning," he called to asia, as they started off; "we'll see what can be done." asia went back to her digging with a will; the prospect of work, of learning how to do things right, and, above all, of learning how to paint, filled her with happiness. "if i was you i'd make that bed in the shape of a star," said her mother, breaking in on her rejections. "why don't you make it a mason star? yer pa was a fine mason; it would be a sort of compliment to him." "what is a mason star like?" asked asia. "well, now i ain't right sure whether it 'a got five points or six. either way will do. lands alive, i do believe there comes miss lucy!" lucy olcott had been a frequent visitor of late. through mrs. wiggs she had gotten interested in mrs. schultz, and often stopped in to read to the bedridden old lady. here, of course, she heard a great deal about the eichorns, the elite of the cabbage patch, whose domestic infelicities furnished the chief interest in mrs. schultz's life. lucy had even stood on a chair, at the invalid's earnest request, to count the jars of preserves in the eichorn pantry. later she had become acquainted with miss hazy, the patient little woman in monochrome, whose whole pitiful existence was an apology when it might have been a protest. in fact, lucy became an important personage in the neighborhood. she was sought for advice, called upon for comfort, and asked to share many joys. her approach was usually heralded by a shout, "that's her a-comin'!" and she was invariably escorted across the commons by a guard of ragged but devoted youngsters. and the friendship of these simple people opened her eyes to the great problems of humanity, and as she worked among them and knew life as it was, the hard little bud of her girlhood blossomed into the great soft rose of womanhood. "didn't you meet mr. bob up the street?" asked mrs. wiggs, as she led the way into the kitchen. "him an' billy have jes' left, goin' out to the fair grounds. mr. bob's jes' naturally the best man i ever set eyes on, miss lucy! got the biggest heart, an' always doin' something kind fer folks. jes' now talkin' 'bout gittin' asia a place at the tile fact'ry. i don't see how you missed 'em! if he'd a sawn you with them vi'lets in yer belt, an' them roses in yer cheeks, i bet he wouldn't 'a' went." "oh, yes, he would!" said lucy, emphatically. "my roses don't appeal to mr. bob." "well, he likes yer eyes, anyway," said mrs. wiggs, determined to carry her point. "who said so?" demanded lucy. "he did. i ast him. i said they was regular star-eyes, jes' shining blue with them black eyelashes rayin' out all 'round, an' he said yes, that was the right name fer 'em--star-eyes." there was a mist over the star-eyes as lucy turned away. "that's right; set right down there by the winder. it's so pretty out today it makes you feel good clean down yer back." "i believe you always feel that way," said lucy, pulling off her gloves. "don't you ever worry over things?" mrs. wiggs grew serious. "i'm lonesome fer jimmy all the time," she said simply. "some folks goes right under when trouble comes, but i carry mine fur an' easy." "i don't mean grieving," said lucy; "i mean worrying and fretting." "well, yes," admitted mrs. wiggs, taking a hot iron from the stove, "i 've done that, too. i remember onct last winter i was tooken sick, an' i got to pesterin' 'bout what the childern 'ud do if i died. they wasn't no money in the house, an' they didn't know where to git none. all one night i laid there with my head 'most bustin', jes' worryin' 'bout it. by an' by i was so miserable i ast the lord what i mus' do, an' he tole me." there was absolute conviction in her tone and manner. "nex' mornin'," she went on, "soon's i could i went over to the 'spensary an' ast fer the chief doctor. "'doctor,' i sez, 'don't you buy corpses?' "'yes,' sez he, lookin' kinder funny. "'well,' sez i, 'i want to sell mine.' "then i tole him all 'bout it, an' ast him if he wouldn't take my body after i was gone, an' give the money to the childern. "'will you put it in writin',' sez he. "'yes,' sez i, 'if you'll do the same.' "so he drawed up the papers, an' we both signed, an' a man with a spine in his back an' a lady with the rheumatiz witnessed it. so you see," concluded mrs. wiggs, "i didn't die; you mark my words, it ain't never no use puttin' up yer umbrell' till it rains!" lucy laughed. "well, you certainly practise what you preach." "not always," said mrs. wiggs. "i'm 'feared i use' to worry some over mr. wiggs. t'words the last he uster pretty often--" here mrs. wiggs tipped an imaginary bottle to her lips, and gave lucy a significant wink. even in the strictest confidence, she could not bear to speak of the weakness of the late lamented. "but no matter how bad he done, he always tried to do better. mr. dick sorter puts me in mind of him 'bout that." "who is mr. dick?" "he's mr. bob's friend. stays at his rooms sence he was took down." "is mr. redding sick?" asked lucy, the color suddenly leaving her face. "no, it's mr. dick; he's consumpted. i clean up his room ever' mornin' he coughs all the time, jes' like mr. wiggs done. other day he had a orful spell while i was there. i wanted to git him some whisky, but he shuck his head. 'i'm on the water-cart,' sez he. 'bob's drivin' it.' he ain't no fatter 'n a knittin'-needle, an' weaker 'n water. you orter see him watch fer mr. bob! he sets by the winder, all propped up with pillars, an' never tecks his eyes offen that corner. an' when mr. bob comes in an' sets down by him an' tells him what's goin' on, an' sorter fools with him a spell, looks like he picks up right off. he ain't got no folks nor nothin'--jes, mr. bob. he shorely does set store by him--jes' shows it ever' way. that's right, too. i hold that it's wrong to keep ever'thing bottled up inside you. yer feelin's is like ras'berry vineger: if you 're skeered to use 'em an' keep on savin' 'em, first thing you know they 've done 'vaporated!" lucy's experience had proved the contrary, but she smiled bravely back at mrs. wiggs, with a new tenderness in her face. "you have taught me lots of things!" she said impulsively. "you are one of the best and happiest women i know." "well, i guess i ain't the best by a long sight, but i may be the happiest. an' i got cause to be: four of the smartest childern that ever lived, a nice house, fair to middlin' health when i ain't got the rheumatiz, and folks always goin' clean out of the way to be good to one! ain't that 'nough to make a person happy? i'll be fifty years old on the fourth of july, but i hold there ain't no use in dyin' 'fore yer time. lots of folks is walkin' 'round jes' as dead as they'll ever be. i believe in gittin' as much good outen life as you kin--not that i ever set out to look fer happiness; seems like the folks that does that never finds it. i jes' do the best i kin where the good lord put me at, an' it looks like i got a happy feelin' in me 'most all the time." lucy sat silent for a while, gazing out of the window. mrs. wiggs's philosophy was having its effect. presently she rose and untied the bundle she held. "here is a dress i brought for asia," she said, shaking out the folds of a soft crepon. "umph, umph! ain't that grand?" exclaimed mrs. wiggs, coming from behind the ironing-board to examine it. "it does seem lucky that your leavin's jes' fits asia, an' asia's jes' fits austry; there ain't no symptoms of them bein' handed down, neither! we all model right after you, but it looks like asia's the only one that ketches yer style. oh, must you go?" she added, as lucy picked up her gloves. "yes; i promised mrs. schultz to read to her this afternoon." "well, stop in on yer way back--i'll have a little present ready for you." it was an unwritten law that no guest should depart without a gift of some kind. sometimes it was one of asia's paintings, again it was a package of sunflower seed, or a bottle of vinegar, and once lucy had taken home four gourds and a bunch of paper roses. "i declare i never will git no work done if this weather keeps up!" said mrs. wiggs, as she held the gate open. "if i wasn't so stove up, an' nobody wasn't lookin', i'd jes' skitter 'round this here yard like a colt!" chapter x australia's mishap "'t is one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall." through the long, sunny afternoon mrs. wiggs sang over her ironing, and asia worked diligently in her flower-bed. around the corner of the shed which served as cuba's dwelling-place, australia and europena made mud-pies. peace and harmony reigned in this shabby garden of eden until temptation entered, and the weakest fell. "'t ain't no fun jes' keepin' on makin' mud-pies," announced australia, after enough pastry had been manufactured to start a miniature bakery. "wish we could make some white cakes, like they have at mr. bagby's," said europena. "could if we had some whitewash. i'll tell you what's let do! let 's take some of asia's paint she's goin' to paint the fence with, an' make 'em green on top." "ma wouldn't like it," protested europena; "besides, i don't want my little pies green." "i'm goin' to," said australia, beginning her search for the paint-can. "it won't take but a little teeny bit; they'll never miss it." after some time the desired object was discovered on a shelf in the shed. its high position enhanced its value, giving it the cruel fascination of the unattainable. "could you stand up on my soldiers, like the man at the show?" demanded australia. "i'd fall off," said europena. "'fraid-cat!" taunted her sister, in disgust. "do you reckon you could hol' the chair while i climbed up on the back?" "it ain't got no bottom." "well, it don't need to have no bottom if i'm goin' to stand on its back," said australia, sharply. leaders of great enterprises must of necessity turn deaf ears to words of discouragement. "you might git killed," persisted europena. "'t wouldn't matter," said australia, loftily; "'t wouldn't be but the seventh time. i got three more times to die. 'fore you was borned i was drowned out in the country, that was one time; then i fell in the ash-bar'l and was dead, that's two times; an'--an' then i et the stove-polish, that's four times; an' i can't 'member, but the nex' time will be seven. i don't keer how much i git killed, till it's eight times, then i'm goin' to be good all the time, 'cause when you are dead nine times they put you in a hole an' throw dirt on you!" australia had become so absorbed in her theory of reincarnation that she had forgotten the paint, but the bottomless chair recalled it. "now, you lay 'crost the chair, europena, an' i'll climb up," she commanded. europena, though violently opposed to the undertaking, would not forsake her leader at a critical moment. she had uttered her protest, had tried in vain to stem the current of events; nothing was left her now but to do or die. she valiantly braced her small body across the frame of the chair, and australia began her perilous ascent. cuba looked mildly astonished as the plump figure of the little girl appeared above his feed-box. "i 've 'most got it!" cried australia, reaching as high as possible, and getting her forefinger over the edge of the big can. at this juncture cuba, whose nose had doubtless been tickled by australia's apron-string, gave a prodigious sneeze. europena, feeling that retribution was upon them, fled in terror. the ballast being removed from the chair, the result was inevitable. a crash, a heterogeneous combination of small girl, green paint, and shattered chair, then a series of shrieks that resembled the whistles on new year's eve! redding was the first to the rescue. he had just driven billy to the gate when the screams began, and with a bound he was out of the buggy and rushing to the scene of disaster. the picture that met his eyes staggered him. australia, screaming wildly, lay in what appeared to his excited vision to be a pool of green blood; europena was jumping up and down beside her, calling wildly for her mother, while cuba, with ears erect and a green liquid trickling down his nose, sternly surveyed the wreck. in a moment redding had australia in his arms, and was mopping the paint from her face and hair. "there, there, little sister, you aren't much hurt!" he was saying, as mrs. wiggs and asia rushed in. the damage done proved external rather than internal, so after assuring herself that no bones were broken mrs. wiggs constituted herself a salvage corps. "take off yer coat out here, mr. bob, an' i'll take off austry's dress. them's the worst, 'ceptin' her plaits. now, we'll all go up to the kitchen, an' see what kin be did." now, fate, or it may have been the buggy at the gate, decreed that just as they turned the corner of the house, lucy olcott should be coming up the walk. for a moment she stood bewildered at the sight that greeted her. redding, in his shirt sleeves, was leading australia by the hand; the little girl wore a red-flannel petticoat, and over her face and hands and to the full length of her flaxen braids ran sticky streams of bright green paint. involuntarily, lucy looked at redding for explanation, and they both laughed. "ain't it lucky it was the back of her head 'stid of the front?" said mrs. wiggs, coming up; "it might 'a' put her eyes out. pore chile, she looks like a mollygraw! come right in, an' let's git to work." billy was despatched for turpentine; lucy, with an apron pinned about her, began operations on australia's hair, while redding sat helplessly by, waiting for mrs. wiggs to make his coat presentable. "i am afraid her hair will have to be cut," said lucy, ruefully, as she held up a tangled snarl of yellow and green. "all right," mrs. wiggs said promptly. "whatever you say is all right." but australia felt differently; her sobs, suppressed for a time, broke forth afresh. "i ain't goin' to have my hair cut off!" she wept. "jes' leave it on this a-way." mrs. wiggs commanded and lucy entreated in vain. finally redding drew his chair up in front of the small girl. "australia, listen to me just a moment, won't you? please!" she uncovered one eye. "you wouldn't want green hair, would you?" a violent shake of the head. "well, if you will let miss olcott cut off all that ugly green hair, and give the pretty curls a chance to grow back, i'll give you--let's see, what shall i give you?" "a doll-buggy an' dishes," suggested europena, who was standing by. "yes," he said, "doll-buggy and dishes, and a dollar besides!" such munificence was not to be withstood. australia suffered herself to be shorn, in view of the future tempering of the wind. "you orter been a hoss-trainer, mr. bob," said mrs. wiggs, admiringly, when the deed was accomplished; "yer voice jes' makes folks do things!" "not everybody, mrs. wiggs," he said grimly. "where do you suppose billy's went with the turkentine? i declare that boy would be a good one to send after trouble! oh, you ain't goin' to try an' wear it this a-way?" she said, as redding insisted on putting on his coat. as he turned to the door, a light hand touched his arm. lucy unfastened the violets at her belt, and timidly held them toward him. "will you take them--to dick?" she faltered. he looked at her in amazement. for a moment neither spoke, but her eyes made the silence eloquent; they told the secret that her lips dared not utter. there are times when explanations are superfluous. redding threw discretion to the winds, and, regardless of wiggses and consequences, took the "christmas lady" in his arms, and kissed away the year of grief and separation. it was not until mrs. wiggs saw their trap disappear in the twilight that she recovered her speech. "well, it certainly do beat me!" she exclaimed, after a fruitless effort to reconstruct her standard of propriety. "i 've heard of 'painters' colic,' but i never knowed it to go to the head before!" chapter xi the benefit dance "those there are whose hearts have a slope southward, and are open to the whole noon of nature." notwithstanding the fact that calamities seldom come singly, it was not until the fourth of july that the cabbage patch was again the scene of an accident. mrs. wiggs had been hanging out clothes, and was turning to pick up the empty basket, when billy precipitated himself into the yard, yelling wildly: "chris hazy's broke his leg!" mrs. wiggs threw up her hands in horror. "good lands, billy! where's he at?" "they 're bringin' him up the railroad track." mrs. wiggs rushed into the house. "don't let on to miss hazy till we git him in," she cautioned, snatching up a bundle of rags and a bottle of liniment. "pore chile! how it must hurt him! i'll run down the track an' meet 'em." she was breathless and trembling from excitement as she turned the corner at mrs. schultz's. a crowd of boys were coming up the track, trundling a wheelbarrow, in which sat chris hazy, the merriest of the lot, waving a piece of his wooden leg in the air. mrs. wiggs turned upon billy; "i never lied, ma! i said he broke his leg," the boy gasped out as best he could for laughing, "an' you never ast which one. oh, boys! git on to the rags an' arniky!" such a shout went up that mrs. wiggs laughed with the rest, but only for a moment, for she spied miss hazy tottering toward them, and she hastened forward to relieve her anxiety. "it's his peg-stick!" she shouted. "p-e-g-stick!" this information, instead of bringing relief to miss hazy, caused a fresh burst of tears. she sat down on the track, with her apron over her face, and swayed backward and forward. "don't make much difference which one 't was," she sobbed; "it would be 'bout as easy to git another sure-'nough leg as to git a new wooden one. that las' one cost seven dollars. i jes' sewed an' saved an' scrimped to git it, an' now it's--busted!" the boys stood around in silent sympathy, and when nobody was looking chris wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve. miss hazy's arrival had changed their point of view. mrs. wiggs rose to the occasion. "boys," she said, and her voice had an inspiring ring, "i'll tell you what let's do! let's give a benefit dance to-night, an' buy chris hazy a new peg-stick. every feller that's willin' to help, hol' up his hand." a dozen grimy hands were waved on high, and offers of assistance came from all sides. mrs. wiggs saw that now was the time to utilize their enthusiasm. "i'll go right back to the house, an' git asia to write out the tickets, an' all you boys kin sell ten apiece. miss hazy, you kin come over an' help me git the house ready, an' we'll put chris to cleanin' lamp-chimbleys." under this able generalship, the work was soon under way; the boys were despatched with the tickets, and the house was being put straight--at least the parlor was. it would have required many days to restore order to the chaos that habitually existed in the house of wiggs. "asia, you help me roll these here barrels out on the porch, an' i 'll mop up the floor," said mrs. wiggs. "miss hazy, you look 'round in the kitchen, an' see if you can't find a taller candle. seems like i put one in the sugar-bowl--that's it! now, if you'll jes' cut it up right fine it'll be all ready to put on the floor when i git done." when the floor was dry and the candle sprinkled over it, australia and europena were detailed to slide upon it until it became slick. "would you ast ever'body to bring a cheer, or would you have 'em already here?" asked mrs. wiggs. "oh, le' 's bring 'em ourselves!" insisted asia, who had been to a church social. so a raid was made on the neighborhood, and every available chair borrowed and ranged against the parlor wall. by noon the boys reported most of the tickets sold, and mrs. wiggs received the funds, which amounted to six dollars. it being a holiday, everybody was glad to come to the dance, especially as the proceeds were to help little miss hazy. at one time there threatened to be trouble about the music; some wanted uncle tom, the old negro who usually fiddled at the dances, and others preferred to patronize home talent and have jake schultz, whose accordion could be heard at all hours in the cabbage patch. mrs. wiggs effected a compromise. "they kin take turn about," she argued; "when one gits tired, the other kin pick up right where he left oft, an' the young folks kin shake the'r feet till they shoes drop off. uncle tom an' jake, too, is a heap sight better than them mud-gutter bands that play 'round the streets." "wisht we could fix the yard up some," said asia, when there was nothing more to be done in the parlor. "i got a japanee lantern," suggested miss hazy, doubtfully. "the very thing!" said mrs. wiggs. "we'll hang it in the front door. billy's makin' a jack o' lantern to set on the fence. fer the land's sake! what's john bagby a-bringing' in here?" the grocery boy, staggering under the weight of an ice-cream freezer and carrying something wrapped in white paper, came up the path. "it's fer you," he said, grinning broadly. john was cross-eyed, so miss hazy thought he looked at mrs. wiggs, and mrs. wiggs thought he looked at miss hazy. however, the card on the freezer dispelled all doubt: "fer mrs wiggs on her 50 birthday compelments of the naybors." under the white paper was a large, white iced cake, with a "w" in cinnamon drops on top. "how'd they ever know it was my birthday?" exclaimed mrs. wiggs, in delight. "why, i'd even forgot it myself! we'll have the cake fer the party to-night. somehow, i never feel like good things b'long to me till i pass 'em on to somebody else." this necessitated a supply of saucers and spoons, and friends were again called upon to provide as many as possible. the wiggses were quite busy until seven o'clock, when they stopped to make their toilets. "where's europena?" asked asia. nobody had seen her for some time. search was made, and she was discovered standing on a chair in a corner of the parlor, calmly eating the cinnamon drops off the birthday cake. fingers and mouth were crimson, and the first stroke of the "w" was missing. billy was so indignant that he insisted on immediate punishment. "no, i ain't a-goin' to whip her on my birthday, billy. she's sorry; she says she is. besides, the cake ain't spoiled; it's jes' a 'n' now, 'stid of a 'w,' an' n stands fer nancy jes' as good as w stands fer wiggs!" the first guest to arrive was mr. krasmier; he had paid ten cents toward the refreshments, and proposed to get his money's worth. mrs. eichorn came early, too, but for a different reason; she was very stout, and her happiness for the evening depended largely upon the size of the chair she secured. half the spectators had arrived before the hostess appeared. her delay was caused by the loss of her false curls, which she had not worn since the memorable night at the opera house. they were very black and very frizzled, and had been bought at a reduced price from a traveling salesman some ten years before. mrs. wiggs considered them absolutely necessary to her toilet on state occasions. hence consternation prevailed when they could not be found. drawers were upset and boxes emptied, but with no success. when hope was about abandoned, asia suddenly darted out to the shed where the children kept their play-things. when she returned she triumphantly displayed a battered doll, armless and footless, but with a magnificent crowning glory of black, frizzed hair. mrs. wiggs waited until all the guests assembled before she made her speech of thanks for the cake and cream. it was a very fine speech, having been written out beforehand by mr. bagby. it began, "ladies and gents, it gives me pleasure--" but before mrs. wiggs got half through she forgot it, and had to tell them in her own way how grateful she was. in conclusion she said: "couldn't nobody be more obliged than what i am! looks like nice things is always comin' my way. hope god'll bless you all! the musicianers have come, so we 'll begin the party with a virginer reel." the young people scampered to their places, and when mr. eichorn made a bow to mrs. wiggs she laughingly took her place at the head of the line, and at the first strains of "old dan tucker" she went down the middle with a grace and spirit that flatly contradicted the little red fifty on the birthday cake. "swing yer pahtners, balance all, swing dat gal wid a water-fall. skip light, ladies, de cake's all dough, nebber min' de weather, so de win' don't blow." old uncle tom was warming up to his work, and the fun waxed furious. asia, looking very pretty in her new crepon, cast shy glances at joe eichorn, who had been "keeping company" of late. billy, for whom there was no room in the reel, let off his energy in the corner by a noisy execution of the "mobile buck." australia and europena sat in the window with chris hazy, and delightedly clapped time to the music. when the dance ended, mrs. wiggs went to the door to get cool. she was completely out of breath, and her false front had worked its way down over her eyebrows. "look--comin', ma!" called billy. when mrs. wiggs saw who it was she hastened down to the gate. "howdy, mr. bob; howdy, miss lucy! can't you git right out an' come in? we 're havin' a birthday party an' a benefit dance fer chris hazy's leg." "no, thanks," said redding, trying in vain not to look at mrs. wiggs's head. "we just stopped by to tell you the good news." "'bout asia's position?" asked mrs. wiggs, eagerly. "yes, about that, and something else besides. what would you say if i told you that i was going to marry the prettiest, sweetest, dearest girl in the world?" "why, that's miss lucy!" gasped mrs. wiggs, more breathless than ever. then the truth flashed upon her, and she laughed with them. "oh, sure 'nough! sure 'nough! i'm jes' pleased to death!" she did not have to tell them; her eyes, though suffering a partial eclipse, fairly beamed with joy and satisfaction. "an' so," she added, "it wasn't the paint, after all!" when they had driven away, she lingered a moment at the gate. music and laughter came from the house behind her, as she stood smiling out across the moonlit cabbage patch. her face still held the reflected happiness of the departed lovers, as the sky holds the rose-tints after the sun has gone. "an' they 're goin' to git married," she whispered softly to herself; "an' billy's got promoted, an' asia's got a place, an' chris'll have a new peg-stick. looks like ever'thing in the world comes right, if we jes' wait long enough!" maggie: a girl of the streets by stephen crane chapter i a very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honor of rum alley. he was throwing stones at howling urchins from devil's row who were circling madly about the heap and pelting at him. his infantile countenance was livid with fury. his small body was writhing in the delivery of great, crimson oaths. "run, jimmie, run! dey'll get yehs," screamed a retreating rum alley child. "naw," responded jimmie with a valiant roar, "dese micks can't make me run." howls of renewed wrath went up from devil's row throats. tattered gamins on the right made a furious assault on the gravel heap. on their small, convulsed faces there shone the grins of true assassins. as they charged, they threw stones and cursed in shrill chorus. the little champion of rum alley stumbled precipitately down the other side. his coat had been torn to shreds in a scuffle, and his hat was gone. he had bruises on twenty parts of his body, and blood was dripping from a cut in his head. his wan features wore a look of a tiny, insane demon. on the ground, children from devil's row closed in on their antagonist. he crooked his left arm defensively about his head and fought with cursing fury. the little boys ran to and fro, dodging, hurling stones and swearing in barbaric trebles. from a window of an apartment house that upreared its form from amid squat, ignorant stables, there leaned a curious woman. some laborers, unloading a scow at a dock at the river, paused for a moment and regarded the fight. the engineer of a passive tugboat hung lazily to a railing and watched. over on the island, a worm of yellow convicts came from the shadow of a building and crawled slowly along the river's bank. a stone had smashed into jimmie's mouth. blood was bubbling over his chin and down upon his ragged shirt. tears made furrows on his dirt-stained cheeks. his thin legs had begun to tremble and turn weak, causing his small body to reel. his roaring curses of the first part of the fight had changed to a blasphemous chatter. in the yells of the whirling mob of devil's row children there were notes of joy like songs of triumphant savagery. the little boys seemed to leer gloatingly at the blood upon the other child's face. down the avenue came boastfully sauntering a lad of sixteen years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal manhood already sat upon his lips. his hat was tipped with an air of challenge over his eye. between his teeth, a cigar stump was tilted at the angle of defiance. he walked with a certain swing of the shoulders which appalled the timid. he glanced over into the vacant lot in which the little raving boys from devil's row seethed about the shrieking and tearful child from rum alley. "gee!" he murmured with interest. "a scrap. gee!" he strode over to the cursing circle, swinging his shoulders in a manner which denoted that he held victory in his fists. he approached at the back of one of the most deeply engaged of the devil's row children. "ah, what deh hell," he said, and smote the deeply-engaged one on the back of the head. the little boy fell to the ground and gave a hoarse, tremendous howl. he scrambled to his feet, and perceiving, evidently, the size of his assailant, ran quickly off, shouting alarms. the entire devil's row party followed him. they came to a stand a short distance away and yelled taunting oaths at the boy with the chronic sneer. the latter, momentarily, paid no attention to them. "what deh hell, jimmie?" he asked of the small champion. jimmie wiped his blood-wet features with his sleeve. "well, it was dis way, pete, see! i was goin' teh lick dat riley kid and dey all pitched on me." some rum alley children now came forward. the party stood for a moment exchanging vainglorious remarks with devil's row. a few stones were thrown at long distances, and words of challenge passed between small warriors. then the rum alley contingent turned slowly in the direction of their home street. they began to give, each to each, distorted versions of the fight. causes of retreat in particular cases were magnified. blows dealt in the fight were enlarged to catapultian power, and stones thrown were alleged to have hurtled with infinite accuracy. valor grew strong again, and the little boys began to swear with great spirit. "ah, we blokies kin lick deh hull damn row," said a child, swaggering. little jimmie was striving to stanch the flow of blood from his cut lips. scowling, he turned upon the speaker. "ah, where deh hell was yeh when i was doin' all deh fightin?" he demanded. "youse kids makes me tired." "ah, go ahn," replied the other argumentatively. jimmie replied with heavy contempt. "ah, youse can't fight, blue billie! i kin lick yeh wid one han'." "ah, go ahn," replied billie again. "ah," said jimmie threateningly. "ah," said the other in the same tone. they struck at each other, clinched, and rolled over on the cobble stones. "smash 'im, jimmie, kick deh damn guts out of 'im," yelled pete, the lad with the chronic sneer, in tones of delight. the small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore. they began to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with sobs. the other little boys clasped their hands and wriggled their legs in excitement. they formed a bobbing circle about the pair. a tiny spectator was suddenly agitated. "cheese it, jimmie, cheese it! here comes yer fader," he yelled. the circle of little boys instantly parted. they drew away and waited in ecstatic awe for that which was about to happen. the two little boys fighting in the modes of four thousand years ago, did not hear the warning. up the avenue there plodded slowly a man with sullen eyes. he was carrying a dinner pail and smoking an apple-wood pipe. as he neared the spot where the little boys strove, he regarded them listlessly. but suddenly he roared an oath and advanced upon the rolling fighters. "here, you jim, git up, now, while i belt yer life out, you damned disorderly brat." he began to kick into the chaotic mass on the ground. the boy billie felt a heavy boot strike his head. he made a furious effort and disentangled himself from jimmie. he tottered away, damning. jimmie arose painfully from the ground and confronting his father, began to curse him. his parent kicked him. "come home, now," he cried, "an' stop yer jawin', er i'll lam the everlasting head off yehs." they departed. the man paced placidly along with the apple-wood emblem of serenity between his teeth. the boy followed a dozen feet in the rear. he swore luridly, for he felt that it was degradation for one who aimed to be some vague soldier, or a man of blood with a sort of sublime license, to be taken home by a father. chapter ii eventually they entered into a dark region where, from a careening building, a dozen gruesome doorways gave up loads of babies to the street and the gutter. a wind of early autumn raised yellow dust from cobbles and swirled it against an hundred windows. long streamers of garments fluttered from fire-escapes. in all unhandy places there were buckets, brooms, rags and bottles. in the street infants played or fought with other infants or sat stupidly in the way of vehicles. formidable women, with uncombed hair and disordered dress, gossiped while leaning on railings, or screamed in frantic quarrels. withered persons, in curious postures of submission to something, sat smoking pipes in obscure corners. a thousand odors of cooking food came forth to the street. the building quivered and creaked from the weight of humanity stamping about in its bowels. a small ragged girl dragged a red, bawling infant along the crowded ways. he was hanging back, baby-like, bracing his wrinkled, bare legs. the little girl cried out: "ah, tommie, come ahn. dere's jimmie and fader. don't be a-pullin' me back." she jerked the baby's arm impatiently. he fell on his face, roaring. with a second jerk she pulled him to his feet, and they went on. with the obstinacy of his order, he protested against being dragged in a chosen direction. he made heroic endeavors to keep on his legs, denounce his sister and consume a bit of orange peeling which he chewed between the times of his infantile orations. as the sullen-eyed man, followed by the blood-covered boy, drew near, the little girl burst into reproachful cries. "ah, jimmie, youse bin fightin' agin." the urchin swelled disdainfully. "ah, what deh hell, mag. see?" the little girl upbraided him, "youse allus fightin', jimmie, an' yeh knows it puts mudder out when yehs come home half dead, an' it's like we'll all get a poundin'." she began to weep. the babe threw back his head and roared at his prospects. "ah, what deh hell!" cried jimmie. "shut up er i'll smack yer mout'. see?" as his sister continued her lamentations, he suddenly swore and struck her. the little girl reeled and, recovering herself, burst into tears and quaveringly cursed him. as she slowly retreated her brother advanced dealing her cuffs. the father heard and turned about. "stop that, jim, d'yeh hear? leave yer sister alone on the street. it's like i can never beat any sense into yer damned wooden head." the urchin raised his voice in defiance to his parent and continued his attacks. the babe bawled tremendously, protesting with great violence. during his sister's hasty manoeuvres, he was dragged by the arm. finally the procession plunged into one of the gruesome doorways. they crawled up dark stairways and along cold, gloomy halls. at last the father pushed open a door and they entered a lighted room in which a large woman was rampant. she stopped in a career from a seething stove to a pan-covered table. as the father and children filed in she peered at them. "eh, what? been fightin' agin, by gawd!" she threw herself upon jimmie. the urchin tried to dart behind the others and in the scuffle the babe, tommie, was knocked down. he protested with his usual vehemence, because they had bruised his tender shins against a table leg. the mother's massive shoulders heaved with anger. grasping the urchin by the neck and shoulder she shook him until he rattled. she dragged him to an unholy sink, and, soaking a rag in water, began to scrub his lacerated face with it. jimmie screamed in pain and tried to twist his shoulders out of the clasp of the huge arms. the babe sat on the floor watching the scene, his face in contortions like that of a woman at a tragedy. the father, with a newly-ladened pipe in his mouth, crouched on a backless chair near the stove. jimmie's cries annoyed him. he turned about and bellowed at his wife: "let the damned kid alone for a minute, will yeh, mary? yer allus poundin' 'im. when i come nights i can't git no rest 'cause yer allus poundin' a kid. let up, d'yeh hear? don't be allus poundin' a kid." the woman's operations on the urchin instantly increased in violence. at last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and weeping. the wife put her immense hands on her hips and with a chieftain-like stride approached her husband. "ho," she said, with a great grunt of contempt. "an' what in the devil are you stickin' your nose for?" the babe crawled under the table and, turning, peered out cautiously. the ragged girl retreated and the urchin in the corner drew his legs carefully beneath him. the man puffed his pipe calmly and put his great mudded boots on the back part of the stove. "go teh hell," he murmured, tranquilly. the woman screamed and shook her fists before her husband's eyes. the rough yellow of her face and neck flared suddenly crimson. she began to howl. he puffed imperturbably at his pipe for a time, but finally arose and began to look out at the window into the darkening chaos of back yards. "you've been drinkin', mary," he said. "you'd better let up on the bot', ol' woman, or you'll git done." "you're a liar. i ain't had a drop," she roared in reply. they had a lurid altercation, in which they damned each other's souls with frequence. the babe was staring out from under the table, his small face working in his excitement. the ragged girl went stealthily over to the corner where the urchin lay. "are yehs hurted much, jimmie?" she whispered timidly. "not a damn bit! see?" growled the little boy. "will i wash deh blood?" "naw!" "will i--" "when i catch dat riley kid i'll break 'is face! dat's right! see?" he turned his face to the wall as if resolved to grimly bide his time. in the quarrel between husband and wife, the woman was victor. the man grabbed his hat and rushed from the room, apparently determined upon a vengeful drunk. she followed to the door and thundered at him as he made his way down stairs. she returned and stirred up the room until her children were bobbing about like bubbles. "git outa deh way," she persistently bawled, waving feet with their dishevelled shoes near the heads of her children. she shrouded herself, puffing and snorting, in a cloud of steam at the stove, and eventually extracted a frying-pan full of potatoes that hissed. she flourished it. "come teh yer suppers, now," she cried with sudden exasperation. "hurry up, now, er i'll help yeh!" the children scrambled hastily. with prodigious clatter they arranged themselves at table. the babe sat with his feet dangling high from a precarious infant chair and gorged his small stomach. jimmie forced, with feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces between his wounded lips. maggie, with side glances of fear of interruption, ate like a small pursued tigress. the mother sat blinking at them. she delivered reproaches, swallowed potatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle. after a time her mood changed and she wept as she carried little tommie into another room and laid him to sleep with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red and green grandeur. then she came and moaned by the stove. she rocked to and fro upon a chair, shedding tears and crooning miserably to the two children about their "poor mother" and "yer fader, damn 'is soul." the little girl plodded between the table and the chair with a dish-pan on it. she tottered on her small legs beneath burdens of dishes. jimmie sat nursing his various wounds. he cast furtive glances at his mother. his practised eye perceived her gradually emerge from a muddled mist of sentiment until her brain burned in drunken heat. he sat breathless. maggie broke a plate. the mother started to her feet as if propelled. "good gawd," she howled. her eyes glittered on her child with sudden hatred. the fervent red of her face turned almost to purple. the little boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in an earthquake. he floundered about in darkness until he found the stairs. he stumbled, panic-stricken, to the next floor. an old woman opened a door. a light behind her threw a flare on the urchin's quivering face. "eh, gawd, child, what is it dis time? is yer fader beatin' yer mudder, or yer mudder beatin' yer fader?" chapter iii jimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall. above the muffled roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at night, the thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled with the sound of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the rattling of wheels over cobbles, they heard the screams of the child and the roars of the mother die away to a feeble moaning and a subdued bass muttering. the old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at will, an expression of great virtue. she possessed a small music-box capable of one tune, and a collection of "god bless yehs" pitched in assorted keys of fervency. each day she took a position upon the stones of fifth avenue, where she crooked her legs under her and crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. she received daily a small sum in pennies. it was contributed, for the most part, by persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity. once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the gnarled woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity beneath her cloak. when she was arrested she had cursed the lady into a partial swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had almost kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman whose conduct upon that occasion she referred to when she said: "the police, damn 'em." "eh, jimmie, it's cursed shame," she said. "go, now, like a dear an' buy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs can sleep here." jimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed. he passed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar. straining up on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high as his arms would let him. he saw two hands thrust down and take them. directly the same hands let down the filled pail and he left. in front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure. it was his father, swaying about on uncertain legs. "give me deh can. see?" said the man, threateningly. "ah, come off! i got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be dirt teh swipe it. see?" cried jimmie. the father wrenched the pail from the urchin. he grasped it in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. he glued his lips to the under edge and tilted his head. his hairy throat swelled until it seemed to grow near his chin. there was a tremendous gulping movement and the beer was gone. the man caught his breath and laughed. he hit his son on the head with the empty pail. as it rolled clanging into the street, jimmie began to scream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins. "look at deh dirt what yeh done me," he yelled. "deh ol' woman 'ill be raisin' hell." he retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not pursue. he staggered toward the door. "i'll club hell outa yeh when i ketch yeh," he shouted, and disappeared. during the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking whiskies and declaring to all comers, confidentially: "my home reg'lar livin' hell! damndes' place! reg'lar hell! why do i come an' drin' whisk' here thish way? 'cause home reg'lar livin' hell!" jimmie waited a long time in the street and then crept warily up through the building. he passed with great caution the door of the gnarled woman, and finally stopped outside his home and listened. he could hear his mother moving heavily about among the furniture of the room. she was chanting in a mournful voice, occasionally interjecting bursts of volcanic wrath at the father, who, jimmie judged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner. "why deh blazes don' chere try teh keep jim from fightin'? i'll break her jaw," she suddenly bellowed. the man mumbled with drunken indifference. "ah, wha' deh hell. w'a's odds? wha' makes kick?" "because he tears 'is clothes, yeh damn fool," cried the woman in supreme wrath. the husband seemed to become aroused. "go teh hell," he thundered fiercely in reply. there was a crash against the door and something broke into clattering fragments. jimmie partially suppressed a howl and darted down the stairway. below he paused and listened. he heard howls and curses, groans and shrieks, confusingly in chorus as if a battle were raging. with all was the crash of splintering furniture. the eyes of the urchin glared in fear that one of them would discover him. curious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments passed to and fro. "ol' johnson's raisin' hell agin." jimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants of the tenement had all yawned and shut their doors. then he crawled upstairs with the caution of an invader of a panther den. sounds of labored breathing came through the broken door-panels. he pushed the door open and entered, quaking. a glow from the fire threw red hues over the bare floor, the cracked and soiled plastering, and the overturned and broken furniture. in the middle of the floor lay his mother asleep. in one corner of the room his father's limp body hung across the seat of a chair. the urchin stole forward. he began to shiver in dread of awakening his parents. his mother's great chest was heaving painfully. jimmie paused and looked down at her. her face was inflamed and swollen from drinking. her yellow brows shaded eyelids that had brown blue. her tangled hair tossed in waves over her forehead. her mouth was set in the same lines of vindictive hatred that it had, perhaps, borne during the fight. her bare, red arms were thrown out above her head in positions of exhaustion, something, mayhap, like those of a sated villain. the urchin bended over his mother. he was fearful lest she should open her eyes, and the dread within him was so strong, that he could not forbear to stare, but hung as if fascinated over the woman's grim face. suddenly her eyes opened. the urchin found himself looking straight into that expression, which, it would seem, had the power to change his blood to salt. he howled piercingly and fell backward. the woman floundered for a moment, tossed her arms about her head as if in combat, and again began to snore. jimmie crawled back in the shadows and waited. a noise in the next room had followed his cry at the discovery that his mother was awake. he grovelled in the gloom, the eyes from out his drawn face riveted upon the intervening door. he heard it creak, and then the sound of a small voice came to him. "jimmie! jimmie! are yehs dere?" it whispered. the urchin started. the thin, white face of his sister looked at him from the door-way of the other room. she crept to him across the floor. the father had not moved, but lay in the same death-like sleep. the mother writhed in uneasy slumber, her chest wheezing as if she were in the agonies of strangulation. out at the window a florid moon was peering over dark roofs, and in the distance the waters of a river glimmered pallidly. the small frame of the ragged girl was quivering. her features were haggard from weeping, and her eyes gleamed from fear. she grasped the urchin's arm in her little trembling hands and they huddled in a corner. the eyes of both were drawn, by some force, to stare at the woman's face, for they thought she need only to awake and all fiends would come from below. they crouched until the ghost-mists of dawn appeared at the window, drawing close to the panes, and looking in at the prostrate, heaving body of the mother. chapter iv the babe, tommie, died. he went away in a white, insignificant coffin, his small waxen hand clutching a flower that the girl, maggie, had stolen from an italian. she and jimmie lived. the inexperienced fibres of the boy's eyes were hardened at an early age. he became a young man of leather. he lived some red years without laboring. during that time his sneer became chronic. he studied human nature in the gutter, and found it no worse than he thought he had reason to believe it. he never conceived a respect for the world, because he had begun with no idols that it had smashed. he clad his soul in armor by means of happening hilariously in at a mission church where a man composed his sermons of "yous." while they got warm at the stove, he told his hearers just where he calculated they stood with the lord. many of the sinners were impatient over the pictured depths of their degradation. they were waiting for soup-tickets. a reader of words of wind-demons might have been able to see the portions of a dialogue pass to and fro between the exhorter and his hearers. "you are damned," said the preacher. and the reader of sounds might have seen the reply go forth from the ragged people: "where's our soup?" jimmie and a companion sat in a rear seat and commented upon the things that didn't concern them, with all the freedom of english gentlemen. when they grew thirsty and went out their minds confused the speaker with christ. momentarily, jimmie was sullen with thoughts of a hopeless altitude where grew fruit. his companion said that if he should ever meet god he would ask for a million dollars and a bottle of beer. jimmie's occupation for a long time was to stand on streetcorners and watch the world go by, dreaming blood-red dreams at the passing of pretty women. he menaced mankind at the intersections of streets. on the corners he was in life and of life. the world was going on and he was there to perceive it. he maintained a belligerent attitude toward all well-dressed men. to him fine raiment was allied to weakness, and all good coats covered faint hearts. he and his order were kings, to a certain extent, over the men of untarnished clothes, because these latter dreaded, perhaps, to be either killed or laughed at. above all things he despised obvious christians and ciphers with the chrysanthemums of aristocracy in their button-holes. he considered himself above both of these classes. he was afraid of neither the devil nor the leader of society. when he had a dollar in his pocket his satisfaction with existence was the greatest thing in the world. so, eventually, he felt obliged to work. his father died and his mother's years were divided up into periods of thirty days. he became a truck driver. he was given the charge of a painstaking pair of horses and a large rattling truck. he invaded the turmoil and tumble of the down-town streets and learned to breathe maledictory defiance at the police who occasionally used to climb up, drag him from his perch and beat him. in the lower part of the city he daily involved himself in hideous tangles. if he and his team chanced to be in the rear he preserved a demeanor of serenity, crossing his legs and bursting forth into yells when foot passengers took dangerous dives beneath the noses of his champing horses. he smoked his pipe calmly for he knew that his pay was marching on. if in the front and the key-truck of chaos, he entered terrifically into the quarrel that was raging to and fro among the drivers on their high seats, and sometimes roared oaths and violently got himself arrested. after a time his sneer grew so that it turned its glare upon all things. he became so sharp that he believed in nothing. to him the police were always actuated by malignant impulses and the rest of the world was composed, for the most part, of despicable creatures who were all trying to take advantage of him and with whom, in defense, he was obliged to quarrel on all possible occasions. he himself occupied a down-trodden position that had a private but distinct element of grandeur in its isolation. the most complete cases of aggravated idiocy were, to his mind, rampant upon the front platforms of all the street cars. at first his tongue strove with these beings, but he eventually was superior. he became immured like an african cow. in him grew a majestic contempt for those strings of street cars that followed him like intent bugs. he fell into the habit, when starting on a long journey, of fixing his eye on a high and distant object, commanding his horses to begin, and then going into a sort of a trance of observation. multitudes of drivers might howl in his rear, and passengers might load him with opprobrium, he would not awaken until some blue policeman turned red and began to frenziedly tear bridles and beat the soft noses of the responsible horses. when he paused to contemplate the attitude of the police toward himself and his fellows, he believed that they were the only men in the city who had no rights. when driving about, he felt that he was held liable by the police for anything that might occur in the streets, and was the common prey of all energetic officials. in revenge, he resolved never to move out of the way of anything, until formidable circumstances, or a much larger man than himself forced him to it. foot-passengers were mere pestering flies with an insane disregard for their legs and his convenience. he could not conceive their maniacal desires to cross the streets. their madness smote him with eternal amazement. he was continually storming at them from his throne. he sat aloft and denounced their frantic leaps, plunges, dives and straddles. when they would thrust at, or parry, the noses of his champing horses, making them swing their heads and move their feet, disturbing a solid dreamy repose, he swore at the men as fools, for he himself could perceive that providence had caused it clearly to be written, that he and his team had the unalienable right to stand in the proper path of the sun chariot, and if they so minded, obstruct its mission or take a wheel off. and, perhaps, if the god-driver had an ungovernable desire to step down, put up his flame-colored fists and manfully dispute the right of way, he would have probably been immediately opposed by a scowling mortal with two sets of very hard knuckles. it is possible, perhaps, that this young man would have derided, in an axle-wide alley, the approach of a flying ferry boat. yet he achieved a respect for a fire engine. as one charged toward his truck, he would drive fearfully upon a sidewalk, threatening untold people with annihilation. when an engine would strike a mass of blocked trucks, splitting it into fragments, as a blow annihilates a cake of ice, jimmie's team could usually be observed high and safe, with whole wheels, on the sidewalk. the fearful coming of the engine could break up the most intricate muddle of heavy vehicles at which the police had been swearing for the half of an hour. a fire engine was enshrined in his heart as an appalling thing that he loved with a distant dog-like devotion. they had been known to overturn street-cars. those leaping horses, striking sparks from the cobbles in their forward lunge, were creatures to be ineffably admired. the clang of the gong pierced his breast like a noise of remembered war. when jimmie was a little boy, he began to be arrested. before he reached a great age, he had a fair record. he developed too great a tendency to climb down from his truck and fight with other drivers. he had been in quite a number of miscellaneous fights, and in some general barroom rows that had become known to the police. once he had been arrested for assaulting a chinaman. two women in different parts of the city, and entirely unknown to each other, caused him considerable annoyance by breaking forth, simultaneously, at fateful intervals, into wailings about marriage and support and infants. nevertheless, he had, on a certain star-lit evening, said wonderingly and quite reverently: "deh moon looks like hell, don't it?" chapter v the girl, maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle. she grew to be a most rare and wonderful production of a tenement district, a pretty girl. none of the dirt of rum alley seemed to be in her veins. the philosophers up-stairs, down-stairs and on the same floor, puzzled over it. when a child, playing and fighting with gamins in the street, dirt disguised her. attired in tatters and grime, she went unseen. there came a time, however, when the young men of the vicinity said: "dat johnson goil is a puty good looker." about this period her brother remarked to her: "mag, i'll tell yeh dis! see? yeh've edder got teh go teh hell or go teh work!" whereupon she went to work, having the feminine aversion of going to hell. by a chance, she got a position in an establishment where they made collars and cuffs. she received a stool and a machine in a room where sat twenty girls of various shades of yellow discontent. she perched on the stool and treadled at her machine all day, turning out collars, the name of whose brand could be noted for its irrelevancy to anything in connection with collars. at night she returned home to her mother. jimmie grew large enough to take the vague position of head of the family. as incumbent of that office, he stumbled up-stairs late at night, as his father had done before him. he reeled about the room, swearing at his relations, or went to sleep on the floor. the mother had gradually arisen to that degree of fame that she could bandy words with her acquaintances among the police-justices. court-officials called her by her first name. when she appeared they pursued a course which had been theirs for months. they invariably grinned and cried out: "hello, mary, you here again?" her grey head wagged in many a court. she always besieged the bench with voluble excuses, explanations, apologies and prayers. her flaming face and rolling eyes were a sort of familiar sight on the island. she measured time by means of sprees, and was eternally swollen and dishevelled. one day the young man, pete, who as a lad had smitten the devil's row urchin in the back of the head and put to flight the antagonists of his friend, jimmie, strutted upon the scene. he met jimmie one day on the street, promised to take him to a boxing match in williamsburg, and called for him in the evening. maggie observed pete. he sat on a table in the johnson home and dangled his checked legs with an enticing nonchalance. his hair was curled down over his forehead in an oiled bang. his rather pugged nose seemed to revolt from contact with a bristling moustache of short, wire-like hairs. his blue double-breasted coat, edged with black braid, buttoned close to a red puff tie, and his patent-leather shoes looked like murder-fitted weapons. his mannerisms stamped him as a man who had a correct sense of his personal superiority. there was valor and contempt for circumstances in the glance of his eye. he waved his hands like a man of the world, who dismisses religion and philosophy, and says "fudge." he had certainly seen everything and with each curl of his lip, he declared that it amounted to nothing. maggie thought he must be a very elegant and graceful bartender. he was telling tales to jimmie. maggie watched him furtively, with half-closed eyes, lit with a vague interest. "hully gee! dey makes me tired," he said. "mos' e'ry day some farmer comes in an' tries teh run deh shop. see? but dey gits t'rowed right out! i jolt dem right out in deh street before dey knows where dey is! see?" "sure," said jimmie. "dere was a mug come in deh place deh odder day wid an idear he wus goin' teh own deh place! hully gee, he wus goin' teh own deh place! i see he had a still on an' i didn' wanna giv 'im no stuff, so i says: 'git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble,' i says like dat! see? 'git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble'; like dat. 'git deh hell outa here,' i says. see?" jimmie nodded understandingly. over his features played an eager desire to state the amount of his valor in a similar crisis, but the narrator proceeded. "well, deh blokie he says: 't'hell wid it! i ain' lookin' for no scrap,' he says (see?), 'but' he says, 'i'm 'spectable cit'zen an' i wanna drink an' purtydamnsoon, too.' see? 'deh hell,' i says. like dat! 'deh hell,' i says. see? 'don' make no trouble,' i says. like dat. 'don' make no trouble.' see? den deh mug he squared off an' said he was fine as silk wid his dukes (see?) an' he wanned a drink damnquick. dat's what he said. see?" "sure," repeated jimmie. pete continued. "say, i jes' jumped deh bar an' deh way i plunked dat blokie was great. see? dat's right! in deh jaw! see? hully gee, he t'rowed a spittoon true deh front windee. say, i taut i'd drop dead. but deh boss, he comes in after an' he says, 'pete, yehs done jes' right! yeh've gota keep order an' it's all right.' see? 'it's all right,' he says. dat's what he said." the two held a technical discussion. "dat bloke was a dandy," said pete, in conclusion, "but he hadn' oughta made no trouble. dat's what i says teh dem: 'don' come in here an' make no trouble,' i says, like dat. 'don' make no trouble.' see?" as jimmie and his friend exchanged tales descriptive of their prowess, maggie leaned back in the shadow. her eyes dwelt wonderingly and rather wistfully upon pete's face. the broken furniture, grimey walls, and general disorder and dirt of her home of a sudden appeared before her and began to take a potential aspect. pete's aristocratic person looked as if it might soil. she looked keenly at him, occasionally, wondering if he was feeling contempt. but pete seemed to be enveloped in reminiscence. "hully gee," said he, "dose mugs can't phase me. dey knows i kin wipe up deh street wid any t'ree of dem." when he said, "ah, what deh hell," his voice was burdened with disdain for the inevitable and contempt for anything that fate might compel him to endure. maggie perceived that here was the beau ideal of a man. her dim thoughts were often searching for far away lands where, as god says, the little hills sing together in the morning. under the trees of her dream-gardens there had always walked a lover. chapter vi pete took note of maggie. "say, mag, i'm stuck on yer shape. it's outa sight," he said, parenthetically, with an affable grin. as he became aware that she was listening closely, he grew still more eloquent in his descriptions of various happenings in his career. it appeared that he was invincible in fights. "why," he said, referring to a man with whom he had had a misunderstanding, "dat mug scrapped like a damn dago. dat's right. he was dead easy. see? he tau't he was a scrapper. but he foun' out diff'ent! hully gee." he walked to and fro in the small room, which seemed then to grow even smaller and unfit to hold his dignity, the attribute of a supreme warrior. that swing of the shoulders that had frozen the timid when he was but a lad had increased with his growth and education at the ratio of ten to one. it, combined with the sneer upon his mouth, told mankind that there was nothing in space which could appall him. maggie marvelled at him and surrounded him with greatness. she vaguely tried to calculate the altitude of the pinnacle from which he must have looked down upon her. "i met a chump deh odder day way up in deh city," he said. "i was goin' teh see a frien' of mine. when i was a-crossin' deh street deh chump runned plump inteh me, an' den he turns aroun' an' says, 'yer insolen' ruffin,' he says, like dat. 'oh, gee,' i says, 'oh, gee, go teh hell and git off deh eart',' i says, like dat. see? 'go teh hell an' git off deh eart',' like dat. den deh blokie he got wild. he says i was a contempt'ble scoun'el, er somet'ing like dat, an' he says i was doom' teh everlastin' pe'dition an' all like dat. 'gee,' i says, 'gee! deh hell i am,' i says. 'deh hell i am,' like dat. an' den i slugged 'im. see?" with jimmie in his company, pete departed in a sort of a blaze of glory from the johnson home. maggie, leaning from the window, watched him as he walked down the street. here was a formidable man who disdained the strength of a world full of fists. here was one who had contempt for brass-clothed power; one whose knuckles could defiantly ring against the granite of law. he was a knight. the two men went from under the glimmering street-lamp and passed into shadows. turning, maggie contemplated the dark, dust-stained walls, and the scant and crude furniture of her home. a clock, in a splintered and battered oblong box of varnished wood, she suddenly regarded as an abomination. she noted that it ticked raspingly. the almost vanished flowers in the carpet-pattern, she conceived to be newly hideous. some faint attempts she had made with blue ribbon, to freshen the appearance of a dingy curtain, she now saw to be piteous. she wondered what pete dined on. she reflected upon the collar and cuff factory. it began to appear to her mind as a dreary place of endless grinding. pete's elegant occupation brought him, no doubt, into contact with people who had money and manners. it was probable that he had a large acquaintance of pretty girls. he must have great sums of money to spend. to her the earth was composed of hardships and insults. she felt instant admiration for a man who openly defied it. she thought that if the grim angel of death should clutch his heart, pete would shrug his shoulders and say: "oh, ev'ryt'ing goes." she anticipated that he would come again shortly. she spent some of her week's pay in the purchase of flowered cretonne for a lambrequin. she made it with infinite care and hung it to the slightly-careening mantel, over the stove, in the kitchen. she studied it with painful anxiety from different points in the room. she wanted it to look well on sunday night when, perhaps, jimmie's friend would come. on sunday night, however, pete did not appear. afterward the girl looked at it with a sense of humiliation. she was now convinced that pete was superior to admiration for lambrequins. a few evenings later pete entered with fascinating innovations in his apparel. as she had seen him twice and he had different suits on each time, maggie had a dim impression that his wardrobe was prodigiously extensive. "say, mag," he said, "put on yer bes' duds friday night an' i'll take yehs teh deh show. see?" he spent a few moments in flourishing his clothes and then vanished, without having glanced at the lambrequin. over the eternal collars and cuffs in the factory maggie spent the most of three days in making imaginary sketches of pete and his daily environment. she imagined some half dozen women in love with him and thought he must lean dangerously toward an indefinite one, whom she pictured with great charms of person, but with an altogether contemptible disposition. she thought he must live in a blare of pleasure. he had friends, and people who were afraid of him. she saw the golden glitter of the place where pete was to take her. an entertainment of many hues and many melodies where she was afraid she might appear small and mouse-colored. her mother drank whiskey all friday morning. with lurid face and tossing hair she cursed and destroyed furniture all friday afternoon. when maggie came home at half-past six her mother lay asleep amidst the wreck of chairs and a table. fragments of various household utensils were scattered about the floor. she had vented some phase of drunken fury upon the lambrequin. it lay in a bedraggled heap in the corner. "hah," she snorted, sitting up suddenly, "where deh hell yeh been? why deh hell don' yeh come home earlier? been loafin' 'round deh streets. yer gettin' teh be a reg'lar devil." when pete arrived maggie, in a worn black dress, was waiting for him in the midst of a floor strewn with wreckage. the curtain at the window had been pulled by a heavy hand and hung by one tack, dangling to and fro in the draft through the cracks at the sash. the knots of blue ribbons appeared like violated flowers. the fire in the stove had gone out. the displaced lids and open doors showed heaps of sullen grey ashes. the remnants of a meal, ghastly, like dead flesh, lay in a corner. maggie's red mother, stretched on the floor, blasphemed and gave her daughter a bad name. chapter vii an orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men on an elevated stage near the centre of a great green-hued hall, played a popular waltz. the place was crowded with people grouped about little tables. a battalion of waiters slid among the throng, carrying trays of beer glasses and making change from the inexhaustible vaults of their trousers pockets. little boys, in the costumes of french chefs, paraded up and down the irregular aisles vending fancy cakes. there was a low rumble of conversation and a subdued clinking of glasses. clouds of tobacco smoke rolled and wavered high in air about the dull gilt of the chandeliers. the vast crowd had an air throughout of having just quitted labor. men with calloused hands and attired in garments that showed the wear of an endless trudge for a living, smoked their pipes contentedly and spent five, ten, or perhaps fifteen cents for beer. there was a mere sprinkling of kid-gloved men who smoked cigars purchased elsewhere. the great body of the crowd was composed of people who showed that all day they strove with their hands. quiet germans, with maybe their wives and two or three children, sat listening to the music, with the expressions of happy cows. an occasional party of sailors from a war-ship, their faces pictures of sturdy health, spent the earlier hours of the evening at the small round tables. very infrequent tipsy men, swollen with the value of their opinions, engaged their companions in earnest and confidential conversation. in the balcony, and here and there below, shone the impassive faces of women. the nationalities of the bowery beamed upon the stage from all directions. pete aggressively walked up a side aisle and took seats with maggie at a table beneath the balcony. "two beehs!" leaning back he regarded with eyes of superiority the scene before them. this attitude affected maggie strongly. a man who could regard such a sight with indifference must be accustomed to very great things. it was obvious that pete had been to this place many times before, and was very familiar with it. a knowledge of this fact made maggie feel little and new. he was extremely gracious and attentive. he displayed the consideration of a cultured gentleman who knew what was due. "say, what deh hell? bring deh lady a big glass! what deh hell use is dat pony?" "don't be fresh, now," said the waiter, with some warmth, as he departed. "ah, git off deh eart'," said pete, after the other's retreating form. maggie perceived that pete brought forth all his elegance and all his knowledge of high-class customs for her benefit. her heart warmed as she reflected upon his condescension. the orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men gave vent to a few bars of anticipatory music and a girl, in a pink dress with short skirts, galloped upon the stage. she smiled upon the throng as if in acknowledgment of a warm welcome, and began to walk to and fro, making profuse gesticulations and singing, in brazen soprano tones, a song, the words of which were inaudible. when she broke into the swift rattling measures of a chorus some half-tipsy men near the stage joined in the rollicking refrain and glasses were pounded rhythmically upon the tables. people leaned forward to watch her and to try to catch the words of the song. when she vanished there were long rollings of applause. obedient to more anticipatory bars, she reappeared amidst the half-suppressed cheering of the tipsy men. the orchestra plunged into dance music and the laces of the dancer fluttered and flew in the glare of gas jets. she divulged the fact that she was attired in some half dozen skirts. it was patent that any one of them would have proved adequate for the purpose for which skirts are intended. an occasional man bent forward, intent upon the pink stockings. maggie wondered at the splendor of the costume and lost herself in calculations of the cost of the silks and laces. the dancer's smile of stereotyped enthusiasm was turned for ten minutes upon the faces of her audience. in the finale she fell into some of those grotesque attitudes which were at the time popular among the dancers in the theatres up-town, giving to the bowery public the phantasies of the aristocratic theatre-going public, at reduced rates. "say, pete," said maggie, leaning forward, "dis is great." "sure," said pete, with proper complacence. a ventriloquist followed the dancer. he held two fantastic dolls on his knees. he made them sing mournful ditties and say funny things about geography and ireland. "do dose little men talk?" asked maggie. "naw," said pete, "it's some damn fake. see?" two girls, on the bills as sisters, came forth and sang a duet that is heard occasionally at concerts given under church auspices. they supplemented it with a dance which of course can never be seen at concerts given under church auspices. after the duettists had retired, a woman of debatable age sang a negro melody. the chorus necessitated some grotesque waddlings supposed to be an imitation of a plantation darkey, under the influence, probably, of music and the moon. the audience was just enthusiastic enough over it to have her return and sing a sorrowful lay, whose lines told of a mother's love and a sweetheart who waited and a young man who was lost at sea under the most harrowing circumstances. from the faces of a score or so in the crowd, the self-contained look faded. many heads were bent forward with eagerness and sympathy. as the last distressing sentiment of the piece was brought forth, it was greeted by that kind of applause which rings as sincere. as a final effort, the singer rendered some verses which described a vision of britain being annihilated by america, and ireland bursting her bonds. a carefully prepared crisis was reached in the last line of the last verse, where the singer threw out her arms and cried, "the star-spangled banner." instantly a great cheer swelled from the throats of the assemblage of the masses. there was a heavy rumble of booted feet thumping the floor. eyes gleamed with sudden fire, and calloused hands waved frantically in the air. after a few moments' rest, the orchestra played crashingly, and a small fat man burst out upon the stage. he began to roar a song and stamp back and forth before the foot-lights, wildly waving a glossy silk hat and throwing leers, or smiles, broadcast. he made his face into fantastic grimaces until he looked like a pictured devil on a japanese kite. the crowd laughed gleefully. his short, fat legs were never still a moment. he shouted and roared and bobbed his shock of red wig until the audience broke out in excited applause. pete did not pay much attention to the progress of events upon the stage. he was drinking beer and watching maggie. her cheeks were blushing with excitement and her eyes were glistening. she drew deep breaths of pleasure. no thoughts of the atmosphere of the collar and cuff factory came to her. when the orchestra crashed finally, they jostled their way to the sidewalk with the crowd. pete took maggie's arm and pushed a way for her, offering to fight with a man or two. they reached maggie's home at a late hour and stood for a moment in front of the gruesome doorway. "say, mag," said pete, "give us a kiss for takin' yeh teh deh show, will yer?" maggie laughed, as if startled, and drew away from him. "naw, pete," she said, "dat wasn't in it." "ah, what deh hell?" urged pete. the girl retreated nervously. "ah, what deh hell?" repeated he. maggie darted into the hall, and up the stairs. she turned and smiled at him, then disappeared. pete walked slowly down the street. he had something of an astonished expression upon his features. he paused under a lamp-post and breathed a low breath of surprise. "gawd," he said, "i wonner if i've been played fer a duffer." chapter viii as thoughts of pete came to maggie's mind, she began to have an intense dislike for all of her dresses. "what deh hell ails yeh? what makes yeh be allus fixin' and fussin'? good gawd," her mother would frequently roar at her. she began to note, with more interest, the well-dressed women she met on the avenues. she envied elegance and soft palms. she craved those adornments of person which she saw every day on the street, conceiving them to be allies of vast importance to women. studying faces, she thought many of the women and girls she chanced to meet, smiled with serenity as though forever cherished and watched over by those they loved. the air in the collar and cuff establishment strangled her. she knew she was gradually and surely shrivelling in the hot, stuffy room. the begrimed windows rattled incessantly from the passing of elevated trains. the place was filled with a whirl of noises and odors. she wondered as she regarded some of the grizzled women in the room, mere mechanical contrivances sewing seams and grinding out, with heads bended over their work, tales of imagined or real girlhood happiness, past drunks, the baby at home, and unpaid wages. she speculated how long her youth would endure. she began to see the bloom upon her cheeks as valuable. she imagined herself, in an exasperating future, as a scrawny woman with an eternal grievance. too, she thought pete to be a very fastidious person concerning the appearance of women. she felt she would love to see somebody entangle their fingers in the oily beard of the fat foreigner who owned the establishment. he was a detestable creature. he wore white socks with low shoes. he sat all day delivering orations, in the depths of a cushioned chair. his pocketbook deprived them of the power to retort. "what een hell do you sink i pie fife dolla a week for? play? no, py damn!" maggie was anxious for a friend to whom she could talk about pete. she would have liked to discuss his admirable mannerisms with a reliable mutual friend. at home, she found her mother often drunk and always raving. it seems that the world had treated this woman very badly, and she took a deep revenge upon such portions of it as came within her reach. she broke furniture as if she were at last getting her rights. she swelled with virtuous indignation as she carried the lighter articles of household use, one by one under the shadows of the three gilt balls, where hebrews chained them with chains of interest. jimmie came when he was obliged to by circumstances over which he had no control. his well-trained legs brought him staggering home and put him to bed some nights when he would rather have gone elsewhere. swaggering pete loomed like a golden sun to maggie. he took her to a dime museum where rows of meek freaks astonished her. she contemplated their deformities with awe and thought them a sort of chosen tribe. "what een hell do you sink i pie fife dolla a week for? play? no, py damn!" maggie was anxious for a friend to whom she could talk about pete. she would have liked to discuss his admirable mannerisms with a reliable mutual friend. at home, she found her mother often drunk and always raving. it seems that the world had treated this woman very badly, and she took a deep revenge upon such portions of it as came within her reach. she broke furniture as if she were at last getting her rights. she swelled with virtuous indignation as she carried the lighter articles of household use, one by one under the shadows of the three gilt balls, where hebrews chained them with chains of interest. jimmie came when he was obliged to by circumstances over which he had no control. his well-trained legs brought him staggering home and put him to bed some nights when he would rather have gone elsewhere. swaggering pete loomed like a golden sun to maggie. he took her to a dime museum where rows of meek freaks astonished her. she contemplated their deformities with awe and thought them a sort of chosen tribe. pete, raking his brains for amusement, discovered the central park menagerie and the museum of arts. sunday afternoons would sometimes find them at these places. pete did not appear to be particularly interested in what he saw. he stood around looking heavy, while maggie giggled in glee. once at the menagerie he went into a trance of admiration before the spectacle of a very small monkey threatening to thrash a cageful because one of them had pulled his tail and he had not wheeled about quickly enough to discover who did it. ever after pete knew that monkey by sight and winked at him, trying to induce hime to fight with other and larger monkeys. at the museum, maggie said, "dis is outa sight." "oh hell," said pete, "wait 'till next summer an' i'll take yehs to a picnic." while the girl wandered in the vaulted rooms, pete occupied himself in returning stony stare for stony stare, the appalling scrutiny of the watch-dogs of the treasures. occasionally he would remark in loud tones: "dat jay has got glass eyes," and sentences of the sort. when he tired of this amusement he would go to the mummies and moralize over them. usually he submitted with silent dignity to all which he had to go through, but, at times, he was goaded into comment. "what deh hell," he demanded once. "look at all dese little jugs! hundred jugs in a row! ten rows in a case an' 'bout a t'ousand cases! what deh blazes use is dem?" evenings during the week he took her to see plays in which the brain-clutching heroine was rescued from the palatial home of her guardian, who is cruelly after her bonds, by the hero with the beautiful sentiments. the latter spent most of his time out at soak in pale-green snow storms, busy with a nickel-plated revolver, rescuing aged strangers from villains. maggie lost herself in sympathy with the wanderers swooning in snow storms beneath happy-hued church windows. and a choir within singing "joy to the world." to maggie and the rest of the audience this was transcendental realism. joy always within, and they, like the actor, inevitably without. viewing it, they hugged themselves in ecstatic pity of their imagined or real condition. the girl thought the arrogance and granite-heartedness of the magnate of the play was very accurately drawn. she echoed the maledictions that the occupants of the gallery showered on this individual when his lines compelled him to expose his extreme selfishness. shady persons in the audience revolted from the pictured villainy of the drama. with untiring zeal they hissed vice and applauded virtue. unmistakably bad men evinced an apparently sincere admiration for virtue. the loud gallery was overwhelmingly with the unfortunate and the oppressed. they encouraged the struggling hero with cries, and jeered the villain, hooting and calling attention to his whiskers. when anybody died in the pale-green snow storms, the gallery mourned. they sought out the painted misery and hugged it as akin. in the hero's erratic march from poverty in the first act, to wealth and triumph in the final one, in which he forgives all the enemies that he has left, he was assisted by the gallery, which applauded his generous and noble sentiments and confounded the speeches of his opponents by making irrelevant but very sharp remarks. those actors who were cursed with villainy parts were confronted at every turn by the gallery. if one of them rendered lines containing the most subtile distinctions between right and wrong, the gallery was immediately aware if the actor meant wickedness, and denounced him accordingly. the last act was a triumph for the hero, poor and of the masses, the representative of the audience, over the villain and the rich man, his pockets stuffed with bonds, his heart packed with tyrannical purposes, imperturbable amid suffering. maggie always departed with raised spirits from the showing places of the melodrama. she rejoiced at the way in which the poor and virtuous eventually surmounted the wealthy and wicked. the theatre made her think. she wondered if the culture and refinement she had seen imitated, perhaps grotesquely, by the heroine on the stage, could be acquired by a girl who lived in a tenement house and worked in a shirt factory. chapter ix a group of urchins were intent upon the side door of a saloon. expectancy gleamed from their eyes. they were twisting their fingers in excitement. "here she comes," yelled one of them suddenly. the group of urchins burst instantly asunder and its individual fragments were spread in a wide, respectable half circle about the point of interest. the saloon door opened with a crash, and the figure of a woman appeared upon the threshold. her grey hair fell in knotted masses about her shoulders. her face was crimsoned and wet with perspiration. her eyes had a rolling glare. "not a damn cent more of me money will yehs ever get, not a damn cent. i spent me money here fer t'ree years an' now yehs tells me yeh'll sell me no more stuff! t'hell wid yeh, johnnie murckre! 'disturbance'? disturbance be damned! t'hell wid yeh, johnnie--" the door received a kick of exasperation from within and the woman lurched heavily out on the sidewalk. the gamins in the half-circle became violently agitated. they began to dance about and hoot and yell and jeer. wide dirty grins spread over each face. the woman made a furious dash at a particularly outrageous cluster of little boys. they laughed delightedly and scampered off a short distance, calling out over their shoulders to her. she stood tottering on the curb-stone and thundered at them. "yeh devil's kids," she howled, shaking red fists. the little boys whooped in glee. as she started up the street they fell in behind and marched uproariously. occasionally she wheeled about and made charges on them. they ran nimbly out of reach and taunted her. in the frame of a gruesome doorway she stood for a moment cursing them. her hair straggled, giving her crimson features a look of insanity. her great fists quivered as she shook them madly in the air. the urchins made terrific noises until she turned and disappeared. then they filed quietly in the way they had come. the woman floundered about in the lower hall of the tenement house and finally stumbled up the stairs. on an upper hall a door was opened and a collection of heads peered curiously out, watching her. with a wrathful snort the woman confronted the door, but it was slammed hastily in her face and the key was turned. she stood for a few minutes, delivering a frenzied challenge at the panels. "come out in deh hall, mary murphy, damn yeh, if yehs want a row. come ahn, yeh overgrown terrier, come ahn." she began to kick the door with her great feet. she shrilly defied the universe to appear and do battle. her cursing trebles brought heads from all doors save the one she threatened. her eyes glared in every direction. the air was full of her tossing fists. "come ahn, deh hull damn gang of yehs, come ahn," she roared at the spectators. an oath or two, cat-calls, jeers and bits of facetious advice were given in reply. missiles clattered about her feet. "what deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" said a voice in the gathered gloom, and jimmie came forward. he carried a tin dinner-pail in his hand and under his arm a brown truckman's apron done in a bundle. "what deh hell's wrong?" he demanded. "come out, all of yehs, come out," his mother was howling. "come ahn an' i'll stamp her damn brains under me feet." "shet yer face, an' come home, yeh damned old fool," roared jimmie at her. she strided up to him and twirled her fingers in his face. her eyes were darting flames of unreasoning rage and her frame trembled with eagerness for a fight. "t'hell wid yehs! an' who deh hell are yehs? i ain't givin' a snap of me fingers fer yehs," she bawled at him. she turned her huge back in tremendous disdain and climbed the stairs to the next floor. jimmie followed, cursing blackly. at the top of the flight he seized his mother's arm and started to drag her toward the door of their room. "come home, damn yeh," he gritted between his teeth. "take yer hands off me! take yer hands off me," shrieked his mother. she raised her arm and whirled her great fist at her son's face. jimmie dodged his head and the blow struck him in the back of the neck. "damn yeh," gritted he again. he threw out his left hand and writhed his fingers about her middle arm. the mother and the son began to sway and struggle like gladiators. "whoop!" said the rum alley tenement house. the hall filled with interested spectators. "hi, ol' lady, dat was a dandy!" "t'ree to one on deh red!" "ah, stop yer damn scrappin'!" the door of the johnson home opened and maggie looked out. jimmie made a supreme cursing effort and hurled his mother into the room. he quickly followed and closed the door. the rum alley tenement swore disappointedly and retired. the mother slowly gathered herself up from the floor. her eyes glittered menacingly upon her children. "here, now," said jimmie, "we've had enough of dis. sit down, an' don' make no trouble." he grasped her arm, and twisting it, forced her into a creaking chair. "keep yer hands off me," roared his mother again. "damn yer ol' hide," yelled jimmie, madly. maggie shrieked and ran into the other room. to her there came the sound of a storm of crashes and curses. there was a great final thump and jimmie's voice cried: "dere, damn yeh, stay still." maggie opened the door now, and went warily out. "oh, jimmie." he was leaning against the wall and swearing. blood stood upon bruises on his knotty fore-arms where they had scraped against the floor or the walls in the scuffle. the mother lay screeching on the floor, the tears running down her furrowed face. maggie, standing in the middle of the room, gazed about her. the usual upheaval of the tables and chairs had taken place. crockery was strewn broadcast in fragments. the stove had been disturbed on its legs, and now leaned idiotically to one side. a pail had been upset and water spread in all directions. the door opened and pete appeared. he shrugged his shoulders. "oh, gawd," he observed. he walked over to maggie and whispered in her ear. "ah, what deh hell, mag? come ahn and we'll have a hell of a time." the mother in the corner upreared her head and shook her tangled locks. "teh hell wid him and you," she said, glowering at her daughter in the gloom. her eyes seemed to burn balefully. "yeh've gone teh deh devil, mag johnson, yehs knows yehs have gone teh deh devil. yer a disgrace teh yer people, damn yeh. an' now, git out an' go ahn wid dat doe-faced jude of yours. go teh hell wid him, damn yeh, an' a good riddance. go teh hell an' see how yeh likes it." maggie gazed long at her mother. "go teh hell now, an' see how yeh likes it. git out. i won't have sech as yehs in me house! get out, d'yeh hear! damn yeh, git out!" the girl began to tremble. at this instant pete came forward. "oh, what deh hell, mag, see," whispered he softly in her ear. "dis all blows over. see? deh ol' woman 'ill be all right in deh mornin'. come ahn out wid me! we'll have a hell of a time." the woman on the floor cursed. jimmie was intent upon his bruised fore-arms. the girl cast a glance about the room filled with a chaotic mass of debris, and at the red, writhing body of her mother. "go teh hell an' good riddance." she went. chapter x jimmie had an idea it wasn't common courtesy for a friend to come to one's home and ruin one's sister. but he was not sure how much pete knew about the rules of politeness. the following night he returned home from work at rather a late hour in the evening. in passing through the halls he came upon the gnarled and leathery old woman who possessed the music box. she was grinning in the dim light that drifted through dust-stained panes. she beckoned to him with a smudged forefinger. "ah, jimmie, what do yehs t'ink i got onto las' night. it was deh funnies' t'ing i ever saw," she cried, coming close to him and leering. she was trembling with eagerness to tell her tale. "i was by me door las' night when yer sister and her jude feller came in late, oh, very late. an' she, the dear, she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break, she was. it was deh funnies' t'ing i ever saw. an' right out here by me door she asked him did he love her, did he. an' she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break, poor t'ing. an' him, i could see by deh way what he said it dat she had been askin' orften, he says: 'oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he, 'oh, hell, yes.'" storm-clouds swept over jimmie's face, but he turned from the leathery old woman and plodded on up-stairs. "oh, hell, yes," called she after him. she laughed a laugh that was like a prophetic croak. "'oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he, 'oh, hell, yes.'" there was no one in at home. the rooms showed that attempts had been made at tidying them. parts of the wreckage of the day before had been repaired by an unskilful hand. a chair or two and the table, stood uncertainly upon legs. the floor had been newly swept. too, the blue ribbons had been restored to the curtains, and the lambrequin, with its immense sheaves of yellow wheat and red roses of equal size, had been returned, in a worn and sorry state, to its position at the mantel. maggie's jacket and hat were gone from the nail behind the door. jimmie walked to the window and began to look through the blurred glass. it occurred to him to vaguely wonder, for an instant, if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. suddenly, however, he began to swear. "but he was me frien'! i brought 'im here! dat's deh hell of it!" he fumed about the room, his anger gradually rising to the furious pitch. "i'll kill deh jay! dat's what i'll do! i'll kill deh jay!" he clutched his hat and sprang toward the door. but it opened and his mother's great form blocked the passage. "what deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" exclaimed she, coming into the rooms. jimmie gave vent to a sardonic curse and then laughed heavily. "well, maggie's gone teh deh devil! dat's what! see?" "eh?" said his mother. "maggie's gone teh deh devil! are yehs deaf?" roared jimmie, impatiently. "deh hell she has," murmured the mother, astounded. jimmie grunted, and then began to stare out at the window. his mother sat down in a chair, but a moment later sprang erect and delivered a maddened whirl of oaths. her son turned to look at her as she reeled and swayed in the middle of the room, her fierce face convulsed with passion, her blotched arms raised high in imprecation. "may gawd curse her forever," she shrieked. "may she eat nothin' but stones and deh dirt in deh street. may she sleep in deh gutter an' never see deh sun shine agin. deh damn--" "here, now," said her son. "take a drop on yourself." the mother raised lamenting eyes to the ceiling. "she's deh devil's own chil', jimmie," she whispered. "ah, who would t'ink such a bad girl could grow up in our fambly, jimmie, me son. many deh hour i've spent in talk wid dat girl an' tol' her if she ever went on deh streets i'd see her damned. an' after all her bringin' up an' what i tol' her and talked wid her, she goes teh deh bad, like a duck teh water." the tears rolled down her furrowed face. her hands trembled. "an' den when dat sadie macmallister next door to us was sent teh deh devil by dat feller what worked in deh soap-factory, didn't i tell our mag dat if she--" "ah, dat's annuder story," interrupted the brother. "of course, dat sadie was nice an' all dat--but--see--it ain't dessame as if--well, maggie was diff'ent--see--she was diff'ent." he was trying to formulate a theory that he had always unconsciously held, that all sisters, excepting his own, could advisedly be ruined. he suddenly broke out again. "i'll go t'ump hell outa deh mug what did her deh harm. i'll kill 'im! he t'inks he kin scrap, but when he gits me a-chasin' 'im he'll fin' out where he's wrong, deh damned duffer. i'll wipe up deh street wid 'im." in a fury he plunged out of the doorway. as he vanished the mother raised her head and lifted both hands, entreating. "may gawd curse her forever," she cried. in the darkness of the hallway jimmie discerned a knot of women talking volubly. when he strode by they paid no attention to him. "she allus was a bold thing," he heard one of them cry in an eager voice. "dere wasn't a feller come teh deh house but she'd try teh mash 'im. my annie says deh shameless t'ing tried teh ketch her feller, her own feller, what we useter know his fader." "i could a' tol' yehs dis two years ago," said a woman, in a key of triumph. "yessir, it was over two years ago dat i says teh my ol' man, i says, 'dat johnson girl ain't straight,' i says. 'oh, hell,' he says. 'oh, hell.' 'dat's all right,' i says, 'but i know what i knows,' i says, 'an' it 'ill come out later. you wait an' see,' i says, 'you see.'" "anybody what had eyes could see dat dere was somethin' wrong wid dat girl. i didn't like her actions." on the street jimmie met a friend. "what deh hell?" asked the latter. jimmie explained. "an' i'll t'ump 'im till he can't stand." "oh, what deh hell," said the friend. "what's deh use! yeh'll git pulled in! everybody 'ill be onto it! an' ten plunks! gee!" jimmie was determined. "he t'inks he kin scrap, but he'll fin' out diff'ent." "gee," remonstrated the friend. "what deh hell?" chapter xi on a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the pavements. the open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage. the interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of imitation leather. a shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended down the side of the room. behind it a great mahogany-appearing sideboard reached the ceiling. upon its shelves rested pyramids of shimmering glasses that were never disturbed. mirrors set in the face of the sideboard multiplied them. lemons, oranges and paper napkins, arranged with mathematical precision, sat among the glasses. many-hued decanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves. a nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact centre of the general effect. the elementary senses of it all seemed to be opulence and geometrical accuracy. across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham, dishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar. an odor of grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded. pete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending expectantly toward a quiet stranger. "a beeh," said the man. pete drew a foam-topped glassful and set it dripping upon the bar. at this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and crashed against the siding. jimmie and a companion entered. they swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at pete with bleared and blinking eyes. "gin," said jimmie. "gin," said the companion. pete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar. he bended his head sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming wood. he had a look of watchfulness upon his features. jimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and conversed loudly in tones of contempt. "he's a dindy masher, ain't he, by gawd?" laughed jimmie. "oh, hell, yes," said the companion, sneering widely. "he's great, he is. git onto deh mug on deh blokie. dat's enough to make a feller turn hand-springs in 'is sleep." the quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away and maintained an attitude of oblivion. "gee! ain't he hot stuff!" "git onto his shape! great gawd!" "hey," cried jimmie, in tones of command. pete came along slowly, with a sullen dropping of the under lip. "well," he growled, "what's eatin' yehs?" "gin," said jimmie. "gin," said the companion. as pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they laughed in his face. jimmie's companion, evidently overcome with merriment, pointed a grimy forefinger in pete's direction. "say, jimmie," demanded he, "what deh hell is dat behind deh bar?" "damned if i knows," replied jimmie. they laughed loudly. pete put down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them. he disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly. "you fellers can't guy me," he said. "drink yer stuff an' git out an' don' make no trouble." instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and expressions of offended dignity immediately came. "who deh hell has said anyt'ing teh you," cried they in the same breath. the quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly. "ah, come off," said pete to the two men. "don't pick me up for no jay. drink yer rum an' git out an' don' make no trouble." "oh, deh hell," airily cried jimmie. "oh, deh hell," airily repeated his companion. "we goes when we git ready! see!" continued jimmie. "well," said pete in a threatening voice, "don' make no trouble." jimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side. he snarled like a wild animal. "well, what if we does? see?" said he. dark blood flushed into pete's face, and he shot a lurid glance at jimmie. "well, den we'll see whose deh bes' man, you or me," he said. the quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door. jimmie began to swell with valor. "don' pick me up fer no tenderfoot. when yeh tackles me yeh tackles one of deh bes' men in deh city. see? i'm a scrapper, i am. ain't dat right, billie?" "sure, mike," responded his companion in tones of conviction. "oh, hell," said pete, easily. "go fall on yerself." the two men again began to laugh. "what deh hell is dat talkin'?" cried the companion. "damned if i knows," replied jimmie with exaggerated contempt. pete made a furious gesture. "git outa here now, an' don' make no trouble. see? youse fellers er lookin' fer a scrap an' it's damn likely yeh'll fin' one if yeh keeps on shootin' off yer mout's. i know yehs! see? i kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes. dat's right! see? don' pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted out in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is. when i comes from behind dis bar, i t'rows yehs bote inteh deh street. see?" "oh, hell," cried the two men in chorus. the glare of a panther came into pete's eyes. "dat's what i said! unnerstan'?" he came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon the two men. they stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him. they bristled like three roosters. they moved their heads pugnaciously and kept their shoulders braced. the nervous muscles about each mouth twitched with a forced smile of mockery. "well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" gritted jimmie. pete stepped warily back, waving his hands before him to keep the men from coming too near. "well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" repeated jimmie's ally. they kept close to him, taunting and leering. they strove to make him attempt the initial blow. "keep back, now! don' crowd me," ominously said pete. again they chorused in contempt. "oh, hell!" in a small, tossing group, the three men edged for positions like frigates contemplating battle. "well, why deh hell don' yeh try teh t'row us out?" cried jimmie and his ally with copious sneers. the bravery of bull-dogs sat upon the faces of the men. their clenched fists moved like eager weapons. the allied two jostled the bartender's elbows, glaring at him with feverish eyes and forcing him toward the wall. suddenly pete swore redly. the flash of action gleamed from his eyes. he threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous, lightning-like blow at jimmie's face. his foot swung a step forward and the weight of his body was behind his fist. jimmie ducked his head, bowery-like, with the quickness of a cat. the fierce, answering blows of him and his ally crushed on pete's bowed head. the quiet stranger vanished. the arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails. the faces of the men, at first flushed to flame-colored anger, now began to fade to the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a battle. their lips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums in ghoul-like grins. through their white, gripped teeth struggled hoarse whisperings of oaths. their eyes glittered with murderous fire. each head was huddled between its owner's shoulders, and arms were swinging with marvelous rapidity. feet scraped to and fro with a loud scratching sound upon the sanded floor. blows left crimson blotches upon pale skin. the curses of the first quarter minute of the fight died away. the breaths of the fighters came wheezingly from their lips and the three chests were straining and heaving. pete at intervals gave vent to low, labored hisses, that sounded like a desire to kill. jimmie's ally gibbered at times like a wounded maniac. jimmie was silent, fighting with the face of a sacrificial priest. the rage of fear shone in all their eyes and their blood-colored fists swirled. at a tottering moment a blow from pete's hand struck the ally and he crashed to the floor. he wriggled instantly to his feet and grasping the quiet stranger's beer glass from the bar, hurled it at pete's head. high on the wall it burst like a bomb, shivering fragments flying in all directions. then missiles came to every man's hand. the place had heretofore appeared free of things to throw, but suddenly glass and bottles went singing through the air. they were thrown point blank at bobbing heads. the pyramid of shimmering glasses, that had never been disturbed, changed to cascades as heavy bottles were flung into them. mirrors splintered to nothing. the three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in a frenzy for blood. there followed in the wake of missiles and fists some unknown prayers, perhaps for death. the quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on the sidewalk. a laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half of a block. "dey've trowed a bloke inteh deh street." people heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet within the saloon and came running. a small group, bending down to look under the bamboo doors, watching the fall of glass, and three pairs of violent legs, changed in a moment to a crowd. a policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced through the doors into the saloon. the crowd bended and surged in absorbing anxiety to see. jimmie caught first sight of the on-coming interruption. on his feet he had the same regard for a policeman that, when on his truck, he had for a fire engine. he howled and ran for the side door. the officer made a terrific advance, club in hand. one comprehensive sweep of the long night stick threw the ally to the floor and forced pete to a corner. with his disengaged hand he made a furious effort at jimmie's coat-tails. then he regained his balance and paused. "well, well, you are a pair of pictures. what in hell yeh been up to?" jimmie, with his face drenched in blood, escaped up a side street, pursued a short distance by some of the more law-loving, or excited individuals of the crowd. later, from a corner safely dark, he saw the policeman, the ally and the bartender emerge from the saloon. pete locked the doors and then followed up the avenue in the rear of the crowd-encompassed policeman and his charge. on first thoughts jimmie, with his heart throbbing at battle heat, started to go desperately to the rescue of his friend, but he halted. "ah, what deh hell?" he demanded of himself. chapter xii in a hall of irregular shape sat pete and maggie drinking beer. a submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress suit, industriously followed the bobs of his head and the waves of his baton. a ballad singer, in a dress of flaming scarlet, sang in the inevitable voice of brass. when she vanished, men seated at the tables near the front applauded loudly, pounding the polished wood with their beer glasses. she returned attired in less gown, and sang again. she received another enthusiastic encore. she reappeared in still less gown and danced. the deafening rumble of glasses and clapping of hands that followed her exit indicated an overwhelming desire to have her come on for the fourth time, but the curiosity of the audience was not gratified. maggie was pale. from her eyes had been plucked all look of self-reliance. she leaned with a dependent air toward her companion. she was timid, as if fearing his anger or displeasure. she seemed to beseech tenderness of him. pete's air of distinguished valor had grown upon him until it threatened stupendous dimensions. he was infinitely gracious to the girl. it was apparent to her that his condescension was a marvel. he could appear to strut even while sitting still and he showed that he was a lion of lordly characteristics by the air with which he spat. with maggie gazing at him wonderingly, he took pride in commanding the waiters who were, however, indifferent or deaf. "hi, you, git a russle on yehs! what deh hell yehs lookin' at? two more beehs, d'yeh hear?" he leaned back and critically regarded the person of a girl with a straw-colored wig who upon the stage was flinging her heels in somewhat awkward imitation of a well-known danseuse. at times maggie told pete long confidential tales of her former home life, dwelling upon the escapades of the other members of the family and the difficulties she had to combat in order to obtain a degree of comfort. he responded in tones of philanthropy. he pressed her arm with an air of reassuring proprietorship. "dey was damn jays," he said, denouncing the mother and brother. the sound of the music which, by the efforts of the frowsy-headed leader, drifted to her ears through the smoke-filled atmosphere, made the girl dream. she thought of her former rum alley environment and turned to regard pete's strong protecting fists. she thought of the collar and cuff manufactory and the eternal moan of the proprietor: "what een hell do you sink i pie fife dolla a week for? play? no, py damn." she contemplated pete's man-subduing eyes and noted that wealth and prosperity was indicated by his clothes. she imagined a future, rose-tinted, because of its distance from all that she previously had experienced. as to the present she perceived only vague reasons to be miserable. her life was pete's and she considered him worthy of the charge. she would be disturbed by no particular apprehensions, so long as pete adored her as he now said he did. she did not feel like a bad woman. to her knowledge she had never seen any better. at times men at other tables regarded the girl furtively. pete, aware of it, nodded at her and grinned. he felt proud. "mag, yer a bloomin' good-looker," he remarked, studying her face through the haze. the men made maggie fear, but she blushed at pete's words as it became apparent to her that she was the apple of his eye. grey-headed men, wonderfully pathetic in their dissipation, stared at her through clouds. smooth-cheeked boys, some of them with faces of stone and mouths of sin, not nearly so pathetic as the grey heads, tried to find the girl's eyes in the smoke wreaths. maggie considered she was not what they thought her. she confined her glances to pete and the stage. the orchestra played negro melodies and a versatile drummer pounded, whacked, clattered and scratched on a dozen machines to make noise. those glances of the men, shot at maggie from under half-closed lids, made her tremble. she thought them all to be worse men than pete. "come, let's go," she said. as they went out maggie perceived two women seated at a table with some men. they were painted and their cheeks had lost their roundness. as she passed them the girl, with a shrinking movement, drew back her skirts. chapter xiii jimmie did not return home for a number of days after the fight with pete in the saloon. when he did, he approached with extreme caution. he found his mother raving. maggie had not returned home. the parent continually wondered how her daughter could come to such a pass. she had never considered maggie as a pearl dropped unstained into rum alley from heaven, but she could not conceive how it was possible for her daughter to fall so low as to bring disgrace upon her family. she was terrific in denunciation of the girl's wickedness. the fact that the neighbors talked of it, maddened her. when women came in, and in the course of their conversation casually asked, "where's maggie dese days?" the mother shook her fuzzy head at them and appalled them with curses. cunning hints inviting confidence she rebuffed with violence. "an' wid all deh bringin' up she had, how could she?" moaningly she asked of her son. "wid all deh talkin' wid her i did an' deh t'ings i tol' her to remember? when a girl is bringed up deh way i bringed up maggie, how kin she go teh deh devil?" jimmie was transfixed by these questions. he could not conceive how under the circumstances his mother's daughter and his sister could have been so wicked. his mother took a drink from a squdgy bottle that sat on the table. she continued her lament. "she had a bad heart, dat girl did, jimmie. she was wicked teh deh heart an' we never knowed it." jimmie nodded, admitting the fact. "we lived in deh same house wid her an' i brought her up an' we never knowed how bad she was." jimmie nodded again. "wid a home like dis an' a mudder like me, she went teh deh bad," cried the mother, raising her eyes. one day, jimmie came home, sat down in a chair and began to wriggle about with a new and strange nervousness. at last he spoke shamefacedly. "well, look-a-here, dis t'ing queers us! see? we're queered! an' maybe it 'ud be better if i--well, i t'ink i kin look 'er up an'--maybe it 'ud be better if i fetched her home an'--" the mother started from her chair and broke forth into a storm of passionate anger. "what! let 'er come an' sleep under deh same roof wid her mudder agin! oh, yes, i will, won't i? sure? shame on yehs, jimmie johnson, for sayin' such a t'ing teh yer own mudder--teh yer own mudder! little did i t'ink when yehs was a babby playin' about me feet dat ye'd grow up teh say sech a t'ing teh yer mudder--yer own mudder. i never taut--" sobs choked her and interrupted her reproaches. "dere ain't nottin' teh raise sech hell about," said jimmie. "i on'y says it 'ud be better if we keep dis t'ing dark, see? it queers us! see?" his mother laughed a laugh that seemed to ring through the city and be echoed and re-echoed by countless other laughs. "oh, yes, i will, won't i! sure!" "well, yeh must take me fer a damn fool," said jimmie, indignant at his mother for mocking him. "i didn't say we'd make 'er inteh a little tin angel, ner nottin', but deh way it is now she can queer us! don' che see?" "aye, she'll git tired of deh life atter a while an' den she'll wanna be a-comin' home, won' she, deh beast! i'll let 'er in den, won' i?" "well, i didn' mean none of dis prod'gal bus'ness anyway," explained jimmie. "it wasn't no prod'gal dauter, yeh damn fool," said the mother. "it was prod'gal son, anyhow." "i know dat," said jimmie. for a time they sat in silence. the mother's eyes gloated on a scene her imagination could call before her. her lips were set in a vindictive smile. "aye, she'll cry, won' she, an' carry on, an' tell how pete, or some odder feller, beats 'er an' she'll say she's sorry an' all dat an' she ain't happy, she ain't, an' she wants to come home agin, she does." with grim humor, the mother imitated the possible wailing notes of the daughter's voice. "den i'll take 'er in, won't i, deh beast. she kin cry 'er two eyes out on deh stones of deh street before i'll dirty deh place wid her. she abused an' ill-treated her own mudder--her own mudder what loved her an' she'll never git anodder chance dis side of hell." jimmie thought he had a great idea of women's frailty, but he could not understand why any of his kin should be victims. "damn her," he fervidly said. again he wondered vaguely if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. nevertheless, his mind did not for an instant confuse himself with those brothers nor his sister with theirs. after the mother had, with great difficulty, suppressed the neighbors, she went among them and proclaimed her grief. "may gawd forgive dat girl," was her continual cry. to attentive ears she recited the whole length and breadth of her woes. "i bringed 'er up deh way a dauter oughta be bringed up an' dis is how she served me! she went teh deh devil deh first chance she got! may gawd forgive her." when arrested for drunkenness she used the story of her daughter's downfall with telling effect upon the police justices. finally one of them said to her, peering down over his spectacles: "mary, the records of this and other courts show that you are the mother of forty-two daughters who have been ruined. the case is unparalleled in the annals of this court, and this court thinks--" the mother went through life shedding large tears of sorrow. her red face was a picture of agony. of course jimmie publicly damned his sister that he might appear on a higher social plane. but, arguing with himself, stumbling about in ways that he knew not, he, once, almost came to a conclusion that his sister would have been more firmly good had she better known why. however, he felt that he could not hold such a view. he threw it hastily aside. chapter xiv in a hilarious hall there were twenty-eight tables and twenty-eight women and a crowd of smoking men. valiant noise was made on a stage at the end of the hall by an orchestra composed of men who looked as if they had just happened in. soiled waiters ran to and fro, swooping down like hawks on the unwary in the throng; clattering along the aisles with trays covered with glasses; stumbling over women's skirts and charging two prices for everything but beer, all with a swiftness that blurred the view of the cocoanut palms and dusty monstrosities painted upon the walls of the room. a bouncer, with an immense load of business upon his hands, plunged about in the crowd, dragging bashful strangers to prominent chairs, ordering waiters here and there and quarreling furiously with men who wanted to sing with the orchestra. the usual smoke cloud was present, but so dense that heads and arms seemed entangled in it. the rumble of conversation was replaced by a roar. plenteous oaths heaved through the air. the room rang with the shrill voices of women bubbling o'er with drink-laughter. the chief element in the music of the orchestra was speed. the musicians played in intent fury. a woman was singing and smiling upon the stage, but no one took notice of her. the rate at which the piano, cornet and violins were going, seemed to impart wildness to the half-drunken crowd. beer glasses were emptied at a gulp and conversation became a rapid chatter. the smoke eddied and swirled like a shadowy river hurrying toward some unseen falls. pete and maggie entered the hall and took chairs at a table near the door. the woman who was seated there made an attempt to occupy pete's attention and, failing, went away. three weeks had passed since the girl had left home. the air of spaniel-like dependence had been magnified and showed its direct effect in the peculiar off-handedness and ease of pete's ways toward her. she followed pete's eyes with hers, anticipating with smiles gracious looks from him. a woman of brilliance and audacity, accompanied by a mere boy, came into the place and took seats near them. at once pete sprang to his feet, his face beaming with glad surprise. "by gawd, there's nellie," he cried. he went over to the table and held out an eager hand to the woman. "why, hello, pete, me boy, how are you," said she, giving him her fingers. maggie took instant note of the woman. she perceived that her black dress fitted her to perfection. her linen collar and cuffs were spotless. tan gloves were stretched over her well-shaped hands. a hat of a prevailing fashion perched jauntily upon her dark hair. she wore no jewelry and was painted with no apparent paint. she looked clear-eyed through the stares of the men. "sit down, and call your lady-friend over," she said cordially to pete. at his beckoning maggie came and sat between pete and the mere boy. "i thought yeh were gone away fer good," began pete, at once. "when did yeh git back? how did dat buff'lo bus'ness turn out?" the woman shrugged her shoulders. "well, he didn't have as many stamps as he tried to make out, so i shook him, that's all." "well, i'm glad teh see yehs back in deh city," said pete, with awkward gallantry. he and the woman entered into a long conversation, exchanging reminiscences of days together. maggie sat still, unable to formulate an intelligent sentence upon the conversation and painfully aware of it. she saw pete's eyes sparkle as he gazed upon the handsome stranger. he listened smilingly to all she said. the woman was familiar with all his affairs, asked him about mutual friends, and knew the amount of his salary. she paid no attention to maggie, looking toward her once or twice and apparently seeing the wall beyond. the mere boy was sulky. in the beginning he had welcomed with acclamations the additions. "let's all have a drink! what'll you take, nell? and you, miss what's-your-name. have a drink, mr. -----, you, i mean." he had shown a sprightly desire to do the talking for the company and tell all about his family. in a loud voice he declaimed on various topics. he assumed a patronizing air toward pete. as maggie was silent, he paid no attention to her. he made a great show of lavishing wealth upon the woman of brilliance and audacity. "do keep still, freddie! you gibber like an ape, dear," said the woman to him. she turned away and devoted her attention to pete. "we'll have many a good time together again, eh?" "sure, mike," said pete, enthusiastic at once. "say," whispered she, leaning forward, "let's go over to billie's and have a heluva time." "well, it's dis way! see?" said pete. "i got dis lady frien' here." "oh, t'hell with her," argued the woman. pete appeared disturbed. "all right," said she, nodding her head at him. "all right for you! we'll see the next time you ask me to go anywheres with you." pete squirmed. "say," he said, beseechingly, "come wid me a minit an' i'll tell yer why." the woman waved her hand. "oh, that's all right, you needn't explain, you know. you wouldn't come merely because you wouldn't come, that's all there is of it." to pete's visible distress she turned to the mere boy, bringing him speedily from a terrific rage. he had been debating whether it would be the part of a man to pick a quarrel with pete, or would he be justified in striking him savagely with his beer glass without warning. but he recovered himself when the woman turned to renew her smilings. he beamed upon her with an expression that was somewhat tipsy and inexpressibly tender. "say, shake that bowery jay," requested he, in a loud whisper. "freddie, you are so droll," she replied. pete reached forward and touched the woman on the arm. "come out a minit while i tells yeh why i can't go wid yer. yer doin' me dirt, nell! i never taut ye'd do me dirt, nell. come on, will yer?" he spoke in tones of injury. "why, i don't see why i should be interested in your explanations," said the woman, with a coldness that seemed to reduce pete to a pulp. his eyes pleaded with her. "come out a minit while i tells yeh." the woman nodded slightly at maggie and the mere boy, "'scuse me." the mere boy interrupted his loving smile and turned a shrivelling glare upon pete. his boyish countenance flushed and he spoke, in a whine, to the woman: "oh, i say, nellie, this ain't a square deal, you know. you aren't goin' to leave me and go off with that duffer, are you? i should think--" "why, you dear boy, of course i'm not," cried the woman, affectionately. she bended over and whispered in his ear. he smiled again and settled in his chair as if resolved to wait patiently. as the woman walked down between the rows of tables, pete was at her shoulder talking earnestly, apparently in explanation. the woman waved her hands with studied airs of indifference. the doors swung behind them, leaving maggie and the mere boy seated at the table. maggie was dazed. she could dimly perceive that something stupendous had happened. she wondered why pete saw fit to remonstrate with the woman, pleading for forgiveness with his eyes. she thought she noted an air of submission about her leonine pete. she was astounded. the mere boy occupied himself with cock-tails and a cigar. he was tranquilly silent for half an hour. then he bestirred himself and spoke. "well," he said, sighing, "i knew this was the way it would be." there was another stillness. the mere boy seemed to be musing. "she was pulling m'leg. that's the whole amount of it," he said, suddenly. "it's a bloomin' shame the way that girl does. why, i've spent over two dollars in drinks to-night. and she goes off with that plug-ugly who looks as if he had been hit in the face with a coin-die. i call it rocky treatment for a fellah like me. here, waiter, bring me a cock-tail and make it damned strong." maggie made no reply. she was watching the doors. "it's a mean piece of business," complained the mere boy. he explained to her how amazing it was that anybody should treat him in such a manner. "but i'll get square with her, you bet. she won't get far ahead of yours truly, you know," he added, winking. "i'll tell her plainly that it was bloomin' mean business. and she won't come it over me with any of her 'now-freddie-dears.' she thinks my name is freddie, you know, but of course it ain't. i always tell these people some name like that, because if they got onto your right name they might use it sometime. understand? oh, they don't fool me much." maggie was paying no attention, being intent upon the doors. the mere boy relapsed into a period of gloom, during which he exterminated a number of cock-tails with a determined air, as if replying defiantly to fate. he occasionally broke forth into sentences composed of invectives joined together in a long string. the girl was still staring at the doors. after a time the mere boy began to see cobwebs just in front of his nose. he spurred himself into being agreeable and insisted upon her having a charlotte-russe and a glass of beer. "they's gone," he remarked, "they's gone." he looked at her through the smoke wreaths. "shay, lil' girl, we mightish well make bes' of it. you ain't such bad-lookin' girl, y'know. not half bad. can't come up to nell, though. no, can't do it! well, i should shay not! nell fine-lookin' girl! f--i--n--ine. you look damn bad longsider her, but by y'self ain't so bad. have to do anyhow. nell gone. on'y you left. not half bad, though." maggie stood up. "i'm going home," she said. the mere boy started. "eh? what? home," he cried, struck with amazement. "i beg pardon, did hear say home?" "i'm going home," she repeated. "great gawd, what hava struck," demanded the mere boy of himself, stupefied. in a semi-comatose state he conducted her on board an up-town car, ostentatiously paid her fare, leered kindly at her through the rear window and fell off the steps. chapter xv a forlorn woman went along a lighted avenue. the street was filled with people desperately bound on missions. an endless crowd darted at the elevated station stairs and the horse cars were thronged with owners of bundles. the pace of the forlorn woman was slow. she was apparently searching for some one. she loitered near the doors of saloons and watched men emerge from them. she scanned furtively the faces in the rushing stream of pedestrians. hurrying men, bent on catching some boat or train, jostled her elbows, failing to notice her, their thoughts fixed on distant dinners. the forlorn woman had a peculiar face. her smile was no smile. but when in repose her features had a shadowy look that was like a sardonic grin, as if some one had sketched with cruel forefinger indelible lines about her mouth. jimmie came strolling up the avenue. the woman encountered him with an aggrieved air. "oh, jimmie, i've been lookin' all over fer yehs--," she began. jimmie made an impatient gesture and quickened his pace. "ah, don't bodder me! good gawd!" he said, with the savageness of a man whose life is pestered. the woman followed him along the sidewalk in somewhat the manner of a suppliant. "but, jimmie," she said, "yehs told me ye'd--" jimmie turned upon her fiercely as if resolved to make a last stand for comfort and peace. "say, fer gawd's sake, hattie, don' foller me from one end of deh city teh deh odder. let up, will yehs! give me a minute's res', can't yehs? yehs makes me tired, allus taggin' me. see? ain' yehs got no sense. do yehs want people teh get onto me? go chase yerself, fer gawd's sake." the woman stepped closer and laid her fingers on his arm. "but, look-a-here--" jimmie snarled. "oh, go teh hell." he darted into the front door of a convenient saloon and a moment later came out into the shadows that surrounded the side door. on the brilliantly lighted avenue he perceived the forlorn woman dodging about like a scout. jimmie laughed with an air of relief and went away. when he arrived home he found his mother clamoring. maggie had returned. she stood shivering beneath the torrent of her mother's wrath. "well, i'm damned," said jimmie in greeting. his mother, tottering about the room, pointed a quivering forefinger. "lookut her, jimmie, lookut her. dere's yer sister, boy. dere's yer sister. lookut her! lookut her!" she screamed in scoffing laughter. the girl stood in the middle of the room. she edged about as if unable to find a place on the floor to put her feet. "ha, ha, ha," bellowed the mother. "dere she stands! ain' she purty? lookut her! ain' she sweet, deh beast? lookut her! ha, ha, lookut her!" she lurched forward and put her red and seamed hands upon her daughter's face. she bent down and peered keenly up into the eyes of the girl. "oh, she's jes' dessame as she ever was, ain' she? she's her mudder's purty darlin' yit, ain' she? lookut her, jimmie! come here, fer gawd's sake, and lookut her." the loud, tremendous sneering of the mother brought the denizens of the rum alley tenement to their doors. women came in the hallways. children scurried to and fro. "what's up? dat johnson party on anudder tear?" "naw! young mag's come home!" "deh hell yeh say?" through the open door curious eyes stared in at maggie. children ventured into the room and ogled her, as if they formed the front row at a theatre. women, without, bended toward each other and whispered, nodding their heads with airs of profound philosophy. a baby, overcome with curiosity concerning this object at which all were looking, sidled forward and touched her dress, cautiously, as if investigating a red-hot stove. its mother's voice rang out like a warning trumpet. she rushed forward and grabbed her child, casting a terrible look of indignation at the girl. maggie's mother paced to and fro, addressing the doorful of eyes, expounding like a glib showman at a museum. her voice rang through the building. "dere she stands," she cried, wheeling suddenly and pointing with dramatic finger. "dere she stands! lookut her! ain' she a dindy? an' she was so good as to come home teh her mudder, she was! ain' she a beaut'? ain' she a dindy? fer gawd's sake!" the jeering cries ended in another burst of shrill laughter. the girl seemed to awaken. "jimmie--" he drew hastily back from her. "well, now, yer a hell of a t'ing, ain' yeh?" he said, his lips curling in scorn. radiant virtue sat upon his brow and his repelling hands expressed horror of contamination. maggie turned and went. the crowd at the door fell back precipitately. a baby falling down in front of the door, wrenched a scream like a wounded animal from its mother. another woman sprang forward and picked it up, with a chivalrous air, as if rescuing a human being from an oncoming express train. as the girl passed down through the hall, she went before open doors framing more eyes strangely microscopic, and sending broad beams of inquisitive light into the darkness of her path. on the second floor she met the gnarled old woman who possessed the music box. "so," she cried, "'ere yehs are back again, are yehs? an' dey've kicked yehs out? well, come in an' stay wid me teh-night. i ain' got no moral standin'." from above came an unceasing babble of tongues, over all of which rang the mother's derisive laughter. chapter xvi pete did not consider that he had ruined maggie. if he had thought that her soul could never smile again, he would have believed the mother and brother, who were pyrotechnic over the affair, to be responsible for it. besides, in his world, souls did not insist upon being able to smile. "what deh hell?" he felt a trifle entangled. it distressed him. revelations and scenes might bring upon him the wrath of the owner of the saloon, who insisted upon respectability of an advanced type. "what deh hell do dey wanna raise such a smoke about it fer?" demanded he of himself, disgusted with the attitude of the family. he saw no necessity for anyone's losing their equilibrium merely because their sister or their daughter had stayed away from home. searching about in his mind for possible reasons for their conduct, he came upon the conclusion that maggie's motives were correct, but that the two others wished to snare him. he felt pursued. the woman of brilliance and audacity whom he had met in the hilarious hall showed a disposition to ridicule him. "a little pale thing with no spirit," she said. "did you note the expression of her eyes? there was something in them about pumpkin pie and virtue. that is a peculiar way the left corner of her mouth has of twitching, isn't it? dear, dear, my cloud-compelling pete, what are you coming to?" pete asserted at once that he never was very much interested in the girl. the woman interrupted him, laughing. "oh, it's not of the slightest consequence to me, my dear young man. you needn't draw maps for my benefit. why should i be concerned about it?" but pete continued with his explanations. if he was laughed at for his tastes in women, he felt obliged to say that they were only temporary or indifferent ones. the morning after maggie had departed from home, pete stood behind the bar. he was immaculate in white jacket and apron and his hair was plastered over his brow with infinite correctness. no customers were in the place. pete was twisting his napkined fist slowly in a beer glass, softly whistling to himself and occasionally holding the object of his attention between his eyes and a few weak beams of sunlight that had found their way over the thick screens and into the shaded room. with lingering thoughts of the woman of brilliance and audacity, the bartender raised his head and stared through the varying cracks between the swaying bamboo doors. suddenly the whistling pucker faded from his lips. he saw maggie walking slowly past. he gave a great start, fearing for the previously-mentioned eminent respectability of the place. he threw a swift, nervous glance about him, all at once feeling guilty. no one was in the room. he went hastily over to the side door. opening it and looking out, he perceived maggie standing, as if undecided, on the corner. she was searching the place with her eyes. as she turned her face toward him pete beckoned to her hurriedly, intent upon returning with speed to a position behind the bar and to the atmosphere of respectability upon which the proprietor insisted. maggie came to him, the anxious look disappearing from her face and a smile wreathing her lips. "oh, pete--," she began brightly. the bartender made a violent gesture of impatience. "oh, my gawd," cried he, vehemently. "what deh hell do yeh wanna hang aroun' here fer? do yeh wanna git me inteh trouble?" he demanded with an air of injury. astonishment swept over the girl's features. "why, pete! yehs tol' me--" pete glanced profound irritation. his countenance reddened with the anger of a man whose respectability is being threatened. "say, yehs makes me tired. see? what deh hell deh yeh wanna tag aroun' atter me fer? yeh'll git me inteh trouble wid deh ol' man an' dey'll be hell teh pay! if he sees a woman roun' here he'll go crazy an' i'll lose me job! see? yer brudder come in here an' raised hell an' deh ol' man hada put up fer it! an' now i'm done! see? i'm done." the girl's eyes stared into his face. "pete, don't yeh remem--" "oh, hell," interrupted pete, anticipating. the girl seemed to have a struggle with herself. she was apparently bewildered and could not find speech. finally she asked in a low voice: "but where kin i go?" the question exasperated pete beyond the powers of endurance. it was a direct attempt to give him some responsibility in a matter that did not concern him. in his indignation he volunteered information. "oh, go teh hell," cried he. he slammed the door furiously and returned, with an air of relief, to his respectability. maggie went away. she wandered aimlessly for several blocks. she stopped once and asked aloud a question of herself: "who?" a man who was passing near her shoulder, humorously took the questioning word as intended for him. "eh? what? who? nobody! i didn't say anything," he laughingly said, and continued his way. soon the girl discovered that if she walked with such apparent aimlessness, some men looked at her with calculating eyes. she quickened her step, frightened. as a protection, she adopted a demeanor of intentness as if going somewhere. after a time she left rattling avenues and passed between rows of houses with sternness and stolidity stamped upon their features. she hung her head for she felt their eyes grimly upon her. suddenly she came upon a stout gentleman in a silk hat and a chaste black coat, whose decorous row of buttons reached from his chin to his knees. the girl had heard of the grace of god and she decided to approach this man. his beaming, chubby face was a picture of benevolence and kind-heartedness. his eyes shone good-will. but as the girl timidly accosted him, he gave a convulsive movement and saved his respectability by a vigorous side-step. he did not risk it to save a soul. for how was he to know that there was a soul before him that needed saving? chapter xvii upon a wet evening, several months after the last chapter, two interminable rows of cars, pulled by slipping horses, jangled along a prominent side-street. a dozen cabs, with coat-enshrouded drivers, clattered to and fro. electric lights, whirring softly, shed a blurred radiance. a flower dealer, his feet tapping impatiently, his nose and his wares glistening with rain-drops, stood behind an array of roses and chrysanthemums. two or three theatres emptied a crowd upon the storm-swept pavements. men pulled their hats over their eyebrows and raised their collars to their ears. women shrugged impatient shoulders in their warm cloaks and stopped to arrange their skirts for a walk through the storm. people having been comparatively silent for two hours burst into a roar of conversation, their hearts still kindling from the glowings of the stage. the pavements became tossing seas of umbrellas. men stepped forth to hail cabs or cars, raising their fingers in varied forms of polite request or imperative demand. an endless procession wended toward elevated stations. an atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity seemed to hang over the throng, born, perhaps, of good clothes and of having just emerged from a place of forgetfulness. in the mingled light and gloom of an adjacent park, a handful of wet wanderers, in attitudes of chronic dejection, was scattered among the benches. a girl of the painted cohorts of the city went along the street. she threw changing glances at men who passed her, giving smiling invitations to men of rural or untaught pattern and usually seeming sedately unconscious of the men with a metropolitan seal upon their faces. crossing glittering avenues, she went into the throng emerging from the places of forgetfulness. she hurried forward through the crowd as if intent upon reaching a distant home, bending forward in her handsome cloak, daintily lifting her skirts and picking for her well-shod feet the dryer spots upon the pavements. the restless doors of saloons, clashing to and fro, disclosed animated rows of men before bars and hurrying barkeepers. a concert hall gave to the street faint sounds of swift, machine-like music, as if a group of phantom musicians were hastening. a tall young man, smoking a cigarette with a sublime air, strolled near the girl. he had on evening dress, a moustache, a chrysanthemum, and a look of ennui, all of which he kept carefully under his eye. seeing the girl walk on as if such a young man as he was not in existence, he looked back transfixed with interest. he stared glassily for a moment, but gave a slight convulsive start when he discerned that she was neither new, parisian, nor theatrical. he wheeled about hastily and turned his stare into the air, like a sailor with a search-light. a stout gentleman, with pompous and philanthropic whiskers, went stolidly by, the broad of his back sneering at the girl. a belated man in business clothes, and in haste to catch a car, bounced against her shoulder. "hi, there, mary, i beg your pardon! brace up, old girl." he grasped her arm to steady her, and then was away running down the middle of the street. the girl walked on out of the realm of restaurants and saloons. she passed more glittering avenues and went into darker blocks than those where the crowd travelled. a young man in light overcoat and derby hat received a glance shot keenly from the eyes of the girl. he stopped and looked at her, thrusting his hands in his pockets and making a mocking smile curl his lips. "come, now, old lady," he said, "you don't mean to tel me that you sized me up for a farmer?" a labouring man marched along; with bundles under his arms. to her remarks, he replied, "it's a fine evenin', ain't it?" she smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his hands buried in his overcoat pockets, his blonde locks bobbing on his youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips. he turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands. "not this eve--some other eve!" a drunken man, reeling in her pathway, began to roar at her. "i ain' ga no money!" he shouted, in a dismal voice. he lurched on up the street, wailing to himself: "i ain' ga no money. ba' luck. ain' ga no more money." the girl went into gloomy districts near the river, where the tall black factories shut in the street and only occasional broad beams of light fell across the pavements from saloons. in front of one of these places, whence came the sound of a violin vigorously scraped, the patter of feet on boards and the ring of loud laughter, there stood a man with blotched features. further on in the darkness she met a ragged being with shifting, bloodshot eyes and grimy hands. she went into the blackness of the final block. the shutters of the tall buildings were closed like grim lips. the structures seemed to have eyes that looked over them, beyond them, at other things. afar off the lights of the avenues glittered as if from an impossible distance. street-car bells jingled with a sound of merriment. at the feet of the tall buildings appeared the deathly black hue of the river. some hidden factory sent up a yellow glare, that lit for a moment the waters lapping oilily against timbers. the varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence. chapter xviii in a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him. the man had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe. "i'm good f'ler, girls," he said, convincingly. "i'm damn good f'ler. an'body treats me right, i allus trea's zem right! see?" the women nodded their heads approvingly. "to be sure," they cried out in hearty chorus. "you're the kind of a man we like, pete. you're outa sight! what yeh goin' to buy this time, dear?" "an't'ing yehs wants, damn it," said the man in an abandonment of good will. his countenance shone with the true spirit of benevolence. he was in the proper mode of missionaries. he would have fraternized with obscure hottentots. and above all, he was overwhelmed in tenderness for his friends, who were all illustrious. "an't'ing yehs wants, damn it," repeated he, waving his hands with beneficent recklessness. "i'm good f'ler, girls, an' if an'body treats me right i--here," called he through an open door to a waiter, "bring girls drinks, damn it. what 'ill yehs have, girls? an't'ing yehs wants, damn it!" the waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves intoxicants for the man who takes too much of them. he nodded his head shortly at the order from each individual, and went. "damn it," said the man, "we're havin' heluva time. i like you girls! damn'd if i don't! yer right sort! see?" he spoke at length and with feeling, concerning the excellencies of his assembled friends. "don' try pull man's leg, but have a heluva time! das right! das way teh do! now, if i sawght yehs tryin' work me fer drinks, wouldn' buy damn t'ing! but yer right sort, damn it! yehs know how ter treat a f'ler, an' i stays by yehs 'til spen' las' cent! das right! i'm good f'ler an' i knows when an'body treats me right!" between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man discoursed to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living things. he laid stress upon the purity of his motives in all dealings with men in the world and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for those who were amiable. tears welled slowly from his eyes. his voice quavered when he spoke to them. once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth. "here," said he, quite magnificently, "here's quar'." the waiter kept his hands on his tray. "i don' want yer money," he said. the other put forth the coin with tearful insistence. "here, damn it," cried he, "tak't! yer damn goo' f'ler an' i wan' yehs tak't!" "come, come, now," said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is forced into giving advice. "put yer mon in yer pocket! yer loaded an' yehs on'y makes a damn fool of yerself." as the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the women. "he don' know i'm damn goo' f'ler," cried he, dismally. "never you mind, pete, dear," said a woman of brilliance and audacity, laying her hand with great affection upon his arm. "never you mind, old boy! we'll stay by you, dear!" "das ri'," cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of the woman's voice. "das ri', i'm damn goo' f'ler an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', i treats zem ri'! shee!" "sure!" cried the women. "and we're not goin' back on you, old man." the man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity. he felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action he would die. "shay, nell, damn it, i allus trea's yehs shquare, didn' i? i allus been goo' f'ler wi' yehs, ain't i, nell?" "sure you have, pete," assented the woman. she delivered an oration to her companions. "yessir, that's a fact. pete's a square fellah, he is. he never goes back on a friend. he's the right kind an' we stay by him, don't we, girls?" "sure," they exclaimed. looking lovingly at him they raised their glasses and drank his health. "girlsh," said the man, beseechingly, "i allus trea's yehs ri', didn' i? i'm goo' f'ler, ain' i, girlsh?" "sure," again they chorused. "well," said he finally, "le's have nozzer drink, zen." "that's right," hailed a woman, "that's right. yer no bloomin' jay! yer spends yer money like a man. dat's right." the man pounded the table with his quivering fists. "yessir," he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him. "i'm damn goo' f'ler, an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', i allus trea's--le's have nozzer drink." he began to beat the wood with his glass. "shay," howled he, growing suddenly impatient. as the waiter did not then come, the man swelled with wrath. "shay," howled he again. the waiter appeared at the door. "bringsh drinksh," said the man. the waiter disappeared with the orders. "zat f'ler damn fool," cried the man. "he insul' me! i'm ge'man! can' stan' be insul'! i'm goin' lickim when comes!" "no, no," cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him. "he's all right! he didn't mean anything! let it go! he's a good fellah!" "din' he insul' me?" asked the man earnestly. "no," said they. "of course he didn't! he's all right!" "sure he didn' insul' me?" demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his voice. "no, no! we know him! he's a good fellah. he didn't mean anything." "well, zen," said the man, resolutely, "i'm go' 'pol'gize!" when the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor. "girlsh shed you insul' me! i shay damn lie! i 'pol'gize!" "all right," said the waiter. the man sat down. he felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody. "nell, i allus trea's yeh shquare, din' i? yeh likes me, don' yehs, nell? i'm goo' f'ler?" "sure," said the woman of brilliance and audacity. "yeh knows i'm stuck on yehs, don' yehs, nell?" "sure," she repeated, carelessly. overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman. "yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, 'cause i'm stuck on yehs, nell, damn't, i--i'm stuck on yehs, nell--buy drinksh--damn't--we're havin' heluva time--w'en anyone trea's me ri'--i--damn't, nell--we're havin' heluva--time." shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest. the women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor. the women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts. "come ahn," cried one, starting up angrily, "let's get out of here." the woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket. a guttural snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him. she laughed. "what a damn fool," she said, and went. the smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little compartment, obscuring the way out. the smell of oil, stifling in its intensity, pervaded the air. the wine from an overturned glass dripped softly down upon the blotches on the man's neck. chapter xix in a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture. a soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered. "well," said he, "mag's dead." "what?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread. "mag's dead," repeated the man. "deh hell she is," said the woman. she continued her meal. when she finished her coffee she began to weep. "i kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she weared worsted boots," moaned she. "well, whata dat?" said the man. "i kin remember when she weared worsted boots," she cried. the neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. a dozen women entered and lamented with her. under their busy hands the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted. suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with outstretched arms. "ah, poor mary," she cried, and tenderly embraced the moaning one. "ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis," continued she. her vocabulary was derived from mission churches. "me poor mary, how i feel fer yehs! ah, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chil'." her good, motherly face was wet with tears. she trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. the mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe. "i kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no bigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, miss smith," she cried, raising her streaming eyes. "ah, me poor mary," sobbed the woman in black. with low, coddling cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair, and put her arms about her. the other women began to groan in different keys. "yer poor misguided chil' is gone now, mary, an' let us hope it's fer deh bes'. yeh'll fergive her now, mary, won't yehs, dear, all her disobed'ence? all her t'ankless behavior to her mudder an' all her badness? she's gone where her ter'ble sins will be judged." the woman in black raised her face and paused. the inevitable sunlight came streaming in at the windows and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon the faded hues of the room. two or three of the spectators were sniffling, and one was loudly weeping. the mourner arose and staggered into the other room. in a moment she emerged with a pair of faded baby shoes held in the hollow of her hand. "i kin remember when she used to wear dem," cried she. the women burst anew into cries as if they had all been stabbed. the mourner turned to the soiled and unshaven man. "jimmie, boy, go git yer sister! go git yer sister an' we'll put deh boots on her feets!" "dey won't fit her now, yeh damn fool," said the man. "go git yer sister, jimmie," shrieked the woman, confronting him fiercely. the man swore sullenly. he went over to a corner and slowly began to put on his coat. he took his hat and went out, with a dragging, reluctant step. the woman in black came forward and again besought the mourner. "yeh'll fergive her, mary! yeh'll fergive yer bad, bad, chil'! her life was a curse an' her days were black an' yeh'll fergive yer bad girl? she's gone where her sins will be judged." "she's gone where her sins will be judged," cried the other women, like a choir at a funeral. "deh lord gives and deh lord takes away," said the woman in black, raising her eyes to the sunbeams. "deh lord gives and deh lord takes away," responded the others. "yeh'll fergive her, mary!" pleaded the woman in black. the mourner essayed to speak but her voice gave way. she shook her great shoulders frantically, in an agony of grief. hot tears seemed to scald her quivering face. finally her voice came and arose like a scream of pain. "oh, yes, i'll fergive her! i'll fergive her!" across the fruited plain by florence crannell means with illustrations by janet smalley [cover illustration: cars] [cover illustration: hoeing] [cover illustration: picking] [cover illustration: weeding] new york : friendship press, c1940 plans and procedures for using _across the fruited plain_ will be found in "a junior teacher's guide on the migrants," by e. mae young. photographs of migrant homes and migrant centers will be found in the picture story book _jack of the bean fields_, by nina millen. this book is dedicated to a whole troop of children "across the fruited plain": tomoko, willie may, fei-kin, nawamana, candelaria and isabell, and to the newest child of all--our little mary margaret. [illustration: cissy and tommy at the center] contents foreword 1: the house of beecham 2: the cranberry bog 3: shucking oysters 4: peekaneeka? 5: cissy from the onion marshes 6: at the edge of a mexican village 7: the boy who didn't know god 8: the hopyards 9: seth thomas strikes twelve foreword dear mary and bonnie and jack and the rest of my readers: maybe you've heard about the migrants lately, or have seen pictures of them in the magazines. but have you thought that many of them are families much like yours and mine, traveling uncomfortably in rattly old jalopies while they go from one crop to another, and living crowded in rickety shacks when they stop for work? there have always been wandering farm laborers because so many crops need but a few workers part of the year and a great many at harvest. a two-thousand-acre peach orchard needs only thirty workers most of the year, and one thousand seven hundred at picking time. lately, though, there have been more migrants than ever. one reason is that while in the past we used to eat fresh peas, beans, strawberries, and the like only in summer, now we want fresh fruits and vegetables all year round. to supply our wants, great quantities of fresh fruit and vegetables must be raised in the warm climates where they will grow. another reason is that more farm machinery is used now, and one tractor will do as much work as several families of farm laborers. so the extra families have taken to migrating or wandering about the country wherever they hope to find work. a further cause of the wandering is the long drought which turned part of our southwestern country where there had been good farming into a dry desert that wouldn't grow crops any more. the people from the dust bowl, as the district is called, had to migrate, or starve. a great many of them went to the near-by state of california, which grows much fruit and vegetables. there are perhaps two hundred thousand people migrating to california alone each year. of course there isn't nearly enough work for them all, and there aren't good living places for those who have work. that means that the children--like you--don't have the rights of young american citizens--like you. a great many of them can't go to school, and are growing up ignorant; and they don't have church, with all it means to us. they don't have proper homes or food, so they haven't good health; and because they are not in their home state or county, they cannot get medical and hospital care. you may think we have nothing to do with them when you sometimes pass a jalopy packed inside with a whole family, from grandma to baby, and outside with bedding and what-not. but we have something to do with them many times a day. every time we sit down at our table we have something to do with them. our sugar may come from these children's work; our oranges, too, and our peas, lettuce, melons, berries, cranberries, walnuts . . . ! every time we put on a cotton dress, we accept something from them. for years no one thought much of trying to help these wanderers. no one seemed to notice the unfairness of letting some children have all the blessings of our country and others have none. by and by, the counties and states and federal government tried to help the migrant families. in a few places the government has set up comfortable camps and part-time farms such as this story describes. the church has tried to do something, also. about twenty years ago, the council of women for home missions, made up of groups of women from the different churches, began to make plans for helping. they opened some friendly rooms where they took care of the children who were left alone while their parents worked. the rooms were often no more than a made-over barn, but in these "christian centers," as they were called, the children were given cleanliness, food, happiness and the care of a nurse, and were taught something about a loving father god. the children who worked in the fields and the older people were also helped. from the seven with which a beginning was made, the number of centers has grown to nearly sixty. there is a great deal more to do in starting more centers, and in equipping those we have, and we can do part of it. with our church school classes, we can give cleanup and kindergarten kits like cissy's and jimmie's and our leaders will tell us other things we can do, such as collecting bedding and clothing and toys and money. best of all, we can give our friendship to these homeless people. for they're just children like you. when you grow up, perhaps you may help our country become a place where no single child need be homeless. florence crannell means denver, colorado across the fruited plain [illustration: beechams in reo] 1: the house of beecham "oh, rose-ellen!" grandma called. rose-ellen slowly put down her library book and skipped into the kitchen. grandma peppered the fried potatoes, sliced some wrinkled tomatoes into nests of wilting lettuce, and wiped her dripping face with the hem of her clean gingham apron. the kitchen was even hotter than the half-darkened sitting room where crippled jimmie sprawled on the floor listlessly wheeling a toy automobile, the pale little baby on a quilt beside him. grandma squinted through the door at the old seth thomas dock in the sitting room. "half after six! rose-ellen, you run down to the shop and tell grandpa supper's spoiling. why he's got to hang round that shop till supper's spoilt when he could fix up all the shoes he's got in two-three hours, i don't understand. 'twould be different if he had anything to do. . . ." rose-ellen said, "o.k., gramma!" and ran through the hall. she'd rather get away before grandma talked any more about the shop. day after day she had heard about it. grandma talked to her, though she was only ten, because she and grandma were the only women in the family, since last winter when mother died. as rose-ellen let the front door slam behind her, she saw daddy coming slowly up the street. the way his broad shoulders drooped and the way he took off his hat and pushed back his thick, dark hair told her as plainly as words that he hadn't found work that day. even though you were a child, you got so tired--so tired--of the grown folks' worrying about where the next quart of milk would come from. so rose-ellen patted him on the arm as they passed, saying, "hi, daddy, i'm after grampa!" and hop-skipped on toward the old cobbler shop. before rose-ellen was born, when daddy was a boy, even, grandpa had had his shop at that corner of the city street. there he was, standing behind the counter in the shadowy shop, his shoulders drooping like daddy's. he was a big, kind-looking old man, his gray hair waving round a bald dome, his eyes bright blue. he was looking at a newspaper. it was a crumpled old paper that had been wrapped around someone's shoes; the beechams didn't spend pennies for newspapers nowadays. the long brushes were quiet from their whirling. on the rack of finished shoes two pairs awaited their owners; on the other rack were a few that had evidently just come in. yet grandpa looked as tired as if he had mended a hundred pairs. he looked up when the bell tinkled. "oh, ellen-girl! anything wrong?" "only gramma says please come to supper. everything's getting spoiled." grandpa glanced at his old clock. it said half-past five. "i keep tinkering with it, but it's seen its best days. like me." he took off his denim apron, rolled down his sleeves, put on his hat and coat, and locked the door behind them. but not before he had looked wistfully around the little place, with its smell of beeswax, leather and dye, where he had worked so long. its walls were papered with his favorite calendars: country scenes that reminded him of his farm boyhood; roly-poly babies in bathtubs; a pretty girl who looked, he said, like grandma--a funny idea to rose-ellen. patched linoleum, doorstep hollowed by thousands of feet--grandpa looked at everything as if it were new and bright, and as if he loved it. starting home, he took rose-ellen's small damp hand in his big damp one. the sun blinded them as they walked westward, and the heat struck at them fiercely from pavement and wall, as if it were fighting them. rose-ellen was strong and didn't mind. she held her head straight to make her thick brown curls hit against her backbone. she knew she was pretty, with her round face and dark-lashed hazel eyes; and that nobody would think her starchy short pink dress was old, because grandma had mended it so nicely. grandma had darned the short socks that turned down to her stout slippers, too; and grandpa had mended the slippers till the tops would hardly hold another pair of soles. "hi, rosie!" called julie albi, who lived next door. "c'm'out and play after supper?" "next door" was the right way to say it. this philadelphia street was like two block-long houses, facing each other across a strip of pavement, each with many pairs of twin front doors, each pair with two scrubbed stone steps down to the sidewalk, and two bay windows bulging out upstairs, so that they seemed nearly to touch the ones across the narrow street. rose-ellen and julie shared twin doors and steps; and inside only a thin wall separated them. at the door dick overtook grandpa and rose-ellen. dick was twelve. sometimes rose-ellen considered him nothing but a nuisance, and sometimes she was proud of his tallness, his curly fair hair and bright blue eyes. he dashed in ahead when grandpa turned the key, but grandpa lingered. rose-ellen said, "hurry, grampa, everything's getting cold." but she understood. he was thinking that their dear old house was no longer theirs. something strange had happened to it, called "sold for taxes," and they were allowed to live in it only this summer. grandma blamed the shop. it had brought in the money to buy the house in the first place and had kept it up until a few years ago. it had put daddy through a year in college. now it was failing. once, it seemed, people bought good shoes and had them mended many times. then came days when many people were poor. they had to buy shoes too cheap to be mended; so when the soles wore out, the people threw the shoes away and bought more cheap ones. no longer were grandpa's shoe racks crowded. no longer was there money even for taxes. all grandpa took in was barely enough for food and shop rent. but what else besides mending shoes and farming did he know how to do? and who would hire an old man when jobs were so few? even young daddy had lost his job as a photograph finisher, and had brought his wife and three children home to live with grandpa and grandma. there baby sally was born; and there, before the baby was a month old, mother had died. soon after, the old house had been sold for taxes. grandma went about her work with the strong lines of her square face fixed in sadness. she was forever begging grandpa to give up the shop, but grandpa smashed his fist down on the table and said it was like giving up his life. . . . and day after day daddy hunted work and was cross because he could find none. for dick and rose-ellen the summer had not been very different from usual. dick blacked boots on saturdays to earn a few dimes; rose-ellen helped grandma with the "chores." they had long hours of play besides. but the hot summer had been hard for nine-year-old jimmie and the baby. they drooped like flowers in baked ground. since jimmie's infantile paralysis, three years before, he had been able to walk very little, and school had seemed out of the question. unable to read or to run and play, he had a dull time. grandpa and rose-ellen went through the clean, shabby hall to the kitchen, where grandma was rocking in the old rocker, sally whimpering on her lap. "well, for the land's sakes," said grandma, "did you make up your mind to come home at last? mind baby, rose-ellen, while i dish up." after supper, daddy sat hopelessly studying the "help wanted" column in last sunday's paper, borrowed from the albis. jimmie looked at the funnies, and grandma and rose-ellen did the dishes. julie albi, who had come to play, sat waiting with heels hooked over a chair-rung. the shabby kitchen was pleasant, with rag rugs on the painted floor and crisp, worn curtains. the table and chairs were cream-color, and the table wore an embroidered flour-sack cover. grandpa pottered with a loose door-latch until grandma wrung the suds from her hands and cried fiercely, "what's the use doing such things, grampa? you know good and well we can't stay on here. everything's being taken away from us, even our children. . . ." [illustration: grandpa pottering] "miss piper come to see you, too?" grandpa groaned. "taken away? us?" gasped rose-ellen. "what's all this?" daddy demanded. he stood in the doorway staring at grandpa and grandma, and his bright dark eyes looked almost as unbelieving as they had when mother slipped away from him. "you can't mean they want to take away our children?" dick came to the door with half of jimmie's funnies, his mouth open; and jimmie hobbled in, bent almost double, thin hand on crippled knee. julie slipped politely away. then the news came out. the woman from the "family society" had called that day and had advised grandma to put the children into a home. when grandma would not listen, the woman went on to the shop and talked with grandpa. "her telling us they wasn't getting enough milk and vegetables!" grandma scolded, wiping her eyes with one hand and smoothing back rose-ellen's curls with the other. "saying jimmie'd ought to be where he'd get sunshine without roasting. good as telling me we don't know how to raise children, and her without a young-one to her name." grandpa blew his nose. "well, it takes money to give the kids the vittles they ought to have." "i won't go away from my own house!" howled jimmie. rose-ellen and dick blinked at each other. it was one thing to scrap a little and quite another to be entirely apart. and the baby. . . . "would miss piper take . . . sally?" rose-ellen quavered. grandma nodded, lips tight. "they shan't!" rose-ellen whispered. "nonsense!" daddy said hoarsely, his hands tightening on jimmie's shoulder and rose-ellen's. "it's better for families to stick together, even if they don't get everything they need. ma, you think it's better, don't you?" he looked anxiously at his parents and they looked pityingly at him, as if he were a boy again, and before they knew it the whole family were crying together, grandpa and daddy pretending they had colds. then came a knock at the door, and grandma mopped her eyes with her apron and answered. julie's mother stood there, a comfortable brown woman with shining black hair and gold earrings, the youngest albi enthroned on her arm. mrs. albi's eyebrows had risen to the middle of her forehead, and she patted grandma's shoulder plumply. [illustration: mrs. albi] "now, now, now, now!" she comforted in a big voice. "all will be well, praise god. julie, she tell me. all will be well." "how on earth can all be well?" grandma protested. "i don't see no prospects." "this summer as you know," said mrs. albi, "we went into jersey. for two months we all pick the berries. enough we earn to put-it food into our mouth. and the keeds! they go white and skinny, and they come home, like you see it, brown and fat." her voice rose and she waved the baby dramatically. "not so good the houses, i would not lie to you. but we make like we have the peekaneeka. by night the cool fresh air blow on us and by day the warm fresh air. and vegetables and fruit so cheap, so cheap." "but what good will that do us, mis' albi?" grandma asked flatly. "it's close onto september and berries is out." "the cranberry bog!" mrs. albi shouted triumphantly. "only today the _padrone_, he come to my people asking who will pick the cranberry. and that jersey air, it will bring the fat and the red to these jimmie's cheeks and to the _bambina_'s!" mrs. albi wheezed as she ran out of breath. the beechams stared at her. many italians and americans went to the farms to pick berries and beans. the beechams had never thought of doing so, since grandpa had his cobbling and daddy his photograph finishing. "well, why shouldn't we?" daddy fired the question into the stillness. "but school?" asked rose-ellen, who liked school. mrs. albi waved a work-worn palm. "you smart, rosie. you ketch up all right." "that's okeydoke with me!" dick exclaimed, yanking his sister's curls. "you can have your old school." sally woke with a cry like a kitten's mew and rose-ellen lugged her out, balanced on her hip. mrs. albi's michael was the same age, but he would have made two of sally. above sally's small white face her pale hair stood up thinly; her big gray eyes and little pale mouth were solemn. "why," grandma said doubtfully, "we . . . why, if grandpa would give up his shop--just for the cranberry season. we got no place else to go." grandpa sighed. "looks like the shop's give me up already. we could think about it." "all together!" whooped dick. "and not any school!" "now, hold your horses," grandma cautioned. "beechams don't run off nobody knows where, without anyway sleeping over it." but though they "slept over" the problem and talked it over as hard as they could, going to the cranberry bogs was the best answer they could find for the difficulty. it seemed the only way for them to stay together. "something will surely turn up in a month or two," daddy said. "and without my kids"--he spread his big hands--"i haven't a thing to show for my thirty-two years." "the thing is," grandpa summed it up, "when we get out of this house we've got to pay rent, and i'm not making enough for rent and food, too. no place to live, or else nothing to eat." finally it was decided that they should go. now there was much to do. they set aside a few of their most precious belongings to be stored, like grandma's grandma's painted dower chest, full of treasures, and grandpa's tall desk and rose-ellen's dearest doll. next they chose the things they must use during their stay in jersey. finally they called in the second-hand man around the corner to buy the things that were left. poor grandma! she clenched her hands under her patched apron when the man shoved her beloved furniture around and glanced contemptuously at the clean old sewing machine that had made them so many nice clothes. "one dollar for the machine, lady." rose-ellen tucked her hand into grandma's as they looked at the few boxes and pieces of furniture they were leaving behind, standing on stilts in mrs. albi's basement to keep dry. "it's so funny," rose-ellen stammered; "almost as if that was all that was left of our home." "funny as a tombstone," said grandma. then she went and grabbed the old seth thomas clock and hugged it to her. "this seems the livingest thing. it goes where i go." at last, everything was disposed of, and the padrone's agent's big truck pulled up to their curb. two feather beds, a trunk, pots, pans, dishes and the beechams were piled into the space left by some twenty-five other people. the truck roared away, with the neighbors shouting good-by from steps and windows. grandma kept her eyes straight ahead so as not to see her house again. grandpa shifted jimmie around to make his lame leg more comfortable, just as they passed the cobbler's shop with "to let" in the window. grandpa did not lift his eyes. "i hope mrs. albi will sprinkle them bronze beauty chrysanthemums so they won't all die off," grandma said in a choked voice. 2: the cranberry bog the truck rumbled through clustering cities, green country and white villages. all the children stared in fascination until jimmie grew too tired and huddled down against grandma's knees, whining because he ached and the sun was hot and the truck was crowded. grandpa kept pointing out new things-holly trees; muskrat houses rising in small stick-stacks from the ponds; farms that made their own rain, with rows and rows of pipes running along six feet in air, to shower water on the vegetables below. it was late afternoon, and dark because of the clouds, when the truck reached the bogs. these bogs weren't at all what rose-ellen and dick had expected, but only wet-looking fields of low bushes. there was no chance to look at them now, for everyone was hurrying to get settled. the _padrone_ led them to a one-room shed built of rough boards and helped dump their belongings inside. grandma stood at the door, hands on hips, and said, "well, good land of love! if anybody'd told me i'd live in a shack!" rose-ellen danced around her, shrieking joyously, "peekaneeka, gramma! peekaneeka!" grandma's face creased in an unwilling smile and she said, "you'll get enough peekaneeka before you're done, or i miss my guess." "got here just in time, just in time!" chanted dick and rose-ellen, as a sudden storm pounded the roof with rain and split the air with thunder and lightning. "my land!" cried grandma. "s'pose this roof will leak on the baby and seth thomas?" for an hour the beechams dashed around setting up campkeeping. for supper they finished the enormous lunch grandma had brought. after that came bedtime. rose-ellen lay across the foot of grandpa and grandma's goosefeather bed, spread on the floor. after the rain stopped, fresh air flowed through the light walls. cranberry-picking did not start next morning till ground and bushes had dried a little. grandpa and daddy had time first to knock together stools and a table, and to find on a dumpheap a little old stove, which they propped up and mended so grandma could cook on it. "the land's sakes," grandma grumbled, "a hobo contraption like that!" while they washed the breakfast dishes and straightened the one room, the grown-ups discussed whether the children should work in the bog. their italian neighbor in the next shack had said, "no can maka da living unless da keeds dey work, too. dey can work. my youngest, he four year and he work good." "likely we could take baby along, and jimmie could watch her while we pick," grandma said dubiously. "but my fingers are all thumbs when i've got them children on my mind.--somebody's at the door." a tall young girl with short yellow curls stood tapping at the open door. grandma looked at her approvingly, her blouse was so crisply white. "good morning," said the girl. "i've come from the center, where we have a day nursery for the little folks." she smiled down at jimmie and sally. "wouldn't you like us to take care of yours while the grown-ups are working?" she made the older children feel grown-up by the polite way she looked at them. "i've heard of the centers," grandma said, leaning on her broom. "but i never did get much notion what you did with the young-ones there." "well, all sorts of things," said the girl. "they sing and make things and learn bible verses. and in the afternoon they have a nap-time. it's loads of fun for them." "they take their lunch along?" grandma inquired. "oh, no! a good hot lunch is part of the program." "but, then, how much does it cost?" "a nickel apiece a day." "come, come, young lady, that don't make sense," grandpa objected. "you'd lose money lickety-split." the girl laughed. "we aren't doing it for money. we get money and supplies from groups of women in all the different churches. the owner of the bog helps, too. but we'll have to hurry, or your row boss will be tooting his whistle." her eyes were admiring children and shack as she talked. though not like grandma's lost house, this camp was already clean and orderly. [illustration: on the way to the center] so the three went to the center, the girl carrying sally, and jimmie hobbling along in sulky silence. jimmie had stayed so much at home that he didn't know how to behave with strangers. because he didn't want anyone to guess that he was bashful, he frowned fiercely. because he didn't want anyone to think him "sissy," he had his wavy hair clipped till his head looked like a golf ball. he was a queer, unhappy boy. he was unhappier when they reached the big, bright, shabby house that was the center. could it be safe to let sally mingle with the ragged, dirty children who were flocking in, he wondered? his anxiety soon vanished. the babies were bathed and the bigger children sent to rows of wash-basins. in a jiffy, clean babies lay taking their bottles in clean baskets and clean children were dressed in clean play-suits. besides the yellow-haired girl (her name was miss abbott, but jimmie never called her anything but "her" and "she"), there were two girls and an older woman, all busy. when clean-up time was past and the babies asleep, the older ones had a worship service with songs and stories. after worship came play. outdoors were sandpiles and swings. indoors were books and games. jimmie longed for storybooks and reading class; but how could he tell her that he was nine years old and couldn't read? he huddled in a corner, scowling, and turned pages as if he were reading. meanwhile the rest of the family had answered the whistle of the row boss, and were being introduced to the cranberries. dick and rose-ellen were excited and happy, for it was the first fruit they had ever picked. though the wet bushes gave them shower baths, the sun soon dried them. since the ground was deep in mud, they had gone barefoot, on the advice of pauline isabel, the colored girl in a neighboring shack. the cool mud squshed up between their toes and plastered their legs pleasantly. the grown folks had been given wooden hands for picking--scoops with finger-like cleats! at first they were awkward at stripping the branches, but soon the berries began to drop briskly into the scoops. the children, who could get at the lower branches more easily, picked by hand; and before noon all the beecham fingers were sore from the prickly stems and leaves. in the afternoon they had less trouble, for an italian family near by showed them how to wrap their fingers with adhesive tape. but picking wasn't play. the beechams trudged back to their shack that night, sunburned and dirty and too stiff to straighten their backs, longing for nothing but to drop down on their beds. "good land of love!" grandma scolded. "lie down all dirty on my clean beds? i hope i ain't raised me up a mess of pigs. you young-ones, you fetch a pail of water from the pump, and we'll see how clean we can get. my land, what wouldn't i give for a bathtub and a sink! and a gas stove!" "peekaneeka, gramma!" dick reminded her, squeezing her. "picnic my foot! i'm too old for such goings-on." [illustration: lying down on the beds] though grandma's rheumatism had doubled her up like a jack-knife, she scrubbed herself with energy and soon had potatoes boiling, pork sizzling, and tea brewing on the rickety stove. daddy brought jimmie and sally from the center. after supper they felt a little better. jimmie wouldn't tell about the center, but from inside his blouse he hauled a red oilcloth bag, and emptied it out on the table. there were scissors, crayons, paste, pencil, and squares of colored paper. and there was a note which jimmie smoothed out and handed to daddy. "from jimmie brown," he read, "bethel church, cleveland." "we-we were s'posed to write thank-you letters!" jimmie burst out miserably. "she sat us all down to a table and gave us pens and paper." "and what did you do, son?" daddy asked, smoothing the bristly little head. "i said could i take mine home," jimmie mumbled, fishing a tight-folded sheet of paper from his pocket. "i'll write it for you," rose-ellen offered. she sat down and began the letter, with jimmie telling her what he wanted to say. "but the real honest thing to do will be to tell her you didn't write it yourself," grandma said pityingly. "they have stories and games at night," jimmie said, changing the subject. "she said to bring dick and rose-ellen." dick and rose-ellen were too tired for stories and games that night. they tumbled into bed as soon as supper was done, and had to be dragged awake for breakfast. not till a week's picking had hardened their muscles did they go to the center. when they did go--jimmie limping along with his clipped head tucked sulkily between his shoulders as if he were not really proud to take them-they found the place alive with fun. besides the three girls and the woman, there was a young man from a near-by university. he was organizing ping-pong games and indoor baseball for the boys and girls and even volleyball for some grown men who had come. everyone was busy and everyone happy. "it's slick here, some ways," dick said that night. "for a few weeks," daddy agreed. "if it wasn't for the misery in my back, it wouldn't be bad," grandma murmured. "but an old body'd rather settle down in her own place. who'd ever've thought i'd leave my solid oak dining set after i was sixty! but i'd like the country fine if we had a real house to live in." "i'm learning to do spatter prints--for christmas," said rose-ellen, brushing her hair before going to bed. "jimmie, why on earth don't you take this chance to learn reading?" daddy coaxed. "daddy, you won't tell her i can't read?" jimmie begged. yet, as october passed, something happened to change jimmie's mind. as october passed, too, the beechams grew skillful at picking. they couldn't earn much, for it took a lot of cranberries to fill a peck measure-two gallons-especially this year, when the berries were small; and the pickers got only fifteen cents a peck. the bogs had to be flooded every night to keep the fruit from freezing; so every morning the mud was icy and so were the shower-baths from the wet bushes. but except for grandma, they didn't find it hard work now. "it's sure bad on the rheumatiz," said grandma one morning, as she bent stiffly to wash clothes in the tub that had been filled and heated with such effort. "if we was home, we'd be lighting little kindling fires in the furnace night and morning. and hot water just by lighting the gas! land, i never knew my own luck." "but i like it here!" jimmie burst out eagerly. "do you know something? i'm going to learn to read! i colored my pictures the neatest of anyone in the class, and she put them all on the wall. so then i didn't mind telling her how i never learned to read and write and how rose-ellen wrote my letter to jimmie brown in cleveland." he beamed so proudly that grandpa, wringing a sheet for grandma, looked sorrowfully at him over his glasses. "it's a pity you didn't tell her sooner, young-one," he said. "the cranberries will be over in a few more days, and we'll be going back." "back to philadelphia?" rose-ellen demanded. "where? not to a home? i won't! i'd rather go on and shuck oysters like pauline isabel and her folks. i'd rather go on where they're cutting marsh hay. i'd rather--" "well, now," grandpa's words were slow, "what about it, kids? what about it, grandma? do we go back to the city and-and part company till times are better? or go on into oysters together?" the tears stole down jimmie's cheeks, but he didn't say anything. daddy didn't say anything, either. he picked sally up and hugged her so hard that she grunted and then put her tiny hands on his cheeks and peered into his eyes, chirping at him like a little bird. "i calculate we'll go on into oysters," said grandpa. 3: shucking oysters this picnic way of living had one advantage; it made moving easy. one day the beechams were picking; the next day they had joined with two other families and hired a truck to take them and their belongings to oystershell, on the inlet of the bay near by. pauline isabel's family were going to a negro oystershucking village almost in sight of oystershell. "it's sure nice there!" pauline assured them happily. "i belong to a girls' club that meets every day after school; in the meth'dis' church. we got a sure good school, too, good as any white school, up the road a piece." the beechams said good-by to pauline's family, who had become their friends. then they said good-by to miss abbott. that was hard for jimmie. he butted his shaven little head against her and then limped away as fast as he could. the ride to oystershell was exciting. autumn had changed the look of the land. "god has taken all the red and yellow he's got, and just splashed it on in gobs," said rose-ellen as they traveled toward the seashore. "what i like," dick broke in, "is to see the men getting in the salt hay with their horses on sleds." the marshes were too soft to hold up anything so small as a hoof, so when farmers used horses there, they fastened broad wooden shoes on the horses' feet. nowadays, though, horses were giving place to tractors. the air had an increasingly queer smell, like iodized salt in boiling potatoes. the beechams were nearing the salt-water inlets of the bay, where the tides rose and fell like the ocean-of which the inlets were part. the tide was high when they drove down from phillipsville to the settlement of oystershell. the rows of wooden houses, the oyster-sheds and the company store seemed to be wading on stilts, and most people wore rubber boots. grandma said, "if the bog was bad for my rheumatiz, what's this going to be?" a man showed the beechams a vacant house in the long rows. "not much to look at," he acknowledged, "but the rent ain't much, either. the roofs are tight and a few have running water, case you want it bad enough to pay extra." "to think a rusty pipe and one faucet in my kitchen would ever be a luxury!" grandma muttered. "but, my land, even the humpy wall-paper looks good now." it was gay, clean paper, though pasted directly on the boards. the house had a kitchen-dining-sitting room and one bedroom, with walls so thin they let through every word of the next-door radio. "that's going to be a peekaneeka, sure," grandma said grimly. children were not allowed to work in the oysters, but grandma was going to try. the children could tell she was nervous about it, by the way her foot jerked up and down when she gave sally her bottle that night; but she said she expected she wasn't too dumb to do what other folks could. the children were still asleep when the grown-ups went to work in the six o'clock darkness of that november saturday. when they woke, mush simmered on the cookstove and a bottle of milk stood on the table. it took time to feed sally and wash dishes and make beds; and then dick and rose-ellen ran over to the nearest long oyster-house and peeked through a hole in the wall. down each side, raised above the fishy wet floor, ran a row of booths, each with a desk and step, made of rough boards. on each step stood a man or woman, in boots and heavy clothes, facing the desk. only instead of pen and paper, these people had buckets, oysters, knives. as fast as they could, they were opening the big, horny oyster shells and emptying the oysters into the buckets. next time, dick stayed with sally, and rose-ellen and jimmie peeked. they were startled when a big hand dropped on each of their heads. "you kids skedaddle," ordered a big man. "if you want to see things, come back at four." by four o'clock the grown folks were home, tired and smelling of fish; dick and rose-ellen were prancing on tiptoe to go, and even jimmie was ready. "this is what he is like," said rose-ellen, "the man who said we could." she stuck in her chin and threw out her chest and tried to stride. "that's the big boss, all right," daddy said, laughing. "guess it's o.k. but mind your _p_'s and _q_'s." "and stick together. specially in a strange place." grandma wearily picked up the baby. the big boss saw them as soon as they tiptoed into the oyster-house. "ez," he called, "here's some nice kids. show 'em around, will you?" ez was opening clams with a penknife, and spilling them into his mouth. "want some?" he asked. the children shook their heads vigorously. he closed his knife and dropped it into his pocket. "well, now first you want to see the dredges come in from the bay." he took them through the open front of the shed to the docks outside. the boats had gone out at three o'clock in the morning, he said, in the deep dark. they were coming in now heavily, loaded high with horny oysters, and ez pointed out the rake-set iron nets with which the shellfish were dragged from their beds. "got 'em out of bed good and early!" "i'd hate to have to eat 'em all," jimmie said suddenly in his husky little voice. everyone laughed, for the big rough shells were traveling into the oyster-house by thousands, on moving belts. some shells looked as if they were carrying sponges in their mouths, but ez said it was a kind of moss that grew there. already the pile of unopened oysters in the shed was higher than a man. the shuckers needed a million to work on next day, ez said. [illustration: watching the dredges] when the children had watched awhile, and the boatmen had asked their names, and how old they were and where they came from, ez took them inside the shed to show them the handling of the newly shucked oysters. first the oysters were dumped into something that looked like mrs. albi's electric washer, and washed and washed. then they were emptied into a flume, a narrow trough along which they were swept into bright cans that held almost a gallon each. the cans were stored in ice-packed barrels, and early next morning would go out in trains and trucks to all parts of the country. "how many pearls have they found in all these oysters?" dick demanded in a businesslike voice. "not any!" ez said. "why can't you eat oysters in months that don't have r in them?" asked rose-ellen. "you could, if there wasn't a law against selling them. it's only a notion, like not turning your dress if you put it on wrong side out. summer's when oysters lay eggs. you don't stop eating hens because they lay eggs, do you? but now scram, kids. i got work to do." they left, skipping past the mountains of empty shells outside. next day the children went to church school alone. the grown folks were too tired. and on monday dick and rose-ellen went up the road to the school in the little village. it was strange to be in school again, and with new schoolmates and teachers and even new books, since this was a different state. rose-ellen's grade, the fifth, had got farther in long division than her class at home, and she couldn't understand what they were doing. dick had trouble, too, for the seventh grade was well started on united states history, and he couldn't catch up. but that was not the worst of it. the two children could not seem to fit in with their schoolmates. the village girls gathered in groups by themselves and acted as if the oyster-shuckers' children were not there at all; and the boys did not give dick even a chance to show what a good pitcher he was. both rose-ellen and dick had been leaders in the city school, and now they felt so lonesome that rose-ellen often cried when she got home. it was too long a walk for jimmie, who begged not to go anyway. besides, he was needed at home to mind sally. of course the grown folks wanted to earn all they could. the pay was thirty cents a gallon; and just as it took a lot of cranberries to make a peck, it took a lot of these middle-sized oysters to make a gallon. to keep the oysters fresh, the sheds were left so cold that the workers must often dip their numb hands into pails of hot water. all this was hard on grandma's rheumatism; but painful as the work was, she did not give it up until something happened that forced her to. it was late november, and the fire in the shack must be kept going all day to make the rooms warm enough for sally. she was creeping now, and during the long hours when the grown folks were working and the older children at school, she had to stay in a chair with a gate across the front which her father had fixed out of an old kitchen armchair. grandma cushioned it with rags, but it grew hard and tiresome, and sometimes jimmie could not keep her contented there. one day sally cried until he wriggled her out of her nest and spread a quilt for her in a corner of the room as grandma did. there he sat, fencing her in with his legs while he drew pictures of oyster-houses. he was so busy drawing roofs that he had forgot all about sally until he was startled by her scream. he jerked around in terror. sally had clambered over the fence of his legs and crept under the stove after her ball. perhaps a spark had snapped through the half-open slide in the stove door; however it had happened, the flames were running up her little cotton dress. poor baby sally! jimmie had never felt so helpless. hardly knowing why he did it, he dragged the wool quilt off grandma's bed and scooted across the floor in a flash. while sally screamed with fright, he wrapped the thick folds tightly around her and hugged her close. [illustration: jimmie saving sally] when the grown folks came from work, just ahead of the school children, they found jimmie and sally white and shaky but safe. the woolen quilt had smothered out the flames before sally was hurt at all; and jimmie had only a pair of blistered hands. "if i hadn't put a wool petticoat on her, and wool stockings," grandma kept saying, while she sat and rocked the whimpering baby. "and if our jimmie hadn't been so smart as to think of the bedclothes. . . . "not all children have been so lucky," daddy said in a shaky voice, crouching beside grandma and touching sally's downy head. "but i hadn't ought to have left her with poor jimmie," grandma mourned. "if only they had a center, like at the bogs. i don't believe i can bear it to stay here any longer after this. maybe we best go back to the city and put them in a home." daddy objected. "we'll not leave the kids alone again, of course; but we're making a fair living and the boss says there'll be work through april, and then pa and i can go out and plant seed oysters if we want." "where's the good of a fair living if it's the death of you?" grandma's tone was tart. "no, sir, i ain't going to stay, tied in bowknots with rheumatiz, and these poor young-ones. . . ." grandpa made a last effort, though he knew it was of little use when grandma was set. "i bet we could go to work on one of these truck farms, come summer." grandma only rocked her straight chair, jerking one foot up and down. "one of these _padrones_," daddy said slowly, "is trying to get families to work in florida. in winter fruits." grandma brightened. "floridy might do us a sight of good, and i always did hanker after palm trees. but how could we get there?" "they send you down in a truck," said daddy. "charge you so much a head and feed and lodge you into the bargain. i figure we've got just about enough to make it." south into summer! "that really would be a peekaneeka!" crowed rose-ellen. 4: peekaneeka? that trip to florida surprised the beechams, but not happily. first, the driver shook his head at featherbeds, dishes, trunk. "i take three grown folks, three kids, one baby, twenty-eight dollars," he growled. "no furniture." argument did no good. hastily the family sorted out their most needed clothing and made it into small bundles. the driver scowled at even those. "my featherbeds!" cried grandma, weeping for once. hurriedly she sold the beds for a dollar to her next-door neighbor. the clock she would not leave and it took turns with the baby sitting on grown-up laps. at each stop the springless truck seats were crowded tighter with people, till there was hardly room for the passengers' feet. the crowding did help warm the unheated truck; but grandma's face grew gray with pain as cold and cramp made her "rheumatiz tune up." and there was no place at all to take care of a baby. when they had traveled two hours they wondered how they could bear thirteen hundred miles, cold, aching, wedged motionless. all they could look forward to was lunchtime, when they could stretch themselves and ease their gnawing stomachs; but the sun climbed high and the truck still banged along without stopping. the children could hear a man in front angrily asking the driver, "when we get-it--the dinner?" the driver faced ahead as if he were deaf. "when we get-it--the grub?" roared the man, pounding the driver's shoulder. "if we stop once an hour, we don't get there in time for your jobs," the driver growled, and drove on. not till dark did they stop to eat. grandpa, clambering down stiffly, had to lift grandma and sally out. daddy took jimmie, sobbing with weariness. dick and rose-ellen tumbled out, feet asleep and bodies aching. when they stumbled into the roadside hamburger stand, the lights blurred before their eyes, and the hot steamy air with its cooking smells made rose-ellen so dizzy that she could hardly eat the hamburger and potato chips and coffee slammed down before her on the sloppy counter. jimmie went to sleep with his head in his plate and had to be wakened to finish. still, the food did help them, and when they were wedged into their seats again, they could begin to look forward to the night's rest. grandpa said likely they wouldn't drive much after ten, and grandma said, "land of love, ten? does he think a body's made of leather?" on and on they went, toppling sleepily against each other, aching so hard that the ache wakened them, hearing dimly the same angry man arguing with the driver. "when we stop to sleep, hah? i ask you, when we stop to sleep?" they didn't stop at all. rose-ellen was forever wishing she could wake up enough to pull up the extra quilt which always used to be neatly rolled at the foot of her bed. once, through uneasy dreams, she felt daddy shaking her gently, and while she tried to pull away and back into sleep, grandpa's determinedly cheerful voice said, "always did want to see washington, d. c., and here we are. look quick and you'll see the united states capitol." from the rumbling truck, rose-ellen and dick focused sleep-blurred eyes with a mighty effort and saw the great dome and spreading wings, flooded with light. "puts me in mind of a mother eagle brooding her young," grandpa muttered. "land of love, enough sight of them eaglets is out from under her wings, finding slim pickin's," grandma snapped. "looks like white wax candles." rose-ellen yawned widely and went to sleep again. when gray morning dawned, she did not know which was worse-the sleepiness or the hunger. the angry man demanded over and over, "when we stop for breakfast?" they didn't stop. grandma had canned milk and boiled water along, and with all the beechams working together, they got the baby's bottles filled. poor sally couldn't understand the cold milk, but she was so hungry she finally drank it, staring reproachfully at her bottle. not till he had engine trouble did the driver halt. fortunately the garage where he stopped had candy and pop for sale. grandpa had his family choose each a chocolate bar and a bottle. he wanted to get more, for fear they would not stop for the noon meal, but in five minutes all the supplies were sold. rose-ellen tried to make her chocolate almond bar last; she chewed every bite till it slid down her throat; and then, alas, she was so sick that it didn't stay down. grandpa and daddy talked with others about making the driver give them rest and food; but there was nothing they could do: the padrone, back in philadelphia, already had their money for the trip. the children walked about while they waited. it was not cold, but the dampness chilled them. it was queer country, the highway running between swamps of black water, where gray trees stood veiled in gray moss. gray cabins sat every-which-way in the clearing, heavy shutters swinging at their glassless windows. a pale, thin girl talked to rose-ellen. she was polish, and her name was rose, too. when rose-ellen asked her if she had ever heard of such a dreadful trip, she shrugged and said she was used to going without sleep. last year, in asparagus, she and her parents and two brothers cared for twenty-two acres, and when it grew hot "dat grass, oooop she go and we work all night for git ahead of her." asparagus, even rose-ellen knew could grow past using in a day. the polish rose said that they got up at four in the morning and were in the fields at half-past; and sometimes worked till near midnight. "mornings," she said, "i think i die, so bad i want the sleep. and then the boss, he no give us half our wages. now most a year it has been." curiously rose-ellen asked her about school. "no money, no time, no clo'es," said polish rose. the truck-driver shouted to his people to pile in and the truck went on. by noon the beechams were seeing their first palm trees and winter flowers. grandpa and daddy tried to tell the children about the things they were passing, but the children were too sleepy and sickish to care. grandma's mouth was a thin line of pain and the baby wailed until people looked around crossly, though there were other crying babies. the truck reached its destination late on the second evening and piled out its passengers at a grapefruit camp. rose-ellen had been picturing a village of huts like those at the bogs, or bright-papered shacks like the oystershuckers'. though the featherbeds were gone, it would be delicious to lie on the floor, uncrowded, and sheltered from the night. but no such shelter awaited them. instead, they were pointed to a sort of hobo camp with lights glimmering through torn canvas. a heavy odor scented the darkness. grandpa said, "they can't expect decent folks . . . !" grandma said, "we've got to stretch out somewheres. even under a tree. this baby. . . ." sally was crying a miserable little cry, and an italian woman who reminded rose-ellen of mrs. albi peered out of a patched tent and said, "iss a _bambina_! oooh, the little so-white _bambina_! look you here, quick! the people next door have leave these tent. you move in before some other bodies." "these tent" was a top and three walls of dirty canvas. "if you'd told me a beecham would lay down in a filthy place like this. . . ." grandma declared. rose-ellen did not hear the end of the sentence. she was asleep on the earth floor. next day when the men and dick were hired to pick grapefruit, grandpa asked the boss about better living quarters. "he said there wasn't any," grandpa reported later. "my land of love, you mean we've got to stay here?" grandma groaned. grimly she set to work. the italian neighbor had brought her a pot of stew and some coffee, but now grandma and rose-ellen must go to the store for provisions. they brushed their clothes, all wrinkles from the long trip, and demanding the iron grandma did not have. they combed their hair and washed. they set out, leaving the baby with jimmie. "shall i send these?" the grocer asked respectfully, when they had given their order. "you're new here, aren't you?" mussed as they were, the beechams still looked respectable. grandma flushed. she hated to have anyone see that flapping canvas room, but the heap of supplies was heavy. "please. we're working in the grapefruit," she said. the grocer's face lost its smile. "oh, we don't deliver to the camps," he snapped. "and it's strictly cash." grandma handed him the coins, and she and rose-ellen silently piled their purchases into the tub they had bought. they had to set it down many times on their way back. [illustration: bringing back the groceries] next grandma made a twig broom and they swept the dirty ground. mrs. rugieri, next door, showed grandma her beds, made of automobile seats put together on the ground. that night the beecham men went to the nearest dumps and found enough seats to make a bed for grandpa and grandma and the baby. fortunately it was not cold; coats were covering enough. on the dump daddy found also an old tub, from which he made a stove, cutting holes in it, turning it upside down, and fastening in a stovepipe. "i don't feel to blame folks so much as i used to for being dirty," grandma admitted, when they had done their best to make the shelter a home. "but all the same, i want for you young-ones to keep away from them. i saw a baby that looked as if it had measles." "if only there was a center," rose-ellen complained, "or if they even had room for us in school. i feel as if i'd scream, staying in this horrid tent so much." "i didn't know," said daddy, "that there was a place in our whole country where you couldn't live decent and send your kids to school if you wanted to." it was pleasant in the grapefruit grove, where the rich green trees made good-smelling aisles of clean earth, and the men picked the pale round fruit ever so carefully, clipping it gently so as not to bruise the skin and cause decay. it hardly seemed to belong to the same world as the ill-smelling pickers' camp of rags, boards, and tin. dick lost his job after the first few days. he had been hired because he was so tall and strong; but the foreman said he was bruising too much fruit. at first grandma said she was glad he was fired, for he had been making himself sick eating fruit. but she was soon sorry that he had nothing to do. "and them young rapscallions you run with teach you words and ways i never thought to see in a beecham," grandma scolded. but if camp was hard for them all, it was hardest for grandma and jimmie and sally, who seemed always ailing. "we've got to grit our teeth and hang on," said grandma. then came the big storm. all day the air had been heavy, still; weatherwise pickers watched the white sky anxiously. in the middle of the night, rose-ellen woke to the shriek of wind and the crack of canvas. then, with a splintering crash, the tent-poles collapsed and she was buried under a mass of wet canvas. at first she could hear no voice through the howling wind and battering rain. then sally's wail sounded, and grandma's call: "rose-ellen! jimmie! dick! you all right?" until dawn the beechams could only huddle together in the small refuge daddy contrived against the dripping, pricking blackness. when day came, the rain still fell and the wind still blew; but fitfully, as if they, too, were tired out. the family scurried around putting up the tent and building a fire and drying things out before the men must go to the grove. rose-ellen and dick and even jimmie felt less dismal when they steamed before the washtub stove and ate something hot. [illustration: putting up the tent] grandma and sally felt less relief. sally's cheeks were hot and red, and she turned her head from side to side, crying and coughing. grandma was saying, "my land, my land, i'd give five years of my life to be in my own house with this sick little mite!" when a smooth gray head thrust aside the tent flap and a neighborly voice said, "oh, mercy me!" then without waiting for invitation, a crisp gingham dress followed the gray head in. "is she bad sick? have you-all had the doctor? i'm mrs. king, from town." "and you really think we're humans?" grandma demanded, her cheeks as red as sally's. "if you do, you're the first since we struck this place. you'll have to excuse me," she apologized, as the children stared at her with astonished eyes. "seems like we've lost our manners along with everything else." "i don't wonder. i don't wonder a bit. our preacher telephoned this morning that there was a heap of suffering here in the camp, or like enough we'd not have ought of it, and us church folks, too. now i got my ford out on the road; you tote the baby and we'll take her to my doctor." mrs. king's doctor gave sally medicine and told grandma about feeding her orange juice and chopped vegetables and eggs as well as milk. grandma sighed as she wondered how she would get these good things for the sick baby. however, sally did seem to be somewhat better when they returned. mrs. king and grandma were talking over how to get supplies when the men came back to the tent. "laid off," said grandpa wearily, not seeing the caller. "storm's wrecked the crop so bad he's laying off the newest hired. says it's like to ruin him." grandma sat still with the baby whining on her lap. "my land of love," she said, "what will we do now?" 5 cissy from the onion marshes "well, i should think you'd be glad to get clear of this," cried their visitor. "florida camps ain't all so bad." "we've no money to move, ma'am," grandpa said bluntly. "it took near all we'd earned to get here, and now no job!" "this italian next door says they're advertising for, cotton pickers in texas," daddy said, cradling sally in one arm while he held her little clawlike hand in his, feeling its fever. "we haven't got wings, to fly there," grandma objected. mrs. king looked thoughtfully around the wretched shelter. a few clothes hung from corner posts; a few tin dishes were piled in a box cupboard. the children were clean as children could be in such a place. but the visitor's glance lingered longest on the clock. "your clock and mine are like as two peas," she observed. "forty years ago i got mine, on my wedding day." "mine was a wedding present, too. and my feather beds that i had to let go at fifty cents apiece. . . ." grandma quavered. "these are queer times." mrs. king shook her head. "i do wish i had the means to lend a hand like a real neighbor. there's this, though--my mister took in a big old auto on a debt, and he'll leave you have it for what the debt was--fifteen dollars, seems like." "you reckon he will?" grandpa demanded. "he better!" said mrs. king. "even fifteen dollars won't leave us scarcely enough to eat on," grandpa muttered. "but we've got to get to a place where there's work," daddy reminded him. they went to see the car, and found it a big, strong old reo, with fairly good tires. so they bought it. grandma had one piece of jewelry left, besides her wide gold wedding ring--a cameo brooch. she traded it for a nanny goat. on the ever useful dump the men found a wrecked trailer and they mended it so that it would hold the goat, which the children named carrie. later, grandma thought, they might get some laying hens, too. two days after the big storm, they set out for the texas cottonfields. mrs. king stuck a big box of lunch into the car, and an old tent which she said she couldn't use. "i hope i'll be forgiven for never paying heed to fruit tramps--fruit workers--before," she said soberly. "from now on i aim to. though i shan't find none like you-all, with a seth thomas clock and suchlike." [illustration: off to the cotton fields] after the truck ride from jersey even a fifteen-dollar automobile was luxury, with its roomy seats and two folding seats that let down between. grandma joked, in her tart way, "i never looked to be touring the country in my own auto!" rose-ellen jiggled in the back seat. "peekaneeka, gramma!" she said. when it rained, the children scurried to fasten the side curtains and then huddled together to keep warm while they played tick-tack-toe or guessing games. for meals they stopped where they could milk carrie and build a small fire. at night they put up the tent, unless a farmer or a policeman ordered them to move on. at first it seemed more of a peekaneeka than any of their adventures thus far. they met and passed many old cars like their own, and the children counted the strange things that were tied on car or trailer tops while grandma counted license plates-when sally was not too fussy. there was always something new to see, especially when they were passing through louisiana. daddy said louisiana was the one state in the country that had parishes instead of counties, and that that was because it had been french in the early days. almost everything else about it seemed as strange to the children--the spanish moss hanging in long streamers from the live oak trees; the bayous, or arms of the river, clogged with water hyacinths; the fields of sugar cane; and the negro cabins, with their glassless windows and their big black kettles boiling in the back yards. "but the funniest thing i saw," rose-ellen said later, "was a cow lying in the bayou, with purple water hyacinths draped all over her, as if it was on purpose." after a few days, though, even this peekaneeka grew wearisome to the children; while daddy and grandpa grew more and more anxious about an angry spat-spat-spat from the reo. so they were all glad to reach the cotton fields they had been steering toward. but there they did not find what they had hoped for. there were too many workers ahead of them and too little left to do. tractors, it seemed, were taking the place of many men, one machine driving out two to five families. though the camp was a fairly comfortable one, it proved lonesome for the children for there was no center, and it did not seem worth while for them to start to school for so short a time. it was doubtful, anyway, whether the school had room for them. grandma was too lame to work in the cotton. when she bent over, she could hardly straighten up again; so she stayed home with jimmie and the baby, and dick and rose-ellen picked. rose-ellen felt superior, because there were children her age picking into small sacks, like pillow-slips, and she used one of the regular long bags, fastened to her belt and trailing on the ground behind. at first cotton-picking was interesting, the fluffy bolls looking like artificial roses and the stray blossoms strangely shaped and delicately pink. sometimes a group of negro pickers would chant in rich voices as they picked. "da cotton want a-pickin' so ba-ad!" but it was astonishing to the beechams to find how many aches they had and how few pounds of cotton when the day's picking was weighed. tired and achy as they were at night, though, they were glad to find children in the next shack. "queer ones," grandma called them. "it's their talk i can't get the hang of," grandpa added. "it may be english, but i have to listen sharp to make it out." daddy trotted sally on his foot and laughed. "it's english all right--english of shakespeare's time, likely, that they've used for generations. they're kentucky mountaineers, and as the father says, 'a fur piece from home'." it was through the eldest girl that the children became acquainted: the girl and her toothbrush. rose-ellen was brushing her teeth at the door, and dick was saying, "i ain't going to. nobody brushes their teeth down here," when suddenly the girl appeared, a toothbrush and jelly glass in her hand, and a younger brother and sister following her. "this is the way we brush our teeth," sang the girl and while her toe tapped the time, two brushes popped into two mouths and scrubbed up and down, up and down--"brush our teeth, brush our teeth!" she spied rose-ellen. "did you-uns larn at the center, too?" she asked eagerly. "first off, we-uns allowed they was queer little hair-brushes; but them teachers! them teachers could make 'em fly fast as a sewing machine. we reckoned if them teachers was so smart with such comical contraptions, like enough they knowed other queer doings. and they sure did." thus began the friendship between the beecham children and cissy, tom and mary--with toddling georgie and the baby thrown in. cissy was beautiful, like grandma's old cameo done in color, with heavy, loose curls of gold-brown hair. long evening, visits she and rose-ellen had, when they were not too tired from cotton-picking. little by little rose-ellen learned the story of cissy's past few years. always she would remember it, spiced with the queer words cissy used. they had lived on a branch--a brook--in the kentucky hills. their house was log, said cissy, with a fireplace where maw had her kettles and where the whole lot of them could sit when winter nights were cold, and paw could whittle and maw weave a coverlet. "nary one of us could read," cissy said dreamily, sitting on the packing-box doorstep with elbows on knees and chin on palms. "but paw could tell purty tales and maw could sing song-ballads that would make you weep. but they wasn't no good huntin' no more, and the kittles was empty. so we come down to the coal mines, and when the mines shut down, we went on into the onions." these were great marshes, drained like cranberry bogs and planted in onions. whole families could work there, planting, weeding, pulling, packing. ("i've learned a lot!" thought rose-ellen. "i used to ask the grocer for a nickel's worth of dry onions, and i never did guess how they came to be there.") the first year was dreary. maw took the baby (mary, then) and laid her on a blanket at the end of the row she was working, with tom to watch her. cissy worked along with the grown folks, or some days stayed home and did the washing and minded tom and mary. "i shore didn't know how to wash good as i do now." she patted her faded dress, pretty clean, though not like the clothes of grandma's washing. there was one thing about it, cissy said; after a day in onions, with the sun shining hot on her sunbonnet and not much to eat, she didn't care if there wasn't any play or fun at night; she was glad enough to drop down on the floor and go to sleep as soon as she'd had corn pone and coffee. sometimes she was sick from the sun beating down on her head and she had to crawl into the shade of a crate and lie there. the second year was different. next summer, early, when the cherries had set their green beads and the laylocks had quit blooming, there came two young ladies. they came of an evening, and talked to paw and maw as they sat on the doorsill with their shoes kicked off and their bare toes resting themselves. first paw and maw wouldn't talk to them because why would these pretty young ladies come mixing around with strangers? paw and maw allowed they had something up their sleeves. but the ladies patted georgie, the baby then, and held him; and cissy crept closer and closer, because they smelled so nice. and then they asked maw if they couldn't take cissy in their car and pay her as much as she earned picking. she was to help them invite the children to a place where they could be safe and happy while their grown folks worked. cissy couldn't hardly sense it; but maw let her go, because she was puny. the teachers got an old schoolhouse to use; and church folks came to paint the walls; and p.w.a. workers made chairs and tables; and the church ladies made curtains. the teachers got icebox, stove, and piano from a second-hand store. yet, at first, it was hard to get people to send their children even to this beautiful place. they'd rather risk locking them in at home, or keeping them at the end of the onion row. that first morning, the teachers gathered up only nine children. those nine told what it was like, and next day there were fifteen, and by the end of the summer "upwards of forty-five." cissy told about the center as she might tell about fairyland. across one wall were nails, with kits sent by children from the different churches. the kits held tooth brushes, washcloths, combs. above each nail was a picture by which the child could know his own toilet equipment. [illustration: cissy and tommy at the center] "mine was the purtiest little gal with shiny hair. but it wasn't colored," she added, regretfully. "tommie's was a yaller automobile." "why'd you have pictures?" asked jimmie. "i were going on eleven, but i couldn't read," cissy confessed. rose-ellen patted jimmie stealthily and didn't tell cissy that he was going on ten and couldn't read either. cissy went on with her tale of the center. there was toothbrush and wash-up drill. there were clean play-suits that churches had sent from far cities. every morning there was worship. the children had helped make an altar--a box with a silk scarf across and a picture of jesus above and a bible and two candles. they all sang hymns and heard bible stories and prayed. oh, yes, cissy said, back in the mountains they went to meetin'--when there was meetin'--but god wasn't the same in kentucky, some way. the teachers' god loved them so good that it hurt him to have them steal or lie or be any way dirty or mean. he had to love them a heap to send the center people to help them the way he did. after worship came play and study, outdoors and in, with the clean babies comfortably asleep in the clothesbaskets, their stomachs full of milk from shiny bottles. the older ones sat down to the table and prayed, and drank milk through stems, and ate carrots and greens and "samwidges." and after the table was cleared, they lay down on the floor and teacher maybe played soft music and they went to sleep. once they had a real party. they were invited to a near-by church by some of the children of that church. the tables were trimmed with flowers and frilled paper and there were cakes and jello. the children played games together at the end of the party. the big girls, when rain kept them from working, learned to cook and sew and take care of babies; and even the little girls learned a heap and made pretties they could keep, besides. from the bottom of their clothes-box, cissy brought a paper-wrapped scrapbook of bible pictures she had cut and pasted. tom had made a table out of a crate, but there wasn't room to fetch it. "i got so fat and strong," boasted cissy, punching her thin chest with a bony fist. "for breakfast, maw didn't have no time to give us young-uns nothing but maybe some koolade to drink, and a slice of store bread; but at the center us skinny ones got a hull bottle of milk to drink through a stem after worship." "are you going back there?" rose-ellen asked. cissy nodded, her hands folded tight between her knees. "and maybe stay all winter, and me and tommie go to school. because paw and maw feel like the teachers was kinfolk, since what happened to georgie." "what happened to georgie?" six children huddled on the doorstep now, shivering in the chilly dark. "one sunday night," cissy said, "georgie took to yelling, and went all stiff and purple, and we couldn't make out what ailed him. only that his throat hurt too bad to swallow; so maw tied up his topknot so tight it near pulled it out: that was to lift his palate, because dropped palates make sore throats. "georgie didn't get any better. when the teachers come monday morning to tote us to the center, they begged to take georgie to the doctor. maw was might' nigh crazy by then, and she got into the ford without her head combed, georgie in her lap. maw said she never had ridden so fast. she thought her last-day was come, with the fences streaking past her lickety-split. and when they come to the doctor he looked georgie over and said, 'could this child have got hold of any lye?' and maw said, real scairt, well, she did have a bottle of lye water, and somebody might have set it on the floor. "so every day the rest of the summer them teachers toted georgie to the center and the doctor cured georgie up till now he can eat purty good. so that's how come we're shore going back to the onions next summer." 6: at the edge of a mexican village cotton-picking was over, and the beechams tided themselves over with odd jobs till spring came and they could move on to steadier work. this time they were going up into colorado to work in the beets. "and high time!" said grandma. "we've lived on mush and milk so long we're getting the color of mush ourselves; and our clothes are a caution to snakes." "but we'll be lucky if the brakebands of the auto last till we get over the mountains," said daddy. the spring drive up through texas was pleasant, between blossoming yellow trees and yuccas like wax candles and pink bouquets of peach trees and mocking birds' songs. the mountain pass between new mexico and colorado was beautiful, too, and exciting. in places it was a shelf shoved against the mountain, and jimmie said it tickled his stomach to look down on the tops of other automobiles, traveling the loop of road below them. even carrie, riding haughtily in her trailer, let out an anguished bleat when she hung on the very edge of a curve. and the reo groaned and puffed. up through colorado they chugged; past pike's peak; through denver, flat on the plain with a blue mountain wall to its west; on through the farmlands north of it to the sugar-beet town which was their goal. beyond the town stood an adobe village for beetworkers on the lukes fields, where the beechams were to work. "mud houses," dick exclaimed, crumbling off a piece of mud plaster thick with straw. "like the bricks the israelites made in egypt," said grandpa; "only pharaoh wanted them to do without the straw." "it's a mexican village," observed grandma. "i'd feel like a cat in a strange garret here. and not a smidgin of shade. that shack off there under the cottonwood tree looks cooler." "it's a chicken-coop!" squealed rose-ellen as they walked over to it. "gramma wants to live in a chicken-coop!" "it's empty. and it'd be a sight easier to clean than some places where humans have lived," grandma replied stoutly. so the beechams got permission to live in the farmer's old chicken-coop. it had two rooms, and the men pitched the tent beside it for a bedroom. they had time to set up "chicken-housekeeping," as rose-ellen called it, before the last of may, when beet work began. they made a pretty cheerful place of this new home; though, of course, it had no floor and no window glass, and sun and stars shone in through its roof, and the only running water was in the irrigation ditch. even under the glistening cottonwood tree it was a stifling cage on a hot day. they were all going to work, except jimmie and sally. it would take all of them, new hands that they were, to care for the twenty acres they were to work. mr. lukes said that children under sixteen were not supposed to be employed, but of course they could always help their parents. daddy said that was one way to get around the child labor law. so the beechams were to thin the beets and hoe them and top them, beginning the last of may and finishing in october, and the pay would be twenty-six dollars an acre. the government made the farmers pay that price, no matter how poor the crop was. "five hundred and twenty dollars sounds like real money!" daddy rejoiced. "near five months, though," grandma reckoned, "and with prices like they are, we're lucky to feed seven hungry folks on sixty dollars a month. and we're walking ragbags, with our feet on the ground. and them brakebands--and new tires." "five times sixty is three hundred," rose-ellen figured. "you'll find it won't leave more than enough to get us on to the next work place," grandpa muttered. it was lucky the chicken-coop was in sight of their acres. before she left home in the early morning, grandma saw to it that there was no fire in the old-new washtub stove, and that sally's knitted string harness was on, so that she could not reach the irrigation ditch, and that carrie was tethered. the beets, planted two months ago, had come up in even green rows. now they must be thinned. with short-handled hoes the grown people chopped out foot-long strips of plants. dick and rose-ellen followed on hands and knees, and pulled the extra plants from the clumps so that a single strong plant was left every twelve inches. the sun rose higher and hotter in the big blue bowl of sky. rose-ellen's ragged dress clung to her, wet with sweat, and her arms and face prickled with heat. grandma looked at her from under the apron she had flung over her head. "run and stretch out under the cottonwood awhile," she said. "no use for to get sunstroke." rose-ellen went silently, thankfully. it was cooler in the shade of the tree. she looked up through the fluttering green leaves at the floating clouds shining in the sun. jimmie hobbled around her, driving sally with her knitted reins, but they did not keep their sister awake. the sun was almost noon-high when she opened her eyes, and she hurried guiltily back to the beets. she had never seen such a big field, its green and brown stripes waving up and down to the skyline. it made her ache to think that five beechams must take out these extra thousands of three-inch plants; and after that, hoe them; and after that. . . . her knees were so sore that night that grandpa bought her overalls. he got her and dick big straw hats, too, though it was too late to keep their faces from blistering. all the beechams but grandma wore overalls. she couldn't bring herself to it. that night she made herself a sunbonnet out of an old shirt, sitting close to a candle stuck in a pop bottle. [illustration: rose-ellen and dick] "i clean forgot to look over the beans and put them to soak," she said wearily, from her bed. rose-ellen scooped herself farther into her layer of straw. she ought to offer to get up and look over those beans, but she simply couldn't make herself. "it seems like i can't stay up another ten minutes," grandma excused herself, "after the field work and redding up and such. but we're getting like all the rest of them, buying the groceries that we can fix easiest, even though they cost twice as much and ain't half as nourishing. and when you can't trade at but one place it's always dearer. . . ." mr. lukes had guaranteed their account at the store, because of the pay due them at the end of the season. so they went on buying there, even though its prices were high and its goods of poor quality, because they did not have money to spend anywhere else. when the thinning was done, they must begin all over again, working with the short-handled hoes, cutting out any extra plants, loosening the ground. by that time they were more used to the work; and in july came a rest time, when all they needed to do was to turn the waters of the big ditch into the little ditches that crinkled between the rows. it was lucky there was irrigation water, or the growing plants would have died in the heat, since there had been little rain. rose-ellen loved to watch the water moving through the fields as if it were alive, catching the rosy gold of sunset in its zigzag mirrors. she missed the eastern fireflies at night; otherwise the evenings were a delight. colorado sunsets covered the west with glory, and then came quick coolness. dry as it was, the cottonwood leaves made a sound like refreshing rain, and the cicadas hummed comfortably. all the beechams stayed outside till far into the night, for the chicken-house was miserably hot at the end of every day. "the garcias' and martinezes' houses are better if they are mud and haven't any shade," rose-ellen told grandma. "the walls are so thick that inside they're like cool caves." she and dick had made friends in the mexican village with vicente garcia and her brother joe, and with nico martinez, next door to the garcias', and her brothers. even when they all picked beans in the morning, during the vacation from sugar beets, there were these long, cool evenings for play. grandma complained. "i don't know what else to blame for dick's untidy ways. hair sticking up five ways for christmas, and fingernails in mourning and the manners of a heathen. i'm afraid that sore on his hand may be something catching. those garcias and martinezes of yours . . . !" "the garcias maybe, but not the martinezes," rose-ellen objected. "gramma, you go to their houses sometime and see." one evening grandma did. jimmie had come excitedly leading home the quaintest of all the babies of the mexican village, vicente garcia's little sister. he had found her balancing on her stomach on the bank of the ditch. three years old, she was, and slim and straight, with enormous eyes and a great tangle of sunburned brown curls. her dress made her quainter still, for it was low-necked and sleeveless, and came to her tiny ankles so that she looked like a child from an old-fashioned picture. grandma and rose-ellen and jimmie walked home with her, and grandma's eyes widened at sight of the two-roomed garcia house. ten people lived and slept, ate and cooked there, and it looked as if it had never met a broom or soapsuds. the martinez home was different, perfectly neat, even to the scrubbed oilcloth on the table. afterwards grandma said the bottoms of the pans weren't scoured, but she couldn't feel to blame mrs. martinez, with five young ones besides the new baby to look after. when the beechams went home, mrs. martinez gave them a covered dish of _enchiladas_. even grandma ate those enchiladas without hesitation, though they were so peppery that she had to cool her mouth with frequent swallows of water. they were made of tidily rolled _tortillas_ (mexican corn-cakes, paper-thin), stuffed with meat and onion and invitingly decorated with minced cheese and onion tops. they looked, smelled and tasted delicious. in turn, grandma sent biscuits, baked in the dutch oven grandpa had bought her. grandma had always been proud of her biscuits. in july the mexican children took dick and rose-ellen to the vacation school held every summer in one of the town churches. the beechams were not surprised at nico's dressed-up daintiness when she called for them. grandma said she was perfect, from the ribbon bows on her shining hair to the socks that matched her smart print dress. but it was surprising to see vicente come from the cluttered, dirty garcia rooms, almost as clean and sweet as nico, though with nails more violently red. the beechams found it a problem to dress at all in their chicken-apartment. dick tried to get ready in one room and rose-ellen in the other, and everything she wanted was in his room and everything he wanted in hers. their small belongings had to be packed in boxes, and all the boxes emptied out to find them. clean clothes--still unironed, of course--had to be hung up, and they could not be covered well enough so flies and moth-millers did not speck them. "i do admire your mexican friends," grandma admitted grudgingly, "keeping so nice in such a hullabaloo." "they are admire-able in lots of ways," rose-ellen answered. "i never knew anyone i liked much better than nico. and the mexicans are the very best in all the art work at the vacation school. i think the japanese learn quickest." "do folks treat 'em nice?" asked grandma. "in the school," rose-ellen told her. "but outside school they act like even nico had smallpox. they make me sick!" rose-ellen spoke both indignantly and sorrowfully. that very day the three girls had come out of the church together, and had paused to look over the neat picket fence of the yard next the church. it seemed a sweet little yard, smelling of newly cut grass and flowers. trees rose high above the small house, and inside the fence were tall spires of delphinium, bluer than the sky. [illustration: looking over the fence] "the flowers iss so pretty," said nico. "and on the porch behind of the vines is a chicken in a gold cage," cried vicente. rose-ellen folded her lips over a giggle, for the chicken was a canary. just then a head popped up behind a red rosebush. the lady of the house was gathering flowers, and she held out a bunch to rose-ellen. "don't prick yourself," she warned. "are you the one they call rose-ellen?" "yes, ma'am," said rose-ellen, burying her nose in the flowers. "i had a little sister named rose-ellen," the woman said gently. "you come play on the grass sometime, and we'll pick flowers for your mother." "and can nico and vicente come, too?" rose-ellen asked. "they're my best friends." the woman looked at nico and vicente with cold eyes. "i can't ask _all_ the children," she answered. "thank you, ma'am," rose-ellen stammered. when they were out of sight down the road, she threw the roses into the dust. nico snatched them up again. "i wouldn't go there--i wouldn't go there for ten dollars," rose-ellen declared. vicente looked at her with wise deep eyes. "i could 'a' told you," she said, shrugging. "american ladies, they mostly don't like mexican kids. i don't know why." october came. it was the time for the topping of the beets. the martinez family went back to denver for school. the garcias stayed; their children would go into the special room when they returned, to have english lessons and to catch up in other studies--or rather, to try to catch up. "but me, always i am two years in back of myself," vicente regretted one day, "even with specials room. early out of school and late into it, for me that makes too hard." now farmer lukes went through the beechams' acres, lifting the beets loose by machine. rose-ellen could not believe they were beets-great dirt-colored clods, they looked. not at all like the beets she knew. topping was a new job. with a long hooked knife the beet was lifted and laid across the arm, and then, with a slash or two, freed of its top. the children followed, gathering the beets into great piles for mr. lukes's wagon to collect. vicente and joe did not make piles; they topped; and joe boasted that he was faster than his father as he slashed away with the topping knife. "it looks like you'd cut yourself, holding it on your knee like you do!" grandma cried as she watched him one day. "not me!" bragged joe. "other kids does." the beet tops fell away under his flashing knife. from the beet-dump the beets were taken to the sugar factory a few miles away, where they were made into shining white beet sugar. ("and that's another thing i never even guessed!" thought rose-ellen. "what hard work it takes to fill our sugar bowls!") sometimes at night now a skim of ice formed on the water bucket in the chicken-house. goldenrod and asters were puffs of white; the harvest moon shone big and red at the skyline, across miles of rolling farmland; crickets fiddled sleepily and long-tailed magpies chattered. one clear, frosty night grandpa said, "hark! the ducks are flying south. maybe we best follow." 7: the boy who didn't know god handbills blew around the adobe village, announcing that five hundred cotton-pickers were wanted at once in arizona. the reo, full of beechams and trailing carrie, headed south. the surprisingly large grocery bill had been paid, a few clothes bought, daddy's ulcerated tooth pulled, and the reo's patched tires replaced with better used ones. the result was that the beecham pocketbooks were as flat as pancakes. "yet we've worked like horses," daddy said heavily. "and, worse than that, we've let gramma and the kids work as i never thought beechams would." "but we can't blame farmer lukes," said grandpa. "with all the planting and digging and hauling he's done, he says he hasn't a cent to show for it, once he's paid for his seed. it's too deep for me." down across colorado, where the names were spanish, daddy said, because it used to be part of mexico. down across new mexico, where the air smelled of cedar; where scattered adobe houses had bright blue doors and strings of scarlet chili peppers fringing their roofs; where indians sat under brush shelters by the highway and held up pottery for sale. down into arizona, where grandma had to admit that the colors she'd seen on the picture postcards of it were not too bright. here were red rocks, pink, blue-gray, white, yellow, purple; and the morning and evening sun set their colors afire and made them flower gardens of flame. here the indian women wore flounced skirts and velvet tunics and silver jewelry. they herded flocks of sheep and goats and lived in houses like inverted brown bowls. "we've had worse homes, this year," grandma said. "i'd never hold up my head if they knew back home." along the road with the reo ran an endless parade of old cars and trailers. there were snub-nosed model t's, packed till they bulged; monstrous packards with doors tied shut; yellow roadsters that had been smart ten years ago, jolting along with mattresses on their tops and young families jammed into their luggage compartments. once in a while they met another goat, like carrie, who wasn't giving as much milk as before. "all this great country," grandma marveled some more, "and no room for these folks. half a million of us, some say, without a place to go." dick said, "the kid in that oklahoma car said the drought dried up their farm and the wind blew it away. nothing will grow in the ground that's left." "he's from the dust bowl," grandpa assented. "thousands of these folks are from the dust bowl." the parade of old cars limped along for two weeks, growing thicker as it drew near the part of arizona where the pickers had been called for. the beechams saw more and more signs on fences and poles: five hundred pickers wanted! "they don't say how much they pay," grandma noticed. "ninety cents a hundred pounds is usual this year, and a fellow can make a bare living at that," said daddy. soon the procession turned off the road, the beechams with it. the place was swarming with pickers. "how much are you paying?" daddy asked. "fifty cents a hundred." "why, man alive, we'd starve on that pay," daddy growled, the corners of his jaws white with anger. "you don't need to work if you don't want to," the manager barked at him. "here's two thousand folks glad to work at fifty cents." leaving jimmie to mind sally in the car, the beechams went to picking at once. grandma had saved their old cotton sacks, fortunately, since they cost a dollar apiece. rose-ellen's heart thumped as if she were running a race. everyone was picking at top speed, for there were far too many pickers and they all tried to get more than their share. the beechams started at noon. at night, when they weighed in, grandpa and daddy each got forty cents, grandma twenty-five, dick twenty, and rose-ellen fifteen. when he paid them, the foreman said, "no more work here. all cleaned up." "good land," grandma protested, her voice shaking, "bring us from coloraydo for a half day's work?" "sorry," said the foreman. "first come, first served." in a blank quietness, the beechams went on to hunt a camp. and here they were fortunate, for they came upon a neat tent city with a sign declaring it a government camp. tents set on firm platforms faced inward toward central buildings, and everything was clean and orderly. they drove in. yes, they could pitch their tent there, the man in the office said; there was one vacant floor. the rent was a dollar a week, but they could work it out, if they would rather, cleaning up the camp. grandpa said they'd better work it out, since it might be hard to find jobs near by. even rose-ellen, even dick and jimmie, were excited over the laundry tubs in the central building, and more interested in the shower baths. twice a day they washed themselves, and their clothes were kept fresher than they had been for a long time. neighbors came calling, besides; and there were entertainments every week, with the whole camp taking part. "seems like home," said grandpa. "if only we could find work." the nurse on duty found that the sore on dick's hand was scabies--the itch--picked up in some other camp, and she treated and bandaged it carefully. every day the men went out hunting jobs, taking others with them to share the cost of gasoline; and every day they came back discouraged. even in the fine camp, money leaked out steadily for food. at last the beechams gave up hope of finding work. they set out for california, the fairyland of plenty, as they thought. at first california looked like any other state, but soon the children began naming their discoveries aloud. "lookit! oranges on trees!" "roses! and those red christmas flowers growing high as the garage!" "palm trees--like feather dusters stuck on telegraph poles!" "little white houses and gardens!" crooned grandma. soon, too, they saw the familiar posters: pickers wanted; and the reo followed the signs to the fields. they were pea-fields, this time, but grandma, peering at the pea-pickers' camp, cried, "my land, if this ain't floridy all over again!" "maybe the owner ain't got the cash to put up decent chicken-coops for folks to live in," grandpa sputtered, "but if i was him i'd dig ditches for a living before i'd put humans into pigpens like these." "let's go a piece farther," grandma urged. grandpa fingered his old wallet. "five dollars is the least we can keep against the car breaking down. we've got six-fifty now." so for long months they worked in the peas and lived in the "jungle" camp, pitching their tent at the very edge of its dirt and smell. shacks of scrap tin, shingled with rusty pail covers, stood next to shacks made of burlap and pasteboard cartons. ragged tents huddled behind the shacks, using the same back wall. mattresses that looked as if they came from the dump lay on the ground with tarpaulins stretched above them as roofs, and these were the only homes of whole families who lived and slept and ate in swarms of stinging flies. one of the few pleasant things was the christian center not very far away. every morning its car chugged up to the jungle and carried off a load of children. jimmie and sally were always in the load. the back seat was crowded, and a helper sat in front with the driver and held sally, while jimmie sat between. he liked to sit there, for the driver looked like her! only short instead of tall, and plump instead of thin, and with curly dark hair, but with the same kind smile. here in california the other children were supposed to pick only outside school hours; but the school was too far from the camp and there was no bus. so dick and rose-ellen picked peas all day with their elders. "the more we earn," dick said soberly, "the sooner we can get away from this place." "the only trouble is," rose-ellen answered, "we get such an appetite that we eat more than we earn, except when we're sick." the sun blistered dick's fair skin until he was ill from the burn; and rose-ellen sometimes grew so sick and dizzy with the heat that she had to crawl into her pea hamper for shade instead of picking. there was much sickness in this camp, anyway. there was only one well, and it was not protected from filth. the flies were everywhere. grandma boiled all the water, but she could not keep out the germ-laden flies. the family took turns lying miserably sick on an automobile-seat bed and wishing for the end of the pea-picking. but after the early peas, they must wait for the february peas; and before they were picked, jimmie complained that his throat felt sore. next day he and sally both broke out with measles. grandma had her hands full, keeping the toddler from running out into sunshine and rain; but it was jimmie who really worried her, he was so sick. and when he had stopped muttering and tossing with fever, he woke one night with an earache. "mercy to us!" grandma cried distractedly. "we ain't even got salt enough for a hot salt bag, or carbolic and oil to drop in his poor blessed ear!" indeed that night seemed to all of them like a dark cage, shutting them away from any help for jimmie. next morning, miss pinkerton, the nurse at the center, came to see jimmie. she looked grave as she examined him. "if you belonged in the county, i could get him into a county hospital," she said. "but we'll do our best for him here." [illustration: nursing jimmie] nursing in a tent was a bad dream for patient and nurses. grandma kept boiling water to irrigate his ear and sterilize the utensils, rose-ellen told stories, shouting so he could hear. at night daddy held him in strong, tired arms and sang funny songs he had learned in his one year of college. grandma tempted jimmie's appetite with eggs and sugar and vanilla beaten up with carrie's milk, and with little broiled hamburgers and fresh vegetables--food such as the beechams hadn't had for months. the rest of them had no such food even now. carrie was giving less milk every day, so that there was hardly enough for sally and jimmie. grandma said she'd lost her appetite, staying in the tent so close, and she was glad to reduce, anyway. grandpa said there was nothing like soup; so the kettle was kept boiling all the time, with soupbones so bare they looked as if they'd been polished, and onions and potatoes and beans. that soup didn't make any of them fat. but jimmie grew better, and one shining morning miss pinkerton stopped and said, "jimmie's well enough to go with me on my daily round. he needs a change." after she had carted two or three loads of children to the center, she went to visit the sick ones in the camps for miles around. first they went to another "jungle," one where trachoma was bad. here she left jimmie in the car; but he could watch, for the children came outdoors to have the blue-stone or argyrol in their swollen red eyes. the treatment was painful, but without it the small sufferers might become blind. the next camp had an epidemic of measles, and in the next, ten miles away, miss pinkerton vaccinated ten children. by this time, the sun was high, and jimmie began to think anxiously of lunch. miss pinkerton steered into the orchard country, where there was no sign of a store. he was relieved when she nosed the car in under the shade of a magnolia tree and said, "my clock says half-past eating time. what does yours say?" first miss pinkerton scrubbed her hands with water and carbolic-smelling soap, and then she unwrapped a waxed-paper package and spread napkins. for jimmie she laid out a meat sandwich, a jam sandwich, a big orange-colored persimmon, and a cookie: not a dull store cookie, but a thick homemade one. the churches of the neighborhood took turns baking them for the center. jimmie ate every crumb. in the next camp--asparagus--was a mexican boy with a badly hurt leg. he had gashed it when he was topping beets, and his people had come on into cotton and into peas, without knowing how to take care of the throbbing wound. when miss pinkerton first saw it, she doubted whether leg or boy could be saved. it was still bad, and the boy's mother stood and cried while miss pinkerton dressed it, there under the strip-of-canvas house. miss pinkerton saw jimmie staring at that shelter and at the helpless mother, and she whispered, "aren't you lucky to have a grandma like yours, jimmie-boy?" when the leg was all neatly rebandaged, the boy caught at miss pinkerton with a shy hand. "_gracias_--thank you," he said, "but why you take so long trouble for us, lady, when we don't pay you nothing?" "i don't think there's anything so well worth taking trouble for as just boys and girls," miss pinkerton said. the boy frowned thoughtfully. "other peoples don't think like that way," he persisted. "for why should you?" "well, it's really because of jesus," miss pinkerton answered slowly. "you've heard about jesus, haven't you?" "not me," the boy said. "who is he?" "he was god's son, and he taught men to love one another. he taught them about god, too." "god? i've heard the name, but i ain't never seen that guy either." "like to hear about him?" miss pinkerton asked. the boy dropped down on the running board with his bandaged leg stretched out before him. other children came running. sitting on the running board, too, miss pinkerton told them about jesus, how he used his life to help other people be kinder to each other. the camp children listened with mouths open, and brushed the rough hair from their eyes to see the pictures she took from the car. the boy's mother stood with her arms wrapped in her dirty apron and listened, too. [illustration: hearing about jesus] but it was the boy who sat breathless till the story was done. then he scrubbed a ragged sleeve across eyes and nose and spoke in a choked, angry voice. "i wish i'd been there. i bet them guys wouldn't-wouldn't got so fresh with--with him. but listen, lady!" his dark eyes were fiercely questioning. "why ain't nobody told us? it sure seems like we ought to been told before." all the way home jimmie sat silent. as the car stopped, he got his voice. "miss pink'ton, did he mean, honest, he didn't know about god and jesus?" miss pinkerton nodded. "he--he didn't know he had a heavenly father." "and no gramma either," jimmie mumbled. "gee." 8: the hopyards through february, march, and part of april, the beecham family picked peas in the imperial valley. "peas!" rose-ellen exploded the word on their last night in the "jungle" camp. "i don't believe there are enough folks in the world to cat all the peas we've picked." "and they aren't done with when they're picked, even," added daddy. "most of them will be canned; and other folks have to shell and sort them and put them into cans and then cook them and seal and label the cans." "what an awful lot of work everything makes," dick exclaimed. "it was different in my gramma's time." grandma pursed her lips as she set a white patch in a blue overall knee. "then each family grew and canned and made almost everything it used." "now everybody's linked up with everybody else," agreed grandpa, cobbling a shoe with his little kit. "we use' to get along in winter with turnips and cabbage and such, and fruit the womenfolks canned. of course it's pretty nice to have garden vegetables and fruit fresh the year round, but. . . ." grandma squinted suddenly over her spectacles. "for the land's sakes! i never thought of it, but it's turned the country upside down and made a million people into 'rubber tramps'--this having to have fresh green stuff in winter." "the owners couldn't handle their crops without the million workers coming in just when they're ready to harvest," daddy continued the tale. . . . "but they haven't anything for us to do the rest of the time; and how they do hate the sight of us 'rubber tramps,' the minute we've finished doing their work for them," dick ended. next morning they started up the coast to pick lettuce. the country was beautiful. rounded hills, soft looking and of the brightest green, ran down toward the sea, with really white sheep pastured on them. grandpa said it put him in mind of heaven. grandma said it would be heaven-on-earth to live there, if only you had a decent little house and a garden. the desert places were as beautiful, abloom with many-colored wildflowers; and there were fields of artichokes and other vegetables, with chinese and japanese tending them. those clean green rows stretched on endlessly. "they make me feel funny," rose-ellen complained, "like seeing too many folks and too many stars." "they've got so many vegetables they dump them into the sea, because if they put them all on the market, the price would go down. but there's not enough so that those that pick them get what they need to eat," said grandpa. "sometimes too much is not enough." the lettuce camp housed part of its workers in a huge old barn. the beechams had three stalls and used their tent for curtains. they cooked out in the barnyard, so it was fortunate that it was the dry season. from may to august the men and dick picked, trimmed, packed lettuce; but during most of that time the barn-apartment was in quarantine. all the children who had not had scarlet fever came down with it. it was even hotter than midsummer philadelphia, and the air was sticky, and black with flies besides, and sickening with odor. grandma's cushiony pinkness entirely disappeared; she was more the color of a paper-bag, rose-ellen thought. "but land knows," grandma said, "what i'd have done if the lord hadn't tempered the wind to the shorn lamb. what with no center near here and only the public health nurse looking in once in a while, it was lucky the young-ones didn't have the fever bad." in august they were all well and peeled. grandma heated tub after tub of water and scrubbed them, hair and all, with yellow laundry soap, and washed their clothes and put the automobile-seat beds into the hot sun. then they went on up the coast, steering for the hopyards northeast of san francisco. it seemed too bad to hurry through san francisco without really seeing it--that beautiful city crowded steeply by the sea. but the reo had had to have a new gas-line and a battery, and little money was left to show for the long, sizzling months of work. it was best to stay clear of cities. the sacramento delta region was the strangest the beechams had ever seen. the broad river, refreshing after months without real rivers, was higher than the fields. beside the river ran the highway. the beechams looked down at pear orchards, tule marshes and ranch houses. everything was so lushly wet that moss grew green even on tree trunks and roofs. like holland, daddy said, it had dikes to keep the water out. one day they stopped at a fish cannery between highway and river and asked for work. the reo was having to have her tires patched twice a day, and slow leaks were blown up every time the car stopped for gasoline. the family needed money. peering into the cannery, they saw men and women working in a strong-smelling steam, cleaning and cutting up the fish that passed them on an endless belt, making it ready for others to pack in cans. at the feet of some of the women stood boxes with babies in them; and other babies were slung in cloths on their mothers' backs. there was no work for the beechams, and they climbed into the reo once more and stared down on the other side of the road, where the foreman had told them his packers lived. even from that distance it was plain that this was a chinese village, not american at all. "the little babies were so sweet, with their shiny black eyes. but, my gracious, they don't get any sun or air at all!" rose-ellen squeezed sally thankfully. even though the baby was underweight and had violet shadows under her blue eyes, she looked healthier than most babies they saw. the hops were queer and interesting, unlike any other crops rose-ellen had met with. the leaves were deep-lobed, shaped a little like woodbine, but rough to touch. the fruits resembled small spruce cones of pale yellow-green tissue paper. the vines were trained on wires strung along ten-foot poles; they formed aisles that were heavy with drowsy fragrance. the picking baskets stood almost as high as rose-ellen's shoulder, and she and dick were proud of filling one apiece, the first day they worked. these baskets held sixty pounds each--more when the weather was not so dry--and sixty pounds meant ninety cents. school had not started yet, so the children worked all day. sometimes rose-ellen could not keep from crying, she was so tired. and when she cried, grandma's mouth worked over her store teeth in the way that meant she felt bad. "but we've got to get in under it, all of us," she scolded, to keep from crying herself. "we've got to earn what we can. i never see the beat of it. if we scrabble as hard as we can, we just only keep from sliding backwards." here in the hopyards the beechams did not get their pay in money. they were given tickets marked with the amount due them. these they could use for money at the company store. "and the prices there are sky-high!" grandma wrathfully told grandpa, waving a pound of coffee before his eyes. "thirty-five cents, and not the best grade, mind you! pink salmon higher than red ought to be. bread fifteen cents a loaf! milk sky-high and carrie plumb dry!" the living quarters were bad, too: shacks, with free straw on the floor for beds, and mud deep in the dooryards where the campers emptied water. over it all hung a sick smell of garbage and a cloud of flies. it was no wonder that scores of children and some older people were sick. the public health nurses, when they came to visit the sick ones, warned the women to cover food and garbage, but most of the women laughed at the advice. "those doctor always tell us things," the beechams' italian neighbor, mrs. serafini, said lightly. she was dandling a sad baby while the sad baby sucked a disk of salami, heavy with spices. "and those nurse also are crazy. back in asparagus i send-it my kids to the center, and what you think? they take off pepe's clothes! they say it is not healthy that she wear the swaddlings. i tell angelina to say to them that my _madre_ before me was dressed so; but again they strip the poor angel." "and what did you do then?" rose-ellen inquired. "no more did i send-it my kids to the center!" mrs. serafini cried dramatically. "i'd think myself," grandma observed dryly, "your baby might feel better in such hot weather if she was dressed more like sally." mrs. serafini eyed sally's short crepe dress, worn over a single flour-sack undergarment. "we have-it our ways, you have-it yours," was all she would say. [illustration: mrs. serafini] while the elders talked, jimmie had been staring at pepe's next brother, pedro. seven years old, pedro might have been, but he could move about only by sitting on the ground and hitching himself along. he was crippled much worse than jimmie. "i wonder, couldn't i show pedro my scrapbook?" he whispered, nudging grandma. "to be sure; and i always said if you'd think more about others, you wouldn't be so sorry for yourself," grandma replied. jimmie scowled at the sermon, but he went in and got his books, and the two boys sat up against the shack wall till dark, jimmie telling stories to match the pictures. it was a week before they could repeat that pleasant hour. next day both were ill with the fever that was sweeping the hop camp. next time the nurses came they had medicines and suggestions for grandma. they liked her, and looked smilingly at the clock and approvingly at carrie and at the covered garbage can and at the food draped with mosquito netting. "we're going to have to enforce those rules," they told grandma. "there wouldn't be half the sickness if everyone minded as you do." that evening people from all parts of the camp gathered to discuss the renewed orders: italians, mexicans, americans, indians. "they says to my mother," a little indian girl confided to rose-ellen, "'you no cover up your grub, we throw him out!'" she laughed into her hands as if it were a great joke. "they do nothing but talk," said angelina. next day the camp had a surprise. along came the nurses and men with badges to help them. into shack after shack they went, inspecting the food supplies. rose-ellen, staying home with sick jimmie, watched a nurse trot out of the serafini shack, carrying long loaves of bread and loops of sausage, alive with flies, while mrs. serafini shouted wrathfully after her. into the garbage pail popped the bread and sausage and back to the shack trotted the nurse for more. that night the camp buzzed like a swarm of angry bees, with threats of what the pickers would do to "them fresh nurses." grandpa, resting on his doorsill, said, "you just keep cool. they got the law on their side; we couldn't do a thing. besides, if you'll hold your horses long enough to see this out, you may find they're doing you a big kindness." the people went on grumbling, but they covered their food, since they must do so or lose it. and they had to admit that there was much less sickness from that time on. "foolishness!" mrs. serafini persisted, unwilling to give in. yet rose-ellen, playing with baby pepe, discovered that her hot old swaddlings had been taken off at last. perhaps mrs. serafini was learning something from the nurses after all. "if you could show me the rest of my aflabet, rose-ellen," jimmie begged, "i could teach pedro." "but, goodness!" rose-ellen exclaimed. "you never would let us teach you anything, jimmie. what's happened to you?" "well, it's different. i got to keep ahead of pedro," he explained, and every night he learned a new lesson. [illustration: rose-ellen teaching jimmie] of all the family, though, jimmie was the only contented one. most of the trouble centered round dick. he was fourteen now, and not only his voice, but his way, was changing. through the day he picked hops, but when evening came, he was off and away. "he's like the irishman's flea," grandma scolded, "and that gang he's running with are young scalawags." "dick hasn't a lick of sense," daddy agreed worriedly. "i'll have to tan him, if he keeps on lighting out every night. that gang set fire to a hop rack last week. they'll be getting into real trouble." "dick thinks he's a man, now he's earning his share of the living," grandpa reminded them. "when i was his age i had chores to keep me busy, and when you were his age you had gym, and the y swimming pool. here there's nothing for the kids in the evening except mischief." "well, then," grandma suggested, "why don't we pull up stakes and leave?" "they don't like you to leave till harvest's over," daddy said. "but it would be great to get into apples in washington, for instance. we'll have to get the boss to cash our pay tickets first." there came the trouble. the tickets would be cashed when harvest was done, not before. grandma sagged when she heard. "i ain't sick," she said, "but i'm played out. if we could get where it was cooler and cleaner. . . ." "well, we haven't such a lot of pay checks left." grandpa looked at her anxiously. "looks like, with prices at the company store so high, if we stayed another month we'd owe them instead of them owing us. we might cash our tickets in groceries and hop along." "hop along is right," agreed daddy. "those tires were a poor buy. we haven't money for tires and gas both." "we'll go as fast as we can, and maybe we can get there before the tires bust," said grandpa, trying to be gay. jimmie didn't try. "i liked it here," he mumbled. "i bet pedro'll cry if we go away. he can print his first name now, but how's he ever going to learn 'serafini'?" 9: seth thomas strikes twelve at once daddy and grandpa set to work on the reo. it was an "orphan" car, no longer made, and its parts were hard to replace; so the men were always watching the junkyards for other old reos. they had learned a great deal about the car in these months, and they soon had it on the road again. "give you long enough," said grandma, "and you'll cobble new soles on its tires and patch its innards. looks like it's held together with hairpins now." daddy drove with one ear cocked for trouble, and when anyone spoke to him he said, "shh! sounds like her pistons--or maybe it's her vacuum. anyway, as soon as there's a good stopping place, we'll. . . ." but it was the tires that gave out first. bang! daddy's muscles bulged as he held the lurching car steady. one of the back tires was blown to bits. "now can we eat?" dick demanded. daddy shook his head as he jumped out to jack up the car. "got to keep moving. this is our last spare, and there isn't a single tire we can count on." sure enough, they hadn't gone far before the familiar bumping stopped them. that last spare was flat. "now," daddy said grimly, "you may as well get lunch while i see whether i can patch this again." grandma had been sitting silent, her hand twisted in sally's little skirt to keep her from climbing over the edge. "well," she said, "you better eat before your hands get any blacker. dick, you haul that shoe-box from under the seat. rose-ellen, fetch the crackers from the trailer. sally, do sit still one minute." "crackers?" asked rose-ellen, when she had scrambled back. "i don't see a one, gramma." "land's sakes, child, use your eyes for once!" rose-ellen rummaged in the part that was partitioned off from carrie. "i don't see any groceries, gramma." grandpa came back to help her, and stood staring. "dick!" he called. "did you tie that box on like i said?" dick dropped a startled lip. "gee whiz, grampa! it was wedged in so tight i never thought." "no," said grandpa, "i reckon you never did think." silently they ate the scanty lunch in the shoe-box, and as silently the men cut "boots" from worn-out tires and cemented them under the holes in the almost worn-out ones. silently they jogged on again, the engine stuttering and daddy driving as if on egg-shells. "talk, won't you?" he asked suddenly. "my goodness, everyone is so still--it gets on my nerves." sally said, "goin' by-by!" and leaned forward from grandma's knees to give her father a strangling hug around the neck. sally was two and a half now, and lively enough to keep one person busy. the pale curls all over her head were enchanting, and so was her talk. she had learned _buenos dias_, good day, from a mexican neighbor; _bambina bella_, pretty baby girl, from the serafinis, and _sayonara_, good-by, from a japanese boss in the peas. rose-ellen pulled the baby back and gave her a kiss in the hollow at the back of her neck. then she tried to think of something to say herself. "maybe they'll have school and church school at this next place for a change." "aw, you're sissy," dick grumbled in his new, thick-thin voice. "if church was so much, why wouldn't it keep folks from being treated like us? huh?" grandma roused herself from her limp stillness. "maybe you didn't take notice," she said sharply, "that usually when folks was kind, and tried to make those dreadful camps a little decenter, why, it was christian folks. there wouldn't hardly anything else make 'em treat that horrid itch and trachoma and all the catching diseases--hardly anything but being christians." "aw," dick jeered. "if the church folks got together and put their foot down they could clear up the whole business in a jiffy." "we always been church folks ourselves," grandma snapped. "it isn't so easy to get a hold." "hush up, dick," grandpa ordered with unusual sharpness. "can't you see gramma's clean done out?" grandma looked "done out," but rose-ellen, glancing soberly from one to the other, was sorry for dick, too-his blue eyes frowned so unhappily. rose-ellen tried to change the subject. "apples!" she said. "i love oranges and ripe figs, and those big persimmons that you sort of drown in-but apples are homiest. i'd like to get my teeth into a hard red one and work right around." that wasn't a good subject, either. "i'm hungry!" jimmie bellowed. and just then another tire blew out. the old reo had bumped along on its rim for an hour when grandma said in a thin voice, "next time we come to any likely shade, i guess we best stop. i'm . . . i'm just beat out." with an anxious backward glance at her, daddy stopped the car under a tree. "i reckon some of you better go on to that town and get some bread and maybe weenies and potatoes," grandma said faintly. grandpa and daddy pulled out the tent and set it up under the tree, so that grandma could lie down in its shelter. then they bumped away, leaving the children to mind sally and lead carrie along the edge of the highway to graze, while grandma slept. [illustration: waiting at the roadside] "i never was so hungry in all my days," jimmie kept saying. all the children watched that strip of pavement with the hot air quivering above it, but still the car did not come. suddenly rose-ellen clutched dick's arm. "those two men look like . . . look like. . . . they _are_ grampa and daddy. but what have they done with the car?" "where's the car?" dick shouted, as the men came up. "w'ere tar?" sally echoed, patting her hands against the bulging gunnysack her father carried. "here's the car," daddy answered, pointing to the sack. "you . . . sold it, dad?" dick demanded. "how much?" "five dollars." daddy's jaw tightened. "they called it junk. well, the grub will last a little while. . . ." "and when gramma's rested, we can pull the trailer and kind of hike along toward them apples," grandpa said stoutly. but grandma looked as if she'd never be rested. she lay quite still except for the breath that blew out her gray lips and drew them in again, and her closed eyes were hollow. the other six stood around and gazed at her in terror. anyone else could be sick and the earth went on turning, but . . . grandma! they were too intent to notice the car stopping beside them until a man's voice said, "sorry, folks, but you'll have to move on. against regulations, this is." "we're americans, ain't we?" grandpa blustered, shaken with anxiety and anger. "you can't shove us off the earth." "be on your way in twenty-four hours," the man said, pushing back his coat to show the star on his vest. "i'm sorry, but that's the way it is." "americans?" daddy said harshly, watching the sheriff go. "we're folks without a country." "may as well give the young-ones some of the grub we bought," grandpa said patiently. it was while they were hungrily munching the dry bread and cheese that another car came upon them and with it another swift change in their changing life. two young women stepped out of the chirpy ford sedan. neither of them looked like her, nor even her no. ii--yet jimmie whispered excitedly to rose-ellen, "i bet you a nickel they're christian centerers!" and they were. sent by the churches, like the center workers in the cranberries, in the peas and in cissy's onions, they went out through the country to help the people who needed them. the sheriff, it seemed, had told them about the beechams when he met them a few minutes ago. first they looked in at grandma, still asleep with the seth thomas ticking beside her. "why, i've heard of you from miss pinkerton," said one young woman. "she said you were the kind of people who deserved a better chance. maybe i can help you get one." then they talked long and earnestly with grandpa and daddy. grandpa had flapped his hands at the children and said, "skedaddle, young-ones!" so the children could hear nothing of the talk except that it was all questions and answers that grew more and more brisk and eager. it ended in hooking the trailer, which carried the tent and carrie, to the sedan, into which was helped a dazed grandma. the rest of the family was packed in and off they all rattled to town. there the "centerers" left the beechams in a restaurant, but only to come back in a few minutes, beaming. "we got them on long distance, and it's all right!" they told grandpa and daddy. "what's all right?" asked grandma, beginning to be more like her old self once more. "a real nice place to stay in the grape country," grandpa said quickly. "and miss joyce here, she's going to take us down there tomorrow. down in the san joaquin valley." next morning miss joyce came to the tourist camp where they had slept and breakfasted. she looked long at carrie. was carrie worth taking? did she give much milk? jimmie burst into tears. "well, even if she doesn't, she does the best she can," he sobbed. "isn't she one of the family?" miss joyce patted his frail little shoulder and said "oh, well . . . !" so carrie was fastened into her trailer again, and the sedan rattled southward all day, through peach orchards and vineyards where the grapevines were fastened to short stakes so that they looked like bushes instead of vines. "it's . . . real sightly country," said grandma, who felt much better after her rest. "if only a body could settle down, i can't figure any place much nicer. them trees now, with the sun slanting through.--we ain't stopping here?" yes, the sedan, with the trailer swaying after it, was banging into a tiny village of brown and white cottages, with green gardens between them and stately eucalyptus trees shading them, while behind them stretched evenly spaced young fruit trees. before the one empty cottage the sedan stopped. the beechams and miss joyce went in. there was little furniture in the clean house, but grandma, dropping down on a wooden chair, looked around her with bright eyes. "a sitting room!" she said. "a sitting room! seems like we were real folks again, just for a little while. grampa, you fetch in the clock and set it on that shelf, will you?" grandpa brought in the old seth thomas, its hands pointing to half-past three. "tick-tock! tick-tock!" it said, as contentedly as if it had always lived there. [illustration: bringing in the clock] the children went tiptoeing, hobbling, rushing through the clean, bare rooms, their voices echoing as they called back their news. "gramma, there's a real bathroom!" "gramma, soon's you feel better you can bake a pie in this gas stove!" "gramma, here's an e-_lec_-tric refrigerator! and a washing machine! and a screened porch with a table to eat at!" good california smells of eucalyptus trees and, herbs and flowers drifted through open doors and windows, together with the chuckling, scolding, joyous clamor of mocking birds. "i . . . i wish we didn't have to move on again!" grandma said. "it's a pretty good set-up," grandpa agreed. "good school over yonder; and a church--and big enough garden for all our garden sass and to can some." he was ticking off the points on his fingers. "and a chicken-house, and then this here cooperative farm where the folks all work together and share the profits." jimmie flung himself down on the floor, sobbing. "i don't want to go on anywhere," he hiccupped. "i want to stay here." but dick was looking from grandpa to miss joyce and then to daddy who had come, smiling, in at the back door. "you mean. . . ." the words choked dick. "you mean we might settle here? but how? who fixed it?" "the government!" grandpa said triumphantly. "mind you, this place is the government's fixing, to give migrants a chance to take root again. it's an experiment they are trying, and we are having the chance to work with them. we can buy this place and pay for it over a long term of years. we've got the christian center and the government to thank." "why, maybe after a while we could even send for the goods we stored at mrs. albi's!" grandma cried dazedly. "you mean this is home? home?" shrieked rose-ellen. "carrie thinks so," daddy, said with a smile. "run along and see if she doesn't. run along!" the children rushed past him into the backyard. there stood carrie, still a moth-eaten-looking white goat. but now she had a new gleam in her amber eyes, and at her feet a tiny, curly kid, as black as coal. "maaaaaaa!" carrie said proudly. from within the brown and white cottage seth thomas pealed out twelve chimes--eight extra--as if he, too, were shouting for joy. [illustration: carrie and her kid] 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 laocoã¶n 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! 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. jimmie moore _of_ bucktown by melvin e. trotter chicago the winona publishing company mcmiv copyright, 1904 by the winona publishing company _august._ contents i. the invasion begun ii. "der gang" iii. "the busted funeral" iv. jimmie's new pa v. mrs. cook's "opery" vi. mrs. cook's first prayer vii. floe viii. bill's pension ix. "auntie's favorite horse" x. jimmie's education xi. the meeting in the market xii. fred hanks xiii. "fagin's meetin'" xiv. fred and doc xv. the picnic xvi. dave strikes his gait jimmie moore of bucktown chapter i _the invasion begun_ "please kin yer tell me where is der boss of dis mishun?" the superintendent turned sharply about and beheld a boy of singularly striking appearance. his stature was that of a child of ten or twelve years and his face that of a worn-out, heart-broken, disappointed old man. his eyes, set far back in his head under heavy eyebrows, indicated an almost abnormal development of the perceptive faculties. in other respects the contour of the head was not remarkable; but the face was one, once seen, never to be forgotten. the nose was pointed and pinched, the cheeks hollow, and the glance of his eye at once appealing and defiant. there could be no doubt that this boy was a bread winner, and that the burdens he carried were altogether too heavy for such young shoulders. from the ragged cap which he turned nervously in his hands to the large pair of sharp-pointed ladies' shoes on his feet, every garment was a misfit. the loss of a button from the neckband of his blouse-waist permitted it to gap wide open and disclosed the fact that he wore no underclothing. the day was bitterly cold; and the boy's shivery look showed how greatly he suffered. as the superintendent took in all these facts he realized that, despite his unseemly attire and generally distracted appearance, the boy was by no means an ordinary character. down deep in the dark gray eyes that never wavered under his steady gaze he saw the making of a man mighty for good or evil. "i guess i'm the man you want," said morton, kindly. "come into my office." leading the way, he was followed by the boy into a small private office at the back end of the big mission hall. offering the lad a seat, he turned to his desk, on which stood two telephones. in an instant that boy was again upon his feet. looking with wide-open eyes, he inquired, "be yer goin' ter call der bull? i ain't as't yer fur nuthin'. me pa said yer was a good guy and wouldn't squeal. i mus' go." morton intercepted the boy at the door. but it was some time before he could persuade him that it was not his intention to turn him over to the police, "the bull," for begging. "i want to help you," he said. "i'll be your friend, and i won't squeal on you either." "well, be yer mister morton?" asked the boy. "yes, that's my name," replied the superintendent. "and now i want you to tell me all about your trouble. who sent you to me?" "me pa. he heard your talk on der gospel wagon down at der square. he don't talk about nuthin' else and he wants yer ter come an' see him." "is he sick?" "sure he's sick. he's been in bed ever since wednesday. ma says he's outer his head. tuesday night he didn't come home home from work, and ma says, 'i guess he's drunk ag'in.' we waited fur him till eleven o'clock and den i couldn't stay awake no longer. 'sides, der wood was all burnt up and we had ter go ter bed ter keep warm. at five in der mornin' mike hardy, der bar-keep' at fagin's, saw pa layin' in rice's wagon box, out in front of der market. it snowed on pa, and he was near frozed. mike calls bill cook and dey brings pa home. bill and pa is chums; an' bill gets drunk, too. ma says dey bot' works fur fagin. when dey gits paid dey take all der money straight to fagin's and spends it for booze." "well, what's your name and where do you live?" interrupted morton. "me name's jimmie moore, and we live down in bucktown near der market." "go on with your story, sonny," said morton. "after dey got him in der house ma and bill gits his clothes off and bill goes and gets some wood and built a fire. i carried me mornin' papers, and when i gits back i stayed wit' pa while ma went ter ransome's house up on der avenue to do deir washin'. pa he slept all day till four in the afternoon, and den he raised up straight in bed and, lookin' at somethin' in der corner of der room, said, 'can't yer see me hand? i raised it twice. why don't yer come and git me?' i couldn't see nuthin', but he keeps on talkin' dat way fur a long time. den he laid down again and cried and said he wanted der mishun man ter come and see him. when ma gits back she sent me to der barber shop to git fred hanks ter telerphone ter dr. possum. he's der city doctor. he looked at pa and said he had ammonia. den ma she cried, 'cause she had no money ter git supper for us kids and fer the doctor's paper, too." "pretty soon mrs. cook, that's bill's missus, comes in and she said she'd help take care of pa. the neighbors done all dey could, but we ain't got no money, er no wood, and der rent ain't paid. we ain't had no fire since yisterday, and dis' mornin' ma sits down and cries 'cause der's nothin' for der kids ter eat. her and me don't mind, but we got four girl kids that's hungry all der time. pa set up in bed and said, 'go to der mishun man and tell him i mus' see him.' ma sent me up ter see if yer won't come down ter see pa." finding a knitted scarf for the boy to tie about his neck, the superintendent and jimmie started for the sick man's bedside. the section of the city where the moore family lived, locally known as bucktown, contained the only real slums to be found in the busy and rapidly growing metropolis. it was located on a low tract of ground between the city market and the river, and was inhabited chiefly by negroes and very poor white people. on the way jimmie continued his story, and the superintendent tried to tell him about the father above who loves the poor and who sent his son to die that all the world might live and have access to the unsearchable riches of god. "the only help that is sure and lasting," he said, "comes from god. he can find a way out of your trouble for you." "i don't see how he kin help us," replied the boy. "they won't give us no help at der city hall, 'cause we ain't been here long enough. we ain't no city case er nothin' else, i guess. the man said he would put us kids in der children's home and pa in der poorhouse, er send us all back ter dalton. ma said she'd die widout us kids." when the boy stopped talking morton took him by the hand and told him about the jesus who loves little boys and their fathers and mothers, and how he would do all things for them. "if you believe in him," said the superintendent, "you can ask for anything in his name and get it." "where is jesus?" asked jimmie. "he's right here now," replied morton. "you can't see him, but he's always with us to watch over us and care for us." this was a stunner for jimmie. for a full minute he looked straight ahead of him, as if in deep thought, and then raising his eyes until they met morton's, said: "watcher givin' us, cully? do yer tink i am bug-house?" "no, i don't think you're crazy, but what i have said is true, jimmie. you can't see the wind, but you know there is wind because you feel it. i cannot see jesus with my natural eye, but i know he is here, just as well as you know that the wind is blowing. i trust him for everything, and he supplies all my needs. i have loved him and he has kept me for seven years. i never help any one myself; i do it for him. he gives me the love and the money, and if i help you, you must thank him and not me." "maybe he loves good boys; but i'm no good, ner never was. he can't love no kid like me, kin he?" "yes, my boy, just as much as he does me." "den he don't know me, for everybody dat knows me says i'm bad. me ma, even she says so. i guess he don't love no one in bucktown." "yes, he loves every one in bucktown, and he will care for you all if you will trust him and ask him for what you need." "kin i ask him fur somethin' ter eat." "yes, you can, and you'll get it too. but you must love him and thank him for what you get." jimmie looked up to see if morton really meant what he was saying. when he saw the look of intense earnestness on the superintendent's face he knew that he was not deceiving him. "i hope he'll help pa," said jimmie thoughtfully. "i guess he needs it mor'n der rest of us do." "if your pa will tell god what a sinner he has been and will ask him for forgiveness, he will help him. god is a friend of sinners, jimmie." "this is where we live," said the boy, turning to go into a miserable shack. the house was one of the most disreputable looking places in the neighborhood. it consisted of a lean-to portion of a house from which the original building had been moved away. there was no wall beneath; the building stood on four posts, one at each corner, and open on all sides, the wind having a clean sweep beneath the floor in every direction. within there were two rooms. in the front one was a bed upon which the sick man lay, an old table, two chairs and a box to sit on. in the next room an old wood-burning cook-stove, a big box for table and cupboard combined, and a broken mirror constituted its complete furnishing. the roof leaked, and most of the spaces in the window sashes were filled with rags and paper instead of glass. a baby of six months, lying in a market basket, was being pulled about the room by an older sister. when morton entered, two other girls, older than the baby, one two, the other past three years of age, darted under the bed and peeked from beneath the ragged comfort hanging over the edge. "dis is mister morton from der mission," said jimmie proudly, still clasping the hand of the superintendent, "and he says dat jesus loves every bloomin' one of us, and'll be our friend and owns the whole business. if we lives fur him, he lives fur us, and--and--" "you shut up, jim," said his mother, as with her apron she wiped the dirt off the seat of the nearest chair. "sit down, mister morton," she said. "glad to see you. we ain't got much of a place here; but robert wanted to see you so bad, i sent jimmie up to the mission to bring you." after greeting the little ones, morton went to the bed and spoke to mr. moore. he was sick indeed; and the superintendent knew that he was facing a man who would never stand upon his feet again. "oh, sir," said the sick man, "i'm dying, and i'm not saved. i know i'm not fit to go, and i don't know the way to git fit. i heard you talk on the gospel wagon and i've tried to find god by myself, but i don't seem to get any answer to my prayers. back in pennsylvania, at a meeting in our little country schoolhouse, i promised god i would live for him, but after we was married i came out west, and settled in this country where it was wild. maybe you know how it is. i learned to drink, and that has spoiled all my chances. since i've been sick here i've seen it all over again, and i want god to save me before i die. i know i've been awful wicked, but i heard you say god loved everybody; now i want you to pray for me." moore broke into tears as he thought of his awful sin, and he was weeping bitterly. the superintendent read the third chapter of john slowly and with emphasis, and told of the marvelous love of god that makes the way for the salvation of even the most unworthy. the man said he was ready to give up, but wanted first to confess his wickedness. the story of his life was one of toil and privation. he had learned to drink after he became a man and had a family. from that time on his descent was rapid. he made no attempt to shield himself, but laid bare before the superintendent and before his own family all the secrets of his sinful career. he left his home at dalton to escape arrest, and when times got hard in the city he feared to go back to his old home on account of the possible consequences of his sin. when he had finished, the superintendent pointed him to the one who alone could help him. the sick man said he would believe and trust god. that little gathering, with the prayers that followed, was an experience that morton will remember as one of the events of his life. the wife also expressed a desire to know the saviour, and both prayed for forgiveness. there was a joy there that seemed to fill the old shed with the glory of god. moore's eyes beamed with love, and the whole family seemed to rejoice in the peace that had come to him on his sick bed. then the superintendent sung a hymn, and little jimmie, standing close by his side, grasped his hand, and, looking up into his face, said, "if jesus will love me i'll love him and be his boy." morton took him to the grocery and market. when he left him on the corner, with a basket well filled with good things to eat, he said, "now, jimmie, i'll see you in the morning. you tell your ma and every one that jesus is your friend and sent you this basket." "i'll do it, yer bet; and i'll tank him for dis lot of stuff. gee! we'll eat till we bust!" chapter ii _"der gang"_ socially and terrestrially bucktown was situated beside a river. once a year, when the spring freshet caused the big grandee to overflow its banks, the whole tract was inundated. at such times most of the people were compelled to leave their homes and find temporary quarters elsewhere. along the market side of the district the ground was a trifle higher, and here a few houses were beyond the reach of the floods. one of these was the shack in which the moore family lived. other near-by sections of the city had been filled in to raise them above the level of the high water mark, but bucktown remained as it was in the beginning. its houses were the oldest in the city, and some of them in their day had been the residences of the best citizens. some were first erected where they now continued to stand; but many others had been moved to make room for the rapidly growing business district, and had been set down here because land was cheap and nowhere else would such worn-out, dilapidated structures find tenants. unlike the slums of larger and older cities, bucktown was largely peopled by men and women who, like its houses, had come from happier and more elegant surroundings. few of its older inhabitants were born in the slums, and among its people were to be found many whose careers in life were begun under really favorable circumstances; but, like driftwood, they had been crowded out of the busy stream of human effort into this pool of stagnant humanity. in this way the neighborhood had become the dumping ground for everything that was undesirable in a population of more than one hundred thousand souls. stall saloons and houses of ill-fame were numerous, and sin and wickedness stalked forth in open daylight with a boldness that knew no hindrance. one-third of the population was colored, and the whites were made up of almost every known nationality. no effort was made to draw the color line. negroes and whites lived in the same or adjoining houses, and in some families the husband was of one color and the wife of another. the second house from the moore home was the celebrated "dolly" resort, known everywhere as the most dangerous place of the kind in the city. it was luxuriously furnished and was famous for its pretty girls and its dances. in an old shanty back of moore's home lived "yellow liz," or "big liz," a monstrously hideous woman who had once been the wife of abe tobey, now doing a long term in state's prison for murderous assault. "big liz" had a wart as large as an acorn in the middle of her forehead and wooly red and black whiskers on her chin and lower jaw. she was recognized as one of the features of the neighborhood, and slumming parties from "uptown" never failed to visit her domicile. another house close by had been the home of tom beet, who murdered his wife by saturating her clothing with kerosene oil and setting fire to her body while she lay in a drunken stupor on the bedroom floor. there was no high-toned moral element in the slums. nobody made any pretense of being good. every man, woman and child in the community knew that he was a sinner and recognized the fact that other people knew it too. "oily ike" palmer, whose junk shop was the resort of thieves, and who acted in the capacity of a "fence" for all of them, together with dave beach, the horse trader and political boss of the ward, were the heroes of the community. "oily ike" was known to the police as a criminal, but although many offenses had been traced to his door, the evidence necessary to place him behind the bars was always lacking and he had never been convicted of a crime. he was also an opium eater and a drunkard, while it was said he had once held an honorable position in society. his vices had been the cause of his downfall, and at the time superintendent morton of the city rescue mission made his acquaintance he was a crafty, unscrupulous rascal, with the qualities of a beast of prey rather than those of a man. beach, the horse trader, sometimes called the "mayor of bucktown," was proprietor of a "traders'" barn, a once prosperous livery stable on brady street. his place was a "growler joint," and was frequented by all the toughs and criminals in the neighborhood. in his own way, dave was an autocrat of no mean power. when he o.k.'d a man, that man stood ace high; but when he said "jiggers," everybody shut up like a clam. beach was a bad man; but he had brains, and everybody paid court at his throne. it was said he could deliver the vote of bucktown intact at election time, and there could be no doubt of the effectiveness of his pull with the authorities. he could drink more whisky, and stay sober, than any man in the community. if any one could whip him in a rough and tumble fight, the fact had not been demonstrated; and no one seemed anxious to establish it. gene dibble, a good-natured, big-hearted fellow, worked in the north woods in the winter, but came to bucktown every spring to spend his money. he was a fine singer, and could dance the buck-and-wing, turkey-in-the-straw and the rag like few men. he was a favorite in bucktown, and a warm friend of dave beach. when it was noised about that moore had sent for the "mission guy," as morton was known in bucktown, most of the neighbors waited for beach to speak before they expressed any opinion. people had been sick and died before; but none had ever been so bold as to send for the mission man, and though they said nothing, some of moore's best friends thought he must be out of his head. the day following morton's visit to the sick man little jimmie stopped at dave's barn and told a crowd of fellows who were present what had happened. "der main squeeze of der rescue mission was down ter our house last night, and he tol' pa dat jesus loves us and will give us anyting we wants. de doc says pa is goin' ter die; but pa tol' de mission guy he believed and now he's saved. he ain't goin' ter drink no more booze er nuthin'. we all belongs ter jesus now, and he's goin' ter take care of us. yer kin as't him fer anyting yer wants, and if yer love him and confesses him you'll git it. dat's wat der mission guy tol' pa." although a favorite with the crowd that hung around the barn, jimmie's little speech provoked a derisive laugh, and, catching the boy by the coat collar, jewey martin, an ex-convict, started to fire him out of the door with the advice to "chase himself." before he had taken three steps dave beach had his great fist about jewey's throat and had shoved him back into a corner. "you let the kid alone. he's all right and knows what he's talking about. if you was more like that boy, mebbe you'd git to heaven sometime. you don't have to believe what he says if you don't want to, but you want to recollect what i tell you, that you better let him alone around here." some religious apologists might question the conversion of a boy of jimmie's make-up; but among the people of bucktown there was no doubt about his sincerity and his belief that jesus loved him and heard and answered his prayers. with dave beach back of him he did not hesitate to repeat his story, and it was not long before every one about the market place had heard the tale from his lips. as morton would not allow jimmie to thank him, but taught him that he must thank god for everything, he learned to call morton "jesus' storekeeper," and "jesus' hired man"; and he sang his praises from daylight until dark. in this way he helped morton to gain a foothold in the neighborhood, and when the people found that he wanted to help them rather than to pry into their affairs he was made welcome when he visited bucktown. jimmie had never learned to read; but one day he told morton he wanted a little red testament, such as the superintendent had given his father. "you jus' tell me some of dem verses like i heard yer read to pa an' gimme der book, an' i can make a bluff at readin' 'em anyhow." using colored inks, morton marked john 3:16, john 10:28, and other well-known texts. he also explained their meaning to the boy. "ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find," and "inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these," were jimmie's favorites, and although he quoted them in language all his own, he never failed to convey their full meaning. the days that followed moore's conversion were trying ones for the family. when the fever broke the sick man's cough grew worse, and he required constant attention. through the mission, mrs. moore found work enough to keep her busy six days in the week, and the task of caring for the sick man fell upon jimmie and mrs. cook, who proved to be a woman of generous impulses and an excellent neighbor. she ran in many times a day to see how they were getting along. jimmie had a morning newspaper route and in the afternoon sold papers on the street. at other times he stayed close at home and never tired of talking with his father about jesus and his love for wicked men and women. his childlike faith in god was wonderful. he was quick to learn and often surprised morton by his aptitude; but his chief characteristic was his almost phenomenal grasp of spiritual truths. he prayed to god for food, coal, wood and clothes; and when he had told jesus what he wanted he always counted it settled. mrs. morton, wife of the superintendent, was a frequent visitor at the home, and brought many things to make the bed more comfortable and the two rooms more cheerful for the sick man. no matter what the articles might be, jimmie always said, "jesus sent 'em." on one occasion, when the mission woman had gone, mrs. cook, who was present, turned to jimmie and said, "i sh'd think you'd thank her for all she's doin' for you folks. she's the best friend yer ever had, and i'll bet none of yer ever even said 'much erblidged.'" "we don't have ter tank her," said jimmie. "jesus is der one we're ter tank. everyting belongs ter him, and i'm his'n, too. when we needs anyting we jus' tells him an' he sends it." "well, she's the one who brought that flour this morning, fer i seen her come," said mrs. cook, "and none of you thanked her at all." "aw, yer go on," replied the boy. "yer don't know wot you're talkin' about. dis ain't no graft dat we's a-workin'. jesus is our friend an' he loves us; dat's why he takes care of us. he'd love yer, too, if you'd let him, but when yer takes him for your friend yer got to cut out dose cuss words an' de growler, too. dat's wat me an' pa has done, and we belongs to jesus now. 'twouldn't be de square ting by him for us ter tank anybody else, and we ain't afeard but wat he'll give us all we needs." as for moore, while he never doubted his salvation, there were times when he was despondent and gloomy. the memory of his misspent life and the consciousness that he had nearly reached the end lay heavily upon his mind, and, left alone as he was for hours at a time, with no one but jimmie and the other children in the house, he brooded upon his troubles until he grew very miserable. at such times it was interesting to hear jimmie hold up jesus and preach the gospel of love as his juvenile mind comprehended it. "pa, yer act jus' as though jesus didn't love yer," he said one afternoon, when the superintendent's wife was present. "he knows yer coughin' spells hurt yer, and he'll help yer to stan' 'em, 'cause he was hurted once hisself. ain't he takin' care of us, and didn't he send der mission guy ter help us? yer ain't got no right ter worry; just look how good he's been ter all of us." one morning when dr. snyder, who had been called in on the advice of the cook family, came to see the sick man, moore anxiously inquired if there was no chance of his recovery. while he was conceded to be an able man in his profession, the doctor, himself a drinking man, was sometimes rough and heartless in his manner, and, replying to the question, said: "well, if you've got any unfinished business on hand you better call a special session and close it up. you'll be pushing clouds within a week." "do you mean he's goin' ter die?" asked jimmie, whose quick ears had caught the remark. "that's just the plain english of it, my boy," replied the doctor. "the old man's a goner, and no doctor on earth can save him." "well, he'll go straight ter jesus," said jimmie, "'cause he got saved las' friday. gran'ma and gran'pa er up dar, and pa an' ma an' the rest of us is all a-goin'." "what's the matter with the kid, moore?" asked the doctor. "has he gone daffy?" "no, doc, the boy's all right. leastwise if he's daffy, as you call it, i wish to god we'd all got that way long ago. then we wouldn't be in the condition you find us to-day. say, doc, don't you ever expect to be a christian? if you were in my place you'd see what it means to face death without god." "gee, you're good!" said the physician. "the way you talked to gene dibble when i sewed up your head after the fight didn't sound much like a prayer to me. you want to get forgiven here before you ask god to do anything for you there. now, kid, you'd better forget about this religion and tend to the old man. give him his medicine every hour, and i'll be in again to-morrow. good-bye." he slammed the door, and jimmie sat for a moment in deep thought. then he turned to his father and said: "pa, gene'll forgive yer if yer ast him. i'll go over ter fagin's and if he ain't dere i'll tell mike ter send him over wen he comes in." "how's the old man, jimmie?" asked fagin as the boy entered the saloon. "doc says he's dyin'. is gene dibble here? wish't you'd tell him pa wants ter see him," said the boy as he turned to go. "wait a minute, jimmie; i want to send a little medicine to your father." he took a bottle from the back bar and began to wrap it up in a scrap of old newspaper. "this is about all the poor devil lived for," he said to himself, "and he ought to have a taste now that he's dyin'." "is dat booze?" asked jimmie. "it's just a nip for the old man. it's his favorite brand," said fagin. "not his'n; he's got saved an' don't need it in his business," replied the boy, starting for the door. "come here, you little fool, and take this bottle to your dad with my compliments," said the saloon-man in anger. "it's your compliments wat's ailin' him now," answered jimmie. "yer got his nine dollars last tuesday night, and now he's dyin'. i seen yer ralph goin' ter school wid new shoes and rubbers dis mornin', an' i'm wearin' yer compliments," said the boy, holding up one of his feet encased in a worn-out lady's shoe. "i promised pa dat i'd take care of ma an' der kids, and we don't need no booze ter help us, not us." jimmie ducked and dodged out of the door just in time to escape a soaking wet bar towel the saloon-man had thrown at him, and at a single bound jumped to the middle of the sidewalk just in time to collide with bill cook. "hello bill," he said. "why ain't yer workin'? drunk agin? gee! you'll be seein' 'em agin. der las' time yer was crazier den a bed bug." "you be d----!" said bill. "guess i'm all right. only had three drinks. you's is gittin' too good for this neck o' woods. yer orter move up on der boulevard amongst der bloods." "don't ma do washin' up dere now, smarty? we got friends up dere; see? why don't yer come over an' see pa? he's dyin'." "go on!" said bill. "ye don't mean it! kin i see him?" "sure, come on." bill staggered into fagin's and took two more big drinks and then followed jimmie across the street. he was badly intoxicated, but the sight of moore's pinched features and fever-lighted eyes nearly brought him to his sober senses. bill was rough and wicked; but his heart within was almost as tender as a babe's. drink was his worst trouble, and when he was sober he was rather a decent sort of fellow. his effort to appear at ease and say something encouraging to moore was painful. he stammered and hawed and finally said, "it's all off, bob; i can't make no speech. let 'er go t' 'ell." he pulled up the box, sat down at the bedside and began to cry. the sick man stretched forth his emaciated hand, and, placing it on bill's head, said: "never mind, old man, i know what yer mean. you're my friend all right; but you can't say nuthin' that will help me now. i guess i must cash in pretty soon; but i ain't no coward, bill; i've just been prayin' and everything is all right 'tween me and god. i don't know what'll become of the old woman and the kids, but i guess he'll take care of them. maybe they will be better off when i'm gone than when i'm here. i'll tell you, bill, booze don't get yer much when the doctor says you're up. i wish i'd cut 'er out the first time we saw the gospel wagon down on the square. the mission man was here just a little while ago, an' he says he will help jimmie take care of ma and the kids. he says jesus loves me, and when he prayed i put in too and says, 'i'm ready, lord.'" moore's effort to talk exhausted his strength and brought on a sinking spell. he gasped and coughed and grasped his throat as though he was strangling. bill thought he was dying, and grabbing his hat started for the door, telling jimmie to stay there while he brought the doctor. the scene had been too much for his shattered nerves, and, reaching the middle of the sidewalk, he stood and yelled at the top of his voice: "moore's dyin'! moore's dyin'! git the doctor and the undertaker and der mission man, quick! moore's dyin'! moore's dyin'!" chapter iii _"the busted funeral"_ the commotion that followed made dying a hard matter for moore. when the doctor and mrs. moore reached the house it took them ten minutes, with the help of dave beach, to clear the room of the people. when mr. and mrs. morton came, quiet had been restored on the inside, but on the street and at fagin's they were talking about the funeral expenses, etc., before they had a corpse. in this neighborhood a funeral was looked upon as something of a party or social function, not to be missed. every one turned out, never failing to dress for the occasion. mrs. rose, mrs. kinney and mrs. washington (colored) were easily in the lead when it came to professional mourners. as dave beach said one time, they "could cry real tears at a moment's notice, and keep it up as long as the water lasted and occasion demanded." when charlie slater was drowned in the slough they cried for three days with mrs. slater, never going home for meals. both they and their children put black crape on their arms and lived and cried with mrs. slater until charlie was found. mrs. rose kept the crape, and after a funeral would wash and iron it and put it in the "burer" drawer until some one else died. when she heard bill's cry, she came running with a piece tied on each arm and at least twenty pieces in her hand to supply the neighbors. that she considered her first and solemn duty. inside of five minutes after bill yelled and gave the alarm, every one of the regulars was decorated for action. bill went to fagin's and got three big drinks without money, on the strength of moore's death. he went into the back room, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. he was honest in his weeping, but he had too many drinks aboard and his snores soon told their own story. bill's cry of "moore's dyin'!" was soon turned to "moore's dead; bill says so." of course bill knew nothing of the disturbance he had created, and slept peacefully on in fagin's back room. in the meantime mrs. cook was trying to "square" bill with the neighbors. after the mistake was discovered every one blamed bill that moore was alive. bill and his wife would fight with each other almost daily. bill would swear that he had not tasted a drop when he was so drunk he could scarcely see. he contended that he was never drunk so long as he was sober enough to deny it. mrs. cook was possessed of an uncontrollable temper, and when she became angry--and she always did when bill lied to her--she would completely lose control of herself. as jimmie said one day: "gee, der old girl'll bounce irons er any old thing she can git her mitts on when she's sore. her nose and her chin comes together so fast when she talks dat she's got corns on both of 'em." she washed and worked until three or four o'clock in the morning to care for her children, and would do anything she could for any one, but when she got "sore," as jimmie said, every one gave her the right of way. "she calls bill every name on der calendar, but when it comes ter any one else saying a word about him, she won't stand fer it." "if bill said that bob moore's dead, he's dead, er soon will be," she said. "he knows a dead one when he sees it. it's a sure thing anyhow, and what difference does an hour or two make? the doctor says he's done fer anyhow." as mr. morton left the house after moore's death, he led jimmie by the hand. the little fellow had made some big promises for one so small and frail, but he said god could and would help him. he knew that he could do no more window work for jewey and his gang, neither could he work the depot crowds on sunday excursion trains with fred hood. as he passed mrs. cook he simply said, "he's dead." before leaving the house morton had promised mrs. moore to help her hold her family together and not allow them to be sent to the children's home. perhaps the promise was not a wise one, but it is hard to refuse a mother such a request in the presence of her dead husband. to raise girls in bucktown and have them turn out right would be the eighth wonder of the world. the children's home would be much the best place for them; but the mother heart revolts at separation. "we must pray for money to pay your father's funeral expenses, jimmie," said morton. not knowing whence any of it was coming, but believing that he would provide, they went to the undertaker and made arrangements for the funeral. the next day being sunday, morton spoke in one of the big down-town churches, and at the close of his talk on "city missions" he stated to that fashionable audience just what was needed in the moore household. after the meeting enough money was placed in his hand to pay for one-half of the entire expense. the next day was a busy one at the mission. to get clothes for all the children and to keep them clean enough to go to the funeral at two o'clock was no easy matter. the clothes room in the city rescue mission is a room where old clothes sent in by well-to-do people are kept for the poor, and hundreds of the less fortunate are cared for every year. three nurses from the hospital helped mrs. morton with the work. with a tub of hot water, ivory soap and sapolio the scrubbing started. they polished their faces until jimmie said, "they shine like a nigger's heel." the dressing was the hard part. a blue skirt to fit the oldest girl could only be matched in size by a bright green waist, and by her own choice a red ribbon for a belt, with yellow ribbons for her stiff "pig-tails." mrs. cook said "she looked like the pattern in a false-face factory." cast-off shoes were secured for all but jimmie, and mr. morton was compelled to take him to a shoe store and buy him his first pair of new shoes. he had always worn shoes that some one else had discarded. he could not keep his eyes off them as he walked along the street. his warm underclothing and suit from some rich boy's wardrobe, with new shoes, all in one day, was more than he could stand. he was spotted by one of his friends who was yelling, "extra press; read all about it!" mr. morton and jimmie came along and to them he said, "paper, mister?" jimmie raised his eyes from his shoes long enough to say, "hello, swipsey! how'd yer like 'em?" "where'd yer git 'em?" asked swipsey. "git 'em? i got 'em, ain't i? how'd yer like 'em?" "dead swell. do i git yer old ones?" "ain't got no old ones; i give 'em ter the shoe store man. we got a funeral at our house ter-day. me pa's died." as morton and a quartet reached the house with the children a wonderful gathering was there to greet them. the old bed had been taken down; the casket had been placed between the two windows. folding chairs, furnished by the undertaker, were placed in rows before the casket. they were nearly filled by the friends and mourners. bill cook sat close by the door, so that he might be free to spit without getting up. "big liz" sat next to him, smoking her pipe, but at the sight of morton she put it under her old apron. several of the girls from the dolly resort were there to pay their respects. all the neighbors were there, either in person or by proxy. as the quartet started to sing the old song, "jesus, lover of my soul," every one seemed to take it as a signal to cry. no one seemed to know why they cried; but all did their part in making the funeral a "howling success," as mrs. rose said. before the song was ended "big liz" was weeping louder than all the four singers could sing. morton knew that he must have a brief service, and after a short prayer and scripture reading he spoke words of comfort to the family and told of moore's wonderful conversion. as he pictured the glories of heaven that await the redeemed and contrasted them with the awful condition of the unrepentant in sin and hell, every one trembled. morton was very anxious to bring the people to a decision, and felt that the time had come for a final invitation. bill cook's eyes were fastened on morton and, as he spoke of hell and judgment, he was sure it was all intended for him. "big liz" had forgotten the pipe in her lap. it had fallen over and the contents had set her dress on fire. the smell of smoke caused by the burning of cotton, wool, and dirt together did not make a pleasing accompaniment for morton's words. when the smell reached bill, he leaped into the middle of the room and shouted, "hell's here now!" just at that moment "big liz" felt the heat from the fire, and she jumped to bill's side and said, "yer right, honey, and i'm sure in it." morton saw what was causing the trouble, and with the help of the undertaker succeeded in getting liz out upon the street. he called bill and told him to help her put out the fire. bill was very much excited, and he took liz by the hand and started for the big watering trough at the corner of the market. when he reached it he pushed her into the water backward. "that busted up der funeral," as jimmie said. such screaming had never been heard in bucktown. when she at last managed to get out of the icy water she started for bill, determined to kill him. dave beach headed him away from moore's funeral and gave morton a chance to close with a feeble prayer. the chance that he had prayed for so long, to reach the people of bucktown with the gospel, had come and he had lost. he was heart-broken and felt the disappointment keenly. jimmie was quick to see it and, as the people viewed the remains, he slipped up to morton, and, pressing his hand, said, "don't yer care, we'll git 'em all yet." chapter iv _jimmie's new pa_ jasper, the reporter on the press, knew a good story when he had found one. a quiet visit to the moore domicile the next afternoon, a brief call at bill cook's, and a few liberal potations at fagin's, were responsible for the write-up which appeared in the evening press. the pathetic story of sickness, death and privation appealed in a powerful manner to the community. many well-meaning people flooded the place with provisions and a miscellaneous assortment of wearing apparel, running from silk dresses and opera cloaks to cotton jumpers and soleless patent leathers. as is the case generally, this kind of charity did much more harm than good. for a week they had provision enough to feed every man, woman and child in bucktown. mrs. moore thought it would always be so. she gave up her work and said "she would do nothin' fer nobody." five days after the funeral jimmie rushed into morton's office at the mission and said, "say, i got er new pa at my house." "a new what?" asked morton in surprise. "a new pa," said jimmie. "me ma says that charlie hathnit would be me pa from now on; he's been livin' with us fer two days now." morton was dumfounded. he sat looking at jimmie a moment; then he said, "jimmie, this is all wrong. god cannot bless your home with that man there." morton, reaching out, drew jimmie to his side and continued, "you promised your father you would run the house and help your mother to care for the family." the diminutive figure of jimmie suddenly straightened and seemed to increase an inch in height as he answered, looking morton straight in the eyes, "so i did, and i meant it, too." then said morton, "you must not allow that loafer there at all." a moment later jimmie was at the door. "where are you going?" inquired morton. "i'm going home ter clean house," said jimmie, as he dashed down brady street. as he entered the house a few minutes later he was not the little jimmie of an hour before. almost unconsciously there had been born within him a stern resolve to right wrong; an invisible line had been passed; dependent childhood seemed to fade away and in its place came manhood; he stood there another recruit to the great army of child heroes, the great army of those who are forced to face the stern realities of life. as he looked up into his mother's face the little tempest which had gathered within him for a moment was calmed; he caught her hand in both of his, pressing it against his cheek, an old habit of his when he had sought to comfort his mother or to express some emotion when lips would fail. "what the h--l ails the kid?" snarled hathnit. jimmie, realizing that there was stern business at hand, and ashamed of his momentary emotion, replied: "jus' dis: i got somethin' ter ast yer; what are yer doin' in our house anyhow?" "hush, jimmie," interposed mrs. moore. "yer mind yer business." "that's jus' what i'm doin', ma. i seen morton, an' he says it's all wrong fer yer ter keep this piker here, and yer know i promised pa der night jesus took him up dare----" a curse followed from hathnit which was so awful that it would have shaken anything but jimmie's determination. "go an' tell dis bible-banging morton to keep his d---advice to himself. i'm a peaceable man, but if i mix with this mission galoot he'll cut out givin' his advice to you kids. as fer you, you better duck till you git this nonsense out of yer head." hathnit strolled to the door and opened it, and jimmie was compelled for the time being to leave the house. "it's no more than i expected," said mrs. cook to jimmie as he related the events of the morning. "when i heard hathnit was a-livin' ter yer house, i jus' told bill that no good would come from it. poor jimmie, you jus' wait till i git these here clothes out of this here bluing water; i'll go over wid yer to see what can be did." soon the last towel was through the wringer, and mrs. cook, hastily drying her hands on her apron, accompanied jimmie to his home. the conference that ensued was not productive of any good. hathnit was a man devoid of all manly principles, lazy to the limit, ill-bred, ill-kept, illiterate, but still possessing one noticeable characteristic--a keenness which cannot be overlooked in men of his ilk. mrs. cook came to the point at once. "mis moore," she said, "yer boy jim tells me you've took hathnit here for yer man." "right yer be," replied hathnit. "yer needn't guess again." "but yer ain't married yet," said mrs. cook. "well, yer see it's dis way," proceeded hathnit. "she said she wanted me and i said i wanted her, so that's ernough. it used ter be the style ter go before the justice with your dollar and a quarter paper and git tied, but that's a dead one now." "well, where's mollie? she's yer wife, ain't she?" asked mrs. cook. "naw, tom ellen's got her now; he took her while i was doing a two-year contract fer the state." "but it's wrong," burst out jimmie. "mr. morton says so." "to h--l with morton!" said hathnit. "now look here, the high-tone guys do that right along, only they spends their good money fer lawyer's licenses and divorce cases. i found this mornin's herald at the depot, and it says there was six marriage licenses and eight divorces granted in this town yisterday. fer every five marriages in dis whole state last year there was one divorce. der people gits married ter-day with the understanding that if they don't like each other they can get a divorce. if that's all marriage amounts to--and it is--i think a man's a blooming sucker ter blow his good money to der lawyers. in dis town a dozen lawyers lives on divorce money alone. society, so-called, says it's right, and when they gits up deir dancin' parties they have ter git an expert to keep from invitin' hubbie number one, two and three at the same time. if the bloods kin have two or three wives by payin' some cheap lawyer their good dough, i can have two or three an' save my money fer weddin' celebrations. the women all over the country went wild about smoot and polly gamy." "yer means pollie gainey, that lived over fagin's last year, don't yer?" asked mrs. cook. "naw, i means jus' what i said; polly gamy means yer can have all kinds of wives," said hathnit. "now, ter my way of thinkin', smoot has as much right ter his wives as these women has ter their husbands. if he would send his money ter some cheap lawyer he'd be o.k. ter their way of thinkin'. smoot takes care of his kids, anyhow, but these society guys sends theirs ter the children's home fer the city ter care fer. there's sixty-six kids there now, and fifty-two of them are from divorced families. dis morton that yer crackin' up ter me is kickin' about us livin' tergether without marryin'. he says it's wrong; why don't he say somethin' ter the church members? that big guy, where bob evans is coachman, got a divorce from his missus and gave her the home ter live in. he built a new house on der next block and took another woman, and she took another man. bob says that ralph, the kid, calls one papa and the other daddie. they all goes ter the same church sunday mornin' and nothin's said. why? 'cause they pay der lawyer. if they're all right, i'm all right; the church stands fer it, the law stands fer it, and society stands fer it. that cheap mission guy with his old bible don't cut much ice against that bunch. "i know the bible says it's wrong ter put away yer wife an' take another, but no one believes that old book nowadays. why, i heard one of dem preachers from a dominie shop in chicago say, when he was preaching down at the bull pen, dat the bible wasn't der word of god at all, and he oughter know 'cause they got der very latest th'ology out. they discover things over there in chicago. if the kid here don't like der way thin's is doin' he kin duck. i'm runnin' dis house now. tell bill ter come over ter der celebration, mrs. cook. so long." with this he fished a cigar stub out of his pocket, bit off a portion of it, expectorated freely into the stove hearth, and turning his back to them walked into the front room. mrs. moore was about to follow him, when jimmie plucked at her dress. when she turned around and their eyes met, the mother love had vanished. "ma," he said, his voice faltering, "which one goes, me or that?" pointing to the door where hathnit had disappeared. she turned and disengaged his hand, replying, "ask him, jimmie; he's runnin' the place now." jimmie went out into the world with a heavy heart. he did not mind the fact that he had no home so much as he did that his mother was doing wrong. "i guess i can't keep der promise i made pa when he died; but i believe he knows that i'm doin' der best i kin." chapter v _mrs. cook's "opery"_ bill cook continued to drink day and night until it was plain to all that he would have another one of his "spells," as his wife always called an attack of delirium tremens. there was no hope for bill when he once got started. he never stopped until he was arrested or went into the tremens. he could not borrow a five-cent piece, but could always get all the liquor he wanted. it is a fact well known to all drinking men that men will buy them fifty cents' worth of drink rather than give them five cents in money. if they wanted the money for bread for the children they could not get it; but drinks go any time. dave beach had found bill in the street, and taken him to his barn to sleep off a little of his "jag," as dave said. dave and mrs. cook never agreed as to the cause of bill's trouble, so dave was very careful not to get near her when bill was coming down with one of his "spells." "he was shot in the army and has bad spells. 'tain't drinkin' at all 'at ails bill; he's sick," she would say. dave found it was better to let her have her way about it; so he put bill into a box stall, until he could send him home with jimmie. every one in the neighborhood knew that jimmie could be trusted. he was never known to tell a thing he should not, and had a way of knowing nothing when some one was looking for information. mrs. cook knew that he had left home and was staying in dave's barn at night and eating anywhere and anything he could get. when bill failed to come home, she called jimmie into the house as he came from up-town. "had yer supper, jim?" she asked. "yep, i'm eatin' up-town now," answered jim. "better have a cup o' tea," she said as jimmie closed the door. he had lived that day on three dry buns and a drop cookie, and tea, warm tea, sounded good to him. he pulled off his cap and jammed it into his coat pocket as he sat down at the table. "jim, i was yer friend when yer was in trouble, now i want yer to help me. bill's been gone all day and i'm scart fer him. dr. snyder told me that the next time he had a "spell" he'd die. no better man ever lived than bill cook, and i've been thinkin' ter-day 'at somethin's got ter be did. last night he cried out in his sleep, jus' like he did las' time he had 'em, and at three o'clock this morning he got up an' left the house. i ain't seen nothin' of him since; the younguns think he's workin', and i don't want 'em ter know no different. bill loves his younguns, and they think there's no one like their pa. there never was a kinder man than bill cook; no siree, not a kinder man nowheres. he's been gittin' worser an' worser since yer pa's funeral, an' honest, jim, i'm scart." "well," said jimmie, as he finished his third cup of tea, "i know jus' what he needs, but you'll have ter help." "i'll do anyting yer say, jim," said mrs. cook. "say, 'hope ter die,' and cross yer heart," said jimmie. "i'll do it, yer bet." "all right," said jimmie. "der first thing i want yer ter do is ter go ter der mission wid me ter-night." "me? i can't go, jim; i ain't got no clothes ter go there; 'sides, it's bill yer want ter help an' not me," she said. "yer promised me," said jimmie, "an' yer mustn't ast no questions. yer get yer duds on an' i'll be back fer yer in five minutes." jimmie went over to dave's barn, told him what was on and dave promised to get bill into the house while they were gone. mrs. cook took the children over to hardy's to play while she made a "call." when jimmie returned to the house for mrs. cook, she was all ready to go. "gee, where yer git der lid?" said jimmie. "never you mind, sonny; that hat's some more of yer business." as jimmie stood and looked her over, he almost wished he had not suggested the trip. her hat was an old straw derby with two chicken feathers stuck in it. she had put an old wine-colored skirt over her blue wrapper. "i'm ready," she said, "but yer mustn't sit up front." "yer needn't worry," answered jimmie as he looked once more at her hat. she was very nervous at first; but after she discovered that no one was looking at her she soon felt at ease. the singing seemed to carry her out of herself. she forgot her trouble and settled down into the chair to enjoy the very best hour she had had in years. "it's better 'n a opery," she whispered to jimmie. no place in the world do people sing as they do in a rescue mission. every one sings there, and the one who can make the most noise is considered the best singer. each one tries to outdo his neighbor. they sing the old gospel songs with a vim and never seem to tire of them. the sermon that followed the singing was listened to by mrs. cook; but the testimonies almost drove her to say things. she hardly breathed as one after another got up and told what jesus had done for them. "i believe my soul, that's lousy kate," she whispered to jimmie when one woman arose and told how god had found her at a jail meeting. "sure 'nough, it's her; i knew her when she did that very thing," she said as she followed her in her testimony. "why, that woman was so crooked she couldn't lay down in a round-house." when superintendent morton gave an invitation for all who wished the prayers of the christians to come forward, she started for the door. when she had reached it she turned and watched the people as they went forward. she watched one poor drunken man as some of the workers helped him up the aisle. big tears were in her eyes when she turned to jimmie. "if that man kin be saved, drunk as he is, there's hope fer bill, 'cause bill's no drunkard, he's sick." "there's hope fer you, too," said jimmie, when they had reached the sidewalk. "me!" she almost shouted. "i ain't no drunkard, ner i never killed anybody, and 'sides, it's bill yer want ter help, not me." "the bible says yer a sinner an' yer need fixin' jus' as bad as bill," said jimmie. he knew he was on dangerous ground, but he was determined to push the case as far as he dared. without giving her a chance to answer, he continued, "jesus says we're all sinners, an' whosever kin be saved, and that means you." "i ain't no whoserever, i'm german, and my name's annabella cook, and i don't want you nor none of yer friends ter fergit it, sonny." jimmie was stumped for a minute. he had asked morton what to say, but he could not remember the scripture, so he simply said, "yer swear, and yer drink, and yer don't pray, and if that ain't sin i don't want a cent. if yer was to die ter-night, you'd want somethin' more than 'em cuss words ter take ter jesus. yer freddie is in heaven and me pa is there, and yer got too much sense ter miss seein' 'em over there, and 'sides that yer can't never help bill till yer helped first." jimmie had touched a tender chord in mrs. cook, and he knew it. she loved her family, and bill was the apple of her eye. she did not get angry, as jimmie had feared, but walked along in silence, thinking of what she had heard and how jimmie had brought it all home to her very door. at last she said, as though speaking to herself, "yes, i do swear when i git mad, but i don't mean it ten minutes after. no, i guess i ain't ready ter die, but, oh, jimmie, what made yer mention freddie? it near kills me." and she began to cry. freddie had died a few months ago of membranous croup, and his death had caused a great sorrow in the cook family. jimmie slipped his hand into hers, and said, "i'm sorry; but i'm so bloomin' anxious ter see yer both christians, 'cause yer so good ter me. i guess i'll never have no more ma but you. say, how'd yer like der meetin'?" "it's jus' fine," said mrs. cook, glad to change the subject. "i'm goin' agin ter-morrow night." bill was all tucked away in bed when mrs. cook got home. dave had put him to bed. the doctor had given him a powder to quiet him. after the children were asleep mrs. cook sat alone thinking of the night's happenings. the market clock struck twelve before she came to herself and thought of going to bed. "o god, i can't see it; i can't see it," she cried; "but i want ter. i can't see it; i can't see it that way; but i want ter." "i've seen 'nough fer both of us," said bill, as he bolted upright in bed. "there's one under my pillow now wid a thousand legs!" chapter vi _mrs. cook's first prayer_ early the next morning jimmie was at the morton home. after a long talk and much prayer he started for bucktown, armed with that sword of the spirit, the word of god. he had some more verses marked in his testament, and after morton had quoted them many times he felt sure that he could handle them. mrs. cook had confused him the night before so that he could not answer her; but he was sure of his ground after his talk with morton. "i wish i could read 'em myself," he said to morton sadly. "der yer tink i kin ever learn?" "yes, jimmie, i know you can if you will study. you have five hours that you are not busy with your papers; you can use that time to learn to read. i think that mrs. price, a worker in the mission, will be glad to help you. she used to teach school before her marriage. i will ask her to-day and if she consents to take you as a pupil you must study hard." "i will, yer bet." and so jimmie went on his way. as he quietly pushed open the door of the cook home, he heard mrs. cook talking with three of her neighbors on the back porch. "where do you suppose i was las' night, mrs. fagin?" she was saying. jimmie listened with keen interest for her account of the mission service. he knew that bill would never get right until she did. "how do you s'pose i know?" answered mrs. fagin. "where was you?" "i was to der mission with jimmie moore," she said, "and it's the best time i've had since the balloon extension on the market, six years ago." "i'd like ter know how yer can have a good time in church," said mrs. fagin. "'tain't no church, it's a mission, and they have jus' as good singin' as dey do in uncle tom's cabin, and 'sides, it's a good deal like dat play, too, 'cause yer laff jus' as hard as yer kin one minute and the next minute yer cry like eva was a-dyin'. yer couldn't guess in a thousand years who i saw there. i saw lousy kate, that you used ter live next door to, and that hatfield that yer thought was such a dood. yer oughter hear what he said--yer know every one speaks in der mission meetin's. he ain't no dummy, that man ain't. he's been an awful drunkard, and when morton found him he was that fur gone that his wife had ter leave him an' go an' live wid her ma. he said he got saved, an' now they're happy, and he works in der wholesale house and----" "who saved him? morton?" asked mrs. fagin in disgust. "no, he said it was all jesus and no morton about it; that's what jimmie says erbout morton, too. i guess he don't amount to much nohow. he says he can't help no one, but can tell them of one who can. i thought i'd split when hatfield said he was so low down he had to reach up ter touch bottom. every one laffed like all git-out; but when his woman got up and said it was all true, and that her and her baby come near starvin', every one 'round me cried, and i cried, too. i tell yer, i'd know how ter sympathy with her; only bill ain't no drunkard, he's sick." "what's kate doin' there?" asked mrs. fagin. "she's saved, too. she got saved in jail. now she's livin' straight an' goes ter meetin' every night. she looks so good, you'd hardly know her, looks ten years younger; but the biggest surprise of all is morton. yer know dave beach said that he know'd more 'an he looked, and i allowed he'd orter. but say, he's been through der mill and knows der ropes like an' old rounder. he said his mother teached him ter pray and be a good boy, but he got ter boozin' and soon went ter pieces. he got in trouble and fer years lived among thieves and drunkards and knows 'em like a book. he's seen 'em killed and go down in nearly every old way, but never knew any of 'em ter git anywhere until dey git jesus. he couldn't git no work 'cause he wa'n't honest and couldn't stay sober, so he'd jus' clean up saloons fer his toddy, like fred hanks der barber is doin' now. i wish morton could git fred. one time he got a plant an' left fer chicago; then he went into a mission like his'n is now and got saved. you'd never think he ever did worser than pull his sister's hair, to look at him now; but he knows what's what, and that's why he was after moore and all the rest of us, i guess. he says jus' what jimmie says, that jesus loves us all and wants us all. there, 'tis eleven o'clock and i've got ter give bill his medicine. say, i'm goin' agin ter-night. go 'long with me?" "fagin would go wild if he knew i'd go there; but i'd like ter see it once," said mrs. fagin. for seven nights mrs. cook and jimmie went to the mission. on the seventh night she rose to her feet and was the first one to go forward to the altar. after prayer she stood up and said she would serve god the best she knew how, and wanted every one to pray for bill, her husband. every one shook hands with her and she forgot that it was getting late. she visited with all the ladies, one after the other. jimmie had found morton at the platform and slipped his hand into morton's. as their eyes met, both seemed ready to weep for joy. "the ice is broken, jimmie. and we must not give up until the whole bucktown gang are in the kingdom of god. bill comes next, and you had better get mrs. cook home, as it is late. you may hurt your case with bill if you get him angry." at last jimmie got her started, and when they reached the house bill was nearly wild with rage. he was very nervous and needed something to quiet him. "where in h---have you bin?" he shrieked at the top of his voice. "i want a drink and i want it d---quick." "no doubt, sonny, yer do," said his wife, "and you'll want it quicker 'an that 'fore yer git it. now shut yer mouth until i'm done," she went on. "i been to der mission ter-night and i give my heart ter god, an' no more booze comes inter my house, no more, not mine. if yer tongue was hangin' out as long as a clothes line i'd tie it in knots and throw it under der bed 'fore i'd give yer a drop. all der people at der mission are prayin' fer yer, and jim is goin' ter der drug store fer somfin' fer yer nerves and ter make yer sleep, and if yer able ter-morrer yer goin' ter der mission an' git saved too. and oh, bill! we'll git a carpet fer our front room when yer gits yer pension, and you'll git a new suit of clothes and we'll git a monument fer freddie's grave, and oh, bill! we'll go ter be with jesus and freddie some day in heaven." she stooped down and took bill's bloated cheeks between her hands and kissed him again and again. "i guess dis is where i lose out," said jimmie. "i'll go ter der drug store and by that time maybe dey'll have deir love feast finished. gee, when old bill gits any booze ter-night, he don't!" jimmie spent his last five pennies for a powder for bill, and went on tip-toe back to cook's house. as he opened the door he heard mrs. cook praying. she was kneeling by bill's bed, and this is the prayer jimmie heard: "o lord, keep bill from wantin' booze ter-night, and if he gits gay call him down fer jesus' sake. amen." chapter vii _floe_ jimmie was very happy as he gave bill and mrs. cook "good-night." "don't yer worry erbout nothin'," he said to mrs. cook. "yer got jesus ter help yer, an' he'll take care of yer all. i'll see yer in der mornin'. so long." he started for dave's barn, where he "roomed." his nerves were all unstrung, he was much too excited to go to bed. he sat down upon the curb in front of the barn and went over the whole evening in his mind. the best he knew how, he prayed and thanked god for answering his prayer. as he sat with his head in his hands, he heard a piercing scream which came from the direction of the dolly resort. there was nothing unusual about a scream in bucktown any time of the day or night; but jimmie jumped to his feet and started on a run to the direction from which it came. "dat sounded like floe's voice," he said to himself. "i hope she ain't hurted." floe had been very kind to jimmie, many times giving him something to eat, and she had given him the pair of shoes he was wearing when morton first saw him. she always put herself out to speak to him, and when he was "stuck" with his evening papers she would persuade the other inmates of the house to help him out by buying them. let it be understood now that jimmie's ideals of morality were based entirely upon the bucktown standard. floe was the best dressed woman in bucktown; she lived in the best house in bucktown; she was the handsomest woman in bucktown; and these facts, to jimmie's child mind, put floe and the dolly resort far in the lead of anything in bucktown. he knew nothing of their business, and the question of their being wrong had never entered his head. had any one asked jimmie a question about the character of this black-eyed woman, his answer would have been, "she's an angel, sure." the little girls in the neighborhood would say, "when i git big i'm goin' ter have clothes like them girls, an' go ridin' in hacks with white horses. gee, won't i shine!" the highest ideals of womanhood to these little girls were the women of the dolly resort. is it any wonder that jimmie was interested when he heard floe scream? when he reached the house he saw her lying at the foot of the stairs; he rushed to her side as others were trying to get her upon her feet. they put her upon a couch and sent for a doctor. "did yer fall downstairs?" asked jimmie. "oh, jimmie, what are you doing in this awful place?" she said. "this is worse than hell itself; do go out, child; i can't stand to see your pure face in a place like this." "if it ain't er good place fer me, it ain't fer you, floe. yer better 'n i am, er ever could be. are yer hurted much?" just then doctor snyder came in, and after a brief examination said he found a broken arm and three broken ribs. floe would not tell how she happened to fall; but several who saw it said that a girl by the name of maud, in a fit of jealousy, had pushed her downstairs. "hello, kid! what are you doing here?" said doctor snyder to jimmie. "you should be in bed at this time of night. how's bill cook getting on?" "bill's better," said jimmie, "an' mrs. cook got converted at der mission ter-night, and she's happy all over. when i left there she was prayin' at bill's bed and he was cryin'. i'll bet he gits saved next." "you better go home and go to bed, jimmie; you're excited to-night. you'll feel better in the morning," said the doctor, with a knowing wink at the people standing around. "we must get this girl to her room now." "can i come ter see yer to-morrow, floe?" asked jimmie. "if the doctor will let you come; but i don't like to have you come into this awful house." "i'll be here jus' the same; i'm goin' ter ast jesus ter help yer," he whispered to her, and slipped quietly out into the street and started for the barn. when he reached there, dave sat in his old office chair smoking and trying to look unconcerned; but it was plain to jimmie that he had something on his mind besides his hat. "where have you been so late?" he said to jimmie. "sit down and tell me about it." "mrs. cook got saved ter-night and bill's comin' next, i'll bet," said jimmie in one breath. "yer see, we's prayin' fer him at der mission, an' he's got ter come. say, dave, floe jus' got hurted, an' i went ter see her when i heard her holler, an' she said she didn't like ter see me in such a bad house. is that nice house bad, an' what's floe doin' dere if it is?" "well, the house is anything but good, jimmie, and i wish floe lived somewhere else. if you can go to see her i wish you would talk to her just like you did to mrs. cook. tell her about, well, tell her about yer friend, you know." "who do yer mean? morton?" asked jimmie. "no, i mean the friend you say morton works for." "oh, yer means jesus," said jimmie. "yes, that's who i mean; she has heard of him before, and maybe you can do her good. the poor girl has had lots of trouble and has lost heart in life. tell her that--that je--er--that yer friend loves her and will fergive her all her past and--well, you can tell it better than i can." "i'll do it, yer bet," said jimmie, "'cause jesus loves every one of us, don't he, dave?" "most every one, but not all of us," said dave. jimmie made a dive for his testament and turned to john 3:16; the page was so dirty and soiled from handling that it could scarcely be seen. "der yer see that word marked wid red ink?" asked jimmie. "yes, i see it." "well, what is she?" "it's 'whosoever.'" "well, who does that mean?" "i guess it means just what it says; but you see, with me it is different. i was raised to do right; my father was a methodist minister, and he taught me to pray and read the bible when i was a child. i knew what was right, but with my eyes wide open i went into the most awful sin, and god can never forgive one who sins against the light." "say, read der whole verse," said jimmie. "i know it without reading it; i learned it at my mother's knee before i could talk plain." "well, git busy and say it then." "god so loved the world----" "loved der what?" asked jimmie. "the world," said dave. "go on," as dave hesitated. "that he gave his only begotten son----" "dat's jesus, ain't it?" "yes, that is who it means." "go on," said jimmie. "god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever----" "who?" asked jimmie. "whosoever," said dave. "don't that mean you?" asked jimmie. "i'm afraid not," said dave. "den dis is der way ter read it," said jimmie, "'dat whosoever, 'cept dave beach, kin have everlastin' life.' not on your fottygraff; it ain't writ dat way." "well, in another place it says that if you know to do right and do it not it's sin," said dave. "and dat makes yer a sinner, don't it?" said jimmie. "yes, it does, and a bad one, too," said dave. jimmie put his thumb into his mouth to wet it and turned leaf after leaf. at last he said, "read dat." dave took the book and looked hard and long in silence. "read her," said jimmie. dave read very slowly: "this is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptation, that christ jesus came into the world to save sinners." "save what?" asked jimmie. "sinners," said dave. "are yer a sinner, dave?" "yes, i am a bad one." "worser dan dis guy? read der rest of 'er." "of whom i am chief," david read. "all right," said jimmie, "if he kin save der chief of sinners, can't he save dave beach?" before he could answer, jewey, oily ike and fred hood came in. "send the kid home," said jewey. "he's at home now," said dave; "he sleeps here. you can do all the business you have with me in a minute er two. i'm tired of this crooked business; and for my part, i'm going to cut it out. whatever your haul is to-night you can keep it or let ike there handle it; i'm done. "no, don't get leery; i won't turn you. but i don't want no more of it here." "you'll be havin' sunday school here every day if that kid hangs around much longer," said jewey. "well, he'll be here just as long as he wants to," said dave. "it's two o'clock, jimmie; you had better turn in and i'll call you at three-thirty. good-night." jimmie lay down upon a horse blanket without taking off his shoes or clothes and was soon fast asleep. his day had been a long one and he was very tired, but happy. after dave's callers had gone, he stood looking down into jimmie's tired face. "poor little jimmie," he said, "if i knew your paper route, i'd carry it myself rather than wake you up this morning. there's no use talking, that kid don't get enough to eat. i saw him give his little sister his supper money last night, and i know he went to sleep hungry; i never saw his beat. he preaches to every one in his sweet child way and he makes me feel as though i was the biggest devil on earth. by thunder, it breaks me all up." dave was talking to himself, or thinking out loud. he was very much moved by jimmie's life and words; he pulled his old office chair beside jimmie's pallet and began to weep. big, strong dave had broken down and was once more a boy. he was ashamed of his tears and tried to brace up and stop them; but when he would look at jimmie's little pinched face on the old horse blanket, the tears would start afresh and creep through his dirty fingers and fall to the floor in spite of all he could do. dave beach was a strong, big fellow; he had drunk and fought his way through the world and for many years had suppressed his emotional nature. tears to him were a sign of weakness and he would rather have lost his barn and horses by fire than that any one should see him cry. he jumped to his feet and started to pace up and down the office. "d---fool that i am! i'm bawling worse than a yearling heifer. it's time to call jimmie and he must not see me this way." he went to the hydrant out in the barn and washed and pulled himself together as best he could, and then went back to call jimmie. "it's time to get up, jimmie," he said as he kicked the bottom of the boy's foot. jimmie rose and rubbed his eyes, but was so tired and sleepy he fell back again upon the blankets. "come, my boy, i want you to go to the lunch counter with me and have a cup of coffee." he reached down and picked the boy up bodily and held him in his great, strong arms a moment, but had to drop him for safety; he would be weeping again if he did not get busy at something else. "go out and wash your face, jim, and you'll feel better." the cold water did its work. "guess i's hard to wake up, wasn't i, dave?" said jimmie, as he wiped his face on the lining of his cap--a trick of the newsboys. "you're all right, jimmie; but you need more sleep. after you get your papers carried, come back and go up into the haymow and sleep all morning." "i can't do 'er, dave. i got ter see bill and call on floe and take me first lesson from mrs. price and go ter morton's house, all dis mornin'." "well, come, we'll go over and get something to eat," said dave. "i don't feel very hungry," said jimmie, "and i guess i won't go over jus' now. i'll git somfin later." dave knew what the trouble was and took jimmie by the hand and started for the all-night lunch counter. "you're going to eat with me this time, jimmie; i have enough money for both of us. no, you'll never pay me a cent of it back. just a little treat, you know." jimmie never wanted something for nothing, but he grew so hungry as he thought of the good things at the counter that he could not say no. dave ordered their meal, and when it came upon the table jimmie's big gray eyes stuck out. "is dis all fer us, dave? der meat, an' eggs, an' taters, too, an' coffee 'sides! gee! it must of cost a quarter, didn't it, dave?" as he grabbed his knife and fork to start his meal, he looked up at dave with such love in his eyes that dave lost his appetite for food and wanted to finish the "bawl" he had started in the barn. "go on and eat, jimmie. you'll be late for your papers," he said. "i mus' pray 'fore i eat, dave," he said as he jammed his cap into his coat pocket. "now, jesus, i'm glad yer give us all this here good stuff ter eat. it's more'n we got comin'; but yer always givin' us more'n we could ast er tink. dave's a good man fer payin' fer it, and he's feedin' you when he's feedin' me, 'cause i'm your'n. make dave gooder and gooder fer jesus' sake. amen." dave jumped to his feet and started for the door. "you eat, jimmie; i'll be back in a minute." he was overcome and the "bawl" had got the best of him. he stood outside the door in the dark and cried as if his heart would break. "d---fool that i am! i wish some one would come along and call me names so i could lick him within an inch of his life. i'd feel better anyhow." after several unsuccessful attempts to control himself, he went to the door and told jimmie to eat both meals, as he had to go. "i'll pay you, mose, when i come over." before jimmie could answer he was gone. he went to fagin's, got several drinks, tried his best to pick a fight with mike, then went home and went to bed. jimmie ate all there was in sight, and with a full stomach became very cheerful and talked to mose, the colored waiter. "gee, i guess me belly t'ought me t'roat was cut. i bet if it could talk it would ast me what i was doin' up dere." chapter viii _bill's pension_ after mr. and mrs. morton had listened to jimmie's story of mrs. cook's prayer, floe's "gittin' hurted" and dave's talk, he went into detail as he described the wonderful breakfast he had eaten. "gee, i was scart i'd bust when i straightened up. i don't feel like i wanted nothin' for a week." "tell me more about floe," said mrs. morton, much interested. "do you think she would come to live with us while she is sick? i would love to care for her and be her friend if she would let me." "do yer mean she can board here?" asked jimmie in surprise. "no, i want her to come and live with us; i want her for my friend and companion. she can be our floe and make this her home." "will her name be floe morton then?" asked jimmie. "yes, you may call her that if you like, but i do want her to come and live with us. when you go to see her this morning, ask her if she will allow me to see her. if she will, you come right back for me and we will go down together." after prayer jimmie started for bucktown, very happy, and confident that the day would be a day of victory for jesus. his faith was wonderful. his prayers were so simple and childlike; he prayed to god and asked him for things in the same language and tone of voice he used when he talked to any one else. he had not acquired the professional whine as yet, and for that reason he received answers to his prayers, because he prayed to god and did not whine to the people who might be around to hear him. many godly people have been shocked in the mission because some redeemed drunkard would use slang in his fervent prayer to the almighty. he simply prayed in his own language. the language of the slums is just as much a language as german or french; it must be learned before it can be understood. the idea that these men must not pray until they have learned that professional, unnatural, painful whine, is as absurd as confining prayer to latin. when a man or woman is occupied by the wording of a prayer and not with the prayer and with their god, it may be beautiful, but it never gets higher than the bald spot on their head. jimmie prayed as he ran along the railroad tracks, and asked god to help him say the right thing at the right time. "hello, bill, yer up, are yer? yer must be feelin' better." "yes, he's up and he ain't had a drink ter-day nor las' night, have yer, bill?" said mrs. cook proudly. "and what's more, yer ain't goin' ter have none, are yer, bill?" bill was eating canned tomatoes from a can with a spoon. tomatoes taste good to a man in bill's condition and they will stay down when nothing else will. "he's got ter git out ter-day an' sign his pension papers, 'cause he won't git his money on the fifth if he don't," said mrs. cook. "i wish you'd go with him, jim," she whispered. "he ain't very strong yet." "i'll do it, yer bet," said jimmie. "what time do yer want ter go, bill?" "about ten o'clock i'll be ready." bill spoke with great difficulty; he was very weak and nervous. "dat'll gi' me time ter go and see floe," said jimmie. "i'll be back at jus' ten o'clock. yer make him wait fer me, won't yer, mrs. cook?" "yep, i'll keep him if i can." the colored cook let jimmie into the dolly resort through the kitchen, and he was shown to floe's room by the nurse, who had been called in by doctor snyder the night before. "oh, jimmie child, i'm so glad to see you. i've been thinking of what you said about asking jesus to help me. he can't help me now; it's too late. come here, jimmie dear, i want to ask you to do something for me." jimmie went to her bedside. "will you do what i want you to do?" "i'll do der best i kin ter help yer," said jimmie proudly. "yer was good ter me and i want ter be good ter you. i'll never forgit the dollar yer sent ter ma when pa was sick, and the shoes yer----" "oh, never mind any of that, jim; i want to ask you to do me this favor before you get started to talk and say something i don't want to hear," said floe. "for years the whole aim of my life has been to forget, forget, forget the past. i had succeeded to some extent and begun to believe that i was away from even the thought or desire for anything better than this kind of life. what you said last night has brought it all back to me and i have been living in the past all night, only to awake this morning to this awful reality. now, jimmie child, i don't want to hurt you, but i want you to promise me that you will never mention anything of that kind to me again. it can never do me any good and it only makes me miserable." "jesus never makes yer miserable, floe. he makes yer glad yer livin'," said jimmie, and before she could answer he went on in his enthusiastic way: "say, floe, you know mrs. morton at the mission? well, she's the best that ever happened. talk 'bout der limit; what der yer tinks she wants now? i went up ter der house this mornin' and tol' 'em about yer gittin' hurted, den i tried ter tell 'em 'bout dave beach, but mrs. morton, she says, 'tell me more about floe.' 'do yer know floe?' i ast. 'no, i do not, jimmie, but i want to know her.' and dis is what she said: she wants yer to come up ter her house while yer hurted and live with her. she says it ain't so bloomin' noisy, er somfin like dat. you'll git well quicker and she says she wants ter take care of yer, and yer can live dere all der time if yer wants ter, and be floe morton. gee, dey got a swell house with carpets, an' pictures an' things jus' like yer got here, and grass and trees outside and a hummock ter swing in, an' i'll come ter see yer every day. mrs. morton tol' me ter come jus' any ol' time i wanted ter. won't that be fine, me an' you both there?" floe tried to speak, but jimmie talked so fast she couldn't get a word in edgewise. "dis here lady with a white doo-bob on her top-knot says i can't stay only fer a minute, so i wants ter tell yer what we're doin'. me an' mrs. morton is comin' up ter see yer, and she's goin' ter tell yer what she wants, and if doctor snyder and dis lady says yer can be took, mrs. morton is goin' ter get a hearse wagon an' take yer home, an' i'm goin' along. i never rid in one of 'em tings yet. i must go now, but i'm comin' back with mrs. morton. so long." "wait a minute, jimmie," cried floe. "don't bring that woman in here, jimmie, do you hear?" but he was gone, or at least he did not give her a chance to talk back. jimmie went straight to the cook home. mrs. cook said bill had just left, but had promised not to take a drink. jimmie hurried out of the house, and for some reason, unknown even to himself, started for fagin's. he slipped in unnoticed and there stood bill on one side of the bar and fagin on the other. bill had just got a drink to his mouth with great difficulty after fagin had poured it out. when he set the glass down upon the bar, fagin filled it up again and bill "downed" it. as fagin filled it for the third time, jimmie rushed up with his canvas bag, in which he carried papers. swinging it around his head with all his strength, he hit the glass and bottle and sent them across the room, breaking both on the floor. bill thought it was his wife. as he ducked his head, he said, "i didn't drink no booze, that was for fagin." "don't lie, bill. i saw yer git two, but i don't blame yer fer it. fagin knows how near yer come ter cashin' in and how weak yer are, and wants ter git yer goin' agin 'cause yer pension's 'bout due; he knows he'll git it if yer drunk." fagin was white with rage and started for jimmie, but jimmie straightened up and made himself as large as he could, and, with his big gray eyes fastened upon fagin, said, "i'm not scart of yer bluff; yer coward 'nough ter hit me 'cause i'm little, but yer goin' ter listen while i tell yer somfin. yer killed me pa, an' yer know it. after yer got all his dough, yer put him out and he was left in rice's wagon box ter freeze, while yer slept in yer good bed. when it come ter buryin' him yer didn't give nothin' but a lot of poor booze ter git der people drunk, and der funeral broke up in a free-for-all; now yer after bill 'cause yer tinks yer can git his pension. his woman's got her second washin' out so fur dis mornin' an' when i ast her how she did it she said she washed all night long, 'cause rent was up and bill was sick. then she said she'd wash her finger nails off if she could help bill git saved. she loves bill and her kids jus' as much as your woman loves yer and yer kids, and i don't see what yer want ter kill him off fer. dey never done nothin' ter you. ah, go on! he wouldn't either git it nowhere else if he didn't git it here." a big tear stole down jimmie's face as he stood looking first at fagin and then at poor bill. "der bible say that god loves everybody, and i believe it 'cause it says so, but i can't see no show fer a dog like you, fagin. you're worser than any guy i ever see'd. you go ter church every sunday mornin', and sunday afternoon and the rest of the week yer booze and steal and raise h----. yer got ter----" "oh, shut up, you little fool; some one told you to say that; no kid your age got off such a temperance talk without some one helping him. that fresh guy from the mission put you up to rubbing it into me; i'll fix him, and you, too, if i ever hear any more of it." fagin was beaten by the boy and he felt the defeat keenly. "i suppose you'll hit him in der back of der head wid a stone, like yer did der poor dago last spring. if yer lookin' fer a good square game i tink morton could fix yer so you'd need one of yer fottygraffs on yer shirt front ter tell yer wife who was comin' home ter dinner. come on, bill, let's git out of here and go sign yer papers. dis is no place fer gentlemen like me and you." jimmie took bill by the hand and started for the door. bill had not spoken during the "temperance lecture," and when jimmie took him by the hand he allowed himself to be led away and seemed glad to have a chance to get out of the place. he did not want to drink, and yet he could not help it. "so long, fagin," said jimmie when he had reached the door with bill. "when yer confess next sunday mornin' be sure ter tell 'em 'bout dis hold-up, and tell 'em dat all der money yer gits is money yer steals from der women and kids of bucktown. an' say, fagin," jimmie yelled from the sidewalk, "tell 'em erbout bill's pension yer didn't git. so long." jimmie got bill back home after the papers were signed and mrs. cook put him to bed. neither spoke of the two drinks to her and she was very happy as she thought of the wonderful things ahead of her. "fer thirty years bill's been havin' spells," she said to herself. "now i believe it's goin' ter change. he can't help gittin' saved if he hears them people at der mission tell how jesus kin save 'em." chapter ix _"auntie's favorite horse"_ dave beach had traded for an old pacing mare. she was very sore forward, at least sixteen years old, but had a world of speed for a short distance. in the harness she was quiet and kind, but in the barn she would drive nearly every one from her. to feed her was a trick few men cared to learn. she would kick and bite, and any one who was the least bit timid could do nothing with her. dave had traded for her in another city. she was not known to horsemen around here. he expected to make some money with her, so he kept her out of sight as much as possible until he got her "fixed up a bit," as he put it. he had her teeth filed until she had a six-year-old mouth. her shoes were pulled off to let her feet spread and grow. the clippers had removed her long hair, and dave had fed her to bring the best results for looks and speed. he knew nothing of her breeding, but that was "easy" for a man as horsy as dave. when she was ready for the public to see she looked as racy as even dave had hoped for. the morning paper contained the following advertisement: "for sale.--the bay pacing mare becky wilkes, by forward, by george wilkes, by hamiltonian 10, by abdallah 1. dam: mamie b, by brown hal, by tom hal, jr., by kitrell's tom hal, by old kentucky tom hal. this mare is six years old, kind and gentle, perfectly sound, and can show a 10 clip to wagon. with proper work she would be a world beater. reason for selling--death in the family. call mornings at beach's livery, brady st." after dave's experience with jimmie he went to bed and slept until ten o'clock. he was standing in the big double door of the barn, thinking what a fool he had made of himself, when a young fellow drove up to the curb and stopped. "is this beach's livery?" "yes, sir, this is the place," said dave. "i see by the paper that you have a pacer for sale." the speaker was a fine-looking young man, with a good face and an easy manner. he was dressed in the pink of fashion, and his general make-up would denote wealth. dave was not sure of the kind of man he had to deal with. he looked him over carefully, but somehow he was unable to tell whether he was "horse wise" or not. "he'll soon show his hand," said dave to himself. "he's either 'dead wise' or 'dead easy.'" "yes, sir, i have a very fine bay mare and she's for sale to the right party," said dave. "no one can get that mare to abuse, as she is very dear to our family. do you want a horse for yourself, sir?" "yes, i want one that can go faster than these," pointing to his own team. "i have the one," said dave. "can i see it?" asked the stranger. "sure you can; i'll hitch her up. (did you hear him say 'it'? mamma, he's easy!) oh, hank!" he shouted. "put the harness on becky. (i knew that he'd soon show his hand," said dave to himself. "he don't know no more about a horse than a jack-rabbit knows about ping-pong, or he'd never say 'it.' just watch me hand it to him.) ginger up a bit, hank, this man is in a hurry." of course hank, the barn man, knew what that meant, and when becky came out she was champing the bit and pawing like a race horse. dave was proud of the way she was acting. "she's perfectly safe and kind, but full of life. not a mean thing in her make-up, and if you can find an 'out' about her i'll give her to you." as he was hitching her to his light wagon he kept up his horse talk, and no one could beat him talking horse if he thought the man had money. "you see this mare is out of colonel thompson's celebrated string. the colonel's wife was my aunt, and when this mare was a colt auntie fell in love with her and would not allow her to be raced down through the circuit. when johnny seely broke joe patchen he used becky to work him out and she would go away from him like he was tied to a post. yes, siree, man, this is the greatest mare on earth and she never had but one chance to show what she could do, and i'll stop and tell you about that right now. just once we got her away from the home stables and i'll never forget that day. there had been much good-natured bartering among the owners and drivers down through the grand circuit during the season and much money had changed hands among them that did not reach the 'bookies.' when we got to lexington, kentucky (our old home), at the close of the season, the owners got together and put up five hundred dollars each for a special race. mile dash, free-for-all, either gait, association rules to govern. harry loper to start them and the first horse under the wire to take the jack-pot. the lexington association added five thousand dollars. "the day of the race was ideal, clear and warm and no wind blowing to speak of. oh, my! i'll never forget the excitement of that day till i die. there was splan with newcastle, geers with robert j., mchenry with john r. gentry, curry with joe patchen, curtis with walter e., wade with dr. m., kelly with his california wonder. you see every one had to start some horse, even if he was outclassed. old dad hamlin said to the colonel, 'what are you going to start, colonel?' 'i don't know; i'll find something,' he said." the young man did not understand a word that dave said, but looked at him in wonder. "after a talk with seely," dave went on, "it was decided that they would slip this mare over to the track. yes, sir, this very mare here, and johnnie was to drive her in the special race. in the betting she was never mentioned until the colonel went up and asked for a price on her. 'oh, about fifty to one,' said al swarengen. 'do you want a dollar's worth of her?' 'give me a hundred dollars' worth,' said the colonel. he bet a hundred dollars with every bookie in the bunch at fifty to one. when they scored for the word, johnnie was in fifth position. they got away the third time down. every horse was on their stride. mack had the pole, curry lay alongside, and geers, with robert j. going strong, moved in from the outside just after they left the wire. a blanket would cover the three horses at the quarter pole. johnnie was trailing close up with becky, but the trotters newcastle and walter e. with dr. m. were outclassed. the pacers went the first quarter in 30 3/4 seconds, but slowed some in the back stretch. at the half gentry made a skip, but recovered quick and still held the pole in the upper turn. no one in the grand stand seemed to notice the little bay with her nose at the wheel of gentry's sulky. the colonel knew she was there, and he knew also that if johnnie could get her though the bunch at the head of the stretch there'd be a horse race in kentucky that day that would make the doble-marvin days look like deuces in the mississippi steamboat jack-pot. as the horses entered the stretch geers spoke to his knee-sprung bay and he responded as only robert j. could. patchen, the big, honest black, was pacing the race of his life. mchenry can team 'em in the stretch like few men, and gentry was on his tiptoes but holding his place. johnnie could see no opening to get through as they entered the stretch, so he made a long swing clear to the outside with becky and then pulled her together for the finish. a hundred yards from the wire it was anybody's race. mack was reefing gentry; geers was talking to robert j. in his own way; patchen kept his feet, although curry was standing up yelling at the top of his voice. the people in the grand stand hardly breathed as seely came up strong on the outside with becky. 'who is that?' they cried. 'see that bay horse come up on the outside. what horse is it? who's driving her? come on, boys!' they cried. when within fifty yards of the wire johnnie shifted both lines into his left hand and cut becky with the whip the full length of her body. she shot forward with a mighty lunge and johnnie rained blow after blow upon her. just before they reached the wire robert j. and becky were neck and neck, with gentry and patchen at their throat-latch. drivers and horses were straining every nerve. the great crowd in the stand were holding their breath. the judges and timers forgot their duty. never will the excitement of that moment be forgotten. just in reach of the wire johnnie let go of becky's head and she shot her nose under the wire about two inches ahead of robert j. for a moment all was still, then that crowd of kentuckians threw their hats in the air and yelled themselves hoarse. as the drivers came back to dismount, johnnie was lifted high in the air and was literally carried into the weighing-room, while becky was led to the stables to be cooled off. the niggers rushed to the thompson mansion on the river and told mrs. thompson about becky's victory. when the colonel drove back home, with johnnie leading becky, mrs. thompson came at once to the stables and said to johnnie, 'uncover that mare.' 'she is very warm, ma'am,' said johnnie. 'you can see her in the morning all right.' 'i want to see her now,' she said, and she did. when she was those whip marks she was very angry and said, 'that mare will never race again while i live, nor after, if i can help it.' "when auntie died she gave the best she had to her favorite nephew, with the understanding, of course, that i would never enter this mare in a race, and i meant to keep her for my own use, but every time i see her it reminds me of my poor, dead aunt, and i am determined to let some good man have her, but he must use her right. it would kill me to think that auntie's favorite horse was abused." hank got a coughing spell and started on a run for the back end of the barn. he fell into a box stall and rolled and laughed until it seemed he would never get his breath. "oh, mamma!" he said, "if that dood gits that old blister he'll wish she was in heaven with dave's auntie about the first time he goes to feed her." he doubled up again and rolled in the straw and laughed until he cried. "i like a liar, but dave suits me too well," he cried. he peeked out of the stall just as dave and his victim started out of the door. "becky sure feels her ginger this morning," he said, and then fell back in the stall and rolled and laughed some more. dave drove down over the pavement slowly, talking "horse" as he went. when he got down on the river bank, where there was about eighty rods of good dirt road, he "cut her loose." she was used to a "brush" and liked the dirt, and the way she threw dust into that "dood's" eyes pleased dave. "did you ever see anything like it?" said dave as he pulled her up. "and she only got started on that short road. she goes a mile better than a quarter." dave turned her around and handed the lines to the young man and said, "you drive her down this time." he fell in love with her on the way to the barn and said to dave, "how much do you want for her?" "that's the trouble," said dave, almost ready to cry. "when it comes to parting with her it almost breaks my heart; but i can't keep her around the barn, as she constantly reminds me of dear auntie. i hardly know what to say. you'll be kind to her, won't you?" "oh, yes, i'll be kind to her for your aunt's sake," the young man replied kindly. as they got back to the barn dave looked at the slick, fat team that belonged to the young man and said, "where did you get that pair of farm horses? they'll do for plowing, but you want something that will beat anything in town, and becky can do it." after much talk about breeding and speed, dave finally made him an offer to trade becky for the team of five-year-olds and one hundred dollars. the man counted out the money without saying a word and dave nearly fell dead, as he said afterward. "i could just as well got five hundred. what a chump i was!" as the young man's coachman led the mare away that afternoon after delivering the five-year-olds, dave called to him and said, "say, watch her a little in the stable. she's cross, but if you ain't afraid of her you can handle her easy. don't let her bluff you." "thrust me for that, laddy. oi've seen the loikes of this before," pointing with his thumb to the mare. "oi sure feel sorry fer paple and harses that are in their second choildhood. shure, if yer aunt was old enough to remember when this mare was a colt she was old enough to die." dave smiled, but made no reply. generally after a good trade dave took every one out for a drink and felt very happy. the boys stood around and waited, but dave failed to say anything. at last hank ventured to say, "are yer any good, dave? we're spittin' cotton." "you go treat the boys, hank; i don't want a drink now," said dave, throwing him a dollar. for the first time in his life he felt as if he had robbed some one. everything is fair in a horse trade, and he figured that the fellow could afford to get beat once. "it will teach him a lesson," he said. "i think he is too game to come back and holler, and i'm not afraid of that; but it sort of looks like taking advantage of his ignorance." jimmie and his friend kept coming up before him until dave almost wished the old mare was back in the barn. "i'd give this hundred dollars if i didn't feel so much like an old fool woman. i don't know what's ailing me. i've traded my dead aunt's favorite horse at least fifty times and it never hurt me before like it does now. i guess i need a drink. i'm losing my nerve." chapter x _jimmie's education_ "don't it beat the dutch, fagin, the way things is goin' in bucktown?" said mike, the bartender, to fagin one afternoon. "the gang all seem ter be on the bum. when i went home fer dinner this noon, my old lady said she was goin' ter the mission with mrs. cook and bill ter-night. ever since that funeral of moore's, she's been sendin' the kids to the mission sunday school and not one of 'em will come inside of this place now. i've been thinkin' i'd put a stop to the whole business and not let her nor the kids go near that place, but i guess i'll keep my hands off until they git to interferin' with my business; then i'll stop 'em hard." "has bill cook been down to the mission?" asked fagin. "yes, and i guess they've got him, too. his woman says he's converted, er whatever they calls it, and he told me this mornin' that he wasn't drinkin'. i ast him to have one, but he said he'd foller the water wagon the rest of his life. i give him the laugh, but he wouldn't stand fer it." "this is pension day, isn't it?" asked fagin. "i think so," said mike. "well, if bill stays sober after he gets his money, then i'll think there's somethin' ter this mission business," said fagin. "that kid of moore's is makin' most of this trouble and jewey says that dave beach is stuck on him. dave always had good sense, but he don't show it now. he paid for the ambulance that mrs. morton used to take floe to her house with, and that must 'a' cost three dollars anyhow." "does he come here much now, mike?" "not much, and when he does come he acts sore all the time. the other mornin' about four o'clock he came in here and got a couple of drinks and he was so mad he was cryin'. when i ast him what was eatin' him he wanted to lick me. i tell you, things are changin' in bucktown, fagin, and i don't like it a little bit." the women of bucktown were talking the same way, and little groups of them could be seen here and there in earnest conversation about mrs. cook, bill cook, floe, jimmie, etc. "i'll bet bill'll be drunk when he gits his money," said mrs. kinney. "you git her mad and she'll swear like she always did. where der yer suppose she got that hat she's wearin'? when i ast her she said the lord give it to 'er, and she says she's goin' ter have a carpet and curtains. i wish bill would git drunk and just teach her a good lesson. she's gittin' too smart. she'll quit speakin' to us next thing we know, and that floe that mrs. morton took home with her, i'll bet she'll be a bad girl agin. if i don't miss my guess, they'll be sorry they ever saw bucktown." even the children would stand and look at bill when he passed by on the street. morton had gone with him to his old employer and told him how he was saved, and he gave bill back his old place in the shop. he worked ten hours each day and went to the mission every night. jimmie was getting on well with is studies under mrs. price. she gave him an hour each morning and he worked hard to get his lessons. on saturday morning he rushed into morton's office very much excited. "what's the matter, jimmie?" said morton. "matter? matter 'nough, i guess. what yer been steerin' me up against? i was jus' gittin' my lesson up at price's and her man comes home. he's a travelin' man and gits home once a month. he stood lookin' at me and, pointin' his finger at me, says, says he, 'what's dis?' his woman says, says she, 'dat's jimmie moore and i'm teachin' him ter read and write. he's one of der sunday school boys at der mission.' 'i don't want no such cattle in my house,' he said ter his woman. 'he's covered wid vermum (er somfin like dat) and'll steal yer blind when yer ain't lookin',' and said he wa'n't runnin' no mission, and 'f i didn't git he'd sling me out der winder." "well, what did you do, jimmie?" asked morton. "do? i ducks out, and ducks out fast is what i do. did yer ever see him? he's one of them tall, skinny guys and he's got er high shiny hat dat makes him taller and skinnier. he'd go fer a lead pencil at der masquerade in bucktown, if he had a rubber on his head. den his overcoat is so big dat he's got a belly-band buttoned on behind it ter make it littler. gee, he looked like er rat-tail in er quart cup. i wouldn't care so much, but i left my book dere, and i'm scart ter go after it." "did you say anything to him, jimmie?" asked morton. "not on yer life, i didn't have time; he came near beatin' me to der door as it was." "well, never mind, jimmie. it may be all right. i will get your book for you and you will learn to read and write yet," said morton kindly. "romans 8:28 says that 'all things work together for good to them that love god.'" while jimmie's experience with price was hard for one so sensitive, before the day ended he was very glad it had happened as it did. as mr. and mrs. price started for down-town that evening to do some shopping, mrs. price took jimmie's book with her. when they reached brady street, where the mission is located, she turned suddenly to mr. price and said, "i have that boy's book with me and i want to take it to him at the mission. please walk down with me; it is rather rough on saturday night and i am timid alone." for what followed, hear mr. price's own words as he stood up to speak in the mission at the end of the service. "if any one had told me this morning that i would be in a place like this to-night, i would have considered that person insane. it was all a mistake on my part, but i thank god for the mistake. for years i have been a traveling man. to hold my trade and be a good fellow i have always treated my customers right. in this way i got into the habit of drinking. never got drunk very often at first, but the habit kept growing until it has been the other way--never got sober very often. ten days ago, in another city, fifteen of us boys met at the supper table in the hotel and one of them bet the drinks for the crowd with another one. i do not know what the bet was about, but after supper we all adjourned to the barroom to drink with the loser. before we stopped we had all treated and every one was ready for anything. to make a long story short, we have all been drunk for ten days. i reached home this morning without money; i left my hotel bill unpaid. my firm does not know where i am. when i went into the house my wife had company, and i was mad in a minute. i tried to kick a boy out of doors that she was teaching to read. i have not spoken a pleasant word all day. to-night my wife asked me to come to this place with her, as she had a book she wanted to deliver to that boy. he was nowhere to be seen, so i sat down with her in the back part of the building to wait for him. two large women came in and we moved in against the wall to make room for them. i became very nervous and wanted to get out, but i couldn't get past those women. i was angry enough at my wife to choke her, but she sat there and sung those old songs and never once looked at me. when my eye caught sight of the motto there, 'how long since you wrote mother?' i almost fell from my chair. listen, fellows; i had as good a mother as god ever gave a boy. i had promised her many times that i would not take another drink, but never could keep my word. one day when i was in a barroom, i received a telegram from my wife which read, 'come at once. mother is dead.' when i reached home they told me that the last conscious words were a prayer for her boy. i had promised her to meet her in heaven, but i've gone lower and lower since her death. i thank god for that boy; i thank god for those words on the wall and for mr. morton's invitation to come to mother's god. since i came to this altar, jesus has saved me and i mean to live for him and meet mother over there." as he sat down there was scarcely a dry eye in the house. jimmie went up to him and put his hand on his arm and said, "i was sore at yer ter-day, but i love yer now, mr. price." price took the boy in his arms and hugged him. "i love you, my boy, and will always be your friend. you will always find my home open to you." chapter xi _the meeting in the market_ the first day that was warm enough for people to stand outside and listen, mr. morton had his big, white stallions hitched to the gospel wagon, which was also white. the team had wintered well and weighed 3400 pounds. as they stood champing their bits outside of the mission, jimmie watched them for a few minutes and then, turning to morton, said, "please, kin i go erlong, mr. morton?" "where shall we go, jimmie? we want to have about three meetings this afternoon if the weather stays warm, as it is now." "have all t'ree of 'em in bucktown," said jimmie. "i bet i kin git dave beach ter come over ter the corner ter see dem dere horses, and i'll bet fagin and mike'll come over ter hear bill cook make his speel, and say, come here er minute." jimmie took morton off to one side, away from every one, and whispered into his ear: "if you'll git floe ter go down there an' sing dat dere song erbout 'tellin' yer ma i'll be dere' [tell mother i'll be there], it'll git der whole bunch out to der meetin'." "floe is not very strong, jimmie, and i hardly think she would care to sing in the open air." "if she'll do et, will yer let her?" "oh, yes, if she cares to go i will be glad to take her with us on the wagon. you must not tell her i wanted you to ask her, jimmie," said mr. morton as the boy started on a run to ask floe to sing. "she'll be dere by der time der wagon is," said jimmie, all out of breath, "an' i'm goin' down now ter tell der gang you're comin'." before the second song had been sung at least two hundred people stood before the gospel wagon at the corner of the market. all ages, sizes, colors, kinds, some drunk, some under the influence of morphine and opium, and some greeks and russians who could not understand one word of the english language. on the edge of the crowd were three or four girls from the dolly resort, and as many more from other houses of this same type near by. oily ike, fred hood and jewey were there; but fagin, mike, dave beach and jimmie were nowhere to be seen. when the male quartet arose to sing, every one became very quiet and listened attentively to the singing. morton read the first psalm and then told the crowd just why they were there. "we are here to tell you about the lord jesus christ and his power to save; because we know that every one of you needs him," said morton. this class of people can never be "fooled," and one endeavoring to help them in a spiritual way must be very frank and honest, and never, never use "nice" words or sayings to catch them. they are very suspicious of everybody and when any one attempts to win them to his way of thinking he must do it in a straightforward, honest manner. do not call them "dear friends" or "dear brothers and sisters"; do not tell them that they are all good people, as they at once begin to look for a collection box or expect you to have something to sell. they say, "he's either a fool or thinks i'm one." "the city rescue mission stands for the old gospel of christ, to save from sin," morton continued. "and on this wagon to-day are those who were once far in sin, but who are now happy in him. every one here knows mr. cook. he is your neighbor and i believe your friend. you all knew him in his old life and most of you know how god has kept him these past weeks. i know that you will all want to hear from him, and after he speaks to you i shall ask a lady to sing. she will sing, by request, 'tell mother i'll be there.' i take great pleasure in introducing to you mr. william cook." "what's the matter with bill?" yelled a voice. "he's all right!" came from nearly every throat as bill stood up to speak. jimmie stepped from the side entrance of fagin's saloon and was quickly followed by mike, fagin, dave beach and gene dibble. bill started to speak just as they lined up in front of him, and he became so nervous he could scarcely stand up, much less say anything. fagin was quick to notice his embarrassment and laughed a rough ha! ha! "cut that out, fagin!" said dave, stepping up to him. the look in dave's eyes told fagin that he meant all he said. "go on, bill, you're a winner," he said. "we want to hear you speak." "well, fellows, yer know that this is a new one on me. i've never been up against this gospel wagon game before in my life. my trainin' has been along other lines. i can't make no speech, but i can tell yer this, that fer six weeks i ain't wanted no booze and i've been workin' most of the time and got money in my pocket to buy booze if i wanted it. see?" "good boy, bill," yelled dave. "you're getting your second wind; all you need is a little more weight forward and jogged every morning in hopples for about ten days and you've got 'em all skinned in your class." "go on, bill," said jimmie, "tell 'em what yer told 'em in der mission last night." "it's this way," said bill, great drops of perspiration standing on his forehead. "it's this way. in the army i learned to drink. after i came home i took up my old trade and have always worked when i could keep sober. since i have lived in this part of town i've been drunk more than i have been at work. every time it happened, i'd swear that it would never happen again, but i'd go and git it before i'd git my breakfast. i tried to stop, but couldn't handle myself at all. every one round here knows how my family suffered. i could make enough ter keep 'em good, but i'd spent it fer likker. my wife has took in washin' to keep the kids from starvin' and freezin'. she had to work all night, more'n one night, and when freddie died--oh, my god! i wish i could forgit that! when freddie died--i was drunk. just before he passed away i promised him i'd never drink another drop, but i went out and got into the delirium tremens before i stopped. when i came to myself i found that my wife had sold everything in the house but the stove, table, a few chairs and one bed to pay the funeral expenses. you can call it fun, if yer want to, but i tell you it's hell on earth. most of you know what's happened lately. when my old pal, bob moore, died, i was in bad shape; but i never got away from what god did fer him before he died. when i got out of bed, jimmie took me to the mission and jesus saved me the first night i went there. my wife was saved the night before, and i tell you we're havin' different times at our house nowadays. we had chicken fer dinner to-day and we've had meat once a day fer two weeks. i've eat garlic sausage and rye bread on the free lunch counter fer thirty years, but now i'm eatin' chicken and givin' the old lady and kids a chance ter eat too." when he sat down some tried to clap their hands, but the crowd did not feel that way. every one knew that bill had told the truth and they were touched with the earnest way in which he told his simple, straightforward story. "now, while you are quiet, i will ask our friend to sing for us," said morton. "please come to the wagon, sister," he said to floe. as she stepped upon the wagon every eye was upon her. she was dressed in a dark tailor-made suit, very plain but neat. mr. worden at the organ started to play softly. floe walked to the front of the wagon and looked down into the faces of many she knew. her large black eyes beamed with love for them all. she was very pale, but calm, and as she stood there she looked like a queen. "it's floe," said dave. "she can beat 'em all singin'." "gee, don't she look swell! i'd hardly know her," said gene dibble. "before i sing this song for you," she said in a clear, sweet voice, "i wish to say something about it. most of you, no doubt, know this song and many of you like it, but to me it means more than any song i could sing. it simply tells my life story. let me read it to you. "when i was but a little child, how well i recollect, how i would grieve my mother with my folly and neglect. and now that she has gone to heaven, i miss her tender care, oh, angels, tell my mother i'll be there. "tell mother i'll be there, in answer to her prayer, this message, guardian angel, to her bear. tell mother i'll be there, heaven's joys with her to share, yes, tell my darling mother, i'll be there. "when i was often wayward, she was always kind and good, so patient, gentle, loving, when i acted rough and rude. my childhood griefs and trials, she would gladly with me share, oh, angels, tell my mother i'll be there. "when i became a prodigal and left the old roof-tree, she almost broke her loving heart in grieving after me. and day and night she prayed to god to keep me in his care, oh, angels, tell my mother i'll be there. "one day a message came to me, it bade me quickly come, if i would see my mother ere the saviour took her home. i promised her before she died for heaven to prepare, oh, angels, tell my mother i'll be there. "this last verse has been enacted in my life within the past week. mrs. morton had written home and told father and mother that i was with her. this message came the next day, 'come at once. mother is dying'; it was signed 'from your father.' in company with mrs. morton i reached the old home at four o'clock the next afternoon. i used to think the place was lonely and dreary, but i can never tell you how glad i was to set my foot in the old yard once more. everything looked so good to me, and the same old apple tree where i used to swing when i was a little girl seemed to welcome me home. dear old rover came to meet me and, although it had been three years since he saw me, he knew me. we hugged each other and in his dog way he made me feel that i still had a place in his warm heart. the night i left home, the old dog followed me down the road and it nearly broke my heart when i had to send him back; he loved me when i thought all the world hated me. as i reached the porch, father came to the door. oh, how different he looked! when i left home he was strong and active and now he is bent with sorrow, sorrow that my sin has brought to him. he took me in his arms and kissed me again and again. i tried to ask him for forgiveness; but he would not listen to me. 'you have been forgiven ever since you left home that awful night, and i have searched for three years to find you and tell you so. but come, my child, you must see your mother; she has been calling for you ever since her sickness.' he led the way into mother's bed chamber. 'here's daughter, mother,' he said. "'oh, i knew you'd come,' she said with a feeble voice; 'i just knew that god would send you to me before he called me home. raise me up, child, i can't see you.' "i lifted her frail body and held her in my arms and--and--well, after i made the promise that is in this last verse, she smiled and, with her eyes turned heavenward, my dear, sweet mother went to be with jesus. you all know my life, how i suffered for my sin; i tried to forget father, mother, home and god. loving hands have lifted me back to life once more and jesus has saved me from it all and i can truthfully say, 'oh, angels, tell my mother i'll be there.'" the song that followed carried everything before it, and nearly every one was weeping. the rich contralto voice was never better and floe was singing from her very soul. she forgot the people around her, she was in another world. when the chorus had been sung for the last verse the male quartet took it up, singing softly, and seemed to carry that crowd into the very heaven of which floe had been singing. morton closed the meeting in prayer and was inviting them to accept jesus as their saviour. while he was talking, floe stepped from the wagon to join mrs. morton; as she passed jewey he made a remark to her and insultingly referred to her past life. gene dibble, hearing it, threw his coat to dave beach, and stepping up to jewey said, "get out of your clothes and square yourself. no man can insult a girl that's tryin' ter trot square and make me like it." there was an old grudge of long standing between these men and every one knew that a fight was unavoidable; both men were strong and each had a reputation as a fighter to sustain. "give 'em room," cried dave. "we'll see fair play." "oh, mr. dibble," cried floe, "don't fight for me. i deserve all he said and more." gene turned to floe, and awkwardly raising his hat was about to speak, when jewey said, tauntingly, "oh, i guess he ain't looking fer it very bad; he was just bluffin' anyhow." jimmie took floe by the hand and pulled her away from the ring that dave had formed by crowding the people back. every one wanted to see jewey whipped, but all knew that gene had his hands full to do it. it is not the purpose of the story to describe this fight, but, from a fighter's standpoint, it was a beauty. gene had just come from the north woods and he was hard and strong, and had better wind than his antagonist. it was give and take from the start; blood was flowing freely on both sides. jewey was becoming winded and began to beat the air and strike very wild. "keep out an upper cut," said dave, "you've got him coming all right." gene pulled himself together and went in to finish his man. with a right swing, he caught him square on the point of the jaw; in short, as dave said, "gene won it in a walk. bully for gene!" on the way to the mission, morton sat with his head in his hands. "beat again," he said. "every time i get that people together the devil spoils the whole business." chapter xii _fred hanks_ the topic of conversation in bucktown on sunday evening was the gospel wagon service. many little groups were seen here and there talking about floe, bill, the singing or the fight. every one but mrs. kinney liked some part of the service, but she was never known to be pleased with anything. "the idea of bill cook sayin' the things he did! and if i'd 'a' been his wife i'd hide my face. my! i was ashamed fer him. i'll bet he'll be drunk for weeks out and i jus' wish he would," she said. when some one said they thought the singing was fine, mrs. kinney said, "hum, you call that singin'? that big feller that stood on the end and singed bass looks like a catfish when he opened his mouth. the fellow that plays the organ looks for all the world like a girl, and if you call that singin', i wish you could hear the singin' i heard at the indian medicine show last summer; that's what i call real singin'. and that floe standin' up there, singin' afore that big crowd and her mother hardly cold in her coffin! the style is that she mus' not go in 'siety fer a year, and if you call that singin' you don't know the first principle of music er 'siety. to my way of thinkin', them big horses should be a-workin' 'stead o' hawlin' a lot o' lazy galoots around town fer pleasure. why, that morton wears as good clothes as the undertaker. i'll bet he steals the money out of the collection box at the mission." mrs. kinney never missed an opportunity to express her opinion and the neighbors knew just what to expect from her. she was the only person in the neighborhood who dared criticise dave beach. "he's a devil, and you'll all find it out when it's too late," she said. at the mission the house was packed and several who had been at the bucktown wagon service were in the audience. gene dibble was there with a "shanty" over his eye, his lip was swelled to twice its natural size and his right hand was tied up in a red handkerchief. he certainly looked the worse for wear. he dropped into a back seat and not a word sung or spoken escaped him. when floe arose to sing, by request, the same song of the afternoon, gene straightened up, and before she was half through the song he was standing on tiptoe. floe saw him as he stood there and recognized him as the man who had fought to defend her that day. at the close of the meeting, morton gave an invitation and gene was the first one to raise his hand for prayer. he raised the one with the red handkerchief about it and floe went at once to the rear of the room, to speak to him about his soul. "i'm so sorry to have caused you all this trouble," she said. "you would not be in this condition to-night were it not for me." "that's nothin'; i'd 'a' done it fer any girl that's tryin' to trot square. it's that song that's botherin' me, not the fight. do you think i could ever be a christian like you folks talk about? i have a good mother, but i'll never meet her there like you sing about in the song, the way i'm goin' now; what will i do?" when floe and gene walked up the aisle together, several people from bucktown saw them. before gene could reach dave's barn the news had preceded him. when gene and jimmie walked into the barn, dave leaped to his feet and, taking gene's free hand in his, said, "you're right in the step you've taken to-night and i'm glad for you. i know that your life can be a useful one and i don't want any one to put a straw in your way. no, don't say a word about that; it's not for me, but i feel just as much pleased to see you get into it as if it were for me. i know it is right, but i've lost my chance." at the conference in morton's home the next morning, there was a time of great rejoicing, also a time of great anxiety. jimmie was very happy over gene's conversion. "we'll git der whole bunch yet," he said to morton. "der was five of 'em at the altar from bucktown, last night, 'sides gene. fred hanks was er comin' ter der mission, but he got pinched at der railroad crossin' fer bein' drunk. fagin give 'm four big drinks and er bottle ter start on, den steered him fer der meetin'. he got nabbed 'fore he got dere." fagin had hoped to have fred cause a disturbance at the meeting. he, mike and jewey were doing everything in their power to stop the mission work in bucktown. the fight on sunday was a part of their plan; unfortunately for them, dave beach was there to see fair play and it resulted in a victory for gene. morton knew that the long fight that was to follow in bucktown would be hard and bitter, but he also knew that god could give the victory. "is fred in jail now, jimmie?" he asked. "dat's what dave tol' me dis mornin'." after prayer, jimmie with morton started for the jail. "dis is mr. morton from the mission, fred; he wants ter see yer." with great difficulty fred arose from the old plank upon which he was lying. he took hold of the bars with both hands, but was so weak he could not stand on his feet. "just sit down, my boy; i want to talk to you," said morton, kindly. fred fell back exhausted upon the plank. in the city police stations of this country, a plank built against the wall is used for a bed. "you see," continued morton, "i've been all through this thing and know just how you feel. jimmie tells me you have been drinking for several weeks without a let-up. have you had a drink this morning?" "no, and i'm near dead fer one," said fred. "if i should take you out of here and help you to get on your feet, would you like to make a try for a better life?" asked morton. "i was in a worse shape than you when i staggered into a mission and learned of jesus' power to save drunken men. i turned myself over into his keeping and i've not wanted a drink for over seven years. i know you are weak, but god is strong and he will fight for you. if you will promise me to do as i tell you, i will pay your fine and take you out of here." "i drew a ten spot or a three thirty-five," said fred. "if you'll pay it for me i'll pay you back as soon as i get to work and i'll never take another drink as long as i live." "unless you let the lord undertake for you," said morton, "you'll be drunk again inside of a week." morton prayed with him and then went to the clerk of the police court and paid his fine. after fred had had a bath and shampoo mr. and mrs. morton went with him to his home. his wife and boy had not seen him for ten days and they were actually suffering for the necessities of life. it required much talk and coaxing before mrs. hanks would agree to give him one more chance. "you do not know him as i do," she said to mrs. morton. "a thousand times he has promised me to stay away from saloons and not drink, but he's broken every promise he ever made me. our rent is two months behind, and baby and me have gone to bed hungry more than one night on account of his drunkenness. i'm tired of it all, and if it wasn't for baby's sake i'd end my life. i wish i was dead." she buried her head in her hands and wept bitterly. "it'll never happen again; i'm done this time sure," and he meant what he said. morton left money with mrs. hanks to buy things to eat. she put fred to bed and cared for him as tenderly as loving hands could. a woman's love is wonderful. in a few days fred went to work at his old job, determined to be a sober man the rest of his life. that night he stood up in the mission and said he was sober and was going to remain sober. on his way home to dinner next day, fagin called to him from the saloon door. "hello, fred, they tell me that you're going to be a mission stiff. come in here a minute." fred stepped inside. "i never thought you would get yellow on the bunch," said fagin. "a man's a baby that will admit he can't take a social glass and stop when he wants to. let's all take one together. give us all something, mike," said fagin. fred did not have the courage to say no. he not only took a drink with fagin, but remained there until he was so drunk he couldn't see. never had he been worse, that night he was helped into the mission by fagin's gang. they followed him in and waited to see the fun, but fred was too drunk to make a noise and soon fell asleep. at the close of the meeting, mr. morton shook him until he awoke. "come, fred, i want you to go home with me to-night; i want to help you and be your friend." the next morning fred was so ashamed of himself that he did not want to see the mortons. he dressed himself and tried to slip out of the house unnoticed. mrs. morton intercepted him at the door. "never mind about the past, my boy," she said. "you let god take care of you for to-day and you'll be all right. your boss said you could go to work and your wife wants you to come home. we'll help you in every way we can, and if you'll only trust god, everything will brighten up." fred was heartbroken. "i don't deserve such treatment from you folks; i turned you and lied to you like a thief," he said. "but jesus loves you and we love you and your family loves you and you can go out in the strength of god and win the fight. keep away from saloons and pray for help," said mrs. morton. bill cook was having a hard fight with the fagin crowd. they had tried every way to get him to drink but he had been able to say no, in the name of the lord. then they attempted to get him angry. "bill gets paid fer testifyin' in the mission; he's just workin' a new graft," fagin said one day. bill was angry in a moment and wanted to fight, but before he could say anything, jimmie said to fagin, "yer bet yer life he gits paid fer servin' jesus. look at dem clothes he's wearin'. he never had 'em when yer was gittin' his dough. he's dressin' jus' as swell as yer dressin'. when his woman gits rigged up fer meetin' she makes yer old gal look like er wheelborrer in er autermobile parade. say, fagin, yer worked up 'cause yer thinks yer kin git bill sore an' den he'll take one. not him; he's drinkin' other kind er booze, eh, bill?" gene dibble was tormented almost beyond human endurance. he walked into dave's barn one day white with rage. "if i've got ter stand this kind of a deal ter be a christian, i'll cut this whole business out." "what's the trouble?" asked dave. "there'll be trouble enough when i see fagin," said gene; "i just came from his place, but i can't find him. the dirty thief says that floe is wrong and that i'm just playin' this here religious dodge just to get floe. floe an' me have been singin' together some and he says we're not trottin' square. i'll tell yer, dave, there'll be singin' over to his house and he won't know anything about it if he don't stop mentioning floe's name in that old cheap booze dump. that name's too good ter even be spoke in there." dave smiled and gene was quick to see it. "now see here, dave, you're wrong. i'm not stuck on floe and no dog like fagin can kick her down while i live." "you stay away from fagin's," said dave, "and don't let anything that you hear bother you. i'll see him to-day and he'll stop talking or i'll make him stop." after fagin learned that he was causing gene and bill so much trouble he doubled his efforts to persecute them. "they're afraid to pass by the place any more," he said. "if they're tryin' to do good, why don't they come in and talk to us? i guess gene can't leave his girl long enough. "say, kid, come here," he called to jimmie. "why don't morton come down here and try to convert us? does he think we're so good we don't need it?" "der yer want him ter come?" asked jimmie. "sure i want him, but he won't come; he's scart of the cars." thirty minutes later, jimmie rushed into fagin's. there were ten or twenty men at the bar and jimmie called out so every one could hear, "say, fagin, mr. morton said he'd come ter-night at eight er-clock an' hold a meetin' in yer saloon if you'll promise ter sell no booze from eight ter nine. will yer do it?" "be game, fagin, be game!" cried several voices. "don't let him bluff you." fagin hesitated a moment. "you're yellow, fagin. i heard yer ask the kid why he didn't come and now yer afraid he will come." "be game, old man; we'll all come to the meeting," said another. after much good-natured talk of this kind, fagin turned to jimmie and said, "tell 'em to come, kid, and we'll give 'em the warmest time they've had in months." chapter xiii _"fagin's meetin'"_ at eight o'clock fagin's big bar-room was filled with people. the crowd was mostly made up of men, although several women had ventured in to see the fun. at the bar men were standing three deep. mike and fagin were both working hard, but were unable to wait upon the crowd. "here they come," cried some one at the door. in a moment every one was quiet and still, as morton and his workers filed into the place. fagin's place was known as a free and easy. in the rear of the room was a platform upon which stood several chairs, a table and an old grand piano. "go back to the platform," said fagin. jimmie, floe, gene dibble, bill cook, mrs. cook and morton stepped upon the platform. floe went to the piano and started to play the old song, "jesus, lover of my soul." without an invitation nearly every one joined in the singing and morton was pleased. as the song ended about twenty strong voices started to clap their hands and sing: "monday i got awful drunk, tuesday i got sober, wednesday night i stayed at home to think the matter over. thursday i went out again, friday i took more, and saturday night they found me tight on fagin's cellar door." they repeated it three times, making more noise each time. just as they stopped, floe and gene started to sing: "on sunday i am happy, on monday full of joy, on tuesday i've a peace, the devil can't destroy. on wednesday and on thursday i'm walking in the light, friday 'tis a heaven below, the same on saturday night." without a stop they ran into doane's greatest song, "hide me, o my saviour, hide me." whatever fagin's plans were, he had forgotten them. never were two voices better adapted for this sort of music. gene's tenor voice blended perfectly with floe's rich alto. but, what is more essential in the singing of the gospel, they both knew what they were singing about and to whom they were singing. the best story teller on earth can not tell a story well unless he knows it, neither can the best singer on earth sing the gospel well unless he knows it. the question so often asked to-day, why are there no conversions in our church? could be answered sometimes by a glance into the choir loft. every one stood spellbound as floe and gene put their very souls into the song: "hide me when my heart is breaking, with its weight of woe, when in tears i seek the comfort, thou canst alone bestow." every word was a prayer and floe was singing to god alone; she seemed to forget the crowd and the place; she remembered the time she had taken her broken heart to jesus with its weight of woe. gene was self-conscious, but no one knew it, as every eye was upon floe. she stopped playing and stood up as they very softly sang the chorus the last time. falling upon her knees, she said: "let us pray. o father, we thank thee, that thou hast given us a chance to praise thee in this room. in former days, in this same place, we blasphemed thy holy name. we thank thee for forgiveness, for peace, for power to overcome sin, and now, o father, our prayer is for the people in this room. we know that thou lovest them all; may they realize to-night that jesus is the sinner's friend. for the habit-bound ones, we pray, set them free, o god!" with tears streaming down her cheeks she prayed for dave beach, fagin, mike, ike palmer, and the girls that were living lives of shame; the plea she made to god for fred hanks would almost melt a heart of stone. "forgive these men for getting poor, weak fred drunk to-night," she prayed. "he is trying hard, but mr. fagin and his helpers are doing all they can to kill him; for jesus' sake stop them, for the sake of his heart-broken wife and his little boy, stop them. may every man, woman and child here to-night be saved for jesus' sake. amen." not a person moved during the prayer; every word went straight to the hearts of the people; many of the women were weeping and the men were fighting back their tears with more or less success. after fagin had consented to allow a meeting in his place he and his crowd had gone after fred and filled him full of liquor. at the right time he was to be brought into the room and introduced as one of morton's converts. this was to be the signal for the crowd to break up the meeting. floe had spoiled their plans by her prayer. fred came into the room unnoticed while she was praying, and at the close of her prayer he pushed his way to the platform. in his drunken way he said he didn't want to blame the gang for his condition, but he had tried as hard as he could and it was no use, there was no hope for him. he began to cry and left the room by the rear door. he pulled the door open again and, waving his hat in the air said, "you pikers will never git another chance to make a monkey out of me," and slammed the door. morton jumped to his feet and said to the crowd, "i want floe and gene to sing for you, but before they sing i will ask mrs. cook, one of your neighbors, to say something about jesus in her home." morton was afraid to have bill cook speak, but thought mrs. cook could keep the crowd still better than a man. "everybody here knows me," said mrs. cook. "we've lived here in this town for thirty years. all that time, until a little while ago, we've had a drunkard's home. jesus saved me one night and my husband came the next night and we're havin' the blessedest time yer' ever heard tell on. bill don't drink no more and i ain't been mad fer two weeks now, 'cept when fagin and mike tried ter git bill ter drink. i don't see fer the life of me, what they want ter git bill back inter the gutter agin fer"--morton trembled--"they oughter be satisfied; they've had all his money fer years. i wouldn't do that ter them er their families if they was tryin' ter git along like we are," and she began to cry. before she could go on with her talk, morton arose and said, "floe and gene will sing." the song selected was the duet, "they are nailed to the cross." "there was one who was willing to die in my stead, that a soul so unworthy might live, and the path to the cross, he was willing to tread, all the sins of my life to forgive. "they are nailed to the cross, they are nailed to the cross, oh, how much he was willing to bear! with what anguish and loss, jesus went to the cross! but he carried my sins with him there. "he is tender and loving and patient with me, while he cleanses my heart of its dross; but 'there's no condemnation,' i know i am free, for my sins are all nailed to the cross. "i will cling to my saviour and never depart, i will joyfully journey each day, with a song on my lips and a song in my heart, that my sins have been taken away." after the song morton gave an invitation. mike stepped out from behind the bar, untied his white apron and walked up to the platform. "if you people think that i kin be fergiven i want it right now," he said. "i did try to get bill to drink and i got fred hanks drunk and i'm an awful sinner, but i'm done with the whole business; i'll never sell nor take another drink in my life if god will forgive me the way i've used him." mike's wife pushed her way through the crowd and they both bowed in prayer at the old saloon platform. at least twenty-five men and women came forward that night and prayed to god for mercy. fagin stood with his elbows on the bar and watched everything that was going on, but he said nothing. at nine o'clock mr. morton said, "we agreed to get through in this place at nine o'clock and our time is up. i wish to thank mr. fagin for his kindness to us, and before we close i wish to ask god to bless him and his family and get him out of this business." fagin bowed his head as morton prayed, and as they passed out he shook hands with all of them and invited them to come again. the next night at the mission the first man upon his feet to give a testimony was oily ike palmer. "i was in fagin's bar-room meeting, and before i went to sleep last night jesus saved me. every one in the first ward knows me and they know very little good of me. i was educated for the ministry and expected to be some one in this world. everything was bright before me; my parents were both christians and well to do. every one, in the little place where i lived, pointed me out as a model young man. a so-called doctor gave me morphine for pain one day and told me to carry it with me always. some of you know the rest of my story without my telling it; it soon got the best of me. for fifteen years i have been a drug fiend. i have tried every known remedy and they have all failed. with the drug i began to drink whisky. in order to keep myself in these things, i became dishonest. for ten years at least i have made my money in a crooked way. my family have suffered everything through my sin. we were not raised in the slums, but have drifted to the very bottom because of my vicious habits. my brothers and sisters never mention my name, and in the old home my picture has been turned toward the wall. last night, when jimmie moore came to my home and invited me to the fagin place, i could not refuse him. he told me that jesus could help me and that you people here would be my friend. i went to fagin's and heard of my way out; i left that place determined to find god if i could; i spent half of last night upon my knees, and to-night, although very weak and nervous, i know that i am saved. i've been twenty-four hours without drug or whisky and i could never do that unless god was with me. i just want to say one more thing before i sit down. jimmie moore came to my house again to-day and invited me to this meeting. when i told him i had no clothing fit to be seen in a place like this, he took every penny he had, thirty-seven cents, i believe, and bought these pants from rosenbaum. he has promised to leave an evening paper there for sixty-three days to make up the dollar--the price of the pants. i did not know that until this evening, or i should not have allowed him to do it. jesus saved me, but that boy did his share of it and under god i want to thank jimmie for my salvation." mike and his wife both spoke and thanked god for salvation. bucktown was well represented at the meeting and several professed conversion. after the meeting jimmie said to morton, "when we git dave and fagin, fred hanks and doc snyder saved, bucktown will be just as good as der bulevard ter live in. jewey got pinched ter-day and he'll git a ten spot, 'cause dey found der goods on him." chapter xiv _fred and doc_ when fred hanks left fagin's, he started for the river determined to end his life. fred had made many desperate attempts to live a sober life, but with him it was out of the question. he had made resolution after resolution. he had taken the gold cure and in less than forty-eight hours after being cured he was drunk again. his own father had said to morton, "there is no hope for him, and i wish that he was dead." five different times morton had prayed with him and fred had promised each time to stay away from drink and trust god; and he meant every word he said. men do not get to be drunkards from choice; they cannot help it. it is the first drink that makes drunkards, not the last. the hundreds of thousands of young men and women who are drinking just for fun to-day will be a great army of helpless drunkards to-morrow. of course, if they were told this, every one would laugh at the idea that they would ever be drunkards; but, allow the question, where else do the drunkards come from? many men say they can drink or they can leave it alone. every drunkard in the world has been able to say the same thing sometime, but that time passes for nearly every one. men who say they can drink or leave it alone, invariably drink. the same thing is true with the poor fallen girl. never did a girl start out with the intention of going into the very depths of sin; but charles n. crittenden tells us that three hundred thousand women are living in houses of ill-fame in the united states alone. their average life is only five years and it takes six thousand girls every thirty days to keep the ranks filled. seventy-two thousand girls enter upon a life of shame every year; again, allow the question, where do they come from? no man starts out to be a drunkard; no girl starts out to be a harlot; why are there so many? unconsciously they become slaves to sin, and the result is, our country is reeking with this class of people. one who has given a life among women of this class says that nine out of every ten come from the dance hall. one thing is certain, they all come from our homes. nearly all would gladly leave the awful life they are living if they could, but, like poor fred hanks, they are bound hand and foot by sin. nothing but the power of god can save the fallen. fred went to the bridge over the east side canal and, climbing to the top of the railing, deliberately leaped into the dark waters, twenty feet below. several people saw him when he leaped and he was rescued from the water before he could drown. when the officer from the corner saw who it was he called the wagon from the police station and fred spent the night in his wet clothing on the plank in a cell. as he was loaded into the wagon several people inquired who he was. "oh, only a drunken barber," was the reply; "we get him often. it ain't the first time he's tried this." the next morning, with jimmie, morton went to the station and took fred to his home. there was a change in fred; morton saw something in him that he had never noticed there before. "fred," he said kindly, "you have had a very close call; but god in his love and mercy has seen fit to spare you. what do you mean to do with your life?" "with god's help i'll give it all to him." and right then and there he unconditionally surrendered himself to god. mrs. hanks took her baby in her arms and paid fagin a visit. "o mr. fagin, won't you please give fred a chance to stay sober? every time he gets away from liquor for a few days, you do all in your power to get him drunk again. last night he nearly succeeded in killing himself, after you had filled him up, and you would have been his murderer had he accomplished his purpose. baby and myself have had nothing to eat to-day and i cannot stand this strain much longer; for our sake, won't you give him a chance?" fagin was very nervous as he thought of the awful way he had acted. he promised her, not only to refuse fred any liquor in his place, but said he would do all in his power to keep it away from him in other places. as she left the place, he slipped a dollar into her hand and said, "feed the kid; he looks hungry." fred was sick from the effects of his bath the night before; but so determined was he to do right, that he went with jimmie to doctor snyder's office and from there to work. the doctor gave him some medicine and called him "a d---fool" for his attempt of the night before. "say, doc," said jimmie, "fred's got jesus ter-day and boozin' and him is done. ter-night in der mission he's goin' ter speak erbout it. yer promised ter come down some night; won't yer come ter-night t' hear fred?" "if fred will speak i'll come down and sit on the front seat," said the doctor, tauntingly, as he turned to fred. "you'll be on the front seat then," said fred, "'cause i'm goin' to speak if god lets me live. i've tried lots of times to brace up, but this time i'm trustin' god. if you're a man of your word you'll be in the mission to-night and on the front seat too." that night the doctor was there. he had several drinks aboard, but was not in the least intoxicated. after the singing and scripture reading the meeting was thrown open for testimonials. bill and mrs. cook stood up and told how god had saved them. the doctor had never heard them speak before and he at once became very much interested. when mike hardy stood up to speak the doctor was so surprised that he turned around in his chair and unconsciously said, "well, i'll be d----! when did he get into this game? if there's nothing in this religion they're talking about, a mighty lot of people are getting fooled in this mission business." fred hanks took hold of a chair in front of him and with difficulty rose to his feet. "i don't expect any one to take stock in me," he said; "i have made so many mistakes and turned the mission people so many times i am almost ashamed to look at them. i'm not making any promises this time. i've turned my case over to jesus christ. if i get drunk now, he's to blame, 'cause he's running the whole shooting match. my life has been a failure from start to finish. when i was a boy i carried papers; one of my regular customers was an old dutch woman, who used to brew her own beer. every evening when i delivered her paper i got my glass of beer. i got so i looked ahead to it and when i was sixteen years old i could drink as much beer as a man. i learned the barber's trade, and before i was twenty years of age i was known as a drunken barber. i braced up many times, but when i started again i always went lower than i was before. i got into trouble, was arrested, and pled guilty. on account of my parents, the judge suspended sentence with the understanding that if i ever took a drink, he would call me up before him and give me five years. with the state prison staring me in the face i managed to stay sober three months. during that time i worked hard, got good clothes on me and married one of the sweetest girls that ever lived. after our marriage--well, it's the same old story; why should i tell it again? i've been in jail all over this country. my picture is in the rogues' gallery in more than one city. i did not want to be dishonest, but a man can't drink whisky and be honest. "i have stolen the pennies out of my baby's bank to satisfy that awful desire for whisky. don't tell me that a man does that because he wants to; i couldn't help it. god help me; i've tried as hard as any man ever tried to be somebody but that craving for whisky was there and it had to be first in my life. whisky was my god, i worshiped it, i loved it better than my family, my life. i've taken the shoes off my feet in the winter time and traded them for whisky. but to-day, thank god, i've not even wanted a drink. the first day in years that i've not wanted whisky is to-day. gold cure failed; prison bars failed; wife's tears failed; but jesus has taken even the desire for it away. when a man has that gnawing at his very vitals there is but two things that will touch it, a big drink of whisky or the lord jesus christ. thank god, i have him, and i'll never thirst again. last night i leaped from the bridge into the water to end my life; but god saved me from death and hell. i do not understand how he can love such a brute as i am, but he does and now i'm saved." the doctor was very much moved by what he had heard. "i never heard it just this way," he said. "the way you folks put it it's a personal matter and i never could believe that. i believe there is some great supreme being; but i do not believe in a personal god. i think that after you die you get what's coming to you; but you people say that you're saved right now and you know it. that can't be." in the inquiry meeting, morton took his bible and sat down beside dr. snyder. "doctor, read that verse," he said, opening his bible to john 5:24. "verily, verily i say unto you, he that heareth my word and believeth on him that sent me, hath----" "does that mean, 'will have'?" asked morton. "no, 'hath,' is in the present tense," said the doctor. "'hath everlasting life', then, means that we have it now, don't it, doctor?" "that is what it says, sir." "now look at isaiah 53:6," said morton. "all we like sheep have gone astray, we have turned every one to his own way and the lord hath laid----" "not 'will lay'," said morton. "'hath laid' upon christ 'the iniquity of us all.' does that mean you, doctor?" asked morton. "can it mean me?" asked the doctor. "if the word is true, it means you," said morton. like a flash it dawned upon the doctor that jesus had borne his sins in his own body on the tree. he leaped to his feet and said: "all these years i've been a chump! i've never been satisfied with myself. had i known this was for me i would have had it long ago." he was very happy and went from one to the other shaking hands. when he met jimmie, he hugged him. "i want to go to bucktown and tell the gang i'm saved," he said. after the meeting fred hanks, doctor snyder and jimmie went from place to place in bucktown and the doctor did all the talking. he preached to every one he met. in fagin's, he told them all how fred and he had been saved and begged every one of them to give their hearts to god. the last place they went was to the dolly resort. never was there such a plea made for purity as the doctor made to that crowd of women. "there is something better for you than this sort of life," he said. "god loves every one of you and wants to save you now. if you will trust him to save you i will find you a different home than this." he did not look for what happened. "if you will find me a place where i can live like other people, i'll leave here to-night," said one. "i don't like to live this way, but there's no one cares for me." about midnight the door-bell rang at the morton home, and when mr. morton opened the door, the doctor, fred and jimmie stood there with three women from the dolly resort. "i was preaching to the people down in bucktown," said the doctor, "and i told them i'd find them a better place to live if they would trust god. they took me at my word and i have nothing else to do but bring them here." every bed was filled but they were made welcome by mrs. morton. "come right in," she said. "one of you can sleep with floe and the other two can sleep in this bed downstairs. to-morrow we will get another bed and put it in floe's big room." mr. and mrs. morton slept on the floor that night. when jimmie reached the barn it was two o'clock. "where in the world have you been, jimmie?" asked dave. jimmie told dave of all that had taken place and he was as much interested as was jimmie. "gee, der doc is a comer sure!" said jimmie. "he can preach jus' as good as he can peddle pills." chapter xv _the picnic_ mrs. morton and floe spent most of the time during the day in the homes of bucktown. they would call the neighbors together to sew for a certain family. after the sewing a prayer meeting was held and many women and children were saved in these meetings. in this way the wives and children were made ready to join with the heads of the homes in christian living. the children were dressed and put into the mission sunday school; the family altar was established and home life took on a new phase in bucktown. many were after the loaves and fishes only; and they got them. mrs. morton knew that they were trying to deceive her but she never stopped helping them. when real trouble came they would always send for her and many that started out to "work" the mission found jesus before the "work" ended. as time drew near for the mission picnic, the young people and children talked of nothing else. six or seven hundred people attend the annual picnic and the day is one never to be forgotten by those who go. two days before the picnic, jimmie rushed into morton's office and said, "mr. morton, i want ter ast you fer somfin'." "what is it, jimmie?" asked morton. "well, kin i have it?" "you can have anything i can give you, my boy; but what is it?" "i want der gospel wagon and white horses fer picnic day." "now, what in the world do you want with a thing like that?" asked morton. "didn't yer say dat everybody was invited ter der picnic?" asked jimmie. "yes, that's what i said." "well, i want ter take der bucktown gang what can't go dere by demselves, and i want der wagon ter haul 'em. der's more 'an twenty of 'em 'at can't go dere in street cars. der's one-winged bob, hump rumpord, goosefoot sus, stumpie-der-shine, nigger mose, hop hawkins, blind billy, der pianer player at dolly's, 'sides those nigger kids of griffin's 'at's been sick all winter, and 'sides, mrs. rollins says swipsey can go wid me if i'll take care of 'im. he near died wid der dipteria and he's just gittin' over it." "well, can you run such an excursion, if i get a good man to drive the team?" said morton. "kin 'er duck swim? 'course i kin run her. kin i have her?" asked jimmie. "yes, you may have them and we will help you in every way we can," said morton. "how's dave beach getting on?" "gee, he's under construction. he's mad at everybody, drinks like er fish and swears ter beat der cars," said jimmie. "you mean that he is under conviction," said morton. "well, what ever she is, dave can't swaller 'er an' she's near choking him." the day of the picnic was warm and bright, a great crowd was there with lunch baskets, and every one was in the best of humor. thirty minutes after the cars reached the park, jimmie's excursion came. the white horses were covered with foam and never did they seem so proud as they danced and pranced up the steep hill to the park. jimmie stood on the back step and was as proud as the team. bill cook lifted swipsey from the wagon and placed him in a hammock. jimmie introduced his load as "der bunch." "when do we eat, hump?" asked bob. "i dunno. i hope mighty soon. jimmie says it's goin' to be swell." "wonder what dey'll have. did yer see any of der stuff?" asked hop. "nope, but i hope they have pie an' soup an' cake wid raisins in it. say, mose, which you'd rather have, sweet potates and possum or watermelon an' 'lasses?" "hush yuh business, man! hush, yuh business! i'd drop dead suh, if i'd see a possum. who said watahmelon? look yah, man, i ain't had no pokchop foh moh 'an a week. hush, man! i can't stan' no foolin' 'bout such impotent mattahs." when dinner was announced morton gave orders to have jimmie with "der bunch" sit at the first table. he told the young ladies who waited upon them to give them everything they wanted. the first things that were passed to them were several plates of ham sandwiches. "please, how many kin i have of 'em, missus?" asked hump. "you can have all you want of them; help yourself," replied the lady. he took no less than seven sandwiches the first grab. all that the rest of "der bunch" needed was some one to start the thing right, so they all took a like amount. "leave der rest of 'em for blind billy," said hump, as one of the ladies started away with one of the plates. "what's dat yeller stuff comin', jim?" whispered swipsey. "gee! don't yer know nothin'?" said jimmie knowingly. "dat's hard eggs wid corn mush over dem." after swipsey had tasted of it a few times, he turned to jimmie and said, "them's taters, jus' common taters, wid dat stuff spilt on 'em and they tastes jus' like green walnuts." more sandwiches, baked beans, pickles, potato salad, lemonade, etc., were being stored away so fast that it kept several ladies busy waiting upon them. when they were well filled mrs. morton sent a plate of fried chicken to their table. mose stood up and looked at it. "look, yuh woman, where dat chicken come from? i'd give my hat if i had dat ol' ham an' bread out of me. i'll put my share of dat chicken away if i bust." they all grabbed at once. jimmie got the largest piece and gave it to blind billy. "i don't want no chicken, no how," he said. two large watermelons followed. they were cut in fancy scallops and the waiter put them both down in front of mose. he took the largest piece and laid his face upon it and laughed until he cried. "mah, watahmelon, what am i eveh 'gwine to do with you. if i eat dat melon, i'll die suh. but i neveh could die any happier." they all ate watermelon till they could hardly straighten up. then, when the ice cream and cake was set before them, there was great sorrow. with tears in his eyes, stumpy stood up and said, "we're der biggest lot of d---fools what ever lived. here we'se are full to der neck wid bread and taters and dem cheap beans dat we'se kin all git ter home and never left no room for chicken, watermelon, ice cream and all dis here kinds of cake. somebody oughter take us out in der woods and kick us ter death." "an' yer all doin' der same ting every day," said jimmie. "yer gits so full of cuss words and shootin' craps and boozin' and stealin' and lyin' dat yer don't have no room fer jesus. jesus is ice cream and cake an' watermelon, an' morton says he's honey outen der rock. yer don't git no feed like dis at fagin's or no where else where they ain't got jesus." on the way home, jimmie attempted to get his load of cripples to accept christ; and the argument they had about "'ligion," as mose called it, would make splendid reading for preachers; but we will pass most of it by. jimmie told them that jesus loved them all and was able to help them. "in der picture i see'd of him, he's got long hair and wears long dresses like a woman and looks jus' like he's goin' ter cry. what's he know erbout guys like us? i can't walk er nothin' and kin a womany man help me?" asked hop. "i don't care erbout no pictures," said jimmie. "he ain't no womany man. he built houses and barns and was a carpenter when he was here. he was born in a barn and slep' in a barn same's i do an' he didn't have no more home 'an i got. he jus' knows what i'm doin' an' what i need an' kin take care of me, 'cause he's been there." when they were in the midst of their argument the wagon stopped in front of dave's barn. dave's opinion on any subject was final in bucktown. "say, dave, come here, will yer?" cried jimmie. "dese pikers are tryin' ter say that jesus don't love 'em and can't save 'em and sech like and i want yer ter prove that i'm right. don't jesus love everybody?" "yes, everybody," said dave. "ain't he got der power der save everybody?" "yes, everybody," said dave. "cripples an' all?" asked jimmie. "yes, cripples and all," said dave. "won't he fergive 'em all der mean things dey done?" "yes, all of them," said dave. "an' won't he take care of 'em all der time?" "yes, all the time," said dave. "now, smartie, what did i tell yer?" said jimmie to hop. "say, dave," said hop, "do yer believe all yer sayin'?" "i certainly do," said dave. "say, dave, why don't yer git it if yer believe it?" dave was dumfounded. "oh, it's not for me, boys," he said. "you see, it's----" "den it's not fer us neither," hop ejaculated. "so yer see yer don't believe a word yer say. we're goin'. so-long, dave." jimmie's eyes filled with tears as he watched dave stand there with his head down. never had he known dave to get the worst of an argument before. as the team started, dave looked up at jimmie; their eyes met for an instant. the pain and sorrow on jimmie's face pierced dave to the heart. chapter xvi _dave strikes his gait_ after jimmie had sold his evening papers he started for dave's barn. his heart was heavy. dave had a wonderful influence over this boy. jimmie loved him and believed him to be a wonderful man. he found dave in his office. "dave, i want ter talk ter yer erbout what hop said ter yer. he said 'at if it wasn't fer you it wasn't fer him either. yer didn't say nothin' and i've been thinkin' maybe yer didn't have nothin' ter say. if yer sure it's not fer yer, how kin it be fer me? i don't know what ter do. i pray fer yer every day but if god don't want yer i might as well give yer up." he buried his face in his hands and began to weep. "it's me that's been wrong, jimmie, not you. i've fought god ever since i've known you. after you went away to-day i hated myself for my cowardice. i know what is right and i'll do it or die." jimmie looked up and said, "der yer mean yer are goin' ter get saved?" "that's just what i mean, jimmie, i am----" but before he could finish his sentence jimmie jumped into his lap and hugged him. "dear old dave, i knowed you'd come. let's go to der mission right away, it's time fer der singin' already." dave walked so fast that jimmie had to run to keep up. the song service was in progress when they reached the mission. they sat down in the front row of seats and after a few songs dave jumped to his feet and said, "excuse me, i want to get saved and i want to get saved bad. i can't wait for the word. i want to get off now. i've scored at will, i've scored by the pole horse and i've laid up a heat or two; but i want to get on my stride and face the wire agoing square. i'm done jockeying and with everything else that's crooked and i'm going into this race teaming for first money. i'll win by the help of god." after the meeting, floe, gene, bill cook and his wife, ike palmer, mike hardy, mr. and mrs. morton and jimmie went with dave to bucktown. he invited them to visit him at his barn; but his office was so small they could not all get in, so they went to the cook residence. dave excused himself and in five minutes returned with fagin. fagin was surprised when he saw the crowd, but he did not seem displeased. dave was the first to speak. "fagin, i let jesus into my life to-night and i want you to do the same thing. we're going to start a sunday school in bucktown and we want your room for the purpose. "this afternoon i denied christ and i feel that i've turned a lot of young folks from god; i will get them back for him if i have to start a sunday school and have meetings in the old barn besides. you know, fagin, the other day when fred hanks tried to kill himself, you told me you were tired of your business and wished you could be a christian. you told me how sorry you were you boozed him up six times after morton had got hold of him. now, fred has given himself to god and is doing good work in the mission and we want you to join us." mrs. fagin was sent for and it took very little persuasion to bring her to a decision for the right. "mr. morton and myself will take the lease for the building off your hands and we'll pay you for what stock you have," dave told them. "you can get into the factory where you used to work and you can live like a man." very little remains to be said. the men that came to god through jimmie moore's ministry made the greatest gospel-wagon crew ever known. in jail, street and mission meetings they worked like one man, never once was any jealousy known to spring up amongst them. not one of them ever went back into the old life for one hour. five of them have been called into god's work and all have been prospered and blessed of god. jimmie is living with mr. and mrs. gene dibble and no one ever saw a happier home. jimmie says, "floe's der best cook what ever happened." dave, bill and fagin used their influence and elected aldermen who closed every stall saloon and house of ill-fame in bucktown. for eight months fagin's place was used for a kindergarten during the week and sunday school on sunday. the railroad company bought the old houses in poverty row and razed them; a side track running to the market has taken their place. one day jimmie stood at the market and said, "gee! dis don't look no more like old bucktown dan a man what's smokin' looks like a christian." [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: "_down sank the gallant ship, driving her crew to the spar-deck._" page 96.] terry's trials and triumphs by j. macdonald oxley author of "in the wilds of the west coast," "diamond rock," "up among the ice-floes," "my strange rescue," &c., &c. t. nelson and sons london, edinburgh, and new york 1900 contents. i. a poor start ii. the way opens iii. uneven going iv. perils by the way v. on board the "minnesota" vi. in hampton roads vii. the great naval combat viii. adventures ashore ix. from friend to friend x. reinstated xi. in a strait betwixt two xii. all's well that ends well illustrations "down sank the gallant ship, driving her crew to the spar-deck." "on being lifted carefully in, miss drummond fainted for the moment." "terry, attired as never before, set out for long wharf." "the whole ship had the appearance of being in readiness for an expected foe." "he succeeded in ingratiating himself with the driver of the train." terry's trials and triumphs. chapter i. a poor start. "give it to him, terry--that's the style!" "punch his head!" "hit him in the face, mike!" "good for you, terry--that was a daisy!" "stick to him, me hearty; ye'll lick him yet!" the shouts came from a ring of ragged, dirty youngsters, who were watching with intense excitement a hand-to-hand and foot-to-foot fight between two of their own kind--a rough-and-tumble affair of the most disorderly sort. they were not well-matched combatants, the one called terry being much inferior in size and weight to the other; but he evidently had the sympathy of the majority of the spectators, and he displayed an amount of vigour and agility that went far to make up for his deficiencies in other respects. in point of fact, he was not fighting his own battle, but that of little patsy connors, whose paltry, yet to him precious, plaything had been brutally snatched away from him by mike hoolihan, and who had appealed to terry to obtain its return. the contest had waged but a few minutes, and the issue was still uncertain, when a shrill cry of, "the peelers! the peelers! they're comin' up the street!" caused a dispersion of the crowd, so speedy and so complete that the boys composing it seemed to vanish like spirits; and when the big blue-coated, silver-buttoned policemen reached the spot, there was nothing to arrest but a woebegone puppy, who regarded them with an expression that meant as plainly as possible,-"please, sirs, it wasn't me; and i don't know where they've gone to." so the guardians of the peace were fain, after giving an indignant glance around, to retire in good order, but with empty hands. * * * * * a life divided between blind alley and the long wharf could hardly have had a hopeful outlook. blind alley was the most miserable collection of tumble-down tenements in halifax. it led off from the narrowest portion of water street, in between two forbidding rows of filthy, four-storied houses, nearly every window of which represented a family, and brought up suddenly against the grim and grimy walls of a brewery, whence issued from time to time the thick, oppressive vapours of steaming malt. the open space between the rows of houses was little better than a gutter, through which you had to pick your way with careful steps if you did not wish to carry off upon your boots and clothing unsavoury reminders of the place. little wonder, then, that so soon as the children of blind alley were big enough to walk they hastened to desert their repulsive playground, in spite of the shrill summons back from their unkempt mothers, who, though they made no attempt to keep them clean, loved them too much to think with composure of their being exposed to the many dangers of busy, bustling water street. it is safe to say that you could not peer into blind alley during any of the hours of daylight without hearing stout mrs. m'carthy, or red-haired mrs. hoolihan, or some other frowsy matron with no less powerful lungs, calling out from her window,-"patsy! norah! where are ye now, ye little villains? ye're the plague of my life wid yer always gettin' out of me sight. come back wid ye now, or i'll beat the very life out o' ye." and if the poor little urchins had not managed to get around the corner so as to be out of sight, they would slink dejectedly back to wait for a more favourable opportunity. terry ahearn's home, if so sweet a name could rightly be given to such wretched quarters, was in the last house on the left-hand side, the two squalid rooms which served all the purposes of kitchen, parlour, and bedrooms being on the second floor, and right against the brewery wall. here he had been born, and had grown up pretty much as the weeds grow--according to his own devices. although the only survivor of several children, his father, who bore the unprepossessing nickname of "black mike," hardly ever noticed him, unless it was to swear at him or cuff him. when sober, black mike was sulky, and when drunk, quarrelsome, so that terry had many excuses for not loving him. as most of mike's earnings went over the bar at the crown and anchor, his wife was obliged to go out scrubbing in order to provide the bread and molasses which, with a few potatoes and an occasional bit of meat, formed the staple of terry's diet. with anything like a fair chance, poor peggy ahearn would have made a tolerably good mother. but her married life had been one long martyrdom, which had broken her spirit and soured her temper. she loved terry with all her heart, and he loved her in return; yet an observer of their mutual relations might well have thought otherwise. he was very apt to be saucy to her if his father was not near, and she rarely addressed him in terms of affection or gentleness. from such surroundings terry, naturally enough, was only too glad to escape. even the public school was more endurable, especially during the long cold winter. in the bright long days of summer there was the long wharf, on which his father worked, and where terry's companions gathered every day, rain or shine, from the beginning of may to the end of october. in terry's general appearance there was nothing at first sight to distinguish him from any of the other "wharf rats" who were his constant companions. they all wore battered hats, ragged clothes, and dirty faces. they all had a fine capacity for shirking work, and for making a great deal of noise when they were enjoying themselves. if you had occasion to talk with terry, however, you would be a dull observer if you did not notice certain qualities of character indicated in his face and form which suggested the thought that there was good stuff in the lad, and that if he had a chance he might turn out to be of some use despite his unpropitious surroundings. he had a bright, pleasant countenance of the genuine irish type, thickly dotted with deep-tinted freckles; a pair of frank, brown eyes; a mop of hair with a decided tendency towards curls and redness; and a well-knit, full-sized frame, whose every muscle was developed to its utmost capacity, and within which there beat a big warm heart, although that might seem to be doubtful sometimes when its owner was in a particularly mischievous mood. "sure, an' i don't know what's ever to be the end of ye," said mrs. ahearn one day, in a more thoughtful tone than was usual with her, after scolding her son for one of his pranks which she had just found out. "ye've got wits enough to be a gentleman, if ye only had a mind to it; but never a bit do ye seem to care, so long as there's a bite for ye to eat." terry's response was so surprising that it fairly took his mother's breath away; for, drawing himself up to his full height, and putting on a look of the utmost determination, he exclaimed,-"and it's a gentleman i mean to be some day, and then it's yourself that will ride in a carriage with glass sides, as fine as miss drummond's." mrs. ahearn's eyes and mouth opened wide with astonishment. what had come over her boy that made him talk in that style? ride in a carriage indeed! faith, the highest expectation she ever permitted herself to entertain was of deliverance from the drudgery of the wash-tub. if that could only be accomplished in some other way than by dying, she would be well content. "listen to him!" she cried. "it's crazy the boy is. me ride in a carriage! sure the only ride i'll ever get in a carriage with glass sides will be when i'm going to the cimitry." then terry did a still more remarkable thing. whether it was his mother's reference to the hearse, or something in his own mind that stirred him, can only be conjectured, but running up to mrs. ahearn he caught her round the waist and gave her a hearty hug, saying,-"ye'll have many a ride in a carriage, and with glass sides too, mother, before that." then he darted off down the stairs, whistling "st. patrick's day in the morning" with all his might, while his mother fell into a chair in sheer bewilderment at her boy's utterly novel behaviour. certainly there had been nothing in terry's past record to give ground for hope of his ever attaining the status of a gentleman owning a carriage. to do as little work and to have as much play as possible seemed to be his ideal of life. more than once a situation as errand-boy had been obtained for him; but he soon forfeited them by neglect of duty, and returned rejoicing to his friends on long wharf. unless a decided change of disposition took place, he bid fair to turn out nothing better than one more recruit for the wretched regiment of "street loafers" that is characteristic of every maritime city. long wharf, terry's "happy hunting ground," so to speak, it must be admitted, possessed a multitude of attractions for boys of his kind. it held an unquestioned pre-eminence among the wharves of halifax for size and superiority of position, thrusting itself out prominently from their midst into the heart of the harbour, while the rest curved away on either hand in undistinguishable monotony. from the foot of long wharf you could comfortably command the whole water-line as from no other vantage-ground. hence, in addition to being one of the busiest places in the city during the day, it was in the summer evenings the favourite resort of the whole neighbourhood--men, women, and children gathering there to enjoy the cool breezes, and to watch the pleasure-boats gliding past with their merry occupants. the wharf was the centre of bustling activity all summer long. from it sailed lines of steamers to the bleak rugged coasts of newfoundland and to the fascinating fairy-land of the west indies, while others voyaged across the ocean to the metropolis of the world. when they returned laden with costly cargoes, the schooners and other sailing-vessels gathered round with gaping holds that had to be filled, and what they did not carry off went into the huge warehouses which stood in opposing rows clear up to the street. by virtue of his relationship to black mike, terry had the freedom of the wharf. it was about the only benefit his father conferred upon him, and he made the most of it, scraping acquaintance with the sailors, especially the cooks of the steamers, running occasional errands for the storekeeper, who might order him off the premises at any time he saw fit, fishing for perch and tomcods, bathing in the north dock at the risk of arrest by the first policeman who should happen along, and having grand games of "i spy" among the maze of stores and sheds. of course, this kind of life could not go on for ever, and there were times when terry paused in his eager quest for amusement long enough to ask himself what he would like to be and to do for a living. the answers to the question were as various as terry's moods. he fain would be a sailor, soldier, fireman, policeman, or coachman, according as he had been most lately impressed with the advantages and attractions of that particular occupation. he even sometimes let his thoughts aspire as high as the position of clerk in the offices of drummond and brown, the owners of long wharf. but that was only in moments of exceptional exaltation, and they soon fell back again to their wonted level. this last idea, remote as the possibility of its fulfilment might seem, had especial vigour imparted into it one morning by a few words that miss kate drummond, the only daughter of the senior partner, happened to let fall. she had driven down with her own pony to take her father home to lunch, and the wharf being such a noisy place, had asked terry, who chanced to be lounging near by, wondering if he would ever be the owner of so fine an equipage, if he would be good enough to hold the pony's head while she sat in the carriage awaiting her father's coming. struck by terry's prepossessing albeit somewhat dirty countenance, she thought she might while away the time by asking him some questions about himself. terry answered so promptly and politely that she became quite interested in him, and finally began to sound him as to his plans for the future. "do you know, terry," said she, with a winning smile that sent a thrill of pleasure clear down to the tips of the boy's bare toes, "i believe something good might be made out of you. your face tells me that you've got it in you to make your way in the world. many a rich and famous man had no better start than you. wouldn't you like to try as they did?" terry turned away his head to hide the blushes that glowed through the tan and freckles on his cheeks, and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "i don't know, mum," said he at last. "i'd like to be a gentleman, and keep a carriage some day." miss drummond gave a pleasant laugh; the answer was so frankly characteristic. to be a gentleman and to ride in a carriage seemed to be the working people's highest ideal of earthly bliss. "well, terry," she responded, taking care that there should be sympathy, not ridicule, in her tone; "if that is your ambition, the way is open to you to try to accomplish it. my grandfather began as a little office-boy, and he had more than one carriage of his own before he died." the look that terry gave miss drummond on hearing these words made her blush a little in her turn; it was such a curious blending of bewilderment and joy. that this radiant creature, who seemed almost as far removed from him as an angel of heaven, should have had a grandfather who was a mere office-boy, was a surprising revelation to him. at the same time, what a vista of hope it opened up! if old mr. drummond, whom he remembered seeing years before, had worked his way up so well, could not others do it also? not knowing just what to say, terry kept silence, and the situation was presently relieved by the appearance of mr. drummond. as miss drummond gathered up the reins, she gave the boy another of her lovely smiles. "thank you very much, terry," she said; "and you'll think over what i've been saying to you, won't you?" terry pulled off his ragged cap in token of promise to do so, and the light carriage whirled away, leaving him with thoughts such as had never stirred his brain before. of course he knew that men had made their way up from humble beginnings to high positions, but the fact had hitherto never been so closely brought home to him; and it was while under the excitement of this idea that he so astonished his mother as related above. chapter ii. the way opens. the seed thus sown by miss drummond began to take root at once. terry now gave more thought to getting a chance to make a start in life than he did to having a good time. and here, as it happened, fortune favoured him in a most unusual way. on the saturday morning of the week after the talk which had set him thinking, he was sitting at the end of the long wharf watching a big steamer making her way slowly up the harbour. it being the noon hour, the wharf hands were all away at dinner, and the place was almost deserted. suddenly he was startled out of his reverie by the sound of hoofs beating with alarming rapidity upon the resounding planks, and turning round he saw what caused him to spring to his feet with every nerve and muscle athrill. thundering down the wharf in blind and reckless flight came miss drummond's pony, while in the carriage behind sat the owner, tugging desperately upon the reins, her face white and set with terror. acting upon the first impulse of the moment, terry ran forward, shouting and waving his cap. then, seeing that to be of no avail, he sprang at the maddened creature's head, hoping to seize the reins. but by a quick swerve the pony eluded him, and the next moment plunged headlong off the end of the wharf, dragging the carriage and its helpless occupant after her. there was a piercing shriek, a splash, a whirl of seething foam, and then the clear green depths closed over all! for the first moment, terry, overcome by the startling suddenness of the accident, knew not how to act. then the impulse to rescue welled up mightily in his breast, and at once he leaped into the disturbed waters, which closed over his curly head. rising almost instantly to the surface, he looked eagerly about him, and caught sight of a hand thrust up in the agony of a struggle for life. a few quick strokes brought him to it, and then, taking in the situation intuitively, he swerved round so as to grasp miss drummond at the neck. he had not spent his life about a wharf without learning something of the difficulty of dealing with drowning persons, and that, strong, expert swimmer as he was, he must not suffer those hands to fasten their frantic grip upon him, or it would mean death for both. so, deftly avoiding the girl's wild clutch, he took good hold of her from the back, and saying beseechingly, "keep ye still now, ma'am, and i'll save ye all right," shoved her through the water in the direction of the wharf. happily she was a young woman of rare self-possession. as soon as she felt terry's firm hand her terror gave way to trust. she ceased her vain strugglings, and committed herself to her rescuer. otherwise, indeed, the poor boy could hardly have been equal to the task. as it was, his strength just lasted until he reached the first row of barnacle-covered spiles; pressing miss drummond up to which he hoarsely directed her--"take good hold of that now, ma'am, and i'll yell for somebody." but he did not need to yell twice. already helpers had gathered above them, and were shouting down words of encouragement; and a moment later a boat darted round the corner of the wharf, propelled by eager oarsmen. on being lifted carefully in, miss drummond, yielding to the reaction, fainted for the moment; whereat terry, who had never seen a woman faint before, set up a wail of grief, thinking she must be dead. [illustration: "_on being lifted carefully in, miss drummond fainted for the moment._"] "oh, the dear lady's dead!" he cried. "ye must be getting a doctor quick." but the others reassured him, and to his vast delight the blue eyes opened again to give him a look of inexpressible gratitude ere the boat touched the landing-steps. here mr. drummond, pale and trembling, the first thrill of numbing horror having just given place to ecstatic joy, awaited them. the instant the boat was within reach he sprang into it, and, regardless of her dripping garments, clasped his daughter to his breast, kissing her again and again, while his quivering lips murmured, "my darling, my darling! god be thanked for your rescue!" releasing herself gently from his arms, miss drummond reached out her hand for terry, who was just scrambling awkwardly ashore. "don't forget to thank him too, father," she said, with a meaning smile. thus reminded, mr. drummond, blushing at the excess of feeling which had caused him to forget everything save that his only daughter, the joy and pride of his life, had been saved from death, laid hold of terry, and drew him back into the boat, where, taking both the boy's hands in his, he said in tones of deep emotion,-"my boy, you have done my daughter and me a service we can never adequately repay. but all that grateful hearts can do we will not fail to do. tell me your name and where you live." poor terry was so abashed at being thus addressed by the great mr. drummond that his tongue refused its office. but one of the bystanders came to his relief. "sure and he's black mike's son, sur, and he lives up blind alley," was the information volunteered. accepting it as though it came from terry himself, mr. drummond, giving the boy's hands another grateful shake, said,-"thank you. you will hear from me before the day ends." then taking his daughter by the arm, he continued,-"come now, darling; we must make all haste up to my office, and see what can be done for you." not until she stepped upon the wharf did miss drummond remember her pony. then the question as to what had become of it flashed into her mind, and she turned to look down the wharf, exclaiming,-"oh, but my pony! poor, dear dolly! what's become of her?" "never mind the pony, dear," said mr. drummond; "the men will look after her. come, come; you'll catch your death of cold staying out here in your dripping clothes." somewhat reluctantly miss drummond obeyed. reassuringly though her father had spoken, she had misgivings as to her pony's fate--misgivings which were in fact only too well founded; for, dragged to the bottom by the weight of the carriage, the poor creature had been drowned in spite of its desperate struggles. when the drummonds disappeared, terry found himself the centre of a circle of admirers, each of whom sought in his own way to give expression to his admiration and envy. "sure and your fortune's made this day, terry, me boy," said the storeman, who wished in his heart that he had been lucky enough to rescue his employer's daughter. "mr. drummond's not the man to forgit his word; and didn't he say he'd do anything in the world for ye?" but terry's triumph was complete when the appearance of his father lounging sullenly back to work, with a short clay pipe between his teeth, was hailed with shouts from the crowd of,-"mike! mike! come here wid ye, till we tell ye what yer boy's been doin'. oh, but you're the lucky man to have a boy like terry!" without a change in his dark countenance, or a quickening of his step, black mike drew near, and silently awaited explanations. when the matter was made clear to him, his face did brighten a little; but whether it was with pride at his son's achievement, or selfish pleasure at the prospect of the benefits that might accrue from it, the keenest observer would have been puzzled to say. he managed, however, to get out something that more closely approached praise than anything terry had ever heard from his lips before, and this delighted the boy so that he had to execute a few steps of his favourite clog dance to relieve his feelings. then, bethinking himself that he had stayed long enough inside his uncomfortably wet clothing, he raced up the wharf, and made for his home in blind alley. here his mother received him with a shower of questions, in the answering of which he found rare delight. "me blessed boy!" the excited woman exclaimed, her feelings strangely divided betwixt horror at the thought of the risk her son had run and joy at its successful issue. "it's proud i am of you this day. no doubt but ye'll be your mother's comfort." "and make ye ride in a carriage with glass sides, eh, mother?" said terry with a merry twinkle in his eye. "ah! now don't be talking such foolishness, terry," returned mrs. ahearn, in a tone that implied to do so was tempting providence perchance. "if your old mother has only a bit and sup sure to the end of her days, and a decent gown to put on, she'll be content enough without the carriage." that afternoon mr. drummond picked his way carefully through the perils of blind alley to the grimy tenement where the ahearns abode, and inquired for terry. the latter, having exchanged his wet garments for the only others his scanty wardrobe contained, had gone down again to long wharf; so, after exchanging a few kind words with his mother, mr. drummond followed him thither, saying to himself, as he cautiously stepped from stone to stone, for the alley was little better than a mere muddy gutter, "the boy must be detached from these surroundings if anything is to be made of him. and he has a bright face. he ought to have good stuff in him. certainly he shall have a fair trial at my hands, for i owe him more than money can repay." on reaching his office, mr. drummond sent one of the clerks out to hunt terry up, and presently he returned with the lad in tow, looking very bashful and ill at ease. he was attired in his "sunday best," and boasted a face and hands of unwonted cleanliness. the merchant gave him a warm greeting, and made him sit down in a chair in front of him, while he scanned his countenance closely. "my dear boy," said he after a pause, and seeming well satisfied with the result of his inspection, "as i have already told you, i feel that i am indebted to you for a service the worth of which cannot be put down in money; and it is not by offering you money that i would prove my gratitude. the money would be soon spent, leaving you no better, and possibly worse, than before it was given you. no; you have saved my daughter's life, and in return i want to save yours, though in a somewhat different way. look me straight in the eyes, please." for the first time since he had entered mr. drummond's presence terry lifted his big brown eyes, and looked full into his face, his freckles being submerged in the warm flush that swept over his face as he did so. "ah!" said mr. drummond, "i was not mistaken. your face gives warrant of many good qualities that you've had small chance to develop thus far. it will be my privilege and pleasure to give you the opportunity circumstances have hitherto denied you. how would you like to go to a nice school?" terry had been listening with eager attention and brightening countenance; but at the mention of the word "school" his face suddenly fell, and from the restless twitching of his body it was very evident that the idea had no attraction for him at all. mr. drummond's keen eye did not fail to note the effect of his question, and without stopping to argue the point he promptly put another. "well, then, how would you like to be taken into my office and taught to be a clerk?" instantly the boy's face burst into bloom, so to speak, and giving the merchant a look which said as plain as words, "i hope you really mean it," he exclaimed,-"sure, sir, an' it's now ye're talkin'." mr. drummond could not suppress a smile at terry's quaint phrase that went so straight to the mark. "you shall have your own way then," he responded in his pleasantest tone, "and you may begin as soon as you like. let me just say this to you, my boy," he continued, drawing terry towards him with one hand, and placing the other on his shoulder. "i want to be your friend for life. you can always rely upon that. but i cannot do for you what you alone can do for yourself. you will meet with many trials and temptations that you will have to fight all by yourself. i will at all times be glad to give you the best counsel i can. but in the end you must make your own way. no one else can make it for you. by being faithful to my interests, terry, you will most surely advance your own. never forget that. and now, good-bye for the present. mr. hobart in the outer office has some business to do with you right away, and i will look for you bright and early on monday morning." rather relieved at the interview being over, and feeling as though he would have to go prancing and shouting down the whole length of long wharf to give vent to his delight at what mr. drummond had said, terry slipped out of the merchant's sanctum, and found a pleasant-looking young man evidently awaiting him in the office. "come in here, terry," said he, "and tell us your good-luck." in the fulness of his heart terry was only too glad to find a confidant, and without reserve he related all that had been said, as well as he could remember it. "phew!" whistled the clerk. "you've got on the right side of the old man, and no mistake. no putting you off with a sovereign and a paragraph in the papers. whatever he says goes, i can tell you. come along now; i'm to have the pleasure of making a swell out of you." in some bewilderment as to mr. hobart's meaning, terry obediently accompanied him up to granville street, where they entered a gentleman's outfitting establishment, before whose broad plate-glass windows the boy had often stood in covetous appreciation of the fine things so dexterously displayed therein. with an air of easy self-possession that terry profoundly admired, mr. hobart called upon a brilliantly-arrayed clerk to show them their ready-made clothing. they went into the rear part of the shop, and then the purpose of their coming was made clear. "you're to have a complete outfit of good clothes, terry," said mr. hobart. "and mr. drummond, knowing my good taste in such matters, has put the business in my hands, so you'll please be good enough to entirely approve of my selections." his manner was so kind and pleasant that terry felt as though there was hardly anything on earth that he would not have been willing to do for him, let alone approving of the benefactions he was the instrument of bestowing. "indeed that i will, sir," he responded, with a warmth that made the clerk smile in such a patronizing way that mr. hobart cut him short by saying curtly,-"well, then, let me see something in the way of pepper-and-salt tweeds." so the work of fitting terry out began. mr. hobart seemed no less particular than if he were choosing the various articles for his own wardrobe. he had _carte-blanche_ from mr. drummond, and the matter of cheapness was not to be taken into account. it all seemed like a beautiful dream to terry. a fine suit of clothes, that fitted him as though they had been cut to order; a pair of scarlet braces with bright brass clasps such as his heart had often vainly hungered for; three good flannel shirts for week-day wear, and three lovely linen ones for sabbaths; a sheaf of collars and a roll of cuffs; and, finally, to top it all, a hard felt hat, the like of which had never before been on his head;--one after another were these fine feathers procured, and the money for them paid down from a bundle of notes which terry, in his ignorance of money in that form, thought must contain at least a thousand pounds. it took over an hour to complete the business, mr. hobart evidently enjoying it in no small degree himself. at last, however, he seemed satisfied with his work, and giving terry a friendly clap on the back, he said,-"there, now; you're qualified to be a credit to drummond and brown's office, so far as appearance goes at all events. you can trot along home now. they'll send the things there for you." eager to tell his mother of the wonders of the day, terry darted off, and in a few minutes was at home in blind alley. with many exclamations of gratitude to the "blessed saints," and many interjected questions, did mrs. ahearn listen to his wonderful story; and when the parcels arrived, she spread out their contents upon the bed and fell upon her knees before them. for many years her life had known but scant rays of sunshine, and this sudden outburst almost overwhelmed her. with trembling fingers she gently touched the different articles, as though to assure herself that her eyes were not playing her false. then rising to her feet again, her eyes streaming and lips quivering, she threw her arms around terry and hugged him to her heart. with a mother's fond prescience she grasped the fact that in him, and in him alone, had she hope of redress for the sorrows which had so deeply shadowed her life. terry's chance had come, and his future and hers depended upon the way in which he availed himself of it. chapter iii. uneven going. it was with a queer jumble of feelings palpitating in his young bosom that terry, attired as never before in his life, set out for long wharf on monday morning. blind alley seemed to swarm with women and children, who first gazed in wild-eyed astonishment at his appearance, and then proceeded to give vent to their admiration or envy in remarks that would have sorely tried the composure of a stump orator hardened by many campaigns. [illustration: "_terry, attired as never before, set out for long wharf._"] "the blessed saints presarve us! did ye ever see the loike?" gasped mrs. o'rafferty, with a side glance at the gutter, where her own phelim was hunting for a lost marble, and looking more like a mud-turtle than a bit of humanity. "get on to the hat, will you?" shouted tim doolin, his fingers itching to throw a handful of mud at it, but his head telling him that to do so would insure a tremendous thrashing, for terry's prowess with his fists was not to be gainsaid. "sure he's got a place in front of clayton's, and has to stand there all day on exhibition," sneered sly tony butler, pretending that he thought terry was to play the part of a living advertisement for a well-known ready-made clothing firm. through this ordeal terry hastened with a deprecating smile, as though to say, "really, you're making an absurd fuss about a most trifling matter;" and wisely refraining from any retort, he drew a deep breath of relief when he reached water street, and became merged in the crowd of well-dressed clerks hurrying to their offices. on arriving at long wharf, he could not resist the impulse to take one look over his beloved playground before reporting himself at drummond and brown's. he clearly realized that if he would take full advantage of the opportunity now open to him, the dock would know him no more as in the past; and besides that, he did want to let his playmates, who would have his company no longer, see his fine feathers in their pristine freshness. the chorus of praise they elicited would have contented a much more exacting heart than terry's, and in answering the questions showered upon him he ran the risk of not being "bright and early," as mr. drummond had enjoined upon him. happily, however, the boom of the market clock reminded him in time, and darting back up the wharf he entered the big warehouse, the front part of whose ground floor was given up to a suite of offices, in which many of the clerks had already assembled for the day's work. terry's impulse carried him as far as inside the door, and then it deserted him, leaving him completely stranded. now that he was in the office, he had not the slightest idea what to do with himself. the clerks were busy getting their books out, and chaffing one another as to the doings of the night before. no one seemed to notice him, and feeling acutely uncomfortable he shrank into a corner, a longing to run off again coming over him with great force. he could see nothing of mr. hobart, and in his utter strangeness his heart sank in chill despair. how remote seemed the possibility of his ever taking his place among that group of dashing young fellows, who had so much to tell each other of enjoyments and exploits in spheres of society far beyond his ken! a movement that he made in his agitation at length attracted the attention of a young lad about his own age, who, looking sharply at him, asked in a rude tone,-"well, sonny, what is it you want?" for a moment terry was nonplussed for a reply. how could he explain his position to this saucy-looking inquirer? then by a happy inspiration, it occurred to him to ask for his friend of saturday afternoon, and in a low, hesitating voice he said,-"i want to see mr. hobart, please." "say, there, walter!" shouted the clerk, in the direction of an inner office, "there's a young kid asking for you here. did you forget to pay your washer-woman on saturday night?" mr. hobart appeared quickly, and the moment his eyes fell upon terry (who even in the midst of his discomposure had his wits sufficiently about him to take in the meaning of the clerk's impertinence, and his eyes were brimming in consequence) he sprang towards the speaker, and seizing him by the collar, gave him a vigorous shaking, saying meanwhile in indignant tones,-"see here, morley: if you don't keep your sauce to yourself, you'll get something worse than a shaking. do you know who that is? it's the boy who saved miss drummond's life, and he's got the makings of a better man in him than you have, or i'm much mistaken." then turning to terry he continued, as he released his hold on morley, "come right inside here, terry, and i'll introduce you to the boys." the appearance of his friend, and the warmth with which he took up his cause, worked a complete revolution in terry's feelings. the tears vanished from his eyes, and with a broad smile lighting up his countenance he obeyed mr. hobart's bidding; while morley, looking very much crestfallen, and displaying a malignant scowl that boded no good to the new-comer, went sullenly back to his desk. mr. hobart introduced terry to each of the clerks, and they all shook hands with him cordially. his gallant rescue of their employer's daughter prepared them to like him, and his honest, good-humoured face disarmed, for the time at least, any feelings of opposition to his entry into their ranks. there were nearly a dozen of them altogether, from the senior book-keeper, gray-bearded and spectacled, down to tom morley, whose work it was to look after collecting the wharfage. mr. hobart held the responsible post of finance-clerk. he attended to all the banking; paid the labourers on friday evenings and made out the salary cheques at the end of the month; and by virtue of the importance of his duties, and the evident favour in which he was held by the firm, stood next to the book-keeper in the estimation of his associates. terry was very fortunate in having his support at the start, particularly as he had taken a decided liking to the boy, and was quite willing to act as his patron, and to pilot him through the difficulties of his new surroundings. the civil war in the united states was then at its height, and halifax, as a neutral port, open to the vessels of both contestants for supremacy, occupied a peculiarly advantageous position. never before in the history of the city had business been brisker or money more plentiful. hardly a day passed without its quota of steamships or sailing-vessels pressing into the splendid harbour, and willing to pay almost any price in good gold for immediate attention. nor were these profitable customers of the harmless merchant class only. from time to time there appeared grim men-of-war, looking terribly business-like with their rows of black-muzzled guns; and now and then the whole city was thrown into excitement by the sudden advent of one of the far-famed confederate cruisers, which did such fearful damage to federal commerce--as, for instance, the renowned _tallahassee_, whose trim black form came dashing through the white caps one fine summer morning, while far out in the offing a keen eye could discern the dark shapes of her disappointed pursuers. but most interesting of all such visitors were the blockade-runners, the _colonel lamb_, the _robert e. lee_, and the like. marvels of beauty and speed they were, their low, graceful hulls painted a soft gray tint, so as to make them invisible at sea when only a few miles distant; and in the eyes of the halifax boys every man on board was a hero, and the object of profound admiration. this feeling, moreover, was by no means confined to the boys. if at any time during the war a poll of the haligonians had been taken, the majority in favour of the south would certainly have been very large. self-interest, no doubt, had much to do with this state of affairs; and, besides that, there was current the belief that the south was fighting for freedom rather than for the maintenance of slavery. the firm of drummond and brown having had extensive business connections with the southern states for many years before the war, it was but natural that long wharf should be the favoured resort of the confederate vessels. the blockade-runners, without exception, docked there; and, as a matter of course, from the heads of the firm down to the humblest toiler on the wharf, everybody belonging to the establishment was confederate to the core. as for terry ahearn, so fervent was his sympathy with the south, that up to the time of his being taken into the office, had he ever received any encouragement, he would have unhesitatingly joined himself to the crew of a blockade-runner in any capacity they would have for him. happily for him they had no use for boys on board these vessels, and his desires remained unrealized, until the opening up of a new life to him through his being taken into mr. drummond's employment diverted his thoughts into an altogether different channel. certainly he had much to think about during the first period of his clerkship. it was a big change for a boy to make in a day--from careless, idle play in ragged clothes about a dock, varied by an occasional trip coastward, when he could persuade the captain of one of the many packet schooners to take him along as an extra hand, to steady-going service in an office, with the accompanying requirements of always being neat, well-dressed, and respectful in demeanour to those about him. and greatly as terry rejoiced in the sudden advance, he would have been more than mortal if he had not found his new environment bristling with difficulties which neither the favour of mr. drummond nor the friendly offices of mr. hobart could materially help him to overcome. he did not fail to feel keenly the marked contrast between his own speech and manners and those of tom morley, for instance; nor was he blind to the fact that his educational equipment was deplorably deficient. how bitterly he regretted that he had not taken more advantage of his opportunities at school, and how fervently he vowed to do his best to make up lost ground so far as might be possible! it was no slight addition to his embarrassments that all unwittingly he had at the very start incurred the enmity of tom morley, who thenceforward did everything that he dared to annoy him. tom was a clever boy himself, and had enjoyed many advantages in his bringing up. he took to business as naturally as a duck to water, and but for certain characteristics, would have been held in high esteem in the office. unhappily, however, he had a sly, jealous, selfish nature, that soon revealed itself, because, forsooth, he made little attempt to conceal it, and this effectually barred his way to popularity. even without the _contretemps_, for which he alone was responsible, on the morning terry first came to the office, morley would have taken a dislike to terry simply because of his good fortune. now that there was double cause for such a feeling, he let it have full play, and if poor terry had done him some mortal injury he could not have shown a more vicious spirit towards him. he mimicked his brogue for the amusement of his fellow-clerks; he made sneering remarks about his clothes; he played practical jokes upon him to raise a laugh at his expense; in fact, he behaved so abominably towards him, that there were times when only the restraining influence of his surroundings kept terry back from rushing upon him with clenched fists. being thus beset, terry found his lot far harder than he had conceived, and needed all the help that came to him from his mother's sympathy, mr. drummond's kindly interest, and mr. hobart's good-humoured helpfulness, in order to keep up his courage. it was, therefore, a welcome inspiration to him when, on the saturday following the rescue, miss drummond appeared at the office, quite recovered from her startling experience, and as soon as she arrived asked for her rescuer. in some trepidation terry went into mr. drummond's sanctum, where he was warmly welcomed by the young lady. "why, terry, how well you look!" she exclaimed, beaming radiantly upon him. "i'm so glad you're in my father's office. i know you're going to make a capital clerk." terry could find nothing to say; so miss drummond went on,-"i believe, terry, that an important thing in a clerk is to be always in time, and as i want you to have no difficulty on that score, i got this little timekeeper for you, and am going to ask you to wear it in memory of to-day week, so that you won't forget the service that you rendered me then." while thus speaking she took from her reticule a small watch in a silver case, with a neat silver charm attached, and opening the case showed terry where his name in full was engraved inside, and underneath it the words, "in recognition of rescue," with the proper date appended. drawing terry towards her, she secured the watch in his vest, while he did his best to stammer out his gratitude. "never mind about thanks, terry," said miss drummond. "you may consider it your medal for life-saving, you know. and never forget, terry, that in business a good watch is the next best thing to a good conscience." terry went back to his place in a tumult of joy and pride. naturally enough, the first thing he did was to show his new treasure to mr. hobart and the others. they all admired it, and congratulated him; except morley, who, professing to be very much engrossed in his work, bent a scowling face over his desk. terry's good fortune had affected him in the same way that joseph's rather indiscreet relation of his dreams affected his elder brethren, so that without any other cause of offence he came to "hate him, and could not speak peaceably unto him." as may be easily understood, terry gave him many chances to vent his baseless spite. everything about the office was utterly new to him. the days were full of blunders, and whenever these were explained there was morley enjoying the poor boy's discomfiture, and, if mr. hobart did not happen to be at hand, letting fall cutting remarks that made terry wince as though they were strokes of a whip. although none of the other clerks showed the same spirit as morley, still they did not attempt to interfere, partly because they thought that terry needed to be "licked into shape," and partly because they did not approve of his advent quite as cordially as mr. hobart. he was of a different class from them, and they could not sympathize with him in the same degree as if he were one of themselves. thus the new way that had been opened up to terry proved to be set thick with difficulties, which would severely test his qualities of self-control and determination in order to their overcoming; and when the boy's previous life and surroundings were taken into account, the chances could hardly be said to be in his favour. mr. hobart, it is true, showed every disposition to befriend him; but he was a very busy man, the hardest worker on the whole staff, and there were days when a kind, encouraging smile as he bustled about his work was all the communication terry had with him. it soon became clear to terry that he must fight his own battles--that, as mr. drummond had said, he must make his own way--and it was with many misgivings as to the result that he set himself to the undertaking. chapter iv. perils by the way. by the end of his first month of service terry had become somewhat accustomed to the novelties of his position, and bid fair to prove a useful acquisition to the staff. his intimate knowledge of the business portion of the city stood him in good stead. he knew every wharf in halifax, and more than half the vessels that tied up at them, and could always be counted upon to find any one of them that the office wanted to communicate with. there were many times when, being on some commission of this kind, he was sharply tempted to indulge in a little dalliance with his old playmates, who were more eager for his company than ever now that they were deprived of it. on a hot summer day, after a long forenoon of tiresome tramping through the dusty streets delivering bills or getting replies to inquiries, the longing to take a plunge into the cool green water of the dock was very hard to resist. at such times his fine clothes were apt to feel like fetters, which it would be an inexpressible relief to cast off and return to his former tatters. again and again he succeeded in withstanding the temptation; but one sultry, oppressive afternoon in august proved too much for him, and he yielded, though could he only have foreseen the consequences he would surely have held firm. he had been sent out to collect wharfage accounts. they were usually trifling as to amount, and the method was for the clerk paying the bill to mark it down in a small book terry carried as well as to take a receipt, thus making a double record. this fateful afternoon it happened that terry's collections reached a larger amount than usual, totalling up nearly fifty dollars. he finished his round away up at west's wharf, and feeling very hot and tired went down to have a look at the cool salt water. he found there a half-dozen boys, nearly all of whom he knew, just getting ready for a hilarious swim in the dock. they hailed him at once with pressing requests to join them. "come along, terry; off with your duds. it's a great day for a duck," and so forth, growing more and more urgent as they perceived him to waver in his resolution of refusal. finally, a couple of them, having got rid of their own garments, rushed upon him, and seizing him on either side, proceeded to pull off his hat and coat, and to unbutton his vest; while the others, with loud shouts of, "here she goes! who's last?" dived joyously into the seductive depths. this was more than terry could stand. giving each of his captors a smart slap that sent them capering off uttering feigned cries of pain, he tore off his own clothes, flung them in a heap on the wharf, and with a shout of "here we are again!" described a graceful parabola in the air ere he shot head first into the water. he had what he would have called a "high old time." abandoning himself entirely to the pleasure of the moment, the restraint of the preceding weeks gave all the keener zest to his enjoyment. he was the very last to leave the water, and when he came out several of the boys had already dressed and gone away. he did not notice this until he took up his clothes to put them on. then, to his surprise, he found that his vest, containing the money that he had collected, was missing. thinking that this was merely an attempt at a joke on him, he said good-humouredly, as he hastened to dress,-"when you fellows have done with that vest, just bring it back, will you?" but the only response was a general protest of entire ignorance on the part of those around him, and although, growing angry, he threatened all sorts of vengeance upon the perpetrator of the joke if he did not promptly make restitution, he was still met by persistent denials. while in the very midst of this, tom morley came down the wharf looking sharply about him. on catching sight of terry he first made as though he would go up to him. then a thought flashed into his mind that caused him to halt, and with a smile of malicious satisfaction playing over his ugly face, he wheeled about and vanished up the wharf. but threaten or coax as he might, terry could learn nothing as to what had become of his vest, save that it must have been carried off by one of the boys who had gone ashore and dressed before any of the others, and--what made matters worse--the latter did not seem to know anything about him. they had not seen him before that day, and they had no idea whence he had come or whither he had gone. when the full sense of his loss came to terry he was in a sad state of mind. the thief, whoever he was, had got away not only with the fifty dollars, but with the silver watch--miss drummond's gift. little wonder then if the poor boy, going off to a corner where he would not be observed, gave way to tears. he felt himself to be in a very serious plight. had he been doing his duty when robbed he need not have feared an explanation. but he had been neglecting his duty; and not only so, but tom morley, who, as he well knew, would take only too much pleasure in telling on him, had caught him in the act. "i can never go back to the office," he sobbed. "they'll not believe me whatever i say. they'll be thinkin' i've taken the money myself, and made up a story to get out of the scrape. oh, if i could only lay my hands this blessed minute on the villain that run off with my vest! just wouldn't i give him the worst licking he ever had in his life--bad cess to him!" the heat of his anger against the cause of his distress dried up his tears, and feeling somewhat ashamed at having allowed them to flow, he gave himself a shake, and without any definite purpose in mind strolled over to the other side of the wharf, where a smart schooner was moored. now it chanced that the captain of this schooner was a friend of terry's, having taken some interest in the bright, energetic boy whom he had seen at long wharf; and he happened to be sitting on the cabin deck when terry came along, looking very downcast. "hollo, terry!" he cried cheerily. "you seem to be in the dumps. what's the matter?" terry had no inclination to tell him the reason of his dejection, so he evaded the question by responding-"nothin' much;" and then adding in a tone of decided interest, "where are you going? you seem near ready to start." "so i am, terry," replied the captain. "i'll be off for boston inside of an hour. would you like to come?" terry's heart gave a sudden leap. here was a way out of his difficulties. if he stayed in halifax, he might have the police after him at any moment, and of the police he had a most lively dread; while, if he slipped away to boston, he would be rid of the whole trouble. "do you mean it, captain, or are you after foolin' me?" he asked, peering eagerly into the mariner's honest countenance. "i mean it right enough, terry," was the reply. "i'm wanting a cabin-boy, and you'll do first-rate. can you come aboard at once?" terry reflected a moment. he ought to tell his mother before he went. she would be sure to worry about him. but then if he did tell her she'd make a fuss, and perhaps stop him altogether. no; if he were going, his best plan was to say nothing about it, but just go on board. noting his hesitation, the captain said,-"i'll not be sailing for an hour yet, so if you want to get anything you'll have time to if you'll be sharp about it." with a quick toss of his head that meant he had made up his mind, terry responded,-"i'll go. i've nothin' to get. i'll go right on board now;" and springing into the shrouds, he swung himself lightly on to the deck. the die was cast. rather than face the consequences of his dereliction of duty he would take refuge in flight, leaving tom morley free to put as black a face upon his conduct as he pleased, thereby causing deep disappointment to those who had befriended him, and sore grief to his poor mother, who would be utterly at a loss to account for his strange disappearance. it never entered into captain afleck's easy-going mind to inquire whether terry ought to ask permission of somebody before taking service as cabin-boy on board his schooner. he himself had no family ties of any kind, and he took it for granted that other people were in the same position, unless they claimed something to the contrary. so when terry jumped aboard the _sea-slipper_, thereby signifying acceptance of his offer, that was an end of the matter so far as he was concerned. once committed to the going away, terry was all impatience for the schooner to start; and the stretching of the hour captain afleck had just mentioned into two gave him a good deal of concern, as every minute he dreaded the appearance of some clerk from drummond's, perhaps even mr. hobart himself, sent to look after him. he would have liked very much to have hidden in the cabin until the schooner had got well away from the wharf, but he was wise enough to realize that so doing might arouse the captain's suspicions, and lead him summarily to cancel the engagement. however, at last his anxiety on this score was put at rest by the _sea-slipper_ warping slowly out into the stream; and then, as the big sails were hoisted, and they bellied out with the afternoon breeze, she glided off on a tack across the harbour that soon put a wide distance between her and the wharves. no fear of being followed now. terry was as safe from that as though he were already in boston; and in the mingled feelings with which, from the stern of the schooner, he watched the line of wharves losing their distinctness, and the rows of houses melting into one dark mass against the sloping, citadel-crowned hill, there was no small proportion of relief. he had solved the problem so suddenly presented that afternoon in a very poor and unsatisfactory fashion, it is true. still, it was solved for the present at least; and bearing in mind terry's training and opportunities for moral culture, he must not be too hardly judged for the folly of his action. by the time the fast-sailing schooner had passed meagher's beach light, and was beginning to rise and pitch in the long ocean billows, terry, with all the heedlessness of boyhood, had thrown his cares to the wind, and given himself up to the enjoyment of the hour. he was quite at home on the sea, having already had several trips along the coast through the kindness of captains who had taken a fancy to him. seasickness had no terrors for him. he might have undertaken to sail round the world without missing a meal; and at supper that evening he showed so keen an appetite that captain afleck, who had allowed him to sit down with him for the sake of hearing him talk, said jestingly,-"why, terry, my boy, you eat so hearty that i ought to have laid in an extra stock of food, so we mightn't run short before we get to boston." not a bit disconcerted by this chaff, terry went on busily munching the food, which was much better than he got at home, and which he proposed to enjoy thoroughly while he had the chance. "ah, you young monkey!" laughed the captain, shaking his knife at him, "you know when you're well off, don't you, now?" "it's yourself says it, captain," responded terry, as well as he could with his mouth full. "i'm thinking i would like to hire with you for a year, if ye'll always give me as good food." "and is it only the food you care for, terry?" asked the captain, the smile on his face giving way to a serious look. "you're not such a poor creature as that, are you?" terry's countenance crimsoned, and his head dropped upon his breast, while he worked his hands together nervously. at last he managed to stammer out,-"faith, captain, i didn't say so." "no, terry, you didn't," said the captain, in a soothing tone. "nor did you mean it either. i'm only testing you a bit. look here, terry, listen to me now. what do you intend to do with yourself as you grow older? do you think of following the sea?" once more the colour mounted high in terry's face. the question was a home-thrust which he knew not how to parry, and so he simply kept silence; while captain afleck began to wonder why his question, asked in such an offhand way, should have so marked an effect upon the boy. getting no answer, he sought to ease the situation by saying kindly,-"if you think i'm over-inquisitive, terry, you needn't say anything. it's none of my business any way." touched by the captain's genuine kindness of tone, terry's irish heart opened towards him, and he impulsively began to tell him the whole story of the past month. captain afleck listened with unmistakable interest and sympathy, interrupting but seldom, and then only to put a question to make the matter clearer to his comprehension. when the recital was finished, he stretched his big brown hand across the table to terry, and taking hold of his little freckled fist, gave it a grip that made the boy wince, saying, with the full strength of his deep, bass voice,-"you're a brick, terry, my boy, even if you have made a mistake in running away with me instead of clearing up the whole thing with mr. drummond. but i'll see you through, terry, as sure as my name's afleck. you'll come back with me, and we'll go to see mr. drummond as soon as we land." poor little terry! the kind action, and still kinder words and tone, were too much for him altogether. he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears, while the captain said soothingly,-"that's all right, terry; i know just how you feel. cheer up now. you'll be back in mr. drummond's office inside of a month." as quickly as sunshine follows shower in april, terry's bright spirit reasserted itself, and he turned into his bunk that night in the enjoyment of the cheerful frame of mind which was his wont. he awoke next morning to see the last of the nova scotian coast disappearing astern, and for the first time in his life to be entirely out of sight of land. the wind continued favourable all that day and the next, greatly to the satisfaction of captain afleck, who wanted to lose no time in making the round trip, as business was brisk between halifax and boston then, and the more trips he could put in the better for his pocket. terry enjoyed the voyage thoroughly. his duties were not onerous, and out of love for the kind-hearted captain he fulfilled them promptly and neatly. when they were all attended to he had a good margin of time for himself, and he found captain afleck ready to talk or to tell stories from his own extensive experience at sea. then the seamen, of whom there were four, proved very friendly, and seemed always glad of his company; so that everything helped to render the short voyage a real delight to the boy, who did everything in his power to pay his way by good behaviour. the evening of the fourth day was closing in when the _sea-slipper_ entered massachusetts bay; and if captain afleck had not been so eager to save time, he would have been content with getting inside boston light and anchoring there until morning. but he knew the ship-channel well, having often passed up it before, and he determined to push in, although the wind was dropping fast. the darkness fell before he had cleared lovel's island, and the sky being overcast he had only the harbour lights to guide him. nevertheless he kept on, though it was little better than feeling his way. the schooner thus crept up as far as governor's island, and the city lights began to come into view. "ah!" exclaimed captain afleck, bringing the palm of his hand down with a smart slap on his thigh as he stood at the wheel, "we'll make the dock to-night yet, even if i have to hail a tug to tow me in." he had hardly spoken when suddenly there loomed up on the port side the dim form of a huge steamer bearing down on the schooner at full speed; and then it flashed upon the captain that in his eagerness to get into port he had omitted to put up the regulation lights. there was no time to do it now. the only chance of escaping a collision was to go off on the other tack. round spun the wheel, and swiftly the men sprang to the sails. but the schooner refused to answer her helm for lack of steerage way, and lay almost motionless right in the steamer's path. leaping upon the bulwarks, captain afleck shouted with all his strength,-"ahoy, there! keep away, or you'll run us down!" but even if his warning had been heard, it was too late to heed it; and a minute later, with a tremendous shock, the steamer crashed into the schooner just abaft of the fore-chains. chapter v. on board the "minnesota." when the crash came, terry was standing at the stern, a little in front of captain afleck, who held the wheel. the shock hurled him to the deck; but he instantly leaped to his feet again, and as he did so the captain's voice rang out,-"jump for the martingale, terry! quick!" the great bowsprit of the colliding vessel overhung the shattered and sinking schooner like the outreaching branch of a tree. it offered the one possible chance of escape from death. already two of the sailors were frantically striving for it. terry had not lost his wits despite the suddenness of the catastrophe. just before him were the main-shrouds, tense and taut with the tremendous strain upon them. springing into these, he climbed hand over hand with a celerity born of frequent practice on vessels lying at the docks, until he reached the angles made by the shackling of the martingale stays to the dolphin-striker of the other vessel. into these he put his feet, and clasping the dolphin-striker tightly with both arms he held on in safety, while with a strange, grinding, crashing sound the big steamer, having regained her impetus after the brief check, passed over the poor _sea-slipper_, sending her down into the dark depths beneath! the moment his own safety was assured, terry thought of captain afleck, and in the silence which for a moment followed the noise of the collision, his clear, strong voice made itself hoard calling,-"captain afleck, where are you? are you all right?" it was too dark for him to see beyond the length of his arm, but he hoped that the captain had, like himself, got hold of the steamer somewhere, and thus saved his own life. nor was his hope unfounded. out of the darkness below came the captain's answer,-"i'm here, terry, holding on for dear life. where are you yourself?" before terry could answer there was a flashing of lights above, and eager hands were stretched out holding ropes with a bight at the end, one of which terry caught, while another was grasped by the captain, and presently they were both drawn up to the deck amid the cheers of a crowd of sailors anxiously watching the operation. not only so, but in like manner two of the sailors were found clinging to the bowsprit rigging. the other two, unhappily, were in the forecastle at the time of the collision, and before they could reach the deck their chance was gone, and the poor fellows had been drawn down to death with the ill-fated schooner. as soon as captain afleck had got his feet firmly on the deck, he looked about at the circle of smiling sailors, and with as cheerful an expression as though being run down were quite a common experience, he exclaimed,-"well, you did me up on short notice; and serve me well right too, i suppose, for not having my lights up. but who may you be, and where away?" a jaunty little midshipman who had just pressed his way through the crowd responded at once,-"we're the united states war-ship _minnesota_, and we're extremely sorry we ran you down; but you had no lights out, you know, and we didn't see you until we were right upon you. are you all safe? i'm sure i hope so." captain afleck looked round about him, and then, with a sorrowful shake of his head, replied,-"we're all here but two. joe and alec were in the foc'sle when you struck us, and i guess they hadn't time to get out. poor chaps! it's a mean way to die, ain't it?--like rats in a hole." the look of importance on the middy's face changed to one of genuine concern at this, and with a courteous bow he said,-"will you please come astern and be presented to the captain?" as they traversed the deck, terry's keen eyes would have told him the character of the vessel on board which he had been thus suddenly and strangely flung, so to speak, even if the boyish officer, who seemed little older than himself, had not already done so. the long black cannon stood close together upon their heavy carriages, with everything at hand, ready for immediate action if need be. stands of rifles were ranged around the masts and the base of the funnels; and the whole ship had the appearance, as revealed by the light of many lanterns, of being in readiness for an expected foe. [illustration: "_the whole ship had the appearance of being in readiness for an expected foe._"] more than one ship similarly equipped had terry seen in halifax harbour, and being, like all the other boys of the city, a fervent sympathizer with the south in the lamentable civil war, he had cordially hated them, and heartily wished them at the bottom of the sea. now, by an odd stroke of fate, he found himself a waif on board one of these very vessels, and he didn't like the idea at all. blinded by his prejudice in favour of their antagonists, he had been wont to look upon the northern men as ruffians and bullies and cut-throats. naturally enough, he felt some apprehensions as to his safety in their midst. but there was no retreat for him now. he had no alternative save to accept the situation, which, to his credit be it told, he strove to do with a brave countenance, even though it hid a beating heart. following in the wake of captain afleck, who on his part was troubled with no such misgivings, his relations with the new england people having always been so satisfactory that his sympathies leaned to their side in the struggle, terry presently was ushered into a roomy and handsome cabin, brilliantly lit, where several officers in rich uniform were seated at a table, listening to a report of the collision just being presented by the navigating lieutenant, who had been on the bridge at the time. the entrance of two of the survivors of the disaster caused the officers to rise to their feet, and the one who evidently held the highest rank to say in a tone of sincere interest, as he held out his hand,-"i presume you are the captain of the schooner we have been so unfortunate as to collide with. i assure you i profoundly regret the mishap. if the blame lies with us, you may rely upon my giving you every assistance in obtaining due reparation. won't you please be seated?" not deeming himself included in this invitation, and finding the atmosphere of the brilliant cabin by no means congenial, terry beat a retreat to the maindeck, leaving captain afleck to give his version of the _sea-slipper's_ disaster. on the deck he was soon surrounded by a number of the sailors, who questioned him about the schooner, and why no lights had been hung out. he felt very ill at ease amongst them for the reason indicated, but knew better than to show it, and answered every question as promptly and as fully as was possible; so that the sailors voted him quite a bright chap, and one of them was moved to ask,-"say, young fellow, wouldn't you like to be one of us? i reckon ye could join all right, for there's none too many boys aboard just now, and there's more wanted." to this proposition terry gave such an emphatic negative as to rather raise the ire of the speaker, who, growing red with indignation, exclaimed,-"consarn you, my young turkey-cock, you needn't be so touchy. better boys than you would be glad enough of the chance." now it was not because he thought himself above the business that terry had so flatly declined the sailor's suggestion, although of course the prospect that had opened out before him at drummond and brown's had entirely banished the notion he once cherished of following the sea. his reason was simply his antipathy to the north, which rendered the idea of entering its service most unwelcome. with a boy's rashness, he was about to say something in reply to the sailor's taunt that would have made clear his mind in the matter, and probably got him into trouble for being a "secesh" sympathizer, when happily at that moment captain afleck appeared and called him to him. terry instantly noted the gravity of his face, and felt sure that he had some bad news to tell; and so indeed it proved for both of them. the war-ship _minnesota_, on which they were passengers in spite of themselves, was on her way to hampton roads, virginia, to strengthen the federal naval force there, it having been reported that some novel and menacing additions had recently been made to the confederate navy. as an attack was expected any day, the _minnesota_ had orders to proceed with the utmost speed direct to hampton roads. it was, consequently, impossible for her to land the survivors of the collision, and there was no alternative but for them to accompany her to her destination, and get back to boston from there as best they might manage. for both the captain and terry this was a very distressing state of affairs. the former's presence would be required at once in boston, to prepare his claim against the company in which his vessel was insured; while the latter burned with impatience to get back to halifax, and right himself at drummond and brown's. "we're in a fix, and no mistake, terry," said captain afleck, cracking the knuckles of his big horny hands after a fashion he had when perplexed of mind. "of course, the captain of this ship is not to blame. he's got his orders, and he's bound to obey them, particularly seeing it's war time. but it's mighty hard, all the same, for a fellow to be lugged off like this against his will, and to run the risk of being killed into the bargain." "bein' killed!" exclaimed terry, with a startled look on his face. "sure, an' what do you mane by that?" "there now, my boy, don't get scared," replied the captain soothingly. "i didn't mean to tell you just now, but it slipped out unbeknownst to me. you see, it's this way. this war-ship's bound for hampton roads, where there's goin' to be a big fight right away, if it hasn't begun already, and it's not likely she'll have a chance to land us before she goes into the thick of it herself; consequently, if it all comes out as the captain expects--and he spoke right to me like an honest man--why, terry, we're in for a battle, that's all, and not one of our own choosin' either." the dismay expressed on terry's countenance would have been comical enough but for the real gravity of the situation. there would, of course, be no call upon the two nova scotians to take any part in the conflict. but they would necessarily have to share the danger with the others on board, and they could not expect the shot and shell or flying splinters to make any distinction on their behalf. "oh, but that's terrible altogether!" lamented poor terry. "it's kilt we'll be for sure, and"--here his voice suddenly took a note of indignation, as if fate had been entirely too unkind--"on board a yankee man-of-war, too! now, if it might be on a--" captain afleck's hand suddenly clapped over his mouth cut off the rest of the sentence. "whist, you young imp," he said in a deep whisper; "keep that to yourself, will you? you'll get knocked on the head if you talk that way here." he was evidently alarmed at the boy's rashness, and looked anxiously around to see if the words had been overheard. as it chanced, the sailor who had proposed to terry to join the crew was passing at the moment, and did catch his injudicious remark; but although he had stopped to listen with pricked ears, he was somewhat in doubt as to the boy's exact meaning, and would have liked to hear more. captain afleck's prompt action, however, having disappointed him in this, he moved on, but with a scowl on his face that boded ill for terry should he be found expressing southern sympathy in a more decided manner. having read his youthful companion a lecture upon the necessity of keeping his own counsel, captain afleck proceeded to lay out the course of action he proposed to follow. "we've got to stay by this ship for the present, terry, that's clear. but i don't mean to go into action with her if i can any way help myself. so i'll just keep a sharp look-out for a chance to get ashore as soon as we make hampton roads. there'll be sure to be some shore-boats coming off to us, and i'll get a passage in one of them." "and leave me here?" cried terry, laying hold of his arm with both hands, as though he thought he were about to go at once. "no, you young rogue," responded the captain, taking him by the collar and shaking him just for fun; "of course not. i won't go without you, seein' that i'm mainly to blame for your being here." greatly relieved in his mind, and putting implicit faith in his big friend's ability to get them both out of their present complications, terry, with the volatility of his race, dismissed all further concern on that point from his mind, and stood ready for the next thing that might turn up. his was a happy nature in many ways. he liked the idea that "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." he was not given to taking much thought for the morrow. to do this was one of the lessons in life he had to learn. in the meantime he lived in the present hour, getting the most out of it he knew how, and leaving the future to take care of itself. that night he had nothing better than a coil of rope for a bed and a bit of tarpaulin for a coverlet; but he slept as soundly as if on his straw mattress at home, and woke up in the morning with an appetite that many a millionaire might envy. awaking at dawn next morning, he hastened on deck to find the powerful _minnesota_ steaming at full speed southward, with the coast hardly visible on the right. his heart sank as he realized that every minute was taking him further from home, and nearer the indefinite dangers which he must share so long as he remained on board the war-ship. he had gone up to the bow, and was leaning over the bulwarks lost in perplexing thought, when a voice behind him said tauntingly,-"well, young 'un, have you been thinkin' over what i said about taking service with us?" and terry turned round to face the sailor who had overheard his interrupted utterance the night before. he did not at all like the look of the man. he had a crafty, cruel face, and apparently relished the prospect of having a good chance to tease the bluenose boy who had been thrown in his way. the north was well aware how strongly sympathy with the south ran in halifax; and as terry came from that city, the yankee sailor would have taken it for granted that the boy sided with the enemy, even though he had had no other ground for the belief. not knowing what reply to make, terry discreetly kept silence, and his questioner continued,-"you're kinder bashful, i reckon, and don't like to say how glad you'd be of the chance." now this, of course, was far from being terry's state of mind, as the sailor well knew; yet the boy shrank from admitting it. had the place been long wharf, he would not have hesitated for a moment to give a roland for the other's oliver, and then trusted to his legs to carry him out of danger. but on the deck of the sailor's own ship it was an altogether different matter. his position was certainly calculated to teach him a fine lesson in self-control. but it is very doubtful if he would have been equal to the strain. happily, before he was tempted overmuch, captain afleck appeared upon the scene, and taking in the situation at a glance, called him to him, as though he had something to communicate of importance. glad of this diversion, terry turned his back upon the sailor, and joined the captain, who, when they had moved apart a little, proceeded to say,-"you mustn't be talkin' with the sailors, my boy, any more than you can help, or you'll be puttin' your foot in it for sure. they're a mighty touchy lot, i can tell you; and if they find you letting on that you want the southerners to win, there's no sayin' how hot they'll make it for you." terry promised to be careful, adding with a rueful face,-"oh! but it's meself that wants to be off the botherin' ship. sure i never axed to be aboard her, and it's sick i am of her entirely." captain afleck could not keep back a laugh. the boy seemed so deeply concerned about his perplexities whenever he stopped to think of them, although he could forget them so completely when something else engaged his mind. "keep your heart up, terry," he said, in a cheering tone. "we're on a losin' tack now seemingly, but we may 'bout ship soon. come along with me and see if they won't give us some breakfast." they found a ready welcome at one of the sailors' messes, and a big piece of bread washed down with steaming coffee perceptibly lightened terry's spirits, for the time being at all events. all that day and the next the _minnesota_ maintained her strenuous speed; and as the afternoon wore on, the signs of bustle and excitement on board, and the earnest way in which the men talked together, showed that they were rapidly nearing their destination. the approach of battle is a serious enough matter when the forces on both sides are pretty well known, and the character of the undertaking can be at least measurably estimated; but it is a very different matter when neither of these things is known, and when the affair is very much of a leap in the dark. now this was just the state of things on the _minnesota_. no one on board, not even her captain, had any clear knowledge of the perils and difficulties to be encountered. the confederate naval force might be found overwhelmingly strong or miserably weak. moreover, there were certain disturbing rumours afloat about an alarming novelty, in the way of a naval monster, against which no wooden vessel would have the slightest chance. of this mystery the norfolk navy-yard still held the secret, although it was generally believed to be about ripe for revelation. chapter vi. in hampton roads. to make entirely clear the position of the _minnesota_ at this point, some words of explanation are necessary here. the american civil war was raging hotly, with the advantage if anything on the side of the southern confederacy. in the spring of the year 1861, the federal forces had hurriedly abandoned their great naval establishment at norfolk in the state of virginia, why or wherefore it would be hard to say; for they had completed an effective blockade of hampton roads, and might have held their ground against all the forces likely to attack them. but some sudden panic seizing them, they fled across chesapeake bay to fortress monroe, leaving vast quantities of cannons and other munitions of war to fall into the hands of their opponents. they sought to consign the navy-yard, together with a number of ships they could not take away, to the flames, but the destruction was far from complete; and the southern soldiers appeared upon the scene in time to rescue much precious material from the fire--among their spoils being twelve hundred guns, that were afterwards distributed through their fortifications from the potomac to the mississippi, where they did sore damage to their former owners. among the war-ships burned and sunk at the navy-yard upon its abandonment was the fine frigate _merrimac_, of over three thousand tons, and carrying forty guns. on coming into possession of the establishment, the confederates raised this vessel and rebuilt her, but not on the same plan as before. instead of being a handsome three-masted ship, with swelling sails, heavy rigging, and black and white checked sides, she became an extraordinary-looking ironclad, the like of which the world had never seen before, and which was destined to effect a complete revolution in the navies of the nations. vague rumours concerning this wonderful construction had found their way northward, and it was in response to the call for a strengthening of the blockading fleet in chesapeake bay that the _minnesota_ had been despatched in hot haste from boston, and was ploughing her way towards old point comfort, that now showed upon the port bow. at fortress monroe, which crowned the point, she would receive her orders; and the thought of what these might be sent a thrill to the heart of every man and boy on board, from the captain down to the youngest powder-monkey. the sun had already sunk behind the western hills before the frigate reached the point; and the navigation of hampton roads being somewhat difficult, her captain decided to anchor for the night and take on a pilot in the morning. in the meantime, he himself, accompanied by two of his chief officers, went off in a launch to fortress monroe, to be informed of the situation and to receive instructions. as terry saw the launch shoot away from the vessel's side, there came over him a wild impulse to spring on board her, that he too might be taken ashore. he had already begged the boatswain to let him go, and had been contemptuously rebuffed; but this, instead of quieting him, only intensified his desire to get off the ship before there should be any fighting. he now saw what seemed to him his only chance, and without pausing to consider the folly of his enterprise, darted past the sailors at the gangway-ladder, bounded down the steps, and as the boat swung clear, gathering all his strength into one supreme effort, he sprang out towards her. for a mere boy it was a grand attempt, but it failed nevertheless. just as he leaped, the boatswain shouted, "give way now;" and, driven by twelve brawny oarsmen, the launch shot forward so swiftly that terry's spring fell short, and he himself vanished in the swirling water! but only for a moment. almost before the spectators realized what had happened, his head appeared above the surface, and with skilful strokes he made for the gangway, where a sailor was awaiting him with a grinning face and a helping hand. "well, you are a daisy, and no mistake," he exclaimed, in an unmistakable tone of admiration, as he drew the dripping boy up to the platform. "what on earth possessed you to do that?" terry gave a despairing glance at the departing boat, now fifty yards away, whose occupants had taken no more notice of his plunge than if it had been the jumping of a pollack, before replying. then he said with a bitter sigh, as he blew the brine out of his mouth,-"i wanted to go ashore in her. the bosun wouldn't let me aboard, bad cess to him, so i thought i'd jump for it." by this time a number of the sailors had gathered round, while several officers were looking over the bulwarks, and terry's explanation was received with a murmur of astonishment. standing in the awe they did of the captain of the ship, the idea of this slip of an irish lad having the audacity to thrust himself on the launch not merely uninvited, but after having been flatly refused, was nothing short of astounding. they had not taken much interest in the boy before, but now they regarded him as quite a novel type, his proceeding had been so utterly out of the ordinary. "come up on deck, my boy, and get some dry clothes on you," called put one of the officers. "that was certainly a dashing attempt of yours, even if it didn't come off as you hoped." thus commanded, terry ascended the gangway again, feeling sorely crestfallen, yet as determined as ever to seize the next opportunity that presented itself of getting away from the frigate. when given a sailor's suit that fitted him fairly enough, he at first refused to put it on; but captain afleck insisted, and so he yielded, on condition that he might resume his own garments as soon as they were dried. thanks to his being in uniform, he was allotted a hammock that night, and forgot his disappointment in the most comfortable sleep he had enjoyed since going on board the vessel, from which he was roused the next morning by an unusual bustle on deck, which foretold the nearness of some important enterprise. when he came on deck, he found the _minnesota_ already well under way, making up hampton roads towards newport news in company with two other frigates, the _roanoke_ and the _st. lawrence_. there was intense excitement on board, and every one whose duty permitted him to be on deck seemed to be watching eagerly for something to appear out of the elizabeth river to the southward. presently an officer who stood on the main-truck with a powerful glass called out,-"i see her! she's coming down past craney island flats." all eyes were at once strained in the direction indicated; but it was some time yet before there came into general view, just off sewell's point, so strange a craft that it was at once agreed it could be none other than the much-dreaded naval novelty of which such disturbing stories had been in circulation. so far as terry could make out, this mysterious marine marvel was like a queer-looking house afloat on a raft. there were no masts; a short, thick funnel explained how she was propelled. the roof of the house was flat, surrounded by a light iron railing, and boasting two slight poles, from which floated confederate flags. the side walls sloped in at a decided angle, and the two ends were rounded off into a semicircular shape, the whole being heavily plated with iron. from a single row of port-holes the muzzles of ten powerful rifled guns projected, the entire effect being warlike in the extreme; for the thing was evidently a fighting-machine, and nothing else, whose power for harm had yet to be gauged by actual experience. at first the new-comer's course was pointed straight in the direction of the _minnesota_, and there was not a man on board so indifferent to danger that he did not feel a keen thrill of apprehension as this strange and menacing antagonist came slowly onward. the crew at once beat to quarters, and every preparation was made for a desperate defence; but to the undeniable relief of all, the engagement did not then take place, as the confederate ironclad, after clearing sewell's point, turned due west, and headed for newport news, where the wooden frigates _congress_, of fifty guns, and _cumberland_, of thirty guns, were swinging lazily by their anchors. their boats were hanging to the lower booms, and rows of washed clothing flapped in the rigging, showing plainly that those on board were quite unconscious of their danger and expecting no attack. it was not until the _merrimac_ had approached within three-quarters of a mile of the two frigates that the boats were dropped astern, the booms got alongside, and fire opened upon the intruder with the heavy pivot-guns. in this cannonade the batteries on newport news also joined lustily, and the ironclad was the target of many well-aimed cannon. but although the solid shot were smiting her black sides and the shells bursting upon her exposed deck, she kept steadily on, in sullen, appalling silence, until within close range of the frigates. then her forward pivot gun, a heavy seven-inch rifled piece, was fired right into the stern of the _cumberland_, and at almost the same instant the _congress_ received the starboard broadside, with dreadful damage in both cases. terry had never before seen cannon used for any other purpose than the firing of harmless salutes on the queen's birthday and similar occasions; and although the _minnesota_ was still some distance from the combat, and taking no part therein, still the almost continuous roar of the cannon, the shrieking of the shells, and the jets of spray springing up from the water where the balls ricochetted madly across the waves, made him realize how utterly different were his surroundings now. his first impulse was to seek the lowest recesses of the hold, and there cower out of reach of cannon-ball and bullet until the firing had ceased. but curiosity got the better of this at the start, and presently there came to its aid that love of battle which is in all manly natures, and he determined to stay on deck and see the fight at any risk. in his heart he hoped for the success of the confederate ironclad, ugly and clumsy as she seemed. but he had by this time learned to repress his southern sympathies, and he strove hard to seem a disinterested spectator. captain afleck was so carried away by the extraordinary and splendid spectacle before him that he forgot all his own troubles, and watched the progress of the conflict with as keen an interest as if in some way his own fate depended upon the issue. "i tell you what it is, terry," said he exultantly: "this is a great bit of luck for us. won't we have a fine story to tell when we get back to halifax?" "that we will, captain," responded terry--"providin' we do get back. but i'm thinkin' there's some chance of our gettin' smashed ourselves by one of these murderin' cannon-balls that go skippin' about so lively. just look at that, will you, captain?" the _congress_ had returned the broadside of the ironclad, and although the range was close, only half the iron missiles had hit the mark, the others playing a game of hop-skip-and-jump across the water, and sending up the spray in snow-white spurts. "it's fine, terry, isn't it?" said the captain. then with a quick change of tone he exclaimed, as he grasped the boy's arm in his excitement, "but look there, terry; what can that queer black thing be up to now? does she think she can run that fine big frigate down, like this ship did us in boston harbour?" the tone of incredulous surprise was as marked in captain afleck's voice as if the ironclad had seemed to be making preparations to fly; yet he had only too correctly guessed the meaning of her next movement. indeed, before he finished speaking, it was manifest to all; for after exchanging broadsides with the _congress_, the _merrimac_, paying no heed to the land batteries that were vainly peppering her iron sides with harmless balls, made straight for the _cumberland_ at the top of her speed, and struck her almost at right angles under the fore-rigging on the starboard side, the heavy iron prow crashing through the wooden sides as though they had been pasteboard, and making a great gaping hole wide enough to admit a horse and cart. a simultaneous shout of amazement, anger, and dismay went up from the crowded deck of the _minnesota_ at this startling and horrifying manoeuvre, and in breathless suspense all watched the stricken ship as her assailant withdrew a space and headed up the river, apparently content with her terrific onslaught. for a few minutes the _cumberland_ showed no signs of disablement, her guns continuing to be fired with a regularity that spoke volumes for the splendid fortitude of her officers and men. "she's not done for yet," cried one of the _minnesota's_ lieutenants exultingly. "that rebel brute will have to try again." he had hardly spoken when the _cumberland_ listed badly over to port and began to fill. down sank the gallant ship, driving her crew to the spar-deck, where they dauntlessly continued to work the pivot-gun, until, with a wild swaying of her tall masts and a sickening shudder of her shattered frame, she plunged beneath the waves, carrying her brave defenders down to an honourable death, yet leaving the union colours still floating defiantly from her topmast, which projected high above the swirling water. for the first moment after her disappearance there was an appalling silence on board the _minnesota_, and then there broke forth a wild storm of groans, cheers, and curses, as the feelings of her crew found expression. they had witnessed a catastrophe without a parallel in the history of naval warfare. never before had the tremendous power for harm of the ironclad ram been displayed, and by that one blow the _merrimac_ had put out of date the navies of the world as then constructed. of course terry neither knew nor cared anything about this; but he could not help being profoundly impressed by the magnitude of the disaster, and his warm irish heart went out in sympathy towards the gallant men who had stood by their ship to the last moment. in his admiration of their bravery he quite forgot his preference for their victorious opponents. "o captain," he exclaimed, in a tone of deepest concern, plucking at his companion's arm, "will you look at the poor creatures? sure they're doing their best to swim ashore, and it's a long way for them too." his sharp eyes had discovered little bits of black bobbing on the waves, which he took to be the heads of men swimming hard for the beach at newport news, and the lieutenant's glass confirmed the accuracy of his vision. "wouldn't i like to be giving them a hand!" he continued, jumping up and down in the heat of his excitement. he felt so thoroughly at home in the water, that he would not have hesitated a moment at any time to go to the rescue of a full-grown man, and he would have thoroughly enjoyed now going to the relief of the struggling sailors. but the men of the _minnesota_ had other work on hand than giving aid to their imperilled countrymen. for aught they knew the ironclad would next be trying her terrible ram on them, and they had need to prepare for her onset. having disposed of the ill-fated _cumberland_, the _merrimac_ now gave her whole attention to the _congress_, whose commander, realizing the impossibility of resisting the assault of the ram, had, with notable presence of mind, slipped his cables and run his ship aground upon the shallows, where the deep-draught ironclad could not follow her except with cannon-balls. although the _congress_ had four times as many guns as the _merrimac_, and was well supported besides by the land batteries on newport news, it was an unequal contest; for while the projectiles showered upon the ironclad glanced harmlessly off her cannon-proof walls, her powerful rifled guns raked the _congress_ from end to end with terrible effect. there could be only one termination to such a struggle. gallantly as the northern sailors served their guns, their commander presently was killed, and her decks were strewn with dead and dying. at the end of an hour her colours came down, and white flags appeared at the gaff and mainmast in token of surrender. meanwhile the _merrimac_ had been joined by a number of smaller vessels that had come down the james river after running in gallant style the gauntlet of the federal batteries which lined the northern bank. they were only gunboats carrying ten guns at the most, and could not take any prominent part in the battle, but they now proved useful in completing the work of the ironclad. two of them steamed alongside the shattered _congress_, to make prisoners of the crew and set fire to the ship. but they were unable to accomplish either of these duties owing to the heavy fire kept up by the land batteries, and had to beat a retreat; whereupon the _merrimac_ sent hot shot into the frigate, that soon had her blazing fore and aft, while her crew escaped on shore either by swimming or in small boats. all this was watched with keen anxiety on board the _minnesota_, and the question her men asked themselves was,-"will the _merrimac_ be content with the damage she has already done, or will our ship share the same fate as the other two?" they were not left long in uncertainty. swinging slowly around, the huge ironclad, after pausing a few minutes as though to take breath, came down the channel heading straight for the _minnesota_. her day's work was evidently not yet done. she must have another victim before returning to her moorings. chapter vii. the great naval combat. when terry saw the ugly black ironclad bearing down upon the _minnesota_, he could not suppress a cry of consternation. "oh, whirra! whirra!" he burst forth, dancing from one foot to the other, and swinging his arms about in the extremity of his excitement, "the murderin' thing is coming right for us, and it's smashing us to bits entirely she'll be." that the captain of the frigate held the same opinion, however differently he might have expressed it, was soon manifest from the manoeuvring of his ship; for instead of remaining out in the north channel, where there was sufficient depth of water for the _merrimac_ to move freely, he turned his vessel's bow seaward, and kept on in that direction until she had grounded on a shoal about midway between fortress monroe and newport news point. all danger from the irresistible ram was now over, as the ironclad could not approach within some hundreds of yards without getting aground herself, which would have put an end to her career; so those on board the _minnesota_ began to pluck up courage again. even terry felt more composed when he realized that the "murderin' thing," as he called it, had to keep a respectful distance. but they were not permitted to enjoy this little bit of comfort long. the big frigate, towering high above the water, offered only too easy a target to the rifled guns of the _merrimac_, and presently their destructive missiles began to come crashing through her wooden sides as though they had been paper, inflicting fearful damage and slaughter. yet nothing daunted by the immediate presence of danger and death, the men of the _minnesota_ plied their own formidable battery; and although the cannon-balls' bounced harmlessly off the impregnable sides of the ironclad, they did their work against her attendant gunboats, so that both had ere long to retire from the combat. the decks of the frigate soon presented a pitiable sight. the heavy guns of the _merrimac_ had again and again raked them with dreadful effect, and the dead and the dying lay strewn about, confused with splintered beams and shattered gun-carriages. the ship's surgeons, recking nothing of their own danger, were busy binding up wounds, and having the poor sufferers borne below; while through the smoke-laden air rang the shouts of those still serving the guns, mingled with the groans of their comrades writhing in agony. in the midst of it all was terry. when the first shot struck the bulwarks of the frigate, and smashing its way through slew three stalwart sailors and badly wounded two others, he threw himself flat on the deck behind the foremast, completely overcome with sheer horror and fright. there he remained for some minutes, every boom of the cannon sending fresh shudders through his boyish frame. presently, amid the occasional pauses in the thunder of the artillery, a moaning cry reached his ear: "water, water! for god's sake a drop of water!" he had heard it several times before, even in his warm fresh heart, the impulse to help began to tell upon the paralyzing panic that had smitten him. but when, for the fourth time, the piteous wail pierced its way to him, "oh for water! won't some one bring me water?" he could lie still no longer. getting upon his hands and knees--for he did not dare rise to his full height--he crept across the deck to where the sufferer lay. he found a young sailor, not many years older than himself, dreadfully wounded by a cannon-ball, and suffering agonies from thirst. he was half-hidden by an overturned gun-carriage, and had been overlooked by the surgeon in the wild confusion. "water! water!" he panted, looking at terry with imploring eyes, for he could not move a limb. "for the love of god, bring me some water!" terry knew well enough where the water-butts were, but to reach them meant his running the gauntlet of shot and splinter, whose dreadful effects lay all about him. naturally he shrank from the risk, and looked around in hopes of seeing some of the crew who might undertake it. but all who were not already _hors de combat_ had their hands full. whatever was to be done for the poor young fellow must be done by him. the next wail for water decided him. bending his head as though he were facing a snowstorm, he darted across the deck to the water-butts. right at hand was a pannikin. hastily filling it, he retraced his steps, going more slowly now because of his burden, and had just got half-way when a heavy ball smashed into the bulwarks at his left, sending out a heavy shower of splinters, one of which struck the pannikin from his hand, spilling its precious contents upon the deck. it was a hair-breadth escape, and terry dropped to the deck as though he had been struck. but this was the end of his panic. so soon as he realized that he was untouched, he sprang to his feet again, and shaking his fist in the direction of the _merrimac_, cried defiantly, "you didn't do it that time. try it again, will ye? i'll carry the water in spite of ye!" then picking up the pannikin he refilled it, and this time succeeded in bearing it safely to the sufferer, who, when he had taken a long, deep draught, looked into the boy's face, saying gratefully,-"god bless you for that, even if you are a little rebel at heart." not until then did terry recognize in the man he was helping the sailor whose ire he had aroused by refusing to enter into the ship's service, and his heart glowed at the thought that he had shown him that he could not refuse an appeal for aid even from him. throughout the rest of that awful afternoon terry toiled like a beaver, bearing water to the wounded and to those working the guns, and earning countless blessings from the grateful sailors. he seemed to bear a charmed life. men fell all round him, while he went unscathed. again and again the surgeon thanked him for his timely assistance. in spite of all the peril, he never felt happier in his life. he was completely lifted out of himself, and intoxicated with the joy of whole-souled service for others. as the afternoon advanced, the situation of the _minnesota_ became increasingly desperate. of course, being aground, she could not sink; but the rifled guns of the _merrimac_ had torn great gaping holes in her high sides. she had lost many of her men, and had once been set on fire. indeed, her surrender or destruction seemed inevitable, when a diversion took place which postponed either unhappy alternative for that day at all events. besides the _minnesota_, there were two other federal frigates lying in hampton roads, the _roanoke_ and the _st. lawrence_, and they likewise had been run aground for fear of the terrible ram. as if satisfied with the damage done to the _minnesota_, and confident that no escape was possible for her, the _merrimac_ now gave attention to her two consorts, and proceeded to bombard them with her heavy guns. they returned broadsides with great spirit, and the cannonade continued vigorously on both sides, until an ebbing tide and oncoming darkness warned those in command of the deep-draught ironclad that it was full time to be taking her back towards norfolk. accordingly she drew off, and after a couple of parting shots from her stern pivot-guns, steamed slowly back to sewell's point, where she anchored for the night. unspeakable was the relief on board the three frigates at her withdrawal, and relieved from duty at the guns, their crews at once set to work to repair damages as best they might, knowing full well that they had respite only until daylight. terry continued his errands of mercy until his help was no longer required; then, after getting something to eat, he went up to his favourite place in the bow, utterly tired out, and threw himself down to rest. here captain afleck found him, and together they talked over the events of the day. the captain had not been quite so fortunate as terry, having received a painful, though not serious, scalp wound. he made light of it, however, and had much to say in praise of his companion for his brave service as a helper of the wounded. "you'll be the talk of the town, my boy, when we get back to halifax," said he. "ye've seen more than any lad of your age in the country, i can tell you; and it's a great story you'll have to tell them at drummond and brown's when you take your place there again." a happy smile lit up terry's face, so begrimed with powder smoke that the multitudinous freckles were no longer distinguishable. he had quite forgotten halifax and all belonging to it in the excitement of the battle; but captain afleck's words brought his thoughts back, and the idea of his being a kind of hero at drummond and brown's, where now they probably considered him little better than a rascal, was exceedingly grateful. he was just about to say something in reply, when his attention was claimed by the wonderful scene now before his eyes; and clasping captain afleck's arm, he exclaimed, in a tone of mingled awe and admiration, "just look, will ye, captain! did ye ever see the like of that in your life before?" by this time night had fallen mild and calm. the moon in her second quarter was just rising over the rippling waters, but her silvery light for those on board the _minnesota_ paled in the presence of the brilliant illumination proceeding from the burning frigate _congress_. as the flames crept up the rigging, every mast, spar, and rope flashed out in fiery silhouette against the dark sky beyond. the hull, aground upon the shoal, was plainly visible, each porthole showing in the black sides like the mouth of a fiery furnace, while from time to time the boom of a loaded gun, or the crash of an exploded shell, gave startling emphasis to the superb spectacle. having no duty to perform, the captain and terry could give themselves up to watching the destruction of the noble vessel, and they stayed at the bow until presently a monstrous sheaf of flame rose from her to an immense height. the sky seemed rent in twain by a blinding flash, and then came a loud, deafening report that told the whole story. the flames had reached the powder-magazine, and their work was complete. in the silence that followed, captain afleck, taking terry's hand, said with a profound sigh, "come, terry, let us get to sleep. it breaks my heart to see a fine ship blown to bits like that." they went below, and finding a quiet corner, threw themselves down to get what rest they could before facing the dangers of another day. on going on deck the next morning, terry's attention was at once attracted by the sailors bending over the bulwarks of the ship, evidently much interested in something that lay alongside. following their example, he saw below an extraordinary-looking craft, which might not inaptly have been compared to a huge tin can set on a gigantic shingle. it was none other than the famous _monitor_, an even more remarkable vessel than the _merrimac_, which had come post-haste from new york, and arrived just in time to do battle with the hitherto irresistible rebel ram. little as terry pretended to know about war-ships, he felt quite competent not merely to wonder but to laugh at this latest addition to the federal fleet; she seemed so absurdly inadequate to cope with the big powerful _merrimac_. a flat iron-plated raft with pointed ends, bearing in the middle a round turret not ten feet high, also plated with iron, and at the bow a small square iron hut for use as a pilot-house; while from the round port-holes in the turret projected the muzzles of two eleven-inch rifled guns, which constituted her entire armament. such was the _monitor_. he was still engaged in studying this queer-looking craft, and feeling sorely tempted to ask some questions of the men who were busy about her decks getting her ready for action, when the crash of a heavy ball against the other side of the _minnesota_ told him that the _merrimac_ had already come over from sewell's point to complete her unfinished work. it was also the signal for the _monitor_ to move out from her hiding-place behind the lofty frigate. like some strange sea-monster, she swung round the other's stern, and steaming forward so as to come between her and her assailant, dauntlessly challenged the latter to single combat. then there took place right before terry's eyes a naval conflict without parallel in the history of the world, in every respect the most momentous battle ever waged upon the water. of course, terry did not realize this, but that did not in any wise lessen the breathless interest with which he watched every move and manoeuvre of the struggle. for the first few minutes there was a pause, as though the two adversaries were surveying each other with a view of choosing the best method of attack. then they began to advance cautiously until they had got well within range, when almost simultaneously they opened fire. this was at about eight o'clock in the morning, and thenceforward until noon the cannonading continued furiously, with hardly any intermission. the ironclads fought like two gladiators in an arena, now closing in on each other until they were almost touching, then sheering off until they were half-a-mile apart. the _monitor_ had a great advantage over the _merrimac_ in that she drew only half as much water, and was consequently able to move about far more freely than her cumbrous opponent, who had to confine herself to the deep-water channel. even as it was she once ran aground, and was with the greatest difficulty got afloat again. although terry had come to hampton roads a warm little sympathizer with the south, his feelings had undergone considerable change as he observed the splendid bravery of the northern sailors; and now, while he watched the contending ironclads, he found his heart going out towards the little _monitor_ rather than towards the big black _merrimac_. "sure it doesn't seem fair play at all," he exclaimed to captain afleck, in a decided tone of indignation. "that small little thing's no match for the big fellow. there ought to be two of them anyhow to make it even." but the captain, noting the advantage held by the _monitor_, and the fact that the bombardment of her antagonist had no more effect upon her coat of mail than had hers upon the _merrimac_, shook his head doubtfully. "it's a more even fight than you think, terry," said he, "and i'm not saying but what i'd be willing to bet on the little one yet. but see, they must be going to try to run her down, like they did the _cumberland_." sure enough, despairing of driving her doughty opponent off the field with broadsides, the _merrimac_ determined to try the effect of her ram. for nearly an hour she had been manoeuvring for a position, and at last an opportunity offered. putting on full speed, she charged forcibly down; but just in time the _monitor_ turned aside, and the ram glanced off without doing any damage. at seeing this terry clapped his hands as heartily as if he had been a thorough-going yankee. "sold again!" he cried, as the _merrimac_ sullenly sheered off. "you're not so smart after all." the firing continued for some time longer, and then those on board the _minnesota_ were startled to see the _monitor_ coming back towards them with all the appearance of withdrawing from the fight. the merrimac could not follow on account of the shallowness of the water, but remained out in the channel awaiting the other's return. instead of returning, however, the _monitor_ swung round, and steamed off in the direction of fortress monroe, leaving the helpless _minnesota_ at the mercy of the enemy. "o captain afleck!" cried terry, in keen alarm, "what will become of us now? that murderin' thing will smash us all to pieces, seein' there's nothing to hinder it." the situation of the _minnesota_ certainly was as serious as it could well be. many of the guns had been rendered useless in the conflict of the preceding day. full half of the crew were killed or wounded, and most of the officers were unfit for duty. if the _merrimac_ should resume her work of destruction, there was slight chance of any one on board surviving the catastrophe. chapter viii. adventures ashore. for some minutes the _minnesota's_ men were kept in harrowing uncertainty as the _merrimac_ hung off to mid-stream, apparently undecided as to what to do next. then, to their unspeakable relief, she swung round, and turning her prow towards norfolk, moved heavily away. she, too, like the _monitor_, had had her fill of fighting for that day. at sight of this terry tossed his cap in the air, and began an irish jig on the fore-deck, crying,-"be off with you now. sure, you've done mischief enough this blessed day. it's mighty glad i'd be never to see a sight of you again." as it turned out he had his wish granted, for when the withdrawal of the ironclad became known at fortress monroe, two of the gunboats in refuge there ventured out, and, attaching themselves to the stranded ship, succeeded with great difficulty, and the aid of a flood-tide, in getting her afloat again, and towing her down-stream to safe quarters under the guns of the fort. the following morning both terry and captain afleck were able to get ashore; and, rejoiced at regaining their liberty, they at once set about ascertaining how they might make their way back to boston. this was a problem by no means easily solved. they were both penniless and without friends, save such as they had made during their brief but exciting stay on board the _minnesota_. under other circumstances, no doubt, the captain of the frigate, as some reparation for running down the _sea-slipper_, would have exerted himself to send them forward; but he, poor fellow, had been severely wounded in the fighting, and the other officers were too deeply engrossed in the pressing duties of the moment to give any attention to less important matters. it was in this crisis that terry's really daring and devoted services to the wounded during the thick of the battle brought forth fruit. he was wandering disconsolately about the beach at fortress monroe, wondering how he could make his way back to halifax and set himself right at drummond and brown's, when one of the _minnesota's_ lieutenants came along, and hailed him pleasantly,-"where away, terry? you look kind of down on your luck this morning." "indeed that i am, sir," responded terry promptly. "i've just been axin' myself how i'm to get back to halifax, and faith i can't make it out at all, at all." "oh, you want to get back to halifax, do you?" said the lieutenant. "well, i can't say about that, but it's only fair you should be sent back to boston, for you would have been there long ago if we hadn't run you down, wouldn't you?" "it's the truth you're sayin', sir!" answered terry; "and," here an eager appealing look came into his face, "if you can say a word to the captain, sir, and have captain afleck and myself given a lift that way, it's more obliged than i can tell you we'd both be." the lieutenant evidently took kindly to the suggestion, and clapping the boy on the back, he said,-"i'll do it, terry. you did us all a good turn on board the _minnesota_ by taking water round when nobody could attend to it. our captain's in hospital, but i'll speak to the officer in command in his place, and he'll do the square thing, i'm sure." the lieutenant was as good as his word. he took considerable pains to press the matter, with the result that on the following day captain afleck and terry were provided with railroad passes clear to boston, and sufficient funds to pay their expenses _en route_. they made a light-hearted pair, the big bronzed man and the freckle-faced boy, as they set out for baltimore, rejoicing in getting away from the scenes of bloodshed and destruction, of which they had grown profoundly weary. they were more than satisfied with their first experience of war in all its horrors, and quite content that it should be their last. terry accurately expressed the feelings of both when he said, with a grunt of disgust that made his companion smile,-"if you ever catch me in a scrape like this again, you may call me as many sizes of an idiot as you like. it is bad enough to be kilt in a row of your own raisin', but what's the sense of it when it's not your fight at all?" by which deliverance terry showed himself to be a true philosopher, with a very sound and practical theory of life. but, like many other mortals, terry could teach a great deal better than he could practise, the truth being that the impulse of his race to take a hand in any fun or fighting that might be going was as strong in him as if he had been born on the green sod. however, he was sincere enough this time, and regarded with complacence every additional mile of country that separated him from the scene of the wonderful naval combat he had by so odd a chain of circumstances been brought to witness. as might be expected in time of war, when the whole country was more or less upset, the train service was very imperfect. the rate of speed was poor, the stoppages many and prolonged, and the carriages fell far short of being comfortable. yet none of these things troubled terry. it was the first long railroad ride of his life, and he enjoyed it keenly despite its many drawbacks. he made friends with the conductors and brakesmen, who could not resist his cheery humour. he amused his fellow-passengers by his quick observation of and shrewd comments upon the people and places by the way. he even succeeded in so ingratiating himself with the driver of the train during a long stop at a junction, as to be invited on to the engine for the remainder of that driver's run, and then he returned to captain afleck grimy but triumphant. [illustration: "_he succeeded in ingratiating himself with the driver of the train._"] from baltimore to philadelphia, and from philadelphia to new york, they hurried on. under other circumstances, they would have been glad to make a stay in each of these splendid cities; but captain afleck was impatient to get back to boston to prepare his claim against the insurance company, while terry was no less eager to return to halifax, that he might reinstate himself in drummond and brown's. yet in spite of their mutual anxiety they were both destined to another delay which tried their spirits sorely. the city of new york was at this time the centre of more interest and excitement than washington itself. the issue of the war still seemed in doubt, and there were divided counsels as to whether it should be carried on to the bitter end, regardless of consequences, or whether some sort of compromise should be arranged with the south before further successes had inflated her hopes too high. in the face of this uncertain state of the public mind, nevertheless, the most earnest preparations for the prosecution of the struggle by land and sea were going on, and this of course attracted to the place wild and turbulent spirits from every quarter, eager to take advantage of the opportunity to fill their pockets, honestly or dishonestly, with a decided preference for the latter way as being more exciting. bounty-jumping was a favourite device, and the city fairly swarmed with men guilty of this dishonourable action, and who, afraid to show themselves in the light of day, prowled about the streets at night with no very good intent. it was late in the evening when the captain and terry arrived in new york, and as they had been without food, since mid-day, their first proceeding was to set out in quest of a restaurant. captain afleck knew something of the city, having been there before, and soon found his way to a quiet eating-house, where they obtained a comfortable meal at a reasonable price. they took their time over it, for they were weary of the train, and it was quite a relief to be rid of the roar and rattle for a time. midnight was not far off when they went out into the street, and feeling greatly refreshed, they were tempted into taking a stroll before returning to the station, where they intended to pass the night, so as to be on hand for the first train to boston in the morning. the night was fine and bright. the captain lit his pipe, while terry munched some candy, and the two wandered on in a careless manner, enjoying the cold air and the quiet of the hour. "it's a big place this, isn't it, terry?" said the captain as they stood at an intersection of two streets, and looking north, south, east, and west, saw the long lines of lights go twinkling 'off as far as the eye could reach. "all the same, i believe i'd rather live in halifax; wouldn't you?" "that i would," responded terry promptly. "i'd be afraid of gettin' lost here all the time. sure, there must be a sight of people here. it's not much chance a poor chap like me 'ud have wid such a crowd." now that terry's ambition had been so thoroughly aroused, he already began to realize what the stress of competition meant, and it was clear enough to him that the bigger the city the more there were ready to fill every opening. miss drummond's encouraging statement about her grandfather had taken deep hold upon the boy's mind, and there were times when he was bold enough to indulge in day-dreams having a similar fulfilment. "i guess you'd stand as good a chance of holding your way as the most of boys, terry," said captain afleck, giving him a kindly pat on the head. "you've got lots of grit in ye, and that's the sort of thing that counts in these big places. but what's that? there's mischief going on down there. come, let's see what's up." they were by this time on their way back to the railway station, and were just crossing a narrow dark side street, when there came to them through the stillness of the night a muffled cry for help, followed by the sound of heavy blows. captain afleck carried a stout stick, and grasping this firmly, he sped down the street in the direction whence the sounds had come, terry keeping close at his heels. in the very narrowest and darkest part of the street they almost fell over a group of three men, one being prostrate on the ground, while the other two bent over him, evidently engaged in rifling his pockets. shouting "take that, you rascal!" the brawny captain struck one of the highwaymen a sounding whack across the shoulders with his stick, and the next instant tumbled the other over with his left fist. the astounded scoundrels as soon as they recovered themselves made off at full speed; and when assured of their departure, captain afleck turned his attention to the victim of their violence. it was too dark at that spot to make out the extent of his injuries, so, with terry's aid, he was dragged towards a lamp-post. they had just placed him upon some steps, and were endeavouring to loosen his neckcloth, for he was quite insensible, when there suddenly appeared two big policemen, who made haste to arrest them with great show of zeal. neither protests nor explanations were of any avail. a respectable citizen returning quietly home had been brutally assaulted in the public street. the captain and terry had been caught red-handed (as a matter of fact they did both have blood upon their hands, got from the wound on the poor man's head, which was badly cut), and they must answer for it at the police court in the morning. other policemen were whistled for, and the still insensible man was sent to hospital in a cab, while his two unlucky rescuers were marched off to the station-house, where they spent a miserable night in separate cells. not only that night but the whole of the next day were they kept in confinement, the injuries of the "respectable citizen" being too severe to permit of his appearing in court; and it was not until the following day that they were brought up for examination. terry went before the police magistrate with quaking knees and beating heart. not that any sense of guilt filled him with fear, but because his whole past experience in halifax had been such as to make the minions of the law objects of terror to him; and now that he was in their clutches in a foreign land, his lively imagination conceived all sorts of dire consequences in spite of his big companion's attempts at comfort. captain afleck, on the other hand, was in a state of furious indignation. the moment he got a chance to open his mouth he intended to give the american authorities a piece of his mind, and threaten them with the vengeance of the british nation for committing so unwarrantable an indignity upon one of its honest and loyal members. a number of cases had precedence of theirs, and they watched the proceedings with very different feelings--terry wondering, as he heard sentence after sentence pronounced by the magistrate in his hard, dry, monotonous voice, what penalty would be theirs if he and the captain could not clear themselves; while the captain, nursing his wrath to keep it warm, gave vent to a succession of wrathful grunts as he saw the succession of miserable, unwashed, demoralized creatures with whom he was for the time associated. at length the rest of the docket had been cleared, and their case was called. it had been left to the last because of its being the most serious on the list for the day. just as the captain and terry were being arraigned, there appeared in court a middle-aged man, whose carefully-bandaged head, pale countenance, and general air of weakness betokened him to be the victim of the assault. as the two prisoners stood up to answer to their names and the charge made against them by policeman no. 399, it was evident that their appearance created a good deal of surprise. they certainly did not look at all like the ordinary criminals. the case promised to be one of special interest, and the spectators adjusted themselves so as to see and hear to the best advantage. but if they expected an interesting hour of it they were doomed to be disappointed; for no sooner had the injured man raised his eyes to look at the accused of having waylaid him than he gave a start, and the colour mounted to his pallid face. "these are not the men," he exclaimed. "there's some mistake. the men that assaulted me were short and stout, and they were both men--not a man and a boy." his words created a decided sensation. the countenance of the zealous bluecoats who had effected the arrest, and expected praise for their efficient performance, grew suddenly long while the magistrate turned upon them a look of stern inquiry, saying,-"what's the meaning of this? have you been making some serious blunder?" captain afleck now had his opportunity, and he used it gloriously, pouring forth the vials of his wrath as he told his story, until at last the magistrate, entirely satisfied, stopped the stream of his eloquence with uplifted hand, and proceeded to say, in a tone that showed genuine feeling,-"you have been the victims of a very unfortunate blunder, for which i wish it were in my power to make some reparation. as it is, all i can do is to express my profound regret, and to put you at once at liberty." amid a buzz of applause the captain and terry made their way out into the street, the boy hardly able to restrain his impulse to leap and shout for joy, but the man still grumbling and growling at the aggravation he had been so undeservedly compelled to endure. once more in the open air, terry's first thought was to get away as fast as possible. "let us be off to the station," he cried. "mebbe there's a train goin' soon." this made the captain think of the railway passes, and he thrust his hand into the pocket where he kept his wallet. the pocket was empty! he tried the other pockets, but they were in the same condition! the passes and the remainder of his money were gone, stolen by some clever pickpocket that very morning perchance. he turned upon terry a face full of consternation. "i've been robbed, terry," said he hoarsely. "we can't go to boston to-day; i've lost the passes, and all my money too." chapter ix. from friend to friend. terry's face when he heard captain afleck's startling news was verily a study. the joy which the moment before had irradiated it vanished like a flash, and in its place came a look of blank despair that would have touched a heart of stone. "whirra, whirra!" he moaned, shaking his head dolefully; "and what's to be done now? we can't walk all that way, can we?" in spite of his mental distress the big seaman burst out into a laugh. "walk all the way, terry!" he cried; "not a bit of us. if i can't manage better than that, you can put me down for a first-class booby." at this moment a hand was laid gently on his shoulder, and turning round he found at his side the gentleman who had been unintentionally the cause of their mishap. "pardon my addressing you," said he courteously, "but i am really very much grieved that you should have been put to so much inconvenience on my account. won't you do me the favour to come home with me to lunch? my carriage is waiting for me." for a moment captain afleck hesitated. then, seeing that the invitation was sincere, and feeling glad to find a friend in his time of need, he looked at terry, saying, "shall we go with the gentleman, terry?" terry nodded a vigorous assent. so the invitation was accepted, and presently they were rolling up fifth avenue in a luxurious carriage, wondering what good fortune awaited them. the carriage stopped at a handsome residence, into which they followed their host, and being shown by a servant into a dressing-room, were enabled to make their toilet before going to lunch. mr. travers had no family, and they were therefore spared the ordeal of facing female society, while his genial manner soon put them both so entirely at their ease, that almost unconsciously they told him their whole story, since the collision in boston harbour. nor did their confidence stop there; for terry, his heart responding to the old man's kindly interest, was moved to go further back, and tell his own history, from the time he saved miss drummond's life. "oh, ho!" exclaimed mr. travers when he had finished--"mr. drummond, of drummond and brown. i know him well. we've had business relations these many years. now, terry, my lad, i want to say that i believe you fully, and that this very night i will take upon myself to write to mr. drummond and say so; and when you go back to halifax you'll find him ready to receive your explanations, and to take you back into his office." how terry's heart leaped at this, and with what boyish ardour he expressed his gratitude! halifax seemed very near now, and it was brought still nearer when mr. travers proceeded:-"as to your getting home, of course you will allow me to provide for that--nothing else would be fair, and it will perhaps in some measure make amends for what you have had to endure." so the upshot of it was, that when the captain and terry bade good-bye to their new-found friend, the former had sufficient funds to pay all expenses of the homeward journey, and with light hearts they made their way to the station. once more in the train, and speeding towards boston, they lolled about on the cushion of the car in great good-humour. "well, terry, my son," said the captain, bestowing upon him a look of mingled affection and admiration, "you do have the greatest luck of any fellow i ever saw. i give you credit for the whole of it, seein' that i've never had much of it myself. no matter what sort of a scrape we get into, out we come again smiling, and not a bit the worse. if your luck holds, you'll be a great man some day, terry, and no mistake." terry laughed, and curled up still more comfortably on the crimson cushion. "faith, you make me proud, captain," he responded. "but where do you come in yourself? sure, it 'ud be no easy job to say where i'd be this very minute if you'd not looked after me." much pleased in his turn, captain afleck leaned over and twitched terry's ear in a not ungentle fashion. "i guess you can take pretty good care of yourself, my hearty," said he. "some fine day you'll be one of the bosses at long wharf, wearing a big gold chain, and fine black suit, and a tall shiny hat, while, if i'm alive, i'll be nothing better than i am now, glad if i can knock out a living with my schooner--if i ever get another one." "no you won't, captain," cried terry, springing up with eyes shining with emotion; "nothing of the kind. if ever i do get to be one of the bosses, you shall be captain of the best ship the firm owns, and go round the world in her, if you like." captain afleck gave the boy a tender smile as he took hold of his hand. "i know you mean every word of it, terry; and, who knows, perhaps some of it may come true some day." and so they whiled away the time as the swift train sped northward. shortly after nightfall terry went to sleep, and the captain, growing weary of the confinement of the car, took advantage of a lengthy stoppage at a junction to get out and stretch his legs. there were trains on both sides of the platform, and it fell out that the mariner, little used to land travel, presently lost his bearings, with the result that, hearing the shout, "all aboard," and seeing a train move off, he jumped on to the rear car, thinking it was all right. not until he had passed through to the next car did he discover that he was mistaken. but by that time the train had gathered such speed that to jump off was to risk life, so with a groan of, "oh, but i'm the dunderhead. how is poor terry to get along now?" he threw himself into a seat to wait for the conductor, from whom he might learn how soon he could leave this train and set off in pursuit of the right one. when the conductor did appear the captain was dismayed to find that he was flying off due west in the direction of chicago, instead of due north in the direction of boston, and that it would not be possible for him to retrace his way until the following morning, while the train which carried terry would reach boston that very night. "well, it's no use crying over spilt milk," soliloquized captain afleck on receiving this information. "i must only make the best of it for myself; but poor little terry, who's to look after him? and he hasn't a copper in his pocket." it was some little time after the train had moved off without the captain before terry awoke. when he did, and looked about him for his companion, his first thought was,-"oh, he's gone into one of the other cars," and he gave himself no concern. presently, however, beginning to feel lonely, he thought he'd go in search of him, and accordingly he went through the four passenger cars, looking eagerly for the stalwart sailor. discovering no signs of him, he grew anxious, and questioned the brakesman. but he could tell him nothing; and all the conductor knew was that a man answering to terry's description had been out on the platform at the junction walking up and down while the train stopped. "do you think he's fallen under the cars, and been killed?" exclaimed terry, his eyes enlarged to their utmost extent at the awful notion. "not much," responded the conductor curtly. "guess he went to get a drink in the restaurant, and let the train go off without him. you needn't worry. he'll be along by the express." this explanation, albeit not altogether satisfactory to terry, for he knew the captain was practically a teetotaller, nevertheless served, in lieu of a better one, to allay his apprehensions somewhat; and, having inquired when the express would be along, he went back to his seat, determined not to let the other passengers see how deep was his distress. for, in spite of the conductor's suggestion, he could not dismiss from his mind the idea of some harm having befallen his kind friend, and he worried far more over this than he did over the fact of his being without money to pay his way when he did arrive in boston. it was within two hours of midnight when the train rolled into the station, and terry, tumbling out on the platform, looked about him with blinking eyes of bewilderment. "faith, it's a lost dog i am now, and no mistake," he said, gazing around at the confusing crowds of people, the hurrying officials, the shouting hack-drivers, and all the other elements of confusion at a great railroad terminus. "i'd like mighty well to know what to do now, seein' i've never a copper in my pocket, and don't know a blessed soul in the place." in the hope of finding captain afleck, he waited until the express train came in of which the conductor had spoken. but there was no sign of the strayed sailor; and realizing that there was nothing to be gained by hanging about the station, terry went out into the streets, a waif in a fuller sense than ever before in his life. yet his brave bright spirit refused to be overwhelmed. the night was fine and warm; the streets were bright, and lined with fine buildings. if the policemen would only let him alone, he would make a shift to get through the night somehow, and trust to obtaining help from some quarter in the morning. so he strolled along through street after street, entertaining himself with comments upon the people and buildings he passed, and keeping a sharp eye open for any place that might promise a quiet haven for the night. in this way he came to a cross-street between two important thoroughfares, and turning into it, he knew not why, he was brought to an open door, whence issued sounds of singing. he loved music of every kind, and this singing was so sweet and fervent that it drew him little by little further inside the door, until, almost before he knew it, he found himself in a bright attractive hall, set with chairs, and nearly filled by a gathering of men and women, singing heartily a gospel song, the like of; which he had never heard before. there was something so genial in the atmosphere of the place that the homeless boy resolved to stay if he would be permitted, and so taking a seat in the nearest corner he gave himself up to the enjoyment of the music. soon a young man espied him and came towards him. was he going to turn him out? poor terry's heart sank, and he felt his face becoming crimson. but his fears were all unfounded. instead of asking him to leave, the young man held out his hand, saying with a cordial smile,-"you're very welcome, my boy. come up nearer; and here's a hymn-book to sing from." terry would have preferred his corner, but he felt it would be ungracious to refuse so kind an invitation, and he therefore followed obediently till he was assigned a seat not far from the desk, at which stood a venerable man with long white beard, whose countenance seemed to radiate tenderness and sympathy. when the singing ended, the leader began to speak. his theme was the love of christ for sinners, and he spoke with rare simplicity and winning force. terry listened with every faculty attent. it was all strangely new to him. what little religious instruction he had got in the roman catholic church was in no way a preparation for this earnest, direct, personal gospel, which not only took a strong hold upon his heart, but seemed to arouse some sort of response there, as though it were awakening faculties which had been hitherto dormant. the speaker evidently observed the boy's rapt attention, for he turned upon him many a look of loving appeal, that made terry feel as though he were looking right down into his heart and reading all that was there. yet, strange to say, terry had no disposition to resent this. so spell-bound was he that he could hardly have resisted any command the old man might have laid upon him; and when, at the close of his address, the leader invited all who wished to learn more about the saviour to remain for a little while after the meeting had been dismissed, terry was among those who stayed in their seats. not only so, but when this after-meeting came to an end terry still lingered, partly because he was loath to go out again into the strange streets, which offered him no refuge for the night, and partly because he wanted to hear something more about this jesus, who seemed so different from the only son of mary of whom he had any knowledge. the venerable leader, the moment he was disengaged, went up to terry, and laying his hand kindly on his head, said in a tone of great tenderness,-"well, my dear boy, i am very glad to see you here; and do you love jesus too?" the full purport of this question terry hardly grasped, and not knowing what answer to make he hung his head in silence, whereupon the leader added gently,-"never mind answering that question just now. come with me. i'm going home, and you can tell me all your story there." completely won by the gracious charm of his manner, terry lifted his head, and looking up gratefully into the noble countenance bending over him, said,-"indeed, sir, i'm glad you've asked me, for it's without a place to sleep in i am this night." "you shall be all right with me, then," was the cordial response. "let us go now, and you can tell me about yourself as we walk along." passing on through the now deserted streets, terry told his new-found friend much of the story of his life, his narration being listened to with deep sympathy and interest. as they stopped at the door of a comfortable-looking house the old gentleman said,-"providence has put you in my way, my boy, and it will be my joy to assist you to the best of my ability. here is my home. you shall share it until the way opens for you to continue your journey." a beautiful old lady gave them both a warm welcome and a bountiful supper, to which terry did full justice, for he had been fasting since mid-day. then his host told him something of the place where they had met. it was a midnight mission carried on by himself, at his own expense, for the benefit of fallen humanity. this was his life-work, and he rejoiced in it, because of the many opportunities it afforded him of being both a temporal and a spiritual helper to the victims of vice or of misfortune. terry felt irresistibly drawn towards mr. sargent and his wife, whose hearts so overflowed with love; and when they proposed that he should stay with them for a few days, in order that he might try to find captain afleck, he gladly assented. thus it came about that he was with these kind good people for the remainder of the week, looking about the streets and wharves for the captain in the day-time, attending the mission meetings at night, and all the time being more and more deeply influenced by the beautiful piety of his friends. recognizing how much terry had to learn of the very essentials of religion, mr. sargent took abundant pains to make the matter clear to the irish boy, whose warm heart readily responded to the argument from the infinite love of the father, and he had his reward in finding his pupil laying hold upon the truth with a grasp that would not be readily shaken. each day the attachment between them deepened, until mr. sargent began to wish that he might keep terry altogether; he discovered in him such possibilities of good. but, sincerely grateful as he was, terry's anxiety to get back to halifax grew keener every day. he seemed so near now, and there were vessels sailing every day, on one of which he could without difficulty obtain a passage. of captain afleck no trace could be found. as a matter of fact, he, too, on reaching boston had spent some time hunting for terry; but being unsuccessful, concluded that terry had gone on to halifax, and accordingly gave up the search until he should hear from that place. it had just been arranged that terry should take the train for halifax one afternoon, when, in the morning, walking along tremont street, he caught sight of a familiar face over the way, and darting across the street he cried delightedly,-"mr. hobart! is it yourself?" chapter x. reinstated. the gentleman whom terry had thus startlingly accosted looked with surprised inquiry for a moment upon the boy; then a bright smile of joyful recognition breaking over his face, he caught him by both shoulders, and shook him playfully, exclaiming,-"why, you young rascal! where on earth have you sprung from? how glad i am to see you! where have you been all this while?" mr. hobart's tone was so thoroughly cordial that terry for a moment wondered whether he understood why he had run away; but as he hesitated in uncertainty as to where to begin to answer the questions showered upon him, the other went on,-"did you clear out because you were afraid you'd be suspected of stealing that wharfage money?" terry had only time to nod before mr. hobart continued,-"that's just what i said all along. i felt sure it was nothing else, although morley tried hard to put other things on you; and a week after you vanished the whole thing came out. the chap that ran off with your vest that day was arrested for stealing something else, and your watch was found on him, and he was so scared that he owned up to everything. so you see your reputation's all clear again." to all this terry listened in breathless delight. it was far better news than he had ever hoped to hear, for it meant that his explanation would be accepted at once, and he would not have a cloud of suspicion hanging over him, as had been his dread. "o mr. hobart!" he cried, "sure it's great good news you're tellin' me, that makes my heart as light as a feather. i've been tryin' so hard to get back to halifax for ever so long, and everything's been agin me. but now you'll take me back--won't you, mr. hobart?--and i'll tell mr. drummond just how it happened." "that i will, terry," responded mr. hobart. "and you just met me in time too, for i'm off by train this very afternoon, for i've finished the business which brought me here, and i'm in a hurry to get home again." "and so was i meself," shouted terry, dancing about on the pavement for very joy. "and now we'll go together. oh, but this is the lucky day for me!" in the excess of his delight terry came near forgetting mr. sargent, and the duty he owed him of telling the good news. but happily in good time the thought of his benefactor came to him, and on mr. hobart hearing about him he said they must go off and see him at once. the sargents were very glad to hear of their protã©gã©'s good fortune, and although manifestly reluctant to bid him good-bye, they gave him their blessing with a warmth that showed how he had found the way into their hearts. "remember, my dear boy," were the old gentleman's parting words, "the truths i have sought to teach you in our brief sojourn together. lay fast hold on eternal life; and although we may never meet again on earth, i shall look for you above." deeply affected by these solemn words, terry with tear-filled eyes murmured, "i'll try my best, sir," as he turned to follow mr. hobart, who had gone on a little in advance. that afternoon the two set forth for halifax, and on the way thither terry had time to tell his companion in full detail the wonderful experiences which had been his during the past two months. mr. hobart was intensely interested, as may be imagined, and would often exclaim,-"why, terry, you'll be the hero of the place for nine days at least. if one of these newspaper men get hold of your story, they'll make a great to-do over it. i think i must tell the editor of the _herald_ to have you interviewed." "sure now and you're only joking, mr. hobart," was terry's response to this banter, for it never entered his mind that any doing of his could be worth newspaper notice. "not a bit of it, terry," mr. hobart insisted; "you'll see when we get to halifax." they reached their destination without mishap in due time, and as it was too late to go to the office that day they each went to their own homes, terry promising to be at drummond and brown's bright and early the next morning. it was not without some misgivings as to the kind of reception awaiting him that terry made his way to blind alley. what would his mother say to him? and would his father strike him, as he had done more than once before when he had been away from home for a time? he passed and repassed the entrance to the alley several times before he could make up his mind to enter its forbidding gloom. but at last, saying to himself, "ah! what's the use of foolin' like this? here goes," he pushed in with quickened pace until he was within ten yards of the tenement house, when his progress was suddenly arrested by a familiar voice falling upon his ear. it was saying, in tones of despairing grief,-"no, no, mrs. o'rafferty, i'll never see his face again. he's gone off in one of those american ships, believe me, and he'll be kilt or drownded or something by this time." this was too much for terry. darting forward, he sprang upon his mother with a suddenness that would have startled a far less excitable person, and clasping her tight about the neck, cried,-"i'm nayther kilt nor drownded, mother darlin', but as well as i ever was. see if i'm not." poor mrs. ahearn! the shock was really more than she could stand, and she fainted dead away on the door-step, with terry and mrs. o'rafferty doing their best to hold her up. but she soon regained her senses, and then ensued a scene of rejoicing such as only a crowd of warm-hearted irish folk could accomplish. terry was violently kissed by the women and clapped on the back by the men, and pulled this way and that way by the boys, until there was hardly any breath left in his body: and he was mighty glad at last to escape with his mother up to their own room, where they could have a quiet talk together. a happy pair were they that night, and when black mike came in from his tavern it fortunately happened that he was in one of his rare amiable moods, and greeted his returned son with a show of affection that filled the others' cup of joy to the full. it was only natural that terry should feel considerable nervousness in regard to appearing at drummond and brown's, and this would have been greater still but for his timely encounter with mr. hobart, who would therefore be ready to make the way easy for him. as it happened, the first one he encountered on entering the office was morley, who of course knew nothing of his return, and who had been cherishing in his envious heart the hope that he might never see him again. he made no attempt to disguise his disappointment. "humph!" he grunted. "back again like a bad penny," and turning his back on him went into another part of the office. this was pretty hard for terry to bear, particularly in view of his sensitive state of mind; but by a great effort he controlled himself, and kept back the hot words that rose to his lips. he had learned a better way than to return evil for evil since he last saw morley, and he was resolved to live up to it. the next person he saw was mr. hobart, who welcomed him warmly, and then put him at his ease while the other clerks crowded round with questions, some asking merely for chaff, and others in genuine interest. terry bore the ordeal very well indeed, but felt quite relieved when it came to an end and the clerks all took up their work for the day, leaving him to await mr. drummond's arrival. when he came down, and sent for terry, the boy went before him with a beating heart. although the fear of being thought guilty of stealing the money was gone, still there were the neglect of duty and the foolish running away from the consequences to be judged for; and he knew that, kind as mr. drummond had been, he was no less just than kind. but he did not know that mr. hobart had been at mr. drummond's house the previous evening and told him terry's story, and that therefore the old gentleman was ready to receive him, not with stern words of condemnation, but with kind words of encouragement. yet mr. drummond liked his joke, and when terry presented himself before him, trembling and blushing, he assumed an air of great gravity, and said in his most impressive tone,-"well, sir, you've come back, i see; and now, what have you to say for yourself?" with brimming eyes and quivering lips, terry began to express his penitence, but had not got very far when mr. drummond's countenance relaxed, and smiling pleasantly he held out his hand, saying,-"you needn't mind, terry; i know all about it already. mr. hobart told me last night. just tell me some of the things you saw in the united states." and in this way the much-dreaded interview passed off, with the result that at the close terry felt himself fully restored to his former standing in the office, and able to hold up his head once more among his fellow-clerks. he did not take long to settle down to work again. he was full of desire to atone for his errors, and gave his whole attention to whatever was assigned him, bringing the whole strength of his really unusual if untrained mental powers to bear upon the task in hand as he had never done before. as a natural consequence, he rapidly grew in favour with his superiors, and had many an encouraging smile from mr. drummond, who heard good reports of him from time to time. one especially welcome outcome of this improved state of affairs was that morley's malice received such a snubbing on all sides that he positively had to hold his bitter tongue and leave terry in peace, to the great relief of the latter, who now had smooth going in every way, and was as happy a boy as walked the streets of halifax. it was quite a week after his return before he heard anything more of captain afleck, and then there came a letter from him at boston to the firm inquiring if they knew anything about terry, as he had been searching all over the city for him, but could find no trace of him whatever. terry was considerably amused when this was told him, and with the aid of mr. hobart concocted quite a humorous reply, in which he poked fun at the captain for not knowing how to take care of himself. in response to this the captain wrote expressing his relief at learning that terry was back in his place, and stating that now his mind was at rest about him he would remain in boston to complete his claim against the insurance company, so that halifax would not be likely to see him for some little time. one thing that gave terry increasing concern was the squalor of their abode in blind alley. with the help of his wages much better quarters could be obtained; but black mike would not stir, and of course mrs. ahearn would not leave him, shamefully as he treated her. so terry had perforce to be patient, awaiting the time when his father's mind might change, or some other way out of the difficulty be found. matters had been going on in this pleasant fashion for a month or so, when one afternoon in the early autumn the whole establishment of drummond and brown, from the grave old partners down to terry, was thrown into a state of excitement by the news coming down from the signal-station on the citadel that a blockade-runner had been chased right to the mouth of the harbour, and was now steaming up at a tremendous rate with all her flags flying in token of her fortunate escape. long wharf was quickly crowded with eager sightseers, and presently the beautiful vessel came into view, the white foam curling back from her sharp bow as she ploughed a deep furrow through the yielding water. coming off the wharf she slowed up, described a graceful semicircle, and then glided smoothly into dock amid the cheers of the assembled people, who were always glad to welcome a blockade-runner from motives of interest no less than of sympathy. hearty responses came from the deck of the blockade-runner, which was no other than the famous _colonel lamb_--the largest, costliest, and swiftest of the whole fleet engaged in that dangerous work. she had brought her cargo of cotton through many perils, and great would be the profit of those interested in the venture. while the people were fraternizing with the crew, and asking them a thousand questions about their run, the captain of the blockade-runner came off, accompanied by his first officer, who bore a black bag evidently filled with something heavy; and after greetings had been exchanged with mr. drummond and mr. brown, the four men went on up to the office. mr. hobart, noticing this, called to terry, who stood near him, watching all that was going on with deep interest, and thinking of the rebel steamers of a very different type that he had seen in hampton roads, "come along, terry; we may be wanted at the office." and so they two followed. at the office the four gentlemen had been closeted for nearly an hour, when mr. hobart was called in to receive some instructions with reference to the disposition of the black bag. but just as mr. drummond was about to give them, a shout of "fire" came suddenly up from the wharf, and there was a rush of men towards the end of the line of warehouses. now, it chanced that in one of the warehouses was stored a quantity of powder awaiting shipment on the blockade-runner, and at the thought of this danger, mr. drummond, springing up in great alarm, thrust the bag into his desk, locked it up, and directing mr. hobart to remain in the office, hurried out, followed by the other three. the fire proved to be rather a serious one, which took a couple of hours to entirely master, but happily it did not reach the building where the powder was stored. when the peril had altogether passed, and mr. drummond, very much wearied by the excitement and exertion, returned to the office, it was long beyond the usual time for closing; so, ordering a cab, he drove off home without another thought in regard to the black bag, which, in view of its contents, ought to have been locked up in the safe. from his place in the outer office, terry had got a glimpse of the bag, and of how it had been put away, and in the talk he had with his mother every night before going to bed he told her about it. "faith and it looked as if it might have a heap of money in it," he concluded; "those great big gold pieces you know, mother, good for twenty dollars every one of them, like them blockade-runners have in their pockets. man dear, but they are beauties!" and his eyes opened wide with admiration and longing. as he finished speaking, a movement at the door behind the two rooms caused him to turn round, and he saw his father, whom he had supposed to be sound asleep in the other room, standing in the doorway with a strange look in his eyes that terry recalled afterwards with a sharp thrill of apprehension. evidently black mike had been listening to the talk, and understood its purport. he made no remark, however, but after standing there in silence for a moment, wheeled about and went back to bed. the next morning, shortly after mr. drummond's arrival at the office, there were indications of some unusual occurrence having taken place. the partners were seen to be in anxious consultation, and presently mr. hobart was called in to their sanctum. he came out shortly with a very troubled countenance, and terry ventured to inquire,-"is there anything the matter, mr. hobart?" "i should say there was something the matter," was the reply. "mr. drummond's desk has been broken open, and that black bag which was full of gold has been stolen." chapter xi. in a strait betwixt two. amid the anxious bustle that filled the office terry sat at his desk with strange and perplexing thoughts coursing through his brain. he had seen the bag just for one moment as mr. drummond was hastily throwing it into his desk. so far as he knew, only mr. hobart and himself, of the office staff, had any knowledge of its existence. that mr. hobart should have taken it was a notion so absurd that his mind refused to entertain it for an instant. his kind friend was to him the incarnation of every human virtue, and terry would have resented hotly the insinuation that he could possibly be guilty of any such wrong-doing. who, then, could be the thief? as he looked about the office, glancing from one to the other of the countenances of the clerks, all of whom, laying aside their work for the time, were exchanging conjectures as to how the robbery had been managed, his eyes seemed drawn irresistibly towards morley. the latter was not at his own desk, but stood near the window looking out, as though not particularly interested in the earnest discussion, yet every now and then he gave a glance towards the group which showed that he was listening intently to all they said. it was his expression when he did this which impressed terry. it had a blending of anxiety, bravado, and cunning triumph that could not fail to provoke curiosity, if not to arouse suspicion, in so keen an observer. once he caught terry studying him, and instantly his face flushed with anger, and he gave back such a vicious scowl that terry, apprehensive of an outburst, took care not to meet his glance again. mr. hobart had been in the inside office again for some time, when he came out, seeming more troubled than ever, and beckoned terry to him. "mr. drummond wants to see you," he said, "although i told him you couldn't know anything about it." in no small perturbation terry entered the sanctum. the two partners were sitting at their desks, both evidently greatly disturbed by what had happened. "did you see anything of the bag that has been stolen, terry?" asked mr. drummond abruptly. terry hesitated for a moment. did mr. drummond mean before it was put into the desk or after? "why don't you answer me at once?" demanded his questioner testily, while mr. brown regarded terry with a look of sharp inquiry. "i--i--didn't see it since you put it in your desk, sir," stammered terry slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the toes of his boots. "oh, ho!" cried mr. drummond in a tone that suggested he thought he was getting some light on the mystery. "then you did see the bag before it was put in my desk?" "yes, sir," answered terry, the words coming more readily as he regained his self-command. "i saw the gentleman carrying it up the wharf." "was that all you saw of it?" asked mr. drummond, eying him narrowly. "tell me now exactly." "no, sir," replied terry, the colour mounting in his face as the thought came that perhaps he would be suspected of prying into a matter that did not concern him. "i saw it when you were putting it into your desk." the partners exchanged significant glances. here now they seemed to be finding a clue that might help them. recognizing the wisdom of being more diplomatic in his mode of cross-examination, mr. drummond pursued his inquiry in a much quieter tone. "and how did you come to see the bag then?" he asked. "the door of your office was open, sir," was the reply. "and you were peeping, were you?" continued mr. drummond. "yes, sir. i didn't mean any harm," pleaded terry. "perhaps not, but maybe harm has come of it whether you meant it or not," retorted mr. drummond in a half-sneering tone. "now tell me, was that the last you saw of the bag? have you seen nothing of it since? look me straight in the face as you answer me." terry lifted his eyes, and looked full into his employer's face as he responded earnestly, "no, sir; sure as i'm standing here, sir, i haven't." the fervent frankness of his manner carried conviction, and there was a perceptible change in mr. drummond's tone when he put the next question:-"from the way you say that, terry, i believe it's the truth. but tell me this: did you mention to any person about having seen the bag? think now, before you answer." the boy's countenance, which had assumed its natural colour, grew flushed again, and he hesitated for a moment before he replied,-"i did tell my mother about it when i went home, sir." once more the partners exchanged meaning glances, and mr. brown seemed about to say something, when mr. drummond checked him by a warning motion of his hand. "that will do for the present, terry," said he. "i may want to ask you some more questions afterwards. don't mention to any of the clerks what i've been asking you, or what you have told me. just keep your own counsel. do you understand?" when terry went out, the two men consulted earnestly together. from the signs left by the thief, whoever he was, it seemed clear that he had a complete knowledge of the premises. he had apparently entered the warehouse by a back window, which in his haste he had forgotten to close after him, broken open the desk with a large chisel, taken nothing except the bag, and made off in the same way that he had come. terry's confession as to telling his mother of the bag was, to say the least, suggestive. black mike had not much reputation to lose. according to the popular opinion of him, he would have small scruples about taking the bag. of course he could not be arrested upon mere suspicion. some more substantial grounds than that would have to be found. but, in the meantime, he was worth watching, and accordingly it was decided to engage a detective to "shadow" him, in the hope of obtaining further proof. when terry came out of mr. drummond's office, mr. hobart took him aside, and questioned him as to what he knew of the affair; and terry told him as much as he could without disobeying mr. drummond's injunctions. his listener did not make any comments, although in his mind there arose the same thought that had occurred to the partners. terry's quick instinct told him there was something significant in his story which had made an impression on the members of the firm and upon mr. hobart. yet, strange to say, its actual import did not occur to him at the time. indeed he was too deeply troubled with the fear lest he himself should be in some way regarded as an accomplice in the robbery, to speculate much as to who really might be the guilty one. he saw nothing of his father all day. black mike had not shown up for work, and the foreman took it for granted he was off on a spree. but for the fact that after a holiday of this kind he always seemed determined to atone for his absence by increased exertion, and would positively do the work of two ordinary men, thanks to his enormous strength, his name would not have stood upon the long wharf pay-roll at all. as it was, he received wages for the time he actually worked, and seemed quite content with the arrangement. it was late at night before he reeled into blind alley, and stumbled up the steep stairs to his squalid home. tired though terry felt, owing to the stress and strain of the day, he had, in spite of his mother's protests, stayed up to keep her company. not a word did either speak when the drunkard lurched into the room and fell heavily across the bed. they knew better than to arouse his anger by addressing either himself or one another. he rolled about uneasily on the hard bed, grunting and growling more like some wild animal than a human being. as he did so the clank of coins in his pocket could be heard, and presently in his contortions several of them worked out, and fell with a loud clang upon the floor. he made as though he would get up to recover them; but the effort was too much for him, and sinking back with a smothered oath, he fell into the heavy stupor of the drunkard's sleep. it was not until he felt perfectly sure of his father's helplessness that terry ventured to pick up the coins. to his astonishment they were not copper pennies, as he had supposed from the sound of their fall, but great golden double-eagles of the value of twenty dollars each. with a bewildered expression of countenance he laid them on his mother's lap. "sure it's a heap of money," he whispered; "and how could father get hold of so much?" mrs. ahearn felt the splendid coins one by one as though to convince herself that they were no optical illusion. "the blessed saints preserve us, terry!" she replied, crossing herself almost mechanically. "maybe it's goblin gold, and we should not be touchin' it at all." not only was terry far less superstitious than his mother, but he had enjoyed the advantage of a wider experience. he had often seen mr. hobart counting over precisely similar coins, and he felt pretty sure that there was no goblin element about the contents of his father's pockets. "och! no, mother," he answered, "it's not goblin gold at all. we often have the same at the office." there was a certain perceptible note of pride in his voice as he brought out the last sentence, reassured by which mrs. ahearn took the coins into her hands again, and permitted her sense of beauty to indulge itself in admiring their perfection. neither spoke for the next minute; their brains were busy with perplexing thoughts. meantime black mike lay motionless as a log, only an occasional gurgling gasp showing that he was actually alive. he was now lying upon the broad of his back, thus leaving all his pockets exposed. acting upon an impulse that he could not restrain, terry went over to him and made a thorough search of the pockets. the result was the discovery of three more double-eagles, making five in all. one hundred dollars! more money by far than black mike had ever had at once in his life before. how could he have honestly come by it? unknown to each other the same thought was forming in the mind of the mother and son, and they dared not look into one another's eyes lest it should be revealed. mr. hobart had told terry that the black bag contained a very large amount of money in gold, and this the boy had duly repeated at home. at last the silence became unendurable to both. unable to restrain herself any longer, mrs. ahearn caught terry by the arm, and drew him towards her. "holy mary!" she murmured, as though praying for strength; and then, after a moment's pause, added in a hoarse whisper, "could your father have stolen it, terry?" terry started as if he had been struck, for his mother had uttered the very question that possessed his own mind. he did not hold towards his father a very warm affection. black mike's treatment of him from his babyhood had been too consistently unfatherly for that. but the thought of being arrested and sent to the grim granite penitentiary out by the north-west arm filled him with horror. "surely not, mother," he responded with a warmth that was increased by his desire to convince himself as well as his mother. "it's not the likes of father to be stealing money; somebody must have given it to him." the suggestion was a very unlikely one, yet they both sought to take comfort from it. gold was very plentiful in halifax in those days, and the successful blockade-runners lavished it with a free hand. some one of them, whose wits had been stolen away by strong drink, might have filled black mike's pockets in a fit of reckless generosity. but the more terry thought over this the more improbable did it seem, and he felt himself, however reluctantly, thrown back upon the only other alternative to which almost unconsciously he gave expression. "if father did steal the money," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the drunken form, "where do you think he could have got it?" he put the question because, although he had already answered it in his own mind, he shrank from expressing his thought, at least until he saw whether the same had come into his mother's mind. mrs. ahearn was silent for some moments. then, bending over towards him as if afraid the sleeper might catch her words, she replied,-"the black bag, terry!" terry gave a groan of misery. his own harrowing suspicion had found expression in his mother's words, and instantly he saw himself transfixed between the horns of a terrible dilemma. not only so, but just as his mother had hit upon, the same solution of the mystery of the gold, so must she realize the position in which he was placed by it. that she did this was made clear the next moment; for, as he remained silent, she drew him into her arms, and folding him to her breast, sobbed out in plaintive tones,-"ye won't tell mr. drummond, will ye, terry darlint? sure it would break me poor heart entirely if they were to send the police after your father, and have him put in the penitentiary." it was long past midnight before sleep came to terry's eyes. he tossed and tumbled about on his hard bed in a state of the most painful perplexity. the idea of informing upon his father seemed nothing short of horrible to him, and yet did not duty to his employer and to the truth demand it? mr. drummond had been so good to him. here, now, was an opportunity to prove his gratitude. by prompt action a good part of the stolen money might perhaps be recovered before it was squandered, therefore the sooner he informed the better. his mother had carefully put away the gold coins, in order that they might be restored when they knew for certain to whom they rightfully belonged. should he take them to the office in the morning, and tell the whole story? when he got up the next morning, a little later than usual, having overslept himself, he found his father already gone out. black mike had apparently not missed the gold, and asked no questions, although his drunkenness had disappeared. nothing was said between terry and his mother while he ate his breakfast quickly; but just as he was hurrying off, she threw her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear,-"say nothin' about the gold to-day, terry darlint. maybe it wasn't your father took the bag at all." at the office the clerks had settled down again to their regular routine, and the distractions of the preceding day having caused some arrears, they had to work all the harder to make them up. terry was kept on his feet continually, and was left little time for quiet thinking. mr. hobart was absent, having been sent off by the firm on an important mission to windsor, whence he would not return until the following day. terry's heart sank when he heard this, for he craved a talk with his friend, although his mind was not yet made up as to whether he would tell him about his father. another absentee was morley. a note had come from him, stating that he was ill and confined to bed, but hoped to be at his desk in a day or two. for some inexplicable reason, when terry learned this the thought flashed into his mind that morley might know something about the black bag. he could give himself no reason for it, yet there it stuck, and by its presence helped to strengthen his reluctance to make known the facts about his father. in the afternoon the office was once more thrown into a state of excitement by the news that the detectives had discovered the thief, and already had him under arrest. terry was out on an errand when the word came. on his return he entered the office just behind mr. boggs, the assistant book-keeper, at sight of whom one of the other clerks, eager to be the first to tell the news, shouted out,-"they've caught the burglar, boggs. guess who it is?" terry's heart stopped beating, and an icy chill ran through his body, as, pausing by the door, he waited in harrowing apprehension for the answer. chapter xii. all's well that ends well. mr. hobart was not the only friend terry had among the employã©s at drummond and brown's. the storeman, john connors, had always been kind to him in his own rough way. he pitied the boy because of his drunken father, and liked him because of his pluck and energy. having no boys of his own, he had several times, half in jest, half in earnest, offered to adopt him; and although his proposition could not be considered, it strengthened the warm affection that terry felt towards the bluff "boss" of long wharf. intense, then, as was his relief that it was not his father who had been arrested for the stealing of the black bag, there quickly followed feelings of keen surprise and sorrow, for the suspected criminal proved to be no other than john connors, in whose possession had been found a bag presumed to be the one taken from mr. drummond's desk. terry listened for a while to the conversation of the clerks as they exchanged wondering conjectures in reference to the matter, and all the time the conviction grew stronger within him that, however appearances might be against him, connors was no more guilty than he was himself. at length he could not keep silence, and burst out with,-"john connors never stole the bag. i'm sure he didn't." his fervent declaration of faith in the storeman's innocence roused a laugh, and one of the clerks turned upon him with the question,-"what do you know about it any way that you're so sure as to who didn't do it?" instantly there came up in terry's mind the scene at home, and the mysterious gold dropping from his father's pockets. what did he know about it indeed? far more perhaps than he cared to tell just then. regretting that he had spoken, he made no answer; and noticing his confusion, the clerk, attributing it to his being so sharply challenged, added good-humouredly,-"never mind, terry; we're a good deal of the same opinion. we don't think connors is the man to do such a thing, and there must be a mistake somewhere." as soon as he got home terry told his mother of connors' arrest, and mrs. ahearn, eager to seize upon any other explanation of the affair than one which would involve her husband, said persuasively,-"now then, terry, ye'll not be saying anything about your father till ye find out some more, will ye, darlint?" poor terry was in a sadly perplexed state of mind. he firmly believed in connors' innocence; yet he was by no means sure of his father's guilt, and, without being able to explain to himself why, he had haunting suspicions as to morley. how he longed to have a talk with mr. hobart! but his friend was away, and there was no one else in whom he had the same confidence, or to whom he could go for the counsel he so sorely needed. black mike did not show himself in blind alley that night, greatly to the relief of both terry and his mother, for they dreaded seeing him in their then state of mind. the two had a long talk before going to bed; but it did not make the future much clearer, although the more he thought over the matter, the more strongly terry felt that he was not doing right in withholding the information about his father. immediately on his arrival at the office next morning he was told not to go out anywhere, as he would soon be particularly wanted, and presently he learned that he was to appear in the police-court as a witness at the preliminary examination of connors. his heart sank within him at the prospect of this ordeal, and he felt as though he would give anything to run off and hide himself until the trial was over. shortly after eleven o'clock, mr. hobart, who had just got back that morning, told him to accompany him to the police-court. in profound perturbation terry obeyed. it would be his first appearance as a witness, and he had the vaguest possible notions as to what would be required of him. they found the court-room already crowded, for the case attracted a good deal of attention. it was a bare gaunt room, whose principal virtue lay in its being well lit. along the farther end ran a dais, upon which stood three desks, with a big black sofa behind; while over all hung a canopy bearing the royal arms of great britain. as the market clock sounded out eleven strokes, a door at the side of the dais opened, and the stipendiary magistrate, the presiding genius of the place, appeared. he had rather an imposing port, which was helped by his full gray beard and large gold spectacles. behind came mr. drummond and mr. brown, who at his invitation took seats upon the sofa. having adjusted himself comfortably at the central desk, he directed the clerk, who sat in an enclosure behind him, to open the court. a number of "drunk and disorderly" cases, which were represented by a row of men and women in various stages of rags and frowziness, had first to be disposed of, the routine being to call up the policeman who had made the arrest, listen to his statement, and without further inquiry impose fines of "five dollars, or twenty days," or "ten dollars, or forty days," according to the gravity of the offence. at length the dock was cleared of its unsavoury tenants, and the clerk called the case of "the queen versus john connors." a perceptible stir and murmur ran through the crowd when connors came forward. he certainly had not the appearance of a criminal, and despite his evident distress at his situation, there was nothing in his bearing to indicate guilt. he had secured the services of mr. morton, the leading criminal lawyer, and was permitted to take his seat beside him, instead of being placed in the dock. there seemed something reproachful in the glance he gave his employers, as though to say, "you ought to have had more faith in me than to put me here." the preliminary formalities being gone through with, the examination of the witnesses was entered upon. mr. drummond, mr. brown, the officers of the blockade-runner, and mr. hobart gave their evidence one after another, while terry listened to every question and answer as though his own life depended upon the result. his mind was in a state of the utmost distress and indecision. his turn would come soon. how much should he tell? no one could have any idea of what he knew. must he betray his father, or had he the right to maintain silence? never in his life before had he been brought face to face with so perplexing a moral problem, and his early training was indeed a poor preparation for its right solution. indeed, had he been left to decide it by the standards of that training, it would have been quickly done; but during his short stay with mr. sargent in boston a new view of life had come to him, in the light of which he saw his duty as he had never done before. he looked longingly at mr. hobart, for he felt that a good talk with him would be a wonderful help in straightening matters out; but there was no chance of that now, and he had come no nearer a decision when he heard his name called by the clerk. dazed, and trembling in every limb, he entered the witness box, and took tight hold of the front rail, for it seemed as though his knees would sink under him. in consideration of his youth and manifest perturbation, the prosecuting attorney questioned him very gently and briefly as to what he knew, and terry having told about seeing the bag locked up in the desk, hoped that the ordeal was over. but to his dismay mr. morton now took him in hand, adjusting his gold spectacles so as to look straight through them into the boy's face; and assuming a very confident air, as though he knew all about it, the renowned cross-examiner said,-"come now, master ahearn, you're a bright-looking lad, and no doubt you think a good deal. have you been thinking much about this wonderful black bag?" terry started, and the colour deepened on his already flushed cheeks. had he been thinking about it? what else indeed had occupied his thoughts since first he heard of the robbery? his keen eye observing the boy's confusion, mr. morton, who as a matter of fact had intended simply to play with him for a few minutes while he collected his own thoughts, for the case seemed going hard against his client, began to suspect that possibly the extent of terry's knowledge had not yet appeared; so, changing his manner from one of good-humoured raillery to penetrating scrutiny, he put the question straight to him,-"see here, master ahearn, don't you know more about this matter than you have yet told us?" then raising his voice to a tone of command, he pointed his long finger at him like the barrel of a revolver, as he cried, "out with it now. tell the court everything you know, or--" he did not finish the sentence, believing it would be more effective to leave the consequences to be imagined. the supreme crisis in terry's life had come, and he had only an instant in which to make his decision. on the one side was duty to the truth and to the accused man; on the other, fear for his father and for himself, for he did not know but what his concealment of his father having the gold would bring down punishment on his own shoulders. to get out of the difficulty he had only to disclaim any further knowledge, and who could gainsay him? glancing up for a moment at the magistrate, his eyes went past him to mr. drummond, who sat at his left. there was a look of deep concern on the merchant's face that touched terry to the heart, and instantly his decision was made. in a voice scarcely audible he murmured,-"yes, sir, i do know something more." mr. morton's face suddenly brightened. here perchance was something that might help his client. "ah! ha!" he exclaimed, "i thought you did. come, then, let us have it. we're all waiting upon you." in trembling tones and with many interruptions, terry, helped out by the lawyer's questions, related all that transpired the night his father brought home the gold. his story produced a profound sensation. although black mike had been placed under surveillance, it was without result; but now, through his son's evidence, his complicity in the crime seemed on the verge of being established. a distinct air of relief pervaded the court-room. mr. morton, looking quite cheerful again, held a whispered consultation with connors. mr. drummond and his partner did the same with the magistrate, while the other spectators buzzed to one another about the new turn the case had taken. feeling as though a fearful load had been taken off him, terry, now seeming very pale and tired, stood in the box awaiting further questioning. but to his great relief this was not required of him, as, after some discussion, mr. morton asked for an adjournment until the following morning, to enable black mike to be brought into court. his request was granted, and officers were sent out to find black mike. when the proceedings were resumed the next day, not only black mike was present, but also tom morley, and there were excited whispers current of yet more surprising developments than terry's evidence had foreshadowed. before the day closed the whole mystery was unravelled, and a strange story it made for, as it turned out, neither john connors nor black mike, in spite of the circumstantial evidence against them, had any part whatever in the robbery, or share in its proceeds. the entire guilt lay upon tom morley, and to the cleverest detective in the force was due the credit of bringing it home to him. it seemed that morley was in the warehouse above the office when the officers brought in the black bag, and, peeping through a pipe hole in the floor, he had witnessed its being thrust into the desk. then came to him the thought of taking it, for he was sorely in need of money to pay gambling debts. he remained in the warehouse until long after dark, broke open the desk, and carried off the bag, effecting his escape through the window. by chance detective power had learned of morley being remarkably flush with money, and while the other officers were following up clues which led to the storeman being arrested, he devoted himself to tracking the real criminal, with the result of running him down, and obtaining a full confession from him, together with the greater portion of the money. as to the grounds of suspicion against john connors and black mike, they proved to be easily explained away. the black bag found in the former's possession turned out to be another one altogether; and with regard to the gold the latter had brought home, it belonged to an officer of the _colonel lamb_, with whom he had been carousing, and who, fearing he might be robbed, had handed it over to black mike for safe keeping. there was great rejoicing throughout the establishment of drummond and brown over the complete clearing up of the robbery, and terry was warmly commended for his fidelity to the truth. mr. drummond was particularly pleased with him, for when he understood the whole matter he realized how trying had been the boy's situation. it was not long after this that terry was once more called in to mr. drummond's office, for his employer had something important to say to him. "i have been thinking about you, my boy," said he, "and have decided to give you the opportunity of making up for lost time in the way of education; so i am going to send you off to a first-class commercial academy, where you can stay two or three years if you will, and then come back here qualified to make a valuable clerk. how would you like that?" now, not so many months before, mr. drummond had made terry a somewhat similar offer, and it had met with no encouragement. but the boy saw things with different eyes now. he had been made to realize his deficiencies so keenly that the great desire of his heart was to have the opportunity of repairing them, and he was all ready to spring at the chance offered him. "faith, sir," he replied with a happy smile, "there's nothing i'd like better, if i may say so; and if you're pleased to send me, i'll do my very best to learn all they'll teach me." "i fully believe you will, my boy," said mr. drummond, smiling back at him; "i'll have arrangements made without delay." for two full years terry toiled hard at the academy, overcoming one by one many difficulties and temptations that beset his path, and making such rapid improvement from every point of view that, when he returned to his desk, the keenest eye could hardly have recognized in the good-looking youth with so easy a bearing the ragged wharf boy of a little while before. during his absence black mike died in hospital, and kind-hearted mr. drummond placed mrs. ahearn in a comfortable cottage far away from blind alley. here terry joined her, and the good woman had the happiness of living to see her son become one of the most trusted and highly-paid employã©s of drummond and brown. terry never forgot his own past. his heart was always warm in sympathy towards the boys that played about the wharves, and he lost no opportunity of saying a kind word or doing a kind deed on their behalf; and they had no better friend in halifax than mr. terrence ahearn, who, in rising from their ranks to a position of honour and emolument, showed no foolish pride, nor sought to conceal whence he had come. the end. the boys new library crown 8vo, cloth extra. price 3s. 6d. each, the british legion. a tale of the carlist war. by herbert hayens, author of "an emperor's doom," etc., etc. crown 8vo. with six illustrations by w. h. margetson. the island of gold. a sea story. by gordon stables, m.d., r.n., author of "every inch a sailor," "how jack mackenzie won his epaulettes," etc., etc. crown 8vo. with six illustrations. how jack mackenzie won his epaulettes. by gordon stables, m.d., b.n., author of "as we sweep through the deep," etc. with six illustrations by a. pearce. crown 8vo, cloth extra. 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"_a sea story of great power.... relates to the stirring period in naval annals in the early years of the century, when brushes with the french were frequent, and the glamour which hung about matters maritime had not passed away. mr. oxley narrates an exciting story vividly._"--leeds mercury. doing and daring. a new zealand story. by eleanor stredder, author of "jack and his ostrich," etc. with illustrations. post 8vo, cloth extra. "_it has a quickly-moving plot of wild life, adventure, and dangers, and is sure to please a boy reader._"--scotsman. harold the norseman. by fred. whishaw, author of "a lost army," "boris the bear-hunter," etc. post 8vo, cloth extra. "_an entrancing story dealing with norse life in the eleventh century, a period unsurpassed for the opportunities it presents to the romancer._"--dundee advertiser. "_a stirring story of a stirring period, which, though we regard it at the distance of eight centuries, is full of unfailing fascination to all lovers of the romance of history._"--court journal. t. nelson and sons, london, edinburgh, and new york. * * * * * tales of adventure and enterprise. post 8vo, cloth extra. price 2s. 6d. each. the vanished yacht. by e. harcourt burrage "_does not disappoint the expectation held out by the title, for it is full of interest and adventure._"--pall mall gazette. crag, glacier, and avalanche. narratives of daring and disaster. by achilles daunt, author of "with pack and rifle in the far south-west," etc. with illustrations. the drifting island; or, the slave-hunters of the congo. by walter wentworth, author of "kibboo ganey," etc. the flamingo feather. by kirk munroe. with twenty illustrations. hans brinker; or, the silver skates. a story of life in holland. by mary mapes dodge. with illustrations. _an interesting and instructive tale of life in holland; sure to prove acceptable to boys._ kibboo ganey; or, the lost chief of the copper mountain. a tale of travel and adventure in the heart of africa. by walter wentworth. _a well-told tale of adventure undergone in the course of a journey to the neighbourhood of lake tchad. to boys it cannot fail to prove fascinating_. our sea-coast heroes; or, tales of wreck and of rescue by the lifeboat and rocket. by achilles daunt, author of "frank redcliffe," "with pack and rifle in the far south-west," etc. with numerous illustrations. "_the narratives of wreck and rescue are admirably penned, and the illustrations throughout are effective._"--glasgow herald. robinson crusoe. the life and strange surprising adventures of robinson crusoe of york, mariner. written by himself. illustrated. sandford and merton. a book for the young. by thomas day. illustrated. the swiss family robinson; or, adventures of a father and his four sons on a desolate island. illustrated. t. nelson and sons, london, edinburgh, and new york. * * * * * the boys' own library. post 8vo, cloth extra. price 2s. each. soldiers of the queen; or, jack fenleigh's luck. a story of the dash to khartoum. by harold avery, author of "frank's first term," etc., etc. "_rehearses in a thrilling manner the stirring story of the egyptian war and the advance to khartoum._"--dundee advertiser. vandrad the viking; or, the feud and the spell. a tale of the norsemen. by j. storer clouston. with six illustrations by hubert paton. _how the valiant vandrad comes under the "spell" of a certain beautiful "witch," and how the glamour causes him to forego his revengeful purpose, is told by mr. storer clouston in language so full of power and poetic feeling that once read the story will not soon be forgotten._ breaking the record. the story of three arctic expeditions. by m. douglas, author of "across greenland's ice-fields." "_just the kind of book that will stir a boy's heart to its uttermost depths, and make him give up his most cherished dreams of being a great indian fighter in favour of an arctic explorer._"--north british daily mail. across greenland's ice-fields. the adventures of nansen and peary on the great ice-cap. by m. douglas, author of "for duty's sake," etc. _sir clements r. markham, president of the royal geographical society, says: "miss douglas conducts her readers over those trackless wastes of snow and ice in the footsteps of nordenskiã¶ld, of nansen, and of peary; and certainly those who begin the journey with her will, in continuing to the end, derive no small amount of pleasure and instruction._" as we sweep through the deep. a story of the stirring times of old. by gordon stables, m.d., r.n. with illustrations. _a story for boys, giving glimpses of naval life during the times of napoleon._ the battle of the rafts. and other stories of boyhood in norway. by h. h. boyesen. "_the stories are so different from the ordinary run of boys' tales, and yet so exciting, that they cannot fail to be appreciated._"--dundee advertiser. after years. a story of trials and triumphs. by j. w. bradley, author of "culm rock." with illustrations. among the turks. by verney lovett cameron, c.b., d.c.l., commander royal navy, author of "jack hooper," etc. with illustrations. "_'among the turks' is racy with adventure and spirited descriptions of eastern life and character. boys will read the book with great delight._"--scotsman. archie digby; or, an eton boy's holidays. by g. e. wyatt, author of "harry bertram and his eighth birthday." _an interesting tale for boys. archie, a thoughtless young etonian, learns during a christmas holiday, by humbling experience, lessons of value for all after life._ t. nelson and sons, london, edinburgh, and new york. * * * * * our boys' select library. stories of adventure, travel, and discovery. post 8vo, cloth extra. price 2s. 6d. each. the forest, the jungle, and the prairie; or, tales of adventure and enterprise in pursuit of wild animals. with numerous engravings. scenes with the hunter and the trapper. stories of adventures with wild animals. with engravings. beyond the himalayas. by john geddie, f.r.g.s., author of "the lake regions of central africa," etc. with nine engravings. "_a tale of adventure and travel over regions on the borders of china and thibet. the author has taken great pains to make his descriptions of the scenery, natural history, and botany, and of the manners and habits of the frontier people accurate and instructive. there are plenty of exciting adventures and encounters with wild beasts and no less wild men._"--standard. the castaways. a story of adventure in the wilds of borneo. by captain mayne reid. the meadows family; or, fireside stories of adventure and enterprise. by m. a. paull, author of "tim's troubles," etc. with illustrations. the story of the niger. a record of travel and adventure from the days of mungo park to the present time. by robert richardson, author of "adventurous boat voyages," "ralph's year in russia," etc. with thirty-one illustrations. the norseland library. post 8vo, cloth extra. price 2s. 6d. each. the hermit princes. a tale of adventure in japan. by eleanor stredder, author of "doing and daring," etc. "_conspicuous for novelty of subject and treatment. it is a japanese story perfectly conceived and realized. the landscape-painting throughout is terse and full of interest._"--manchester guardian. norseland tales. by h. h. boyesen, author of "the battle of the rafts, and other stories of boyhood in norway." with seven illustrations. "_they are tales of modern life, not of the vikings, but of and about the sea, and of norwegian boys who crossed the atlantic. all are well written and interesting._"--glasgow herald. leaves from a middy's log. by arthur lee knight, author of "adventures of a midshipmite," "the rajah of monkey island," etc. illustrated by a. pearce. "_a decidedly fresh and stirring story. there is plenty of incident and plenty of spirit in the story; the dialogue is amusing and natural, and the descriptions are vigorous and vivid._"--spectator. sons of the vikings. an orkney story. by john gunn, m.a., d.sc. with illustrations by john williamson. sons of freedom; or, the fugitives from siberia. by fred. whishaw, author of "harold the norseman," "a lost army," "boris the bear-hunter," etc. with numerous illustrations. t. nelson and sons, london, edinburgh, and new york. our boys' select library. post 8vo, cloth extra. price 2s. 6d. each. three books by w. h. g. kingston. afar in the forest. with forty-one full-page engravings. _a tale of settler life in north america, full of stirring adventure._ in the rocky mountains. a tale of adventure. with forty-one engravings. _a narrative specially adapted to the taste and delectation of youth, with numerous incidents of travel and amusing stories, told in afresh and invigorating style._ in new granada; or, heroes and patriots. with thirty-six full-page engravings. "_this book will delight boys of all ages. the subject is unusually interesting, and opens a wide field for romantic adventure._"--pall mall gazette. stories of adventure, travel, and discovery. adventurous boat voyages. by robert richardson, author of "ralph's year in russia," etc. with fifteen illustrations. frank redcliffe. a story of travel and adventure in the forests of venezuela. by achilles daunt, author of "the three trappers." with numerous illustrations. in the land of the moose. adventures in the forests of the athabasca. by achilles daunt, author of "the three trappers." with illustrations. in the bush and on the trail. adventures in the forests of north america. by m. benedict revoil. with seventy illustrations. the island home; or, the young castaways. a story of adventure in the southern seas. with illustrations. the lake regions of central africa. a record of modern discovery. by john geddie, f.r.g.s. with thirty-two illustrations. "_here we have excellent writing, full of accurate geographical information, and fascinating in style; first class illustration and plenty of it._"--sword and trowel. lost in the backwoods. a tale of the canadian forest. by mrs. traill, author of "in the forest," etc. with 32 engravings. the three trappers. by achilles daunt, author of "in the land of the moose, the bear, and the beaver." with eleven engravings. "_it is one of those books which have been favourites with healthy-minded lads since books became common. we do not remember to have seen one that sustained more of vigour and liveliness in its narrative than this._"--scotsman. wrecked on a reef; or, twenty months in the auckland isles. a true story of shipwreck, adventure, and suffering. with forty illustrations. ralph's year in russia. a story of travel and adventure in eastern europe. by robert richardson, author of "almost a hero," etc. with eight engravings. "_a capital story of travel and adventure. mr. richardson has written with great force and vivacity. he has produced a story healthy in all respects._"--scotsman. t. nelson and sons, london, edinburgh, and new york. included in the scans.] cassell and company, limited london, paris, new york, toronto and melbourne 1909 all rights reserved [illustration: "the men would salute their old general, the general salute his old regiment"] contents chapter i. wistaria terrace chapter ii. the wall between chapter iii. the new estate chapter iv. boy and girl chapter v. "old blood and thunder" chapter vi. the blue ribbon chapter vii. a chance meeting chapter viii. groves of academe chapter ix. the race with death chapter x. dispossessed chapter xi. the lion chapter xii. her ladyship chapter xiii. the heart of a father chapter xiv. lovers' parting chapter xv. the general has an idea chapter xvi. the leading and the light chapter xvii. a night of spring chapter xviii. halcyon weather chapter xix. wild thyme and violets chapter xx. jealousy, cruel as the grave chapter xxi. two women chapter xxii. light on the way chapter xxiii. the news in the _westminster_ chapter xxiv. the friend chapter xxv. the one woman chapter xxvi. golden days chapter xxvii. the intermediary chapter xxviii. noel! noel! list of illustrations "the men would salute their old general, the general salute his old regiment" "sir robin drummond had come to mary's side, and turned the page of her music" "'do you know what i came here in the mind to ask you?'" "'miss nelly is in the drawing-room, sir'" mary gray chapter i wistaria terrace the house where mary gray was born and grew towards womanhood was one of a squat line of mean little houses that hid themselves behind a great church. the roadway in front of the houses led only to the back entrance of the church. over against the windows was the playground of the church schools, surrounded by a high wall that shut away field and sky from the front rooms of wistaria terrace. the houses were drab and ugly, with untidy grass-plots in front. they presented an exterior of three windows and a narrow round-topped hall-door which was a confession of poverty in itself. five out of six houses had a ramping plaster horse in the fanlight of the hall door, a fixture which went with the house and was immune from breakage because no one ever thought of cleaning the fanlights. in the back gardens the family wash was put to dry. some of the more enterprising inhabitants kept fowls; but there was not much enterprise in wistaria terrace. earlier inhabitants had planted the gardens with lilac and laburnum bushes, with gooseberries and currants. there were no flowers there that did not sow themselves year after year. they were damp, grubby places, but even there an imaginative child like mary gray could find suggestions of delight. mary's father, walter gray, was employed at a watchmaker's of repute. he spent all his working life with a magnifying glass in his eye, peering into the mechanism of watches, adjusting the delicate pivots and springs on which their lives moved. his occupation had perhaps encouraged in him a habit of introspection. perhaps he found the human machine as worthy of interest as the works of watches and clocks. anyhow, in his leisure moments, which were few, he would discuss curiously with mary the hidden springs that kept the human machine in motion, the strange workings and convolutions of it. from the very early age when she began to be a comfort and a companion to her father, mary had been accustomed to such speculations as would have written walter gray down a madman if he had shared them with the grown people about him rather than with a child. mary was the child of his romance, of his first marriage, which had lasted barely a year. he never talked of her mother, even to mary, though she had vague memories of a time when he had not been so reticent. that was before the stepmother came, the stepmother whom, honestly, walter gray had married because his child was neglected. he had not anticipated, perhaps, the long string of children which was to result from the marriage, whose presence in the world was to make mary's lot a more strenuous one than would have been the case if she had been a child alone. not that mary grumbled about the stepbrothers and sisters. year after year, from the time she could stagger under the weight of a baby, she had received a new burden for her arms, and had found enough love for each newcomer. the second mrs. gray was a poor, puny, washed-out little rag of a woman, whose one distinction was the number of her children. they had always great appetites to be satisfied. as soon as they began to run about, the rapidity with which they wore out their boots and the knees of their trousers, and outgrew their frocks, was a subject upon which mrs. gray could expatiate for hours. mary had a tender, strong pity from the earliest age for the down-at-heel, over-burdened stepmother, which lightened her own load, as did the vicarious, motherly love which came to her for each succeeding fat baby. mary was nurse and nursery-governess to all the family. wistaria terrace had one great recompense for its humble and hidden condition. it was within easy reach of the fields and the mountains. for an adventurous spirit the sea was not at an insuperable distance. indeed, but for the high wall of the school playground, the lovely line of mountains had been well in view. as it was, many a day in summer mary would carry off her train of children to the fields, with a humble refection of bread and butter and jam, and milk for their mid-day meal; and these occasions allowed mrs. gray a few hours of peace that were like a foretaste of paradise. she never grumbled, poor little woman, because her husband shared his thoughts with mary and not with her. whatever ambitions she had had to rise to her walter's level--she had an immense opinion of his learning--had long been extinguished under the accumulation of toils and burdens that made up her daily life. she was fond of mary, and leant on her strangely, considering their relative ages. for the rest, she toiled with indifferent success at household tasks, and was grateful for having a husband so absorbed in distant speculations that he was insensible of the near discomfort of a badly-cooked dinner or a buttonless shirt. the gardens of the houses opened on a lane which was a sort of rubbish-shoot for the houses that gave upon it. across the lane was a row of stabling belonging to far more important houses than wistaria terrace. beyond the stables and stable yards were old gardens with shady stretches of turf and forest trees enclosed within their walls. beyond the gardens rose the fine old-fashioned houses of the mall, big georgian houses that looked in front across the roadway at the line of elm-trees that bordered the canal. the green waters of the canal, winding placidly through its green channel, with the elm-trees reflected greenly in its green depths, had a suggestion of holland. the lane was something of an adventure to the children of wistaria terrace. there, any day, you might see a coachman curry-combing his satin-skinned horses, hissing between his teeth by way of encouragement, after the time-honoured custom. or you might see a load of hay lifted up by a windlass into the loft above the stables. or you might assist at the washing of a carriage. sometimes the gate at the farther side of the stable was open, and a gardener would come through with a barrowful of rubbish to add to the accumulation already in the lane. through the open gateway the children would catch glimpses of fairyland. a broad stretch of shining turf dappled with sun and shade. tall snapdragons and lilies and sweet-williams and phlox in the garden-beds. a fruit tree or two, heavy with blossom or fruit. only old-fashioned people lived in the mall nowadays, and the glimpses the children caught of the owners of those terrestrial paradises fitted in with the idea of fairyland. they were always old ladies and gentlemen, and they were old-fashioned in their attire, but very magnificent. there was one old lady who was the very fairy godmother of the stories. she was the one who had the magnificent mulberry-tree in her garden. one day in every year the children were called in to strip the tree of its fruit; and that was a great day for wistaria terrace. the children were allowed to bring basins to carry away what they could not eat; and benevolent men-servants would ascend to the overweighted boughs of the tree by ladders and pick the fruit and load up the children's basins with it. again, the apples would be distributed in their season. while the distribution went on, the old lady would stand at a window with her little white dog in her arms nodding her head in a well-pleased way. the children called her lady anne. they had no such personal acquaintance with the other gardens and their owners, so their thoughts were very full of lady anne and her garden. when mary was about fourteen she made the acquaintance of lady anne--her full name was lady anne hamilton--and that was an event which had a considerable influence on her fortunes. the meeting came about in this way. mary had gone marketing one day, and for once had deserted the shabby little row of shops which ran at the end of wistaria terrace, at right angles to it. she had gone out into the great main thoroughfare, the noise of which came dimly to wistaria terrace because of the huge mass of the church blocking up the way. she had done her shopping and was on her way home, when, right in the track of the heavy tram as it came down the steep descent from the bridge over the canal, she saw a helpless bit of white fur, as it might well seem to anyone at a distance. the thing was almost motionless, or stirring so feebly that its movements were not apparent. evidently the driver of the tram had not noticed it, or was not troubled to save its life, for he stood with the reins in his hand, glancing from side to side of the road for possible passengers as the tram swept down the long incline. mary never hesitated. the tram was almost upon the thing when she first saw it. "why, it is lady anne's dog!" she cried, and launched herself out in the roadway to save it. she was just in time to pick up the blind, whimpering thing. the driver of the tram, seeing mary in its path, put on the brakes sharply. the tram lumbered to a stoppage, but not before mary had been flung down on her face and her arm broken by the hoof of the horse nearest her. it was likely to be an uncommonly awkward thing for the gray household, seeing that it was mary's right arm that was injured. for one thing, it would involve the dispossession of that year's baby. for another, it would put mrs. gray's capable helper entirely out of action. when mary was picked up, and stood, wavering unsteadily, supported by someone in the crowd which had gathered, hearing, as from a great distance, the snarling and scolding of the tram-driver, who was afraid of finding himself in trouble, she still held the blind and whimpering dog in her uninjured arm. she wanted to get away as quickly as possible from the crowd, but her head swam and her feet were uncertain. then she heard a quiet voice behind her. "has there been an accident? i am a doctor," it said. "a young woman trying to kill herself along of an old dog," said the tram-driver indignantly. "as though there wasn't enough trouble for a man already." "let me see," the doctor said, coming to mary's side. "ah, i can't make an examination here. better come with me, my child. i am on my way to the hospital. my carriage is here." "not to hospital," said mary faintly. "let me go home; they would be so frightened." "i shan't detain you, i promise you. but this must be bandaged before you can go home. ah, is this basket yours, too?" someone had handed up the basket from the tram-track, where it had lain disgorging cabbages and other articles of food. "i will send you home as soon as i have seen to your arm," the doctor said, pushing her gently towards his carriage. "and the little dog--is he your own? i suppose he is, since you nearly gave your life for him?" "he is not mine," said mary faintly. "he belongs to lady anne--lady anne hamilton. she lives at no. 8, the mall. she will be distracted if she misses the little dog. she is so very fond of it." "ah! lady anne hamilton. i have heard of her. we can leave the dog at home on our way. come, child." the mall was quite close at hand. they drove there, and just as the carriage stopped at the gate of no. 8, which had a long strip of green front garden, overhung by trees through which you could discern the old red-brick house. lady anne herself came down the gravel path. over her head was a little shawl of old lace; it was caught by a seed-pearl brooch with an amethyst centre. she was wearing a quilted red silk petticoat and a bunched sacque of black flowered silk. she had magnificent dark eyes and white hair. under it her peaked little face was the colour of old ivory. she was calling to her dog, "fifine, fifine, where can you be?" a respectable-looking elderly maid came hurrying after her. "i've looked everywhere, my lady, and i cannot find the little thing," she said in a frightened voice. meanwhile, the doctor had got out of the carriage and had taken fifine gently from mary's lap. now that mary was coming to herself she began to discover that the doctor was young and kind-looking, but more careworn than his youth warranted. he opened the garden gate and went up to lady anne. "is this your little dog, madam?" he asked. "my fifine, my darling!" cried lady anne, embracing the trembling bit of wool. "you don't know what she is to me, sir. my little grandson"--the imperious old voice shook--"loved the dog. she was his pet. the child is dead. you understand----" "perfectly," said the doctor. "i, too--i know what loss is. the little dog strayed. she was found in the high road. i am very glad to restore her to you; but pray do not thank me. there is a young girl in my carriage at the gate. she picked up your dog from under the wheels of a tramcar, and broke her arm, i fear, in doing it. i am on my way to the hospital, the house of mercy, where i am doing work for a friend who is on holiday. i am taking her with me so that i may set the arm where i have all the appliances." "she saved my fifine? heroic child! let me thank her." the old lady clutched her recovered treasure to her breast with fervour, then handed the dog over to the maid. "take me to see fifine's preserver," she said in a commanding voice. mary was almost swooning with the pain of her arm. she heard lady anne's praises as though from a long distance off. "stay, doctor," the old lady said; "i cannot have her jolted over the paving-stones of the city to the mercy. bring her in here. we need not detain you very long. we can procure splints and bandages, all you require, from a chemist's shop. there is one just round the corner. what, do you say, child? they will be frightened about you at home! i shall send word. be quiet now; you must let us do everything for you." so the doctor assisted mary into the old house behind the trees. lady anne walked the other side of her, pretending to assist mary and really imagining that she did. the splints and the bandages were on, and mary had borne the pain well. "i'm afraid i must go," said the doctor, looking at his watch. "i am half an hour behind my time. and where am i to visit my patient?" "where but here?" said lady anne with decision. "it is now half-past eleven. i have lunch at half-past one. could you return to lunch, dr.--ah, dr. carruthers. you are dr. carruthers, are you not? you took the big house at the corner of magnolia road a year ago?" "yes, i am dr. carruthers; and i shall be very pleased to return to lunch, lady anne. i don't think the little dog is any the worse for her experience." his face was flushed as he stood with his hat in his hand, bowing and smiling. if only lady anne hamilton would take him up! that big house at the corner of magnolia road had been a daring bid for fortune. so had the neat, single brougham, hired from a livery-stable. so had been the three smart maids. but so far fortune had not favoured him. he was one of fifty or so waiters on fortune. when people were ill in the smart suburban neighbourhood they liked to be attended by dr. pownall, who always drove a pair of hundred guinea horses. none of your hired broughams for them. "you are paying too big a rent for a young man," said lady anne. "you can't have made it or anything like made it. pownall grows careless. the last time i sent for him he kept me two hours waiting. when i had him to stewart, my maid, he was in a hurry to be gone. pownall has too much to do--too much by half." her eyes rested thoughtfully on the agitated dr. carruthers. "you shall tell me all about it when you come back to lunch," she said; "and i should like to call on your wife." chapter ii the wall between "the child has brought us luck--luck at last, mildred," dr. carruthers was saying, a few hours later. "when i lifted her in my arms she was as light as a feather. a poor little shabby, overworked thing, all eyes, and too big a forehead. her boots were broken, and i noticed that her fingers were rough with hard work." he was walking up and down his wife's drawing-room in a tremendous state of excitement, while she smiled at him from the sofa. "it is wonderful, coming just now, too, when i had made up my mind that we couldn't keep afloat here much longer, and had resolved to give up this house at the september quarter and retire into a dingier part of the town. once it is known that i am lady anne hamilton's medical man the snobs of the neighbourhood will all be sending for me." "poor dr. pownall!" said mrs. carruthers, laughing softly. "oh, pownall is all right. they say he's immensely wealthy. he can retire now and enjoy his money. if the public did not go back on him he'd be a dead man in five or six years. he does the work of twenty men. i pity the others, the poor devils who are waiting on fortune as i have waited." "there is no fear of lady anne disappointing you?" she asked, in a hesitating voice. she did not like to seem to throw cold water on his joyful mood. "there is no fear," he answered, standing midway of the room with its three large windows. "she is coming to see you, milly. if i have failed in anything you will succeed. you will see me at the top of the tree yet. you will have cause to be proud of me." "i am always proud of you. kit," she said, in a low, impassioned voice. meanwhile, lady anne herself had made a pilgrimage to wistaria terrace in the hour preceding the luncheon hour. she had left mary in a deep chair in the big drawing-room. outside were the boughs of trees. from the windows you could surprise the secrets of the birds if you would. the room was very spacious, with chairs and sofas round the walls, a great mirror at either end, a paper on its walls which pretended to be panels wreathed in roses. the ceiling had a gay picture of gods and goddesses reclining in a flowery mead. the mantelpiece was carrara marble, curiously inlaid with coloured wreaths. there was a fire in the brass grate, although it was summer weather. the proximity of the trees and the natural climate of the place meant damp. the fire sparkled in the brass dogs and the brass jambs of the fireplace. the skin of a tiger stretched itself along the floor. the terrible teeth grinned almost at mary's feet. the child was sick and faint from the pain of having her arm set. she lay in the deep sofa, covered with red damask, amid a bewildering softness of cushions and rugs, and wondered what lady anne was saying to mamie. mamie was mrs. gray. from the first mary had not called her mother. her name was matilda, and mamie was a sort of compromise. meanwhile, lady anne had gone out by her garden, through the stable, and into the lane at the back. there was a little door open in the opposite wall; beyond it was a shabby trellis with scarlet-runners clambering upon it. lady anne peeped within. a disheartened-looking woman was hanging a child's frock on the line which was stretched from wall to wall. three children, ranging in age from two to five, were sitting on the grass plot. two were playing with white stones. the third was surveying its own small feet with great interest, sucking at a fat thumb as though it conveyed some delicious nourishment. "do i speak to mrs. gray?" asked lady anne, advancing. she had a sunshade over her head, a deep-fringed thing with a folding handle. she had bought it in paris in the days of the second empire. mrs. gray stared at the stranger within her gates, whom she knew by sight. there was some perturbation in her face. she had been worried about the unusual duration of mary's absence. mary had not come back with the market basket which contained the children's dinner. at one o'clock the four elder ones would be upon her, ravening. what on earth had become of mary? the poor woman had not realised how much she depended on mary, since mary was always present and always willing to take the burdens off her stepmother's thin, stooped shoulders on to her own. now she caught sight of the market-basket. one of lady anne's white-capped maids had come in and deposited it quietly. "mary?" she gasped. "what has become of mary?" "pray don't frighten yourself," said lady anne. "i have a message from mary. she is at my house. as a matter of fact, she met with an accident. there--don't go so pale. it is only a matter of time. her arm is broken. she got it broken in saving the life of my little maltese, who had strayed out and had got in the way of the tram. i always said that those trams should not be allowed. the tracks are so very unpleasant--dangerous even, for the carriages of gentlefolk. there is far too much traffic allowed on the public highways nowadays, far too much. people ought to walk if they cannot keep carriages." she broke off abruptly and looked at the three small children. "these are yours?" she asked. "they seem very close together in age." "a year and a half, three years, four years and three months," said mrs. gray, forgetting in her special cause for pride her awe of lady anne. "dear me, i should have thought they were all twins," said the old lady. "how very remarkable! have you any more?" "four at school. the eldest is nine. you see, they came so quickly, my lady. only for mary i don't know how i should have reared them." "h'm! mary is very stunted. it struck me that she would have been tall if she had had a chance. those heavy babies, doubtless. well, i am going to keep mary for a while. how will you do without her?" mrs. gray's faded eyes filled with tears. "i can't imagine, my lady. you see, we have never kept a servant. when i lived at home with my mamma we always had three. mr. gray has literary attainments, my lady. he is not practical." "i can send you an excellent charwoman," lady anne broke in, "for the present. i will see what is to be done about mary. the child has rendered me an inestimable service. i must do something for her in return. by the way, she is not your daughter?" "my stepdaughter." "ah, i thought so. well, the charwoman shall come in at once. she can cook. later on, we shall see--we shall see." "by the way," said lady anne, coming back with a rustle of silks while mrs. gray yet stood in bewilderment, holding the baby's frock in her limp fingers. "by the way, mary is very anxious about her father--how he will take her accident. will you tell your husband that i shall be glad to see him when he comes home this evening?" "i will, my lady," said mrs. gray; "and, my lady, would you please not to mention to mr. gray about the charwoman? he's that proud; it would hurt him, i'm sure. if he isn't told he'll never know she's there. a child isn't as easily deceived as walter." "i shall certainly not tell him," lady anne said graciously. she did not object to the honest pride in walter gray. he was probably a superior man for his station, being mary's father. as for that poor slattern, lady anne had lived too long in the world to be amazed by the marriages men made, either in her own exalted circle or in those below it. walter gray came, in a flutter of tender anxiety, at half-past six in the evening, to lady anne's garden, where mary was sitting in her wicker chair under the mulberry tree. lady anne had given orders that he was to be shown out to the garden when he called. "my poor little girl!" he said, with an arm about mary's shoulder. then he took off his hat to lady anne. there was respect in his manner, but nothing over-humble, nothing to say that they were not equals in a sense. his eyes, at once bright and dreamy, rested on her with a friendly regard. "the man has gentle blood in him somewhere," said the old lady to herself. she had a sense of humour which kept her knowledge of her own importance from becoming overweening. "i believe his respect is for my age, not for my rank. i wonder what the world is coming to!" she went away then and left the father and daughter together. walter, who had taken a chair by mary's, looked with a half-conscious pleasure round the velvet sward on which the shadows of the trees lay long. the trees were at their full summer foliage, dark as night, mysterious, magnificent. "what a very pleasant place!" walter gray said, with grave enjoyment. "how sweet the evening smells are! how quiet everything is! who could believe that wistaria terrace was over the wall?" "i have been missing wistaria terrace," mary said. "you don't know how lonesome it feels for the children. i wonder how mamie is getting on without me. i want to go home. indeed, i feel quite able to. i don't know how i shall do without going home." "if you went home," said walter gray, unexpectedly practical, "your arm would never set, mary. you'd be forgetting and doing all manner of things you oughtn't to do. if lady anne is kind enough to ask you to visit her, stay a while and rest, dear. indeed, you do too much for your size." "you will all miss me so dreadfully." "indeed, i don't think we shall miss you--in that way. oddly enough--i suppose matilda was on her mettle--the house seemed quieter when i came home. the children were in bed. i smelt something good from the kitchen. don't imagine that we shall not be able to do without you, child." mary, who knew no more of the capable charwoman than walter gray did, looked on this speech of her father's as a mere string of tender subterfuges. she said nothing, but her eyes rested on her grey woollen skirt, faded by wear and the weather, and she had an unchildish sense of the incongruity of her presence as a visitor in lady anne's house. walter gray's glance roamed over his young daughter. he saw nothing of her dreary attire. he saw only the spiritual face, over-pale, the slender, young, unformed body, graceful as a half-opened flower in its ill-fitting covering, the slender feet that had a suggestion of race, the toil-worn hands the fingers of which tapered to fine points. "you have always done too much, child," he said, with sudden, tender compunction. when he rose to go mary clung to him as though their parting was to be for years. "i will come in again to-morrow," he said. "i shall sleep better to-night for thinking of you in this quiet, restful place. get some roses in your cheeks, little girl, before you come back to us." "i wish i were going back now," said mary piteously. she looked round the old walls with their climbing fruit trees as though they were the walls of a prison. "it is awful not to be able to come and go. and mamie will never be able to do without me. the children will be ill----" he left her in tears. as he re-entered the house by its iron steps up to a glass door lady anne came out from her morning-room and called him within. he looked about him at the room, walled in with books, with yellowed marble busts of great men on top of the book-cases. his feet sank in soft carpets. the smell of a pot of lilies mingled with the smell of leather bindings. the light in the room, filtered through the leaves of an overhanging creeper, was green and gold. it seemed to him that he must have known such a room in some other world, where he had not had to make watches all day with a glass screwed in his eye, but had abundant leisure for books and beautiful things. not but that there might be worse things than the watchmaking. over the works of the watches, the fine little wheels and springs, walter gray thought hard, thought incessantly. he thought, perhaps, the harder that he had neither the leisure nor opportunity for putting down his thoughts on paper or imparting them to another like-minded with himself. how his fellows would have stared if they could have known the things that went on inside walter gray's mind as he leant above his table, peering into the interior of the watch-cases! "sit down, mr. gray," said lady anne graciously; "i want to talk to you about mary." she approached the matter delicately, having wit enough to see that walter gray was no common person. while she talked she looked with frank admiration at his face: the fine, high, delicate nose; the arched brows, like mary's own; the over-development of the forehead. the dust of years and worries lay thick upon his face, yet lady anne said to herself that it was a beautiful face beneath the dust. "i want to talk to you about mary," she went on. "the child interests me strongly. she is a fine vessel, this little daughter of yours. pray excuse me if i speak plainly. she has been doing far too much for her age and her strength. haven't you noticed that she is pulled down to earth? those babies, mr. gray--they are remarkably fat and heavy; they are killing mary." "her mother died of consumption," walter gray said, his face whitening with terror. "ah!" the old lady thought; "she is the child of his heart. those three twins are merely the children of his home. that poor drudge of a mother of theirs! mary is the child of her father's heart and mind." then aloud: "you had better let me have her, mr. gray." "let you have her, lady anne? what would you do with my mary?" he looked scarcely less aghast than he had done a moment before at the suggestion of consumption. "not separate her from you, mr. gray. this house is my home, and i am not likely to leave it, except for a month or two at a time, at my age. i think the child will be a companion to me. i have no romantic suggestions to make. i am not proposing to adopt mary. i shall pay her a salary, and give her opportunities for education that you cannot. she interests me, as i have said. let me have her. when i no longer need her--i am an old woman, mr. gray--she will be fit to earn her own living. everything i have goes back to my nephew jarvis lord iniscrone. but mary will not suffer. think! what have you to give her but a life of drudgery under which she will break down--die, perhaps?" she watched the emotion in his face with her little keen, bright eyes. "it is not a fine lady's caprice?" he said. "you won't make my mary accustomed to better things than i could give her and then send her back to be a drudge?" "the lord judge between thee and me," she answered solemnly. "then i trust you, lady anne hamilton," he said. the strange thing was that the proud old lady was gratified, almost flattered, by the confidence in walter gray's unworldly eyes. "thank you, mr. gray," she said; then, as he took up his hat to go, she laid a detaining hand on his shabby coat sleeve. "why not have dinner with mary in the garden?" she suggested. "do, pray. i want you to tell her what we have agreed upon. i can send word to mrs. gray." walter gray was pleased enough to go back to his little girl whom he had left in tears for the comfortless house and the burden of the young stepbrothers and stepsisters. it was pleasure, half pain, to see the uplifted face with which mary regarded him when she saw him return. how was he going to put the barrier between them that this plan to which he had given his consent would surely mean? he had no illusions. over the wall, lady anne had said. but the wall that separated wistaria terrace and the mall was in reality a high and a great wall. he would never have mary in the old close communion again. all passes. how good the old times were that were only a few hours away, yet seemed worlds! never again! they would never be all and all to each other in a solitude which took no count of the others. yet it was for mary's sake. for mary's sake the wall was to rise between them. as he began to tell her the strange, wonderful thing, his heart was heavy within him because a chapter of his life was closed. he had come to the end of an epoch. henceforth things might be conceivably better, but--they would be different. chapter iii the new estate mary took the news of her great promotion in an unthankful spirit. "lady anne is very kind," she said tearfully; "but i don't want to stay with her. i couldn't bear to live anywhere but in wistaria terrace. it is absurd that you should say you have given your consent, papa. how could you possibly have consented when the house could not get on without me? you know it could not. why, even for a day things would be all topsy-turvy without me." "and so you have not gone to school," the father answered, with an accent of self-reproach. "you have been weighed down with responsibilities and cares that you ought to have been free of for years to come. you have even been stunted in your growth, as lady anne said. it is time things were altered. i don't know how i was so blind. we ought to be grateful to the accident that has opened a door to us." when he had gone, lady anne came and comforted mary. there was a deal of kindness in the old lady's heart. "you shall help them," she said. "dear me, how much help you will be able to give them! imagine beginning with a salary at fifteen! you are to leave things to me, mary. i have sent help to your stepmother--an excellent woman, mrs. devine, whom i have known for many years. she is very capable. i will tell her that she must remain with your stepmother. it is amazing what one really capable woman can do. and afterwards there will be the salary." the salary, and perhaps a quick, warm feeling for lady anne which sprang up suddenly in mary's heart, settled the question. after all, as lady anne said, despite her greatness she was very lonely. she had lost her son and her grandson, and she could not endure her nephew or his family. she had only a few old cronies. as a matter of fact, although she had taken a fancy to mary gray and captured the child's susceptible heart, she was not a particularly amiable or lovable old lady to the rest of the world. she was too keen-sighted and sharp-tongued to be popular. mary slept that night in such a room as she had never dreamt of. there was a little bed in the corner of it with a flowing veil of white, lace-trimmed muslin like a baby's cot. there was white muslin tied with blue ribbons at the window, and the dressing-table was as gaily and innocently adorned. there was a work-box on a little table, a writing-desk on another; a shelf of books hung on the wall. the room had really been made ready for a dear young cousin of lady anne's, who had not lived to enjoy it. if mary had only known, she owed something of lady anne's interest to the fact that her eyes were grey, like viola's, her cheek transparent like viola's. apart from the discomfort of the broken arm, as she lay in the soft, downy little bed, she was ill at ease, wondering how they were getting on without her at wistaria terrace. her breast had an ache for the baby who was used to lie warm against it. her good arm felt strange and lonely for the familiar little body. she kept putting it out in a panic during her sleep because she missed the baby. in the morning simmons, lady anne's maid, came to help her dress. it was very difficult, mary found, to do things for one's self with a broken arm. her head ached because of the disturbed sleep and the pain of the broken limb. simmons had come to her in a somewhat hostile frame of mind. she did not hold with picking up gutter-children from no one knew where and setting people as were respectable to wait upon them. but at heart she was a good-natured woman, and her indignation disappeared before the unchildish pain and weariness of mary's face. "there," she said, "i wouldn't be fretting, if i were you. lor' bless you, there's fine treats in store for you. her ladyship sent only last night for a roll of grey cashmere. i'm to fit you after your breakfast and make it up as quick as i can. then you'll be fit to go out with her ladyship in the carriage and get your other things." it was the last day of the ugly linsey. simmons got through her task with great quickness. she was a woman of taste, else she had not been lady anne's maid. lady anne was more particular about her garments than most young women. and, having once made up her mind to like mary, simmons took an interest in her task. "you are so kind, mrs. simmons," mary said gratefully, feeling the gentleness and dexterity with which the woman tried on her new garments without once jarring the broken arm. "i'm kind enough to those who take me the proper way," said simmons, greatly pleased with mary's prefix of mrs., which was brevet rank, since simmons had never married. it would have made a great difference to mary's comfort at this time if she had been sufficiently ill-advised to call simmons without a prefix, as lady anne did. dr. carruthers had called to see mary the morning after the accident. he had interviewed his patient in the morning-room, and was passing out through the hall when lady anne's voice over the banisters summoned him to her presence. "you can give me a little while, dr. carruthers?" she said. "i shall not be interfering with your work?" "i am quite free"--a little colour came into his cheeks. "the friend whose work i was doing at the house of mercy returned last night. yesterday was my last day." "ah! and yesterday brought you an unexpected patient. how do you find her?" "she has less physique than she ought to have." "yes, she has been underfed and overworked. i am going to alter all that. i have taken her into my house as my little companion." dr. carruthers stared in spite of himself. "you think it very odd of me? well, i _am_ odd, and i can afford to do what pleases me. mary gray is going to live here. you should know her father. a quite remarkable man, i consider him. now, about yourself. i have heard of you, dr. carruthers. i have heard that you are a very clever young man and devoted to your work, that you have all the knowledge of the schools at your fingertips, but very little experience, and no practice to speak of." "excuse me, lady anne. i was three years house surgeon at the good samaritan; and i have done a great deal of work since i have been here. i will confess that my patients have been of a poor class." "who have not paid you a penny. i don't know whether you do it for philanthropy or to keep your hand in----" "a little of both," the young man said with a faint smile. "but it is a good thing to do," the old lady went on, without noticing his interpellation. "you're spoken well of by the poor, if the rich have not heard anything about you. i know you're living beyond your means in a big house, hoping that a paying practice will come to you. my dear man, it never will, so long as people think you are in need of it. they like dr. pownall at their doors with his carriage and pair, even if he can only give them five minutes. pownall forgot himself with me. i remember his father--a very decent, respectable man who used to grow cabbages. that's nothing against pownall--creditable to him, i should say. still, he hadn't time to listen to my symptoms, and he was rude. 'a woman of your age,' he said. i should like to know who told dr. pownall my age. a lady has no age. 'it's time you retired,' i said to him. 'i don't think of it,' said he; 'not for ten years yet. my patients won't hear of it.' 'you're greedy,' said i; 'if you weren't your patients might go to hong kong.' he thought it was a joke--hadn't time to find out whether i was serious or not. i made him, dr. carruthers. it's time for him to retire now. i shall mention to all my friends that you are my body-physician." she spoke like one of the royal family. but dr. carruthers had no inclination to laugh. his eyes were dim as he murmured his acknowledgments. it was fame, it was fortune, in those parts to be approved by lady anne hamilton. hitherto she had been understood to swear by dr. pownall. "it means a deal to us, lady anne," he said, stumbling over his words. "we had made up our minds to give up the big house and look for a slum practice. the children--i have two living--are not very strong, any more than mildred. we put all we could into the venture of taking the house. it was our bid for fortune." "i wouldn't approve of it in a general way," said lady anne. "still, it has turned out well. will your wife be at home to-morrow afternoon? i should like to call upon her." "she will be delighted." dr. carruthers was regaining his self-control. he knew that the presence of lady anne's barouche at his door for an hour in the afternoon would be more potent in opening doors to him than if he had made the most brilliant cure on record. mary was with lady anne next day when she went to call on mrs. carruthers. it was characteristic of lady anne that she thought to tell jennings, the coachman, to drive up and down in front of the house and round the sides, for dr. carruthers' house was a corner one with a frontage to three sides. it was a hot summer day, and jennings wondered disrespectfully what bee the old lady had got in her bonnet. such a jangling of harness, such a flashing of polished surfaces! every window that commanded the three sides of dr. carruthers' house had an eye at the pane. the tidings flew from one to another that lady anne hamilton was visiting mrs. carruthers, and was making a very long call. mildred was still on her sofa. she would have risen when lady anne came in, but the old lady prevented her. lady anne could be royally kind when it pleased her. she drew a chair by the sofa and sat down. mary, who had come in with her, listened in some wonder to lady anne's sympathetic questions about the children. that was something in which mary was interested, in which mary had knowledge and experience; but though she listened she would not have spoken a word for worlds. as she sat there on the edge of one of mrs. carruthers' chairs--the drawing-room furniture was of the sparsest; a chair or small table dotted here and there on the wilderness of polished floor--she could see herself in a pier-glass at the other end of the room. it was a quite unfamiliar presentment she saw. this mary was dressed in soft dove-grey. she had a little white muslin folded fichu about her shoulders. she had a wide black hat, with one long white ostrich feather. her good hand was gloved in delicate grey kid. there was something quaint about her aspect; for that artist, simmons, had discovered that mary, for all her fifteen years, looked her best with her soft fine brown hair piled on top of her head. when she presented mary so to lady anne the old lady was fain to acknowledge that simmons was right. there was a quaint and delightful stateliness about mary which made lady anne say to herself once more that the child had gentle blood in her. "dear me," mildred carruthers thought, as her eyes wandered again and again to the elegant little figure, "kit said nothing of this. i expected to find a rather interesting child of the humbler classes. i remember particularly that he said she looked as though she had had a hard time." mary's changed aspect had one unforeseen result. when she presented herself at wistaria terrace the baby did not know her. her stepmother shed a few tears, which were half-gratification. the elder children were already a bit shy of her, the baby's immediate predecessor even murmuring of her as "the yady," and surveying her from afar, finger in mouth. but the baby could in no way be brought to recognise her, and only shouted lustily when she tried to force herself upon his recognition. "i shall come to-morrow in my old frock," mary said, bitterly hurt by this lack of perception on the baby's part. "i hate these hideous things; so i do. to-morrow he will come to his mary, so he will." but when the morrow came, and she sought for her old work-a-day garments in that pretty white and blue wardrobe where she had hung them when she had discarded them for the grey frock and hat, they were not to be found. there were numbers of things such as mary had never dreamed of. lady anne had provided her with an outfit, simple according to her thoughts, but splendid in mary's eyes. a white cashmere dressing-gown, trimmed with lace, hung on the peg where the grey linsey had been. mary flew to simmons to know where her old frock had gone to. the good woman, who by this time had taken mary under her wing to uphold her against the rest of the household if it were inclined to resent the new inmate, looked at her reprovingly. "you never wanted that old frock, and you her ladyship's companion? no, miss mary--for so i shall call you, as by her ladyship's orders, let some people say what they like--that frock you never will see, for gone it has to a poor child that'll maybe find it a comfort when winter comes. i wonder at you for thinking on it, so i do, seeing as how i've taken so much trouble with your clothes." mary turned away with a desolate feeling. the grey linsey might have been like the feathers of the enchanted bird that became a woman for the love of a mortal, the feathers which, if she wore them again, had the power of transporting her back to her kindred and her old estate. the old life was indeed closed to mary with the disappearance of the grey linsey; and it was long before she lost the feeling that if she could only have kept her old garments she need not have been so separated from the old life. chapter iv boy and girl it was during those early days that mary made the acquaintance of robin drummond. she had a comfortless feeling afterwards about the meeting; but it was not because of sir robin or anything he did: he was always a kind boy in her memory of him. it was because of his mother, lady drummond. mary knew from lady anne, who always thought aloud, that lady drummond made a good many people feel uncomfortable. they had driven out all the way from the city to the court, the big house on its wide plain below the mountains. it was a long drive--quite twenty miles there and back--and jennings, who liked to have a good deal of his time to himself, had been rather cross about it. not that he dared show any temper to lady anne, who was easy and kindly with her servants, as a rule, but could reduce an insubordinate one to humble submission as well as any old lady ever could. but mary, who knew the household pretty well by this time, knew that jennings was out of temper by the set of his shoulders, as she surveyed them from her seat in the barouche. it was a road, too, he never liked to take, because of a certain steam tram which ran along it and made the horses uncomfortable when they met it face to face. and there his mistress was unsympathetic towards him. she had been a brilliant and daring horsewoman in her youth and middle age. "i never thought i should live to amble along like this," she confided to mary as they drove between golden harvest fields. "rheumatic gout is a great humbler of the spirit. ah! here comes one of those black monsters to make the pair curvet a little. they are too fat, mary. they have too easy a life. it is only on such an occasion as this that they remember their hot youth." they reached the court without mishap, although once or twice the horses behaved as though they meditated a mild runaway. "you shall take the other road home, jennings," lady anne said graciously, as she alighted in front of the great square, imposing house, amid its flower-beds of all shapes, its ornamental fountains flinging high jets of golden water in the sun. "it's time we gave up the horses, my lady," jennings said, with bitterness, "with the likes o' them black beasts on the road." later, as she and mary waited in the great drawing-room for lady drummond, she returned to the subject of jennings and his grievance. "he is always bad-tempered when we come to the court," she said. "for all its grandeur it is not a hospitable house. jennings will have to go without his tea this afternoon." mary looked with wonder down the great length of the magnificent room. her feet sank in the turkey carpet. the walls, which were papered in deep red, were lined with full-length portraits, some of them equestrian. the place had an air of rich comfort. was it possible that the mistress of so much magnificence could grudge a visitor's coachman his tea? "her ladyship looks after the bawbees," lady anne went on, thinking aloud as usual, rather than talking to mary. "and those who are in her employment must think of them too, or they go. ah! you are looking at gerald drummond's portrait. what do you think of it, child?" it was one of the equestrian portraits. the subject, a man in the thirties, dressed in a lancer uniform, stood by his horse's head. his helmet was off, lying on the ground at his feet; and it was easy to see why the artist had chosen to paint the sitter with his head uncovered. the upper part of the face--the forehead and eyes--was strikingly handsome. the sweep of golden hair, despite its close military cut, was beautiful also. for the rest, the nose was too large and not particularly well-shaped, the chin was rugged, the mouth stern. lantern-jawed was the epithet one thought of when looking at the portrait of the man whose deeds were written in his country's history. it was an epithet mary gray would not have thought of. indeed, she stared at the hero in fascinated awe, but would not have known how to express an opinion regarding his looks. fortunately, lady anne did not wait for an answer to her question--had not, perhaps, ever intended that it should be answered. "it is very like," she went on. "half greek god, half fanatic. he led his charges with bible words on his lips. he spent the night before a battle in prayer and fasting. he was as stern as john knox, and as sweet as francis de sales. the only time his light deserted him was when he married matilda stewart. we were all in love with him. i was, although i ought to have had sense, being ten years his senior and a widow. he picked the worst of the bunch. luckily, he could get away from matilda, for he was always fighting somewhere, and perhaps he never found out. he kept his simplicity to the day he died. some people thought he married matilda because she was one of the stewart heiresses, and the drummonds were as poor as church mice. they didn't know him. it was more likely he'd marry her because she was plain, with a face like a horse, and was head over ears in love with him. i will say that for matilda. she was desperately in love with her husband, although no one would believe now that she had ever been in love with anybody." lady drummond delayed about coming to her guests. lady anne tapped an impatient small foot on the floor. "she's heckling someone now--take my word for it," she said. then her face wrinkled up, shrewdly humorous. "what are you thinking, child?" she asked. "thinking of how oddly we in the world talk of the friends we go to visit? i don't trouble the court much. but i am interested in gerald's boy. i should like to know how he is going to turn out. not much of her ladyship in him, i fancy." however, there was no question of mary's judging her benefactress; and lady anne smiled as she noticed that the girl had not heard her question, and watched the innocent, tender, worshipping look with which she was gazing at sir gerald's portrait. the smile faded off into a sigh. "_ah, le beau temps passe!_" the expression on mary's face recalled to lady anne the one romantic passion of her life, which had come to her after widowhood had put an end to a marriage in which esteem and liking for an elderly husband had taken the place of love. "you must excuse me, anne." a monotonous, important voice broke into lady anne's dream like a harsh discord, shattering it to atoms. "you must excuse me. i've been interviewing my gardener. in your town life you are spared much. considering the size of the gardens here and the labour i pay for, the yield is far too little. i expect the gardens to pay for themselves, and send the fruit to market. this year there is a great falling-off." "it has been a wet summer," said lady anne. "ah! and who is this young lady?" lady drummond's voice told that she had no need to ask the question. she had heard of anne hamilton's extraordinary freak and had suggested that for the protection of the interests of anne's relatives she had better be put under proper restraint. still, she asked the question. one would have said from the deadly monotony of lady drummond's voice that she could not get any expression into it. yet she could on occasion; and the chilling disapproval in it now made mary look up in a frightened surprise. "this young lady, miss gray, is my companion," lady anne said, with a stiffening of herself for battle and a light in her eye which showed that she had not mistaken lady drummond's challenge, and had no objection to take it up. "ah!" lady drummond again lifted the lorgnette that hung at her belt and stared at mary through it. "the young lady is very young for the post, and a companion is a new thing--is it not, anne?--for you to require." "you mean that i never could get one to live with me," lady anne said good-humoredly. "well, mary and i get on very well together--don't we, mary?" "miss gray is very young." "if we are going to discuss her, need she stay?" lady anne asked. "i am sure she is longing to see the gardens. i couldn't get round myself. the damp has made me stiff." "can you find your way, miss gray?" lady drummond was plainly anxious to be rid of mary, and made an effort at politeness which was only awkward and discouraging. "i think so," said mary, looking round with an air of flight. lady drummond's disapproval chilled her. she was not accustomed to be disapproved of, and it filled her with a vague terror as though she had done something wrong ignorantly. she glided out of the room like a shadow. as she went, lady drummond's unlowered voice followed her. "your choice is a very odd one, anne hamilton. that gawky child, all eyes and forehead. i remember i wanted you to have my excellent miss bradley." "i wouldn't have your excellent bradley for an hour...." but mary had fled beyond the hearing of the voices. she had no curiosity to hear any more of lady drummond's unflattering remarks concerning her. once again she longed for wistaria terrace. there was no place for her in _this_ world, she said to herself; and sent a tender reproach in her own mind to the father who had given her up for her good. then she felt contrite about lady anne. how good the old lady was to her, and how she stood up for her, would stand up for her, even to the terrible lady drummond! still, it was not her world; it never would be. she thought, with sudden childish tears filling her eyes, that the next time lady anne went to see any of her fine friends she would pray to be left at home. the great suite of rooms opened one into the other. mary was in the last of them--a library walled in books from floor to ceiling. the heavy velvet curtains that draped the arched entrance by which she had come had fallen behind her. the silence in the room where the feet fell so softly could be felt. there was not a sound but the ticking of a clock on the mantel-shelf. suddenly she came to a standstill. she had entered the room, but how was she to leave it? the doors were constructed of a piece with the book-shelves. the backs of them were dummy books. mary did not know in the least how to discover the doors. in fact, she supposed that there were not any. she would have to retrace the way she came--perhaps even ask the terrible lady drummond how to get out. she looked up at the long windows with the eye of a bird who has strayed in and cannot find the way out. the elusive air of flight that was hers was more pronounced at the moment. suddenly there was a sound, and, as mary thought, the book-shelves opened. she saw light through the opening. a tall boy came in, whistling, and pulled up short as his eyes fell on her. he was about her own age, or a little older. mary never forgot in after years the kindness and friendliness of his face as his eyes rested upon her. he came forward slowly, putting out his hand. the colour flooded his face to the roots of his fair hair. "you came with lady anne hamilton," he said. "i found the carriage outside. i have sent it round to the stables and told the man to put up the horses for a while. he will want some refreshment; and they need a rest." mary put a limp hand into the frankly extended one. "i couldn't find my way out," she said, with a sigh of relief. "i thought there were no doors. i was going to see the gardens while lady anne and lady drummond talked." "let me come with you," the boy said eagerly. "i don't know how anybody stays in the house on such a day. do you like puppies? i have a beautiful litter of clumber spaniels. and i should like you to see my pony. i have just been out on him. it's a bit slow here, all alone, after so many fellows at school. i'm at eton, you know. i am going back next thursday. shan't be altogether sorry, either, though i'll miss some things." they went out together into the golden autumn afternoon. first they went round the gardens, where the boy picked some roses and made them into a little bunch for mary. he took a peach from a red wall and gave it to her. they sat down together on a seat to eat their fruit. gardeners and gardeners' assistants passing by touched their hats respectfully. it was, "yes, sir robin," and "no, sir robin." the young master had a good many questions to ask of the gardeners. he was evidently well liked, to judge by the smiles with which they greeted him. "they're no end of good fellows," he confided to mary. "the mater's rather down on them; thinks they don't do enough. it's a mistake, a woman trying to run a place like this. she can't understand as a man does. now, if you've finished your peach, miss gray, we'll go round to the stable yard and see the puppies. after that i'll show you the pony. his name's ajax, and he's rather rippin'. do you like kerry cows? the mater has a herd of them--jolly little beasts, but a bit wicked, some of them. you needn't be afraid of them. they wouldn't touch you while i'm there." mary inspected the clumber puppies, and was promised the pick of the litter if lady anne would allow her to accept it. "she won't refuse," said the boy, confidently. "she thinks no end of me." "unless the puppy might worry fifine." "the puppy wouldn't take any notice of that thing--the old dog, i mean. besides, she lives in her basket, doesn't she? you might keep the puppy in the stables and take him for walks whenever you can. he'll have a beautiful coat like his mother, and if he's half as clever as she is...!" "he's a lovely thing," said mary, hugging the puppy, who was licking her face energetically and patting her with tremendous paws. they visited the paddock next; and sir robin, springing on ajax's back, trotted him up and down for mary's inspection. he had a good seat in the saddle, and he looked his best on horseback. to be sure, mary had not discovered that sir robin was plain, his mother's plainness militating in him against what share of beauty he might have inherited from his father. there was something so exhilarating to mary in the afternoon's experience, after its beginning so badly, that she forgot what had gone before. she thought sir robin a kind and delightful boy. they saw the kerries, and afterwards there were the rabbits, and the ferrets, and the guinea-pigs to be visited. intimacy advanced by leaps and bounds. before the inspection had concluded she was "mary" to her new-found friend, although she was too reticent by nature to think of addressing him so familiarly. they had forgotten the time till half-past five struck from a clock in the stable-yard. at this time they were down by a pond in the shrubbery, where there was an islet with a water-hen's nest and a couple of swans sailing on the water. there was a boat, too, and sir robin was just getting it out preparatory to rowing mary round the pond. "oh!" she said, with a little start. "what time is that?" "half-past five. i'd no idea it was so late." "nor i. i must go back at once. lady anne said we should be returning about five. i hope she will not be very angry with me." mary had begun to tremble. she always trembled in moments of agitation, as a slender young poplar might shiver in the wind. the boy jumped out of the boat hastily. "there, don't be frightened," he said. he had caught a glimpse of mary's face. "lady anne won't mind. she's a good sort. you should see the hampers she sends me. the mater doesn't approve of school hampers. you must put the blame on me. it was my fault entirely, for i had a watch." they hurried along the path leading back to the open space in front of the house. when they emerged into the open a breathless maid came towards them. "i've been looking everywhere for you and the young lady, sir robin," she said. "lady anne hamilton is waiting for miss gray." poor mary! when they arrived in the drawing-room it was not with lady anne she had to count. lady anne sat with an air of humorous patience on her face, but lady drummond's brow was thunderous. the haughty indignation in her pale eyes terrified the very soul in mary. she shrank away from it in terror. "i had no idea you were with miss gray, robin," she heard the lady say in glacial accents. "i discovered miss gray trying to find her way out of the library. no one could find those doors without knowing something about them. and we went to see the puppies and the pony and the other beasts." "we'd better be going, mary," lady anne said, standing up. "you and robin have made my visit quite a visitation." "the horses had to rest and the coachman to have his tea," said sir robin, sturdily. "you take too much care of your horses, anne," lady drummond said. "they are too fat; they can't be healthy. and your coachman is very fat, too." "oh, they take it easy, they take it easy," lady anne said, laughing; "they've only my temper to worry them." they left lady drummond looking as black as thunder in the drawing-room. sir robin escorted them to their carriage. "so sorry, lady anne," he said, apologetically. "it was my fault. i hope you won't be angry with miss gray." "it is your mother's annoyance has to be considered, my dear boy," answered lady anne, while he tucked the rug about her. "all the same, miss gray and i had a rippin' time," he said, flinging back his head with an air of humorous defiance. "and--i say--you're too good to me, you know, you really are." lady anne had pressed something into his palm. "the mater doesn't see what boys want with so much pocket-money. sometimes i don't know what i'd do only for you. there are so many things a fellow has to subscribe to." the carriage rolled off, leaving him bare-headed on the drive in front of the house. "that's a good boy," said lady anne, emphatically. "he has his father's heart. he's getting the ways of the master about him, too. i can tell by jennings' back that he's had a good tea. he'll be a good son, but the time will come when he'll choose for himself. well, mary, i hope you've enjoyed yourself. matilda won't want to see me for a month of sundays again. nor i her, for the matter of that. dear me, she can make herself unpleasant." mary sat in a conscience-stricken silence during that homeward drive. yet lady anne was not angry with her--that was very obvious. she seemed to be enjoying herself, too, judging by the smile that played about her lips. now and again she cast a humorous glance on mary. once she chuckled aloud. "never mind me, my dear," she said, in answer to mary's glance. "i was only thinking of something denis drummond, gerald drummond's elder brother, said of her ladyship. ah, poor denis! he'd face a charge of the guns more readily than he would her ladyship. odd, isn't it, mary, how those thoroughly disagreeable women can make themselves feared?" chapter v "old blood and thunder" sir denis drummond had been his brother gerald's senior by some seven or eight years. he, too, was a soldier, and had inherited the baronetcy from his father, upon whom the title had been bestowed by a grateful country for services in the field. a second baronetcy in the family had been specially created for sir gerald. it would not have been easy to say which was the finer soldier of the two brothers; for while sir gerald had made his name famous by the most dare-devil and brilliant feats, sir denis was rather the old type of soldier--cool as well as daring, always reliable and steady. worshipped by his men, his name was one to be held in constant regard by the british public, which calls its heroes by their christian names abbreviated, if they do not happen, indeed, to have a nickname for them. "old blood and thunder" was the name by which sir denis was known to his men, and that from a certain violence of speech of which he had never been able, or perhaps had never desired, to divest himself. this violence had somewhat annoyed his brother gerald, who could get as much exhortation out of a verse of scripture as ever he needed. sir denis, like many old soldiers, was quite a devout man in his way; but he had none of the zealot passion of his younger brother. the hidden fires which had given sir gerald a certain haggardness of aspect, as though a sculptor had hewed him roughly in marble, had never burned in sir denis's breast. he was a red-faced, white-moustached veteran, as blustering as the west wind, but with a heart as soft as wax in the hands of his daughter nelly, and, indeed, in the hands of anyone else who knew the way to it. his servants adored him, as did the dogs and all animals and children. he was beautiful in his manner to women of high and low degree, with perhaps one exception. he was as simple as a child, and loved the popular applause which fell to him whenever he made any kind of public appearance, for he had been so long a londoner that now the london crowd knew him and had a sense of possession in him. his rosy face would beam all over when the crowd shouted itself hoarse for "old blood and thunder." he did not at all object to the name, which had filtered from regimental into common use. the crowd was always "boys!" to him. he had a most amiable feeling towards it, were it ever so frowsy and undersized and sallow. but he loved a soldier-man, and could hardly bear to pass one in the street without stopping to speak to him. one delightful thing about sir denis was the esteem in which he held his own calling of arms. it might be questioned whether he held the church even in higher honour. he was no subscriber to the belief that the army must necessarily be a refuge of rapscallions. "straighten your shoulders, sir; hold your head high; for, remember that you are now a soldier!" he would say to the newest recruit who had just scraped through with a margin of chest. his thunderous wrath and sorrow when one of his "boys" was guilty of conduct unbecoming a soldier were something which, in time, impressed even the least impressionable. his old regiment, which he delighted to talk about, he had left a model regiment. "there's a deal of good in the soldier-man," he would say to his daughter nelly. "the poor fellows, they're good boys, they're very good boys." sir denis had married, as he was approaching middle age, a very beautiful young girl, who had fallen in love at first with the soldier, and afterwards with the man. his nell had left him in his daughter nelly a replica of herself. during the years of service that remained to him the child was always as near to him as might be. fortunately, by this time the period of his foreign service was all but at an end. wherever he had his command the child and her nurse were always within riding distance. he did not believe in barracks and towns for the rearing of anything so fresh and tender. his nelly must have the fields and the woods and the waters. in later years her milkmaid freshness owed, perhaps, something to this upbringing. later, she went to school. sir gerald's widow, to whom sir denis always referred as the dowager, who had taken an unasked-for interest in the motherless child from her birth, had found the ideal school for nelly--a school where the daughters of the aristocracy were kept in a conventual seclusion while they learnt as little as might be of the simpler virtues, but a deal of the way to step in and out of a carriage, to comport themselves with dignity, to bear themselves in the presence of their sovereign, and so on. sir denis, who had not been consulted, made a pretence of interviewing the misses de crespigny, by whom this aristocratic preserve was safeguarded. he had listened to miss selina de crespigny's eloquent exposition of the system adopted at de crespigny house. then he had torn it all to pieces as one might the delicate fabric of a spider's web, constructed at infinite cost. "and, tell me now, do you teach them to be good daughters and wives and mothers?" he asked, with his air of convincing simplicity. "do you teach them their duties to their husbands and children, ma'am, may i ask?" miss de crespigny positively gasped. there was an indelicacy about the general's speech, to her manner of thinking. "we expect our young ladies' mothers to teach them all that," she said, stiffly. "and they don't. in nine cases out of ten they don't. they've too much to do otherwise. whether it is philanthropy or politics, or just amusing themselves, they've all got too much to do," sir denis said, with a simple air that made it doubtful if this criticism of society's ways was adverse or not. nelly did not go to de crespigny house. she went, instead, to a much less pretentious school, kept by a family of four sisters, for whom the dry bones of teaching had been clothed with life. the house was perched on a high, windy cliff. the sisters, miss stella and miss clara, miss lucy and miss marianne, did their own teaching, and did it in a perfectly unconventional way to the twenty or so girls who made up their school. when nelly came home to her father at seventeen years of age, it would not have been easy to find a fresher, franker specimen of young girlhood. in fact, to her father's eyes she was somewhat alarmingly bright and fair. "the young fellows will be about her thick as bees," he said to himself in a frightened way. "i won't have any nonsense about nelly. i want my girl to myself for a little while. afterwards there is that arrangement of the dowager's about nelly and robin. i don't care for the marriage of first cousins. and i'm not sure that i care for robin; still, he is poor gerald's son. there can be nothing against poor gerald's son." he was so afraid of possible lovers for nelly that he actually suggested to her that she should go to a smart finishing school for the couple of years that separated him from the sixty-five limit. "after that," he said, faintheartedly, for there was a sparkle in nelly's eye which discouraged him, "we shall settle down in london, and you shall see all you want to see. there are quiet nooks and corners to be had, even in london. i think i know the one i shall choose. be a good girl, nelly, and go to madame celeste's. a garrison town is no place for you. unless, indeed, you would like to go to the dowager, as she wishes." "i shan't go to the dowager, and i shan't go to madame celeste's," said nelly, dimpling and sparkling. "i shall stay with my old dad and take care of him." "what, nell? 'shan't'! you forget you're talking to your commanding officer. rank insubordination--that is what i call it!" "call it what you like," miss nelly replied. "i'm going to stay. a finishing school at seventeen! i never heard the like!" with that she put her arms round the general's neck, and that was the final argument. secretly, indeed, he was not altogether sorry to be worsted. he had done his best to ward off the things that might happen. now he was going to trust in providence and keep his little girl with him. to be sure, he had known that she would never go to the dowager's. nelly had never considered that possibility. after all, it was a relief that they were not going to be parted. during the two years nelly, indeed, had many admirers and lovers, but she was not attracted by any of them. she was kind and friendly and engaging; but she was unconscious with her lovers, or so it seemed to the jealous, fatherly eyes, to the verge of coldness. he often said to himself that he could not understand nell. none of the gay, handsome, gallant soldier lads seemed to have the least attraction in that way for her. to be sure, she was a child, and there was plenty of time. why shouldn't her old father keep her for the years to come? unless--unless, that fellow robin had been beforehand with the others--robin, who had refused point-blank to be a soldier, and had even, to the general's bitter offence, actually spoken at the oxford union "on the waste and wickedness of a standing army." the general had nearly had a fit over that. good heavens! gerald's son, sir massey drummond's grandson, to be found on the side of the philistines like that! what chill was in the boy's blood? what crook in his character? what bee in his bonnet? the general had sworn then that robin never should have his nelly. but the dowager had been sapping and mining and laying plans to bring about the marriage almost from nelly's infancy, when she had come in and altered the constituents of nelly's baby bottles, and had infuriated nelly's wholesome country nurse to the point of departure. the general had come just in time then to find mrs. loveday fastening the cherry-coloured strings of her bonnet with fingers that trembled, and had been put to the very edge of his simple diplomacy to undo the dowager's work. he knew his own helplessness where women were concerned. nelly might see something in robin, confound him, that the general could not. at this point he would remember that, after all, robin was poor gerald's son, if an unworthy one, and be contrite. but then the grievance would revive of a far-back quaker ancestor of lady drummond, whom the general blamed for the peace-loving instincts of poor gerald's boy; and once again he would be furious. meanwhile, nelly's frank, innocent eyes, blue as gentians, had no consciousness of a lover. her old father seemed to be enough for her. at one moment they gave him the fullest assurance; the next he was in heats and colds of apprehension about the lover, be it robin or another, who would take his little girl from him. chapter vi the blue ribbon the half-dozen years or so following sir denis's retirement were years of peace, in which he forgot for long periods, broken only by the dowager's visits to london, his fear of losing his nelly. he had taken a house in sherwood square, where there is a space and breeziness that the fashionable districts could not possibly allow. the square sits on top of one of the highest hills in london, and entrenches itself as a fortress against the poverty and squalor that are creeping up the hill towards it. around the square there are still gardens and crescents and roads of consideration, but ever dwindling in social status as one goes down the hill, till the consideration vanishes in the degradation of cheap boarding-houses and the homes of jews of the shopkeeping classes. sir denis had discovered sherwood square for himself, and was uncommonly proud of it. he liked to point out to his friends that he rented a palatial mansion for what a _pied-ã -terre_ in mayfair would have cost him. the houses had been built by wealthy merchants and professional people in the eighteenth century. they had splendours of double doors and marble pavements, of frescoed walls and ceilings, and carved mantelpieces. they were entered from a quiet street which showed hardly a sign of life. there were lions couchant guarding the entrances. the walls on that side showed mostly blank, uninteresting windows. with an odd pride the great houses showed only their duller aspects to the world. all the living-rooms except one looked on the other side; and what a difference! there was a great stretch of emerald-green turf such as one would never look to see in london; to be sure, gardeners had been watering and mowing and rolling it for over a century. in the turf were many flower-beds, and here and there were forest trees which had been there when the district was fields. country birds came and built there year after year. you might hear the thrush begin about january. and in the spring it was a wilderness of sweet hyacinths and daffodils, lilac and may. the rooms were spacious and splendid within the big cream-coloured house; and the general used to say that in the early morning, when the smoke had cleared away, it was possible from the upper windows to see as far as the surrey hills. however, that was something which nobody but himself had tested. in the house love and friendliness and good-will reigned supreme. the general had insisted on engaging his own servants, much to the disgust of the dowager, who had several _protã©gã©s_ of her own practically engaged. when the general had outwitted lady drummond on this occasion by a flank movement, he was very gleeful in his confidential moments alone with nelly. "she wanted to put in her spies and satellites, did she, nelly, my girl? pretty stories of us they'd have carried to her ladyship. the only womanly thing your aunt has, my girl, is an invincible curiosity. she'd like to know what we had for lunch and dinner, who came to see us, and what clothes we wore. i'm glad you wouldn't have that mantua-maker of hers. cannot my girl have her frocks made where she likes? i'll tell you what, nelly: your aunt is a presumptuous, meddling, overbearing, impertinent woman--that she is." "why don't you tell her to leave us alone, papa?" but the general, whose courage had never been doubted during all the years of his strenuous life, had very little bravery when it came to a question of telling hard truths to a woman, and that woman the dowager. "we must remember, after all, nelly," he would say then, "that she is your uncle gerald's widow. poor gerald! what a dear fellow he was! no matter what we say between ourselves, we can't quarrel with gerald's widow." and sir denis, who was becoming garrulous in old age, would slip off into some reminiscence of the younger brother to whom he had been tenderly attached, and for whom he had also a certain hero-worship because he had been so fine and heroic a soldier. certainly it said well for the servants whom sir denis and nelly had chosen for themselves that they fell in so completely with the kindness and honesty and good-will of the house. some credit was doubtless due also to sir denis's soldier servant, whom he had installed as butler; for pat's loyalty and devotion to "old blood and thunder" must have influenced the class of persons who are so susceptible of impressions from those of their own station, while the standards and exhortations of their social superiors are as though they were not. pat was lynx-eyed for a malingerer in his honour's service; and, indeed, where the rule was so easy and pleasant there was no excuse for malingering. pat, too, was ably seconded by bridget, the cook, who had come in originally as kitchen-maid, and had in time taken the place of the very important and pretentious functionary with whom they had started, and whose cookery did not at all suit sir denis's digestion, impaired somewhat by long years in india. the young kitchen-maid had taken the cook's place during the latter's holiday, and had sent up for sir denis's dinner a little clear soup, a bit of turbot with a sauce which was in itself genius, a bird roasted to the nicest golden brown, and a pudding which was only ground rice, but had an insubstantial delicacy about it quite unlike what one associates with the homely cereal. "you've saved my life, my girl," said sir denis, meeting bridget on the stairs the morning after this banquet, and presenting her with a golden sovereign, "and if you like to stay on as cook at forty pounds a year, why so you shall." "you could shave yourself in her sauce-pans, your honour," said pat, when he heard of this amazing promotion. it was pat's way of saying that bridget polished her utensils till they reflected like a mirror. "she's a rale good little girsha, that's what she is, the same bridget; and i'm rale glad, your honour, that ould consiquince isn't comin' back again." after that there were few changes. the servants were in clover, and since pat and bridget knew it, and impressed it on their subordinates, it came to be a generally recognised fact. to be sure, it made it pleasanter for everyone in the house when, thanks to bridget's excellent plain cooking. sir denis forgot he had such a thing as a liver, and had no more of the gouty attacks which made his temper east-windy instead of west-windy. during those peaceful years he forgot to be choleric. he was overflowing with kindness and helpfulness to those about him, and took a paternal interest in the affairs of his household. "sure," pat would say to bridget, "'tis for marrying us he'd be, if he knew how it was with us, same as he married off rose to the postman and gave them a cottage; and that new girl isn't up to rose's work yet, nor ever will be, unless i'm mistaken." "'twould be a sin to take advantage of him," bridget would answer. "and we're both young enough to wait a bit, pat. there'll be new ways when miss nelly marries sir robin. maybe 'tis going to live with them he'd be." "he never will, so long as her ladyship's alive," said pat, emphatically. "then maybe we'd be havin' him for a furnished lodger," said bridget. "i'd rather it 'ud be something in the country. why wouldn't you be his coachman as well, pat? sure, anything you don't know about horses isn't worth the knowin'." "true for you. we might have a little lodge," said pat. they were really the quietest and most peaceful years--unless the dowager happened to be in town. then something went dreadfully wrong with the general's temper, and he would come roaring downstairs and along the corridors like a winter storm. the servants' hall used to take a tender interest in those bad days. "somebody ought to spake to her," said bridget. "supposin' the gout was to go to his heart! he was bad enough after the last time she was here." "she'll never lave hoult of him," said pat, solemnly. "the sort of her ladyship houlds on the tighter the more you wriggle. he's preparing a quare bed of repentance for himself, so he is, the langwidge he's usin' about her all over the house. by-and-by he'll be rememberin' she's sir gerald's widdy, and'll be askin' me ashamed-like, 'i hope i didn't say too much about her ladyship in my timper, pat. she's a tryin' woman, a very tryin' woman. i'm afraid i'm apt to forget now an' agin that she's my dear brother's widdy, so i am.'" pat's imitation of sir denis was really admirable. "'tis a pity he doesn't run her out of the house," said bridget, "instead of lettin' her bother the heart out of him like that." "he couldn't say a rough word to a woman, not if it was to save his life," said pat. "nothin' rougher thin 'no, ma'am,' and 'yes, ma'am,' i ever heard him say to her. whirroo, bridget, you should ha' heard him whin his timper was up givin' it to us long ago in the barrack square. i hope it isn't the suppressed gout she'll be giving him the next time! 'tisn't half as bad whin it's out." however, the storms were few and far between. the household lived by rule. every morning, winter and summer, the horses were at the door by eight o'clock for the morning canter of the general and miss nelly in the park. at nine o'clock the household assembled for prayers. after breakfast sir denis walked to his club in pall mall, wet or dry. he would read the papers and discuss the cheeseparing policy of the government with some of his old chums, lunch at the club, play a game of dominoes or draughts, and return home in time for dinner. frequently they entertained a friend or two quietly at dinner. but, company or no company, there were prayers at ten o'clock, after which the general took his candle and went to his bedroom. there were times, of course, when nelly went out to balls and entertainments, and then sir denis was to be seen on duty, even though there were a good many ladies who would be willing to take the chaperonage of his daughter off his hands. but that was an office he would relinquish to no one. he was the most patient of chaperons, too, and never grumbled if the daylight found him still at the whist-table, although he would rise at the same hour as usual and carry out his appointed round for the day as if he had not lost his sleep over-night. of course, nelly might stay a-bed. he wouldn't have nelly's roses spoilt, and the young needed their proper amount of sleep. as for himself, he couldn't sleep a wink after seven, no matter how late he had been up the night before. but, on the whole, they lived a quiet life. nelly was too unselfish, too fond of her father, to cost him many nights without his usual sleep. she had really the quietest tastes. her few friends, her books, her music, her dogs and birds, sufficed for her happiness. they had a houseful of dogs, by the way, and any description of the way of life in sherwood square which made no mention of dogs would be quite insufficient. duke the irish terrier and bonaparte the pug, usually boney, and nelson the bull terrier, were as important and characteristic members of the household as anyone else, except, perhaps, sir denis and miss nelly. nelly used to explain her stay-at-home ways to her friends by saying that the dogs were offended with her if she went out for a walk without them. the dogs had many tricks. they knew the terms of drill as well as any soldier, and were always ready for parade, or to die for their country, or groan for their country's enemies, at the general's word of command. nelly had to be much out-of-doors, as the dogs were clamorous for walks, and she kept her roses in london with the old milkmaid sweetness. there was one happening of the quiet day that stood out for sir denis, and, although he did not know it, for his daughter also. sir denis's old regiment happened to be stationed at a barracks in the immediate neighbourhood. to reach their parade-ground it was possible for the troops, by making a little detour, to pass along the quiet street on which the houses in sherwood square opened. it became an established thing that they should pass every morning about nine o'clock. how that came sir denis did not trouble to ask. he was quite satisfied and delighted that "the boys" should do him honour. the breakfast-room was one of the few rooms that did not overlook the square but the street. every morning, just as sir denis concluded prayers, there would come the steady trot of cavalry and the jingle of accoutrements. if he had not quite finished, he would say "amen" in a reverent hurry. "come now, boys and girls," he would say to the servants, "i want you to see my old regiment." he would step out on the balcony above the hall-door with a beaming face, and his arm around his nelly's waist. the servants would press behind him, the dogs push to the front with the curiosity of their kind. down the street the soldiers would come, all flashing in scarlet and gold, the sleek horses shining in the morning sun with a deeper lustre than their polished accoutrements. there would be a halt for a second in front of the house. the men would salute their old general, the general salute his old regiment. then the cavalcade would sweep on its way and the street be duller than before. one morning--it was a bright, breezy morning of march--the wind had caught nelly's golden hair and blown it in a halo about her face. she was wearing a blue ribbon in it. she was fond of blue, and the simplicity of it became her fresh youth. just as the soldiers halted the wind caught nelly's blue bow, and, having played with it a little, sent it drifting down like a little blue flower among the men on horseback. it was such a slight thing that the general might not have noticed it. anyhow, he made no comment, but watched the troops out of sight as usual. the odd thing was that nelly passed over her loss in silence, although she must have missed her blue ribbon, since without it her hair had become loose in the wind. at breakfast, when the servants had left the room, the general made a remark. "that young langrishe sits his horse well," he said. "he's a good soldier, nelly, my girl. a very good soldier, or i'm much mistaken." but nelly was apparently too absorbed in her duty of making the tea to answer the remark. for an instant she was redder than a rose. no one would have suspected sir denis of slyness, but the look he shot at the girl was certainly sly. under the white tablecloth he rubbed his hands softly together. chapter vii a chance meeting it was worse for the general when sir robin drummond left oxford and settled in london, with an avowed intention of reading for the bar, and at the same time making politics his real career. "a man ought to do something in the world," he said to his irate uncle. "the bar is always a stepping-stone. i confess i don't look to practice very much; my real bent is for politics. but the law interests me, and it is always a stepping-stone." "i should have thought that the profession of arms, which your father and your grandfather adorned, as well as a good many of your forbears, might serve you as well," sir denis said, hotly. "you leave out my uncle, sir," the young man replied, with urbane good humour. "yes, the drummonds have done very well for the profession of arms. still, with my beliefs on the subject of war----" "pray don't air them, don't air them. you know what i think about them. your father's son ought to be ashamed of professing such sentiments." "one must abide by one's sentiments, one's convictions, if one is to be good for anything. uncle denis," sir robin said, patiently. "you'll have no chance in politics. no constituency will return you. what we want now is a strong government that will strengthen us, through our army and navy, sir, against our enemies. such a government will come in at the next election a-top of the wave. the people, or i am much mistaken, are not going to see the bulwarks of our power tampered with. the country is all for war. where do you come in?" sir robin smiled ever so slightly. it was that smile of his, with its faintest hint of intellectual superiority, that riled the general to bursting point. "i don't believe there is a war feeling, uncle denis," he said. "the country has had enough of war. however, i should not come in on top of a wave of war feeling in any case. you would be quite right in asking where i should come in. to be sure, i look to come in on top of the anti-war wave. my side is pledged against war. the working man----" "you don't mean to say that you're going to appeal to _him_!" sir denis shouted. "you don't mean to say that you're going to side with the radicals! i've lived to see many strange things, but--gerald's son a radical!" he brought out the ejaculations with the sound of guns popping. his face was red with indignation, his eyes leaping at his degenerate nephew. the next words did not tend to calm him. "do you know, uncle denis, i believe that if my father had been a politician he would have been a radical? his profound feeling for christianity, his adherence to the creed of its founder, whose whole life was a glorification of toil----" "spare me, spare me!" cried the general, restraining himself with difficulty. "so a man can't be a christian and a gentleman! and you think your father would have been a radical! i can tell you, young gentleman----" at this moment nelly came into the room, charming in her short-waisted frock of white satin, with a little cap of pearls on her hair. both men turned and stared at her, pleasure and affection in their eyes. "so you've been heckling poor robin as usual," she said, stroking her father's cheek. "heckling poor robin and getting your hair on end like a fretful porcupine. i'll never be able to make you into a nice, sweet, quiet old gentleman." "turn your attention to him," said the general, indicating his nephew by an unfriendly nod. "what do you think, nell? he's a radical. he's going to contest a seat for the radicals. what do you say now?" "pooh!" said nelly, with her pretty chin in the air. "pooh! why shouldn't he? lots of nice people are radicals. if he feels that way, of course he ought to do it." robin's unpractical eyes thanked her mutely. he was as plain-looking a man as he had been a boy, more hatchet-faced than ever. he was long and lean and angular, and his positions were ungraceful. but his eyes were the eyes of don quixote. the eyes had appealed to nelly as long as she could remember. "oh, if you're against me, nell!" said sir denis, lamely. "ah! there's the bell! and a good thing, too. i couldn't eat my lunch to-day for old grogan of the artillery. he's a man with a grievance. it soured my wine and spoilt my food. well, well, robin, if you're under nelly's protection you may do what you like--join the peace society, if you like." "i mean to, sir," sir robin said, placidly. "in fact, i'm speaking on 'the ideal of a universal peace' on monday evening at the finsbury democratic debating club." when sir robin came to town there had been an apprehension in his uncle's breast, too well-founded, that the dowager would follow him. she was devoted to her son, and not at all disposed to take the general's views about his recreancy in politics. "a good many good people are on the radical side, after all," she said, "and there is, perhaps, more room, too, for a young man of robin's ambitions in the radical party." "so far as i can see," said the general, acidly, "his ambitions are rather to succeed at the bottom than at the top. the applause of the multitude appeals to him more than the praise of his equals or superiors." lady drummond glanced coldly at his heated face. "i fancy you've an attack of gout coming on, denis," she said. "i should send for sir harley dix, if i were you." she had stopped the general just as he was on his own doorstep, setting his face cheerfully eastwards on his way to pall mall. he had come back with her. he knew his duty to his brother's widow better than to do anything else. it was wednesday, and on wednesday there was always a particular curry at lunch which he much affected. he was a connoisseur in curries, and the _chef_ always made this with an eye to sir denis's approval. he would have to shorten his walk and 'bus part of the way, or the curry would be cold. he hated to be put out in his daily routine. "i never was freer from gout in my life, matilda," he said, with indignation. "i don't trouble the doctors much. when i want their advice i shall ask for it. i always ask for advice when i want it." she looked at him with unconcern. "do you think nelly will soon be back?" she asked. "i don't know. when she takes the dogs for a walk she is often out for a couple of hours. perhaps it would be too long a time to wait." in his mind he could see the curry disappearing before the other men who liked it as much as he did. grogan would always eat curry--that special curry--to the general's indignation. why, curry was the last thing grogan ought to eat! wasn't he as yellow as the curry itself with chronic liver? grogan was greedy over that curry--a greedy fellow, the general said to himself, remembering the many occasions when it had been impossible for him to break away from grogan and his grievances. if her ladyship was going to sit on endlessly! the general's manners were too good to leave her to sit by herself. and she was untying her bonnet strings! he might as well lunch at home. no, he wouldn't do that, not if her ladyship was going to stay to lunch. he supposed he could have lunch somewhere, if not at his club. "pray, don't put yourself out for me, denis," her ladyship was saying, with what passed for graciousness in her. "i know your usual habits. at your age a man doesn't like to be put out of his habits. don't mind me, pray. i can amuse myself very well till nelly comes in. plenty of books and papers, i see. you subscribe to mudie's. i thought no one subscribed to mudie's now that we have so many free libraries. i have never been able to afford myself a library subscription, even although we lived in the country. now that i am going to settle in town----" "settle in town!" the general's eyes were almost starting from his head. "i'd no idea, matilda, you were going to settle in town. what's going to become of the court?" "i have an idea of letting it for a few years. mr. higbid, the very rich hide merchant, has taken a fancy to the place. i have yet to hear what robin will say. mr. higbid is prepared to pay a fancy price----" "he'd have to before i'd let him into my drawing-room," said the general, with disgust. "imagine letting the court! and to a man who sells hides!" "his money is as good as anybody else's. and he is received everywhere. you are really too old-fashioned, denis. your ways need altering." "i am too old to change, ma'am," said the general, getting up and giving himself a shake like a dog. "if you don't really mind being left----" he wanted to get away to think over the fact that the dowager was going to settle in town. he could hardly keep himself from groaning. his peace was all at an end. if he had not been too old to change, he would have fled from london and left it to the dowager. but big as it was, it was too little to contain himself and the dowager with any prospect of peace. "i'll stay and have lunch with nelly," the dowager went on, quite ignorant of his perturbation. "afterwards, i'm going to take her to see houses with me. _of course_, i shall settle in your immediate neighbourhood, if i can find anything suitable. i'm going to take nelly off your hands a bit, take her about and advise her as to her frocks. she was wearing white chiffon the last time we dined here--a most perishable material. i don't think your purse is long enough for white chiffon, denis. then the young people ought to see more of each other. we ought to be talking about trousseaux----" but at this point the general fled. if he had stayed another second he would have said things that his kind and chivalrous heart would have grieved over later. he fled, and left her ladyship staring after him in amazement. he clean forgot about the curry in the fretting and fuming of his mind, or it occurred to him only to be consigned to grogan, as though grogan were a synonym for something much stronger. his fiery indignation between sherwood square and pall mall was quite amazing. the dowager in the next street! why, he might as well order his coffin. and talking about taking nelly from him. that muff, robin, too! when had the fellow shown any impatience? he didn't want the girl to marry an oyster. he remembered the glory and glamour of his own love affair, of that golden year of marriage. his nelly ought to be loved as her mother had been before her, as her mother's daughter deserved to be. he wasn't going to yield her to a fellow who would only give her half his tepid heart, who would leave her to spend her evenings alone while he spouted in radical clubs or in that big talking shop, the house of commons. he wouldn't have it. and still----robin was poor gerald's son, and there was nothing against him but his politics. somewhere, at the back of his mind, the general recognised the fact that he could have forgiven the politics if it had not been for the dowager. he had almost reached the doors of his club--grogan might eat the curry for him, and be hanged to him!--when he saw advancing towards him the spare, elegant figure that sat its horse in front of the regiment below the general's window every morning. the oddest gleam came into his eyes. the young man had recognised him, and was blushing like a girl as he came towards him. he had velvety brown eyes and regular features, was a handsome lad, the general said to himself as young langrishe lifted his hat from his sleek, well-shaped head. he had the barest acquaintance with sir denis, and he would have passed by if the old soldier had not stopped him. "how do you do, captain langrishe?" he said. "i am very much obliged to you for the pleasure you give me every morning. i take it as uncommonly kind of you to bring 'the boys' past my house. i assure you i quite look forward to it--i quite look forward to it." langrishe stammered something about the regiment delighting to do honour to its old general, growing redder and redder as he did so. his confusion became him in the general's eyes. he was certainly a pleasant-looking, well-mannered boy, the general decided, and the confusion of the young soldier in the presence of the old soldier an entirely natural and creditable thing. "i'll tell you what, my lad," said sir denis, putting his arm within the other's: "if you've nothing better to do, supposing you come and lunch with me. i'm just going in to the club. and you--on your way to it? i thought so. you'll give me the pleasure of your company?" the general was half an hour late, yet he found a small table in a window recess unappropriated. it was set for two, and a screen was drawn about it so that the two could be as retired as they wished. more--the general had not been forgotten in the distribution of the curry. their portions came up piping hot. from where they sat the general could see sir rodney vivash and grogan button-holing each other. they were the bores of the club, and for once they had foregathered, willingly or unwillingly. after all, there were compensations--there were compensations; and the general was hungry. his manner towards young langrishe had an air of fatherly kindness. there was a gratified flush on the young fellow's lean, dark cheek. what was it the general had heard about langrishe? oh, yes, that he had had rough luck--that his old uncle. sir peter--the general remembered him for a curmudgeon--had married and had a son, after rearing the young fellow as his heir. no wonder the lad looked careworn. the regiment was an expensive one; not too expensive for sir peter langrishe's heir, but much too expensive for a poor man. however, it was no business of the general's--not just yet. "you have met my daughter, i think?" he said. they were at the cheese by this time, and the general was apparently divided between the merits of gruyã¨re and stilton. he did not glance at captain langrishe, but he knew quite as well as if he had that the colour came again to his cheek, that the brown eyes looked unhappily conscious. "i have met miss drummond several times," he answered. "ah, you must dine with us one evening." young langrishe looked at him in a startled way. "thank you very much, sir," he said, "but, as a matter of fact, i am negotiating a change into an indian regiment. i don't know how long i shall be here. and i shall be very busy, i'm afraid." "ah! just as you like--just as you like." the general, by the easiest of transitions, passed on to the subject of soldiering in india. he had an unwontedly exhilarated feeling which later had its reaction in a consciousness of guilt. "what would poor gerald have said?" he thought, as he walked homewards that evening. "and i've nothing against robin--i've nothing really against robin, except his peace societies and all the rest of it. and the dowager--yes, there's always the dowager. i should like to know what on earth ever induced poor gerald to marry the dowager." chapter viii groves of academe after that keen disappointment about the baby's forgetting her, although she excused it to herself, arguing that at twenty months one cannot be expected to have a long memory, mary was more reconciled to the changed conditions of her life. "i hope we are going to be together for a good many years," lady anne said, "and presently you must be able to play and sing to me, to read to me and take an interest in the things in which i am interested. you are to go to school, mary." so mary went to school, first to the queen's preparatory school, then to the queen's college. her years there were very happy ones, especially those years at the college, after she had found her feet and made friends, and gained confidence in herself and the world. "she sucks up knowledge as a sponge sucks up water," was the report of the principal, miss merton, to the delighted lady anne. "i hope lady anne, that you will permit her to go in for her b.a. i should not be surprised, indeed, if she captured a fellowship." "no fellowships," lady anne said, firmly. "what would she do with a fellowship? i propose, as soon as she has done with you, to take her abroad. i have a mind to see the world again through young eyes. and it will put the coping-stone on her education. i shouldn't dare leave her too long with you. learning so often destroys a woman's imagination. they work too hard, i suppose. it doesn't seem to come natural to them yet as it does to men." "there's no question of mary's working too hard," the lady principal said, bearing these hard sayings of lady anne's with composure. "she has fine brains. whatever she wants in an intellectual way she can come at easily." mary, indeed, took her b.a. without over-much burning of the midnight oil. afterwards she always spoke with the tenderest affection of her old school-days. she recalled with delight the spacious class-rooms, the old garden with its great woodland trees, and the tiny rooms of the girls who were in residence at the college, with their quaint and pretty adornments--the place of so much young _camaraderie_ and soaring ambition and happy emulation. "i can hardly remember that anyone was ever unkind," she used to say long afterwards. as a matter of fact, the band of elder students with whom mary was connected in her latter days at the college had a generous enthusiasm for her beauty, taking it as in a sense a credit to themselves. "you will be a living answer to them," said jessie baynes, who was small and plain-looking, "when they say that learned women are always ugly." and the whole of the class applauded her speech. "i shall love to see you in your cap and gown," jessie went on, firing at the picture in her own imagination. "very few of the men will be taller than you, mary. how they will shout!" jessie had no thought at all of her own lack of height and grace, as she had no idea of how pleasant her little brown face was despite its plainness. she was going to earn her living by teaching, and, what was more, going to make living easier and pleasanter for her mother and her young sister. to get her mother out of stuffy town lodgings to a seaside cottage, which was an unattainable heaven to the mother's thoughts, to educate edie and give her a chance in life--these were the things that filled jessie's mind to the exclusion of fear whenever she thought of her ordeal at the conferring of the university degrees. to be sure, she trembled a little when she thought of the long, brilliantly lighted hall, and all the fine ladies, and the scarlet robes of the senators, and the young barbarians in the gallery, and all the thousands of eyes fixed on the one little dumpling of a woman going up to receive her degree. if she might only win the fellowship! she would not care what ordeal she passed through for that. so she put away the fear from her mind. if she could only win the fellowship! but she was too humble about her own attainments to have more than a little, little hope of that. how generous they all were, mary thought, with an impulse of gratitude towards those dear class-fellows that brought the tears to her eyes. "when we are photographed in our caps and gowns," said another, "you must stand up in the middle of us, mary, so that they will see how tall you are." mary reported their generosity to lady anne, with whom, by this time, she was on the loving terms that cast out fear. "very creditable to them," the old lady said, twinkling. "don't let it make you vain, mary. you're well enough, but you aren't half as pretty as a rose, or half as tall as a tree, and there are thousands of trees and roses in the world." "i don't think myself pretty," mary said, in a hurt voice. "there are several of the girls far prettier. as for being tall, it is no pleasure. i would much rather be little." "your skirts will always cost you more than other girls'." "it is only because they are so kind and generous that they think well of me," mary went on. "and, oh! i do hope that jessie will win the fellowship. everyone does, even----" "even her opponents," the old lady said, drily. it was always lady anne's way to seem cynical over things, even with those she loved best. "she has worked so hard for it," said mary, "and alice egerton, who is in the running, too, has shaken hands with jessie, and told her that if she wins it will only prove she is the better man." "dear me, we are cultivating the manly virtues, too," said lady anne. "let me see: there are twenty young ladies in your class, and not a spiteful one among them. i have never heard of so low a percentage." "if women were given something to think of besides petty interests," mary began hotly. "if they were educated, if they were given ideals----" "you are only on your trial yet, child," lady anne suggested. "we produced very good women before women's colleges were heard of. i'm glad they've not spoilt you, anyhow. no stooped shoulders, no narrow chest, no dimmed eyes. i couldn't have forgiven them if they had made you pay a price for your learning." when mary received her b.a. degree she was applauded more rapturously from the gallery than even the new fellow, miss jessica baynes, b.a., who knew little enough about her own reception, since, as she left the daã¯s, she had glanced up and made out her mother's little nutcracker face, so like her own, in one of the circles of faces overhead. there was a little group in the balcony watching mary with fond pride. lady anne hamilton's face shone again as the tall, slender young figure went up amid the furious applause of the undergraduates, through which the general clapping of hands could hardly be heard. behind lady anne were mary's father and stepmother. lady anne had taken care that they should not be forgotten in the distribution of tickets. walter gray looked on quietly. he was very proud of his girl; but he had, perhaps, too great a wisdom to set much store by the plaudits of the many. mrs. gray, in a bonnet mary had made for her and a mantle which had been mary's gift, was in a timid rapture. she was older by some years than she had been when mary went to lady anne first, but she was far more comely. her family seemed to have reached its limits, for one thing, and she was no more the helpless drudge she had been. several of the children were at school, and that wonderfully elastic salary of mary's had done miraculous things in the way of bringing comfort and even refinement to walter gray's home. "well," said lady anne, turning round, and touching walter gray's arm, "i have not made too bad a fairy godmother, have i, now?" "she would never have grown so tall," walter gray said, with absent eyes. he had yielded up mary for her good, but he had never ceased to miss her. one person who sat among the most distinguished group in the hall looked at mary with a lively interest. "what a charming girl!" she said to her host, a very great person. "i believe she has been adopted as a sort of companion by old lady anne hamilton, who is a cousin of my wife's," he responded. "the girl has been educated at her expense. yes, it's a pretty thing. i only hope it won't become a blue-stocking." "i must positively know her," said the lady. "she interests me." "you make me jealous," returned the great person, with playful gallantry. lady agatha had been a peeress in her own right since she had attained the tender age of two years. her father and mother had died too early for her to miss them, and she had shown from her childhood a capacity to think for herself, which nurses and governesses and all such persons looked on as absolutely shocking. she had had a guardian, a soft, woolly, comfortable gentleman whose will she had brushed aside and replaced by her own from the time she was eight years old. legally, she was not of age till twenty-one; in reality, she was of age at fifteen or thereabouts. she consulted colonel st. john, her guardian, about her affairs, as an act of grace, because she was so fond of him and wouldn't hurt his feelings for anything; but she made no secret of the fact that at twenty-one she was going to be absolutely her own mistress. "you are your own mistress now," colonel st. john said once, a little ruefully. "you never do what i wish--you make me do what _you_ wish. don't go too fast, agatha, my dear. at twenty-one one is not wiser than old people, though one may feel so." but he knew that he was talking to empty air. she was so eager to lay hold on life. and she was equipped for it--there was no doubt of that. mr. grainger, of grainger, ellison and wells, who had had charge of the business of the estate from time immemorial, whose trade it was to be cautious, was cheerful over the colonel's misgivings. "you wouldn't feel anxious if she was a lad," he said. "i'd set her against nine hundred and ninety lads out of a thousand for sound common-sense. she won't do anything foolish. take my word for it, she won't do anything foolish." she did not do anything foolish. she took her own way about some things against colonel st. john, and even against mr. grainger, but she turned out to be right in the end. she had a good many people dependent in one way or another upon her for their well-being, and she insisted on coming face to face with these--on dealing with them without an intermediary. and she made no mistakes. she could see through shifty dishonesty as well as if she had had three times her years and a wide knowledge of the seamy side of human nature. she had always been an outdoor girl, and now she displayed a knowledgeable interest in her own home farm and in the affairs of her tenants. she used to say that the days were not long enough for all she had to do. certainly, she contrived to cram into them three times as much pleasure, business, and philanthropy as her neighbours. she had an idea of the obligations of her position as lady of the soil which made poor colonel st. john gasp when she talked about it. there was so much to be done for the people--churches to be built, or chapels, if they preferred them, and school-houses, industries to be fostered--so much encouragement to be given to honest endeavour. her idea was that the land should afford all the people wished for. she was going to stop the terrible drifting of the people into the towns. their lives were to be made gayer. there should be entertainments. the farmers' wives and daughters were to make butter and cheese like their forbears, to grow fruit and vegetables, to rear poultry and sell eggs; but they were not, therefore, to lead a life of narrow toil. they were to be rewarded for their skill and industry. the fruit of their labours was to make life sweeter and pleasanter for them. there were to be libraries and reading-rooms, debating clubs, social gatherings. "stuff and nonsense!" colonel st. john said, with his cotton-wool eyebrows puffed out. "she'll dip the estate, and then she'll be coming to ask us to pull her out. worse, she'll only make them discontented." "she'll come out all right," mr. grainger said, rubbing his hands softly together. "if she blunders, she'll learn wisdom from the experiment. you'll see she'll come out all right, colonel. the only thing that troubles me is that she may have no time to get married. we don't want her to be a spinster, hey? i confess i should like to see the succession assured." it was this notable young lady who came in not so long after to queen's college, where a distinguished woman of letters was giving a series of lectures on "the poetry of the sixteenth century." her entrance created somewhat of a flutter. she was as tall as mary gray, but much more opulently built. she had short, curling, dark hair, irregular features, and violet eyes--not a bit handsome, but big and bonny and lovesome. her dress fluttered even these students. it was of purple velvet, with a great stole of sables, and her sable muff had a big bunch of real violets, which brought an odour of the quickening and burgeoning earth. she sat by the lady principal, and afterwards had tea with the students. she asked especially for an introduction to mary gray, and then she insisted on driving her as far as the mall in her motor-car, which she drove herself, while the chauffeur sat with folded arms behind. on the way she talked poetry and politics with the same fervour she brought to all her pursuits. "it has been borne in on me," she said vehemently, "that in working among my own people as i have been doing i have been only tinkering at things, just tinkering. one has to go to the root of the matter, to abolish unjust laws, to replace them by good ones. supposing i made my estate, as i hope to make it, a utopia, still there would be hundreds of estates where the people would be in misery. it ought not to be left to our good will to do things. we should be compelled to do them." mary watched the flashing eyes with the greatest admiration. she felt that lady agatha was a glorious creature, for whom she could do anything. the hero-worship which is latent in the heart of all young people worth their salt sprang into sudden life. lady agatha glanced at her, noticed her expression, and smiled a rich, sweet, gratified smile. she had made a disciple. to make a disciple was very pleasant to one of her temperament. like most women, she was a thorough propagandist. as she swept up to the gate of lady anne's house, the old lady herself was standing just within it. she had come in from driving her little pony phaeton, which she liked to drive herself. she had a little wild, bright-eyed mountain pony, which would eat sugar and apples from her hands, and was as much of a pet as a dog. "well, mary," she said, "introduce me. how do you do, lady agatha? i know you by sight already. won't you come inside and have some tea? i'm very glad my chloe didn't meet that uncanny monster of yours. i have something to do to get her past the trams, i can tell you, much less the motorcars." "you shouldn't go out alone," mary said, with tender concern. "her little pony is very wild, lady agatha, and she won't take the carriage, unless she goes visiting." "you want to make me out an old woman," lady anne said, "and i shall never be that. come along in, lady agatha. i've been hearing about you. what do you mean by making my tenants discontented? they're very well as they are. we shall have to form a league against you, we indolent ones." her ladyship had a way of winning her welcome wherever she went. lady anne had begun, like a good many other people, with a certain distrust of the brilliant young woman who desired to conquer so many kingdoms. in the end she yielded unreservedly. "a fine, big-hearted, generous creature," she said. "it makes me young to look at her and hear her talk. and so she has taken a huge fancy to my mary. very well, then, she can come and go; but she's not to have my mary for all that, for i want her for myself." "no one really wants me," said mary, with suddenly dimmed eyes, "except you and papa. but if they did they couldn't have me. i belong to you and papa." chapter ix the race with death it might have been considered great promotion for the daughter of walter gray, who attended all day to the ailments of watches with a magnifying glass stuck in his eye, to be the friend of lady agatha chenevix as well as the adopted child almost of lady anne hamilton. indeed, in the early days, when lady agatha's friendship for mary brought her into the finest society the country provided, lady anne sometimes watched mary narrowly, to see how she was taking it. the result of these observations must have been quite satisfactory to the old lady, judging by the energetic shaking of her head after one or two of these occasions when she was alone and thought over things. once she spoke her thoughts to lady agatha, to whom, indeed, she found herself often talking in a way that surprised herself. there was something about the minx that forced even a suspicious and reticent old lady into trust and confidence, and as her trust and confidence increased so did her affection for the brilliant young peeress. "people said i was mad," she remarked, "when i took mary gray into my house, and into my heart. matilda drummond even said--and i have never forgotten it to her--that if she was my nephew, jarvis, she'd have my condition of mind inquired into. yet see how it has turned out! is she spoilt? is she an upstart? is she set above her family? she's over there this minute with that poor little drab stepmother of hers. she worships her father. the joys and sorrows of the poor little household are as much to her to-day as the day she left them." "i know," said lady agatha. "she's pure gold. i saw it in her face the first day i laid eyes on her. the only quarrel i have with her is that so many people push me out with her. i don't mean you, of course, lady anne. but yesterday i could not have her because she must go to your doctor's wife, and to-day she was going for a long walk with that little miss baynes. to-morrow it will be her father. it is his free afternoon." "i heard an amusing thing about the father the other day," said lady anne. "of course, mary knows nothing about it. i called at gordon's--that is where mr. gray is employed--about a new catch for my amethyst bracelet. i have known mr. gordon for years. he is a thoroughly respectable man. it seems there is a very ill-conditioned person who works in the same room as mr. gray--a good workman, but most ill-conditioned. when he is especially bad-tempered he vents his anger on his quiet room-fellow, who never seems to hear him but works away as though he were a thousand miles distant from the grumbling and scolding. well, it seems that the other day, despairing, perhaps, of rousing mr. gray by any other methods, he made a reference to mary as having got into fine society and looking down on her father. it's a little place, after all, my dear, and you and your motor-car are known as well as the town hall. mr. gray got up very quietly and threw the man downstairs; then went back to his work without a word. gordon saw it in quite the right way. he said that the person thoroughly well deserved it, but that the next time he mightn't get off with a few bruises, and that would be awkward for mr. gray. so he has given him another room." "ah, bravo!" lady agatha clapped her hands together. "that's where mary gets it. i've seen the light of battle in her eye--haven't you?" "sometimes--when she has heard of cruelty and injustice." now that mary's schooling was over, she was to see the world under lady anne's auspices. they were to go abroad soon after christmas, to be in rome for easter, to dawdle about the continent where they would and for as long as they would. everything was planned and mapped out. mary had her neat travelling-dress of grey cloth, tailor-made, her close-fitting toque, her veil and gloves, all her equipment, lying ready to put on. her old friend, simmons, had packed her travelling trunk. it had come to almost the last day. and, to be sure, mary must be much with her father and the others during those last hours. she had gone with her father for a long country walk. "i wish you were coming, too," said mary, clinging closely to his arm. "you will be bringing me back fine stories," her father said, patting her hand. "i shall be seeing the world through your eyes, child." "i shall write to you every day." "i shan't expect that, mary. you will be moving from place to place. i know you will write when you can, and i am always sure of your love." while they talked lady anne was receiving dr. carruthers professionally. she had had symptoms, weaknesses, pangs, of which she had told nobody. "i was inclined to go without telling you anything about it, doctor," she said. "i was as keen upon it as the child. i am more disappointed than she will be. i have been wilful all my life, but i am glad i did not take my own way this time. it would have been a nice thing for poor mary if i had been taken ill in some of those foreign places." "you will be much better in your own comfortable home." dr. carruthers spoke cheerfully, but he could not keep the anxiety out of his face. "you must have suffered a deal lately," he said pityingly. he had not forgotten what lady anne had done for him and his mildred. she had been their faithful and kind friend from that propitious day when he had picked mary gray from under the feet of the tram-horses. his position was now an assured one, and he and his wife had a tender affection for their benefactress. "i'm an obstinate old woman," said lady anne, with very bright eyes. the doctor's visit had been an ordeal to her. "i have had the pain off and on for the last few months, but i assured myself that it was merely indigestion, which mimics so many things. i am glad my common-sense came to the rescue at last. do you think i shall go off suddenly, or shall i have to lie, panting, like those poor creatures i've seen at the hospital, labouring for breath? i shouldn't like that." the doctor shook his head. how was he to know when the worn-out heart would cease to perform its functions, and after what manner? "we must hope that you will not suffer," he said gently. "i will do my best to save you that." "and i've plenty of spirit for whatever the good god sends," lady anne said, her face lighting up. "i've always had great spirit. they said i pulled through my childish illnesses twice as well because of my spirit. i remember my dear mother telling me that when i had croup at two years old i mimicked the cows and sheep and cats and dogs between the paroxysms. i was just the same later on. i ought to have married a soldier. my poor husband was a man of peace. he couldn't bear a loud voice. have a glass of wine before you go, doctor. i've just had a bottle of comet port opened. try it. there's very little like it left in the world." after dr. carruthers had taken his departure she went to her desk and set about writing a letter. but she paused after she had written a few lines, looked at the clock, and sat for a minute thinking. "no," she said aloud. "i won't wait till to-morrow. mary shan't take the chances. who knows if i shall be here to-morrow? if i drive out to marleigh i shall just catch buckton. he will be pottering round that orchid-house of his. he will just be home from the office. he can make me a new will there as well as here. indeed, i ought not to have postponed it for so long." she ordered her little pony phaeton. it was nearly five o'clock. there would be plenty of time to drive to marleigh abbey, where her lawyer lived, to interview him, and get back again before it was dark. she would make mary's interests safe. she had come to care for the child more than she had ever expected to care. she was going to make a provision for her, so that she should be secure against the chances and changes of this life. nothing very startling, nothing that need make jarvis grumble to any great extent; just a modest provision which would not keep mary from making use of the talents with which god had endowed her and the education her fairy godmother had given her. it was not long before she had left the town behind, and was driving along the winding road that ran by the foot of the mountains. the road was very lonely. chloe was rather nervous, not to say hysterical, on this particular afternoon. her mistress had not considered her as was her wont. she had taken the shortest road, forcing her to meet a black monster of a steam-tram which she had sometimes seen at a distance, a thing which was her special abomination. chloe had made a bolt for it, and had passed the tram safely and got away on to the back road. she had been accustomed, when she had made her small runaways before, to be petted and soothed afterwards. indeed, as soon as her terror had calmed a little, and she was on the road she knew to be harmless, she slackened down, expecting to hear her mistress's voice of tender scolding, to have her mistress alight and stroke her with soft words. instead of that she was touched up pretty sharply. "get me there, my girl," said lady anne. "get me there quickly. you can take your time going home, and we'll go the lower road. i feel as though death and i were running a race. i could never forgive myself if i died before i'd provided for mary." the pony gave her head a shake as though in answer to her mistress's words, pricked up her ears and set off at a sharp canter. suddenly something happened. lady anne had at first no realisation of what it was. jennings, the coachman, said afterwards that it must have been the work of one of the mischievous lads whom he had driven with his whip from staring in at his stable door. what happened was that the pony's bridle, which had been snipped with a knife, had come apart, fallen about her neck and then under her feet. she was off like the wind. as for poor lady anne, suddenly rendered helpless, she caught at the side of the little carriage, which was being dragged violently at the pony's heels. she had need of all her spirit. fortunately, the road was a straight one, but there was not a soul in sight to help her, not a sower in the fields, not a ploughman, not even a boy herding cattle along the road. her right hand still grasped the useless rein. she stared before her, while the rocking of the little carriage grew more and more violent, and the hedges and trees flew past them. how long would it be before the terrified pony shook herself free of the carriage altogether, or upset it on one of those mud-banks? the old spirit kept wonderfully calm and collected. there was just one chance--that chloe might keep the middle of the road, and presently pull up of herself, being exhausted. if only the phaeton would not rock so much. it was swaying from side to side at a terrific rate. the few seconds of the runaway seemed ã¦ons of time to lady anne. she was holding on now to both sides of the carriage, but her arm was through the reins. thank heaven, the road seemed absolutely open and chloe must exhaust herself soon. then--her eyes were distended in her face. they had swung round a little incline, with a miraculous escape of running on a heap of shingle intended for mending the roads. just ahead of them were the lodge gates and lodge of a big house. the gates were open. out through them there toddled a small child about three years old. the child set out to cross the road. his attention was arrested by the noise of the runaway. he stood in the middle of the road staring. lady anne uttered a loud, sharp cry. the child moved a few steps, fell, and lay directly in the path of chloe's feet. a woman ran out of the lodge, screaming "patsy, patsy; where are you, patsy?" then she began to wring her hands and call on all the saints. the pony, however, had of herself come to a standstill. the child was under her feet, between her four little hoofs. she was shaking and sweating and looking down. as for the child, after a second or so he broke into a lusty roar. he was only frightened, not hurt, but it took a little time for the mother to find that out by reason of the mud on his face and the noise he was making. when she had reassured herself, she carried him inside and closed the door of the lodge upon him. then she returned to the pony-carriage. chloe was still standing there, in a piteous state of terror. someone was coming along the road--a policeman. someone else was running from the opposite direction. as for lady anne, the little figure had fallen forward. her forehead was down on the reins. her eyes were wide open, and had a mortal terror in their gaze. she would never set things right for mary in this world. she and death had run a race together, and she had been beaten. chapter x dispossessed lady anne's nephew and heir, lord iniscrone, showed no friendly face to mary. he came as soon as possible, and took possession of the premises. lady iniscrone was with him. she was a lady with a wide, flat, doughy face. her eyes were little and pale and cold. mary thought afterwards that if it had not been for lady iniscrone, lord iniscrone might have been kinder. she remembered that lady anne had detested lady iniscrone to the extent that she would never have her inside the house. she had an idea, which she could not put away, while she hated it, that lady iniscrone remembered that fact. she took possession of everything thoroughly, as though she revenged herself on the dead woman. in her cold speech she disparaged the things lady anne had held dear. their attitude towards mary was as though she were a servant no longer necessary. she was not to eat at their table; she was to eat in her own room or in the servants' hall. "is it miss gray, my lady?" saunders, the elderly parlourmaid, asked, aghast. "her ladyship thought the world of miss gray. she might have been her own child. and i will say, though we didn't hold with it at first, yet----" lady iniscrone closed the discussion haughtily. "miss gray will have her meals in the servants' hall, or in her own room if she prefers it, till after the funeral. we shall make other arrangements then, of course." saunders flounced out of the room. although she was elderly and had lived in lady anne hamilton's house since she was fourteen, when she had come as a between-maid, she had not forgotten how to flounce. "mark my words," she said in the kitchen, "she'll make a clean sweep of us, same as miss mary, as soon as ever the funeral is over. supposing as how _we_ gives the notice!" and they did, to lady iniscrone's discomfiture, for she had intended to stay on at the mall and to keep the staff as it stood till she had supplied its place. however, she showed her dismay only by her bad temper. "i suppose you've all pretty well feathered your nests," she said acridly, "and can afford to retire." nor was her bitterness lessened by the fact that lady anne had left handsome legacies to each of the servants, annuities to the elder ones, sums of money to the younger. but the will, dated some years back, made no mention at all of mary gray. "it seems clear to me," said mr. buckton, talking the matter over with lord iniscrone, her ladyship being present, "that lady anne intended to make some provision for her _protã©gã©e_. in fact, the letter which she had begun writing to me, which was found in her blotter after her death, plainly indicates that. she was, apparently, on her way to my house when the lamentable accident happened. dr. carruthers had seen her that afternoon, and had told her that her heart was in a bad way. i believe she grew alarmed about the unprovided state in which she would leave miss gray if she had a sudden seizure, and hurried off to me. in the circumstances----" "of course, we could not think of doing anything more for miss gray," lady iniscrone put in, anticipating her lord. "she has already been dealt with very handsomely out of the estate. she has had a most unsuitable education for a person in her rank of life. she has lived like a lady; been clothed like one. when i saw her she was wearing ornaments--a brooch of amethysts, with pearls around it, i remember, which, i am sure, ought to belong to the estate. i can't see that lord iniscrone is called upon to do anything more for the young person. what with those absurd legacies to the servants and the way lady anne lived--a big house and a staff of servants and carriages and horses for one old lady!--the estate has been impoverished." "lady anne had a great sense of her own dignity," the lawyer put in. "and this house had been her home for more than fifty years." "everything needs replacing," lady iniscrone grumbled, with a disparaging look around. "those curtains and carpets----" "your lordship will, i am sure, feel that, in making some little provision for miss gray, you will be doing what lady anne wished and intended to do," mr. buckton said earnestly, turning from the lady to her husband. lord iniscrone's eyes fluttered nervously. he was not a bad little man at heart, but he was entirely ruled by his wife. "i don't think the estate will bear it, mr. buckton," he said in a peevish voice. "it is heavily burdened as it is. if a five-pound note would be of any use----" "i can't see that we are called upon to do anything, jarvis," his wife put in again. "in fact, mr. buckton, you may take it that we do not intend to do anything more for miss gray." "very well, lady iniscrone." mr. buckton turned away and busied himself with his papers. he could not trust himself at the moment to speak lest he should forget his professional discretion. but mary had not waited for the result of his intercession on her behalf, of which, indeed, she knew nothing. mary, who was sensitive to every breath of praise and blame, had fled out of the dear house, the atmosphere of which had become suddenly unfriendly. a good many friends would have been glad to have had her. lady agatha chenevix was away, else she would have been by her friend's side to take her part with passionate generosity and indignation. she was away, but jessie baynes's little house on the edge of the sea, a bare little homely place, full of sunlight and the sea-wind, had its doors open to her. one could not imagine a better place for a sad and sorrowful heart than jessie's little spare room, with its balcony opening like the deck of a ship on to the blue floor of the sea. mildred carruthers had come at once, in the first hour of the girl's grief, to carry her off to the big house, which was now amply justified by the size of the doctor's practice. only, where would mary go to but home? in all those years in the great house on the mall she had never come to find wistaria terrace too little and lowly for her. indeed, there was a wonderful wholesomeness and sweetness to her mind about the little house. the transfiguring mists of her love lay rosily over even the drudgery of her childish days. to be sure, there had been hard work and short commons. she had been insufficiently clad in winter, too heavily clad in summer. her people had gone without fires and many other things which some would have considered essential. but there had always been love. looking back on those days, mary saw with the eyes of the spirit which miss out immaterial material things. she fled back home. she took nothing with her but what she stood up in. only her friend, simmons, while lady iniscrone was absent from the house, packed up all mary's belongings, and conveyed them, with the assistance of the coachman, across the lane to wistaria terrace. the servants had made up their minds that mary was not coming back. lady iniscrone had hoped, in conversation with lord iniscrone, that mary would not give them any trouble. never was anyone less inclined to give trouble than mary. not for worlds would she have gone back to the house where the new cold rule was, to meet lady iniscrone's unfriendly eyes. only while the body of her benefactress was yet above ground she had stolen across at quiet hours, in the absence of the enemy, to look for the last time on the quiet face. she had carried away little fifine. fifine was seventeen years old now, and shook incessantly and moaned in a lost way in her darkness. but she knew mary's voice. mary was the one that could comfort her. at wistaria terrace they went to the unheard-of extravagance of having a fire in mary's room, day after day, so that fifine might lie before it in a basket, and feel the warmth in her little bones, and hear mary's voice. the day of the funeral came. mary stood by the graveside quietly, with a veil down over her face. walter gray was by her side. she had come in the doctor's carriage, and she had no leisure or thought for the insolence with which lady iniscrone stared at her, as though her presence there required explanation. she was going to work, to begin at once. her dear, kind old friend, who had meant to do so well by her, had at least equipped her for earning her own bread. the lady principal of queen's college had found her work--temporary work, to be sure, but something to go on with till she could look about her. the lady principal and dr. carruthers were against her making any definite plans till lady agatha chenevix should return--she was in america, arranging for a display of her industries at a forthcoming exhibition. they had an idea that lady agatha would expect to be consulted in any plan that affected her friend's future. returning home after the funeral mary found that all her attention would be required for a short time for fifine. the little dog had had a fit or something of the kind, and had rallied wonderfully, considering her great age. she had missed her one friend during that hour of absence. dr. carruthers came in and looked at the dog, stooping to examine it with as much tender care as though it had been human and a paying patient. "keep her warm," he said. "there isn't much else possible. there is nothing the matter, only old age. she seems to know you, mary. she is positively wagging her tail." "she is miserable without me," mary said, wondering what she was to do about fifine when she took up that temporary work which the lady principal of queen's college had found for her. meanwhile she devoted herself to the little creature. but about three days after lady anne's funeral fifine solved all difficulties concerning her by dying quietly in the night. mary slipped in stealthily to the garden of the old house when the new owners were not likely to be about, and placed the little rigid body in the grave jennings had dug for it, lined with a few flowers that had come up in the beds, snowdrops and wallflowers and little pale mauve double primroses. she wept a few bitter tears above the grave. the death of the little dog was like her last link with her dear old friend. the day had the bright, clear, strong sunshine of march. there were yet drifts of snow in the valleys among the hills, but spring was coming, and the bare boughs would soon be thick with the buds of leafage. she took one look at the sunny, green place and the old house which had harboured her so kindly. then she went away with a drooping head. that very afternoon lady agatha came. she rushed in on mary like the march wind, big and beautiful, in her long cloak of orange-tawny velvet, breathing fire and fury over the unkindness to mary. she had interviewed lady iniscrone, and had gathered from her what had been happening. "in one way i am selfishly glad, mary, because you will belong so much more to me. i am going to take possession of you. for the first time for many years chenevix house is to be opened this season. i am going to be among the political hostesses. i shall do all sorts of things. i have found a dear old lady to live with us, my father's twenty-second cousin, mrs. morres. she will make it possible for me to do the things i want without running tilt against all the windmills of prejudice. i shall respect your mourning. you will have your own room to which you can retire. chenevix house looks over a quiet, green square. you shall see the spring come even there. afterwards, when the season is at an end, we shall bury ourselves in the green country." she paused for breath, and mary smiled at her. she was so big and bonny and generous it was impossible not to smile at her. "where do i come in?" she asked. "i want to earn my bread." "and so you shall. you shall earn it hard. you are to be my secretary, mary. i am going to be a leading radical lady. they want hostesses. there are things a woman can do for a cause much better than a man. i consider my wealth, at least, my comparative wealth, my rank and youth and energy and brains, and my splendid health, as so many weapons given to me by god so that i may help the right." "you forget your charm," mary reminded her. "it is the most potent of all." lady agatha suddenly blushed. it was the first time mary had seen her blush. "charm--oh, come, mary! why not beauty if you are inclined to flatter?" "yes, indeed; why not beauty?" mary repeated, looking at her with loving eyes of admiration. "a big, black, bounding beggar!" lady agatha quoted against herself merrily. but mary was not inclined to make any further excursions from home. the soul in her was chilled by her recent experiences. in her hurt and unhappy state the little house at wistaria terrace seemed most desirable. it gave her satisfaction to note the discomforting things about her--the bare floor, the windows that shook and rattled, the ill-fitting doors, the ugliness of the painted dressing-table from which the paint had long departed, the chipped jug and basin that did not match each other. she liked it all, even the carelessness about meals, for there was love with it. her younger sisters growing up had a kind of worship for mary. they served her out of pure love. she was not allowed to do anything for herself. yes, for the present, at least, home was best. she could go out and earn money and bring it home to them. she would stay henceforth in the world into which she had been born. she would make no more excursions. however, these thoughts of hers were rendered vain by the fact that walter gray positively took lady agatha's part against her. there was no room for mary in the cramped life of wistaria terrace. she had brains and beauty and sympathy. the opportunity to make use of these gifts was given her. she must not reject it. the thing was put on a business basis. mary was to be lady agatha's secretary, with a handsome salary. "i shall work you till you cry out," her ladyship promised, and it seemed like enough to be true. she was talking already of writing a novel when they should retire to the country. her energy overflowed. she was perpetually seeking new outlets for it. her secretary was not likely to enjoy a sinecure. "no one but you could have sent me from you again," mary said to her father, in tender reproach. "it is for your good, moll. you have outgrown wistaria terrace. we could not long have contented you." but mary shook her head. she thought she would have been very well content at home. she could have got plenty of teaching to do. she thought of the little house as of a resting place from which she was to be debarred. but she would not dispute her father's will for her. he rallied her, saying that if they kept her her head and shoulders would presently be pushing themselves above the slates. "it was big enough for you," she said indignantly, "and your mind rises to greater heights than mine ever will. you cramped yourself into it, if it were a question of cramping. why should not i?" "sometimes it was not big enough, moll," he answered. "sometimes it was sore cramping, and at other times it was big enough to contain the heaven and all the stars. perhaps the ambition i flung away for myself i keep for you. i would not have you at microscopic work all your days." so it was settled. for a little while longer mary stayed on at home. then, when the leaves were just opening out in pale green silk, and all the world was fragrant and full of the joy of birds, she went, unwillingly, and turning back many times to make her sorrowful farewells. "i don't want you to stay till you begin to feel cramped," walter gray had said. "i had rather you went away with your illusions." she did carry away her illusions. it was a happy and blessed thing for her that she could make illusions about common things all the days she was to live. yet somewhere, in her hidden heart, she knew her father was right. chapter xi the lion mary was established, high up in chenevix house. she was amazed at the spaciousness of the rooms, the feeling in them as though the streets were far away. the square was a wonder of waving and tossing green, across which mary looked from her window and saw other stately old houses like the one she was in. at first she was never tired of admiring the miracle of spring in london. she realised that no country greenness is equal to the glory of the new leaf against the dingy house-fronts, the green freshness about the black stems and boughs and branches. lady agatha was in a perpetual whirl of affairs and gaiety. all her days, and her nights into the small hours, seemed to be filled. at this time mary had a great deal of her time to herself. in the morning she wrote her ladyship's letters, and selected from the newspapers such things as her ladyship ought to read. by-and-by she would be much busier. she was taking lessons in short-hand and type-writing in the afternoons. her ladyship would come in only in time to dress for dinner. she had been driving in the park, she had been calling, she had been at a concert, or a matinã©e, or an "at home." she had been attending this or that meeting. she was never in bed before the summer dawn, yet she would be at the breakfast-table as fresh as a milkmaid, smiling at mary and telling her this and that bit of news or event of the time since they had met. mrs. morres, who had to accompany her to many places, slept every hour of the day she could. she confessed to mary in her dry way, that did not ask for pity, that she found her ladyship's energy superhuman. sometimes there was an interesting debate in the house of commons, and lady agatha must drop in after dinner to sit for an hour behind the gilded grille. afterwards she would go on to a political reception. later to a ball, where she would dance as though there had been nothing in all the long day to tire her. once or twice she had a quiet dinner-party, to which mary came down in her frock of filmy black, which made a delightful setting for her fair paleness. at these dinners she encountered famous men and women, and looked at them from afar off with wistful interest. in the drawing-room afterwards she saw lady agatha the centre of a brilliant group. someone said of her that she was likely to be the spoilt child of politics, since she could be audacious with even the greatest, and move them to speak when no one else could. the great men shook their heads at her and smiled. they warned her that she went too fast for them, that impulsiveness, charming as it was in a woman, was not to be permitted in politics. "if you would but learn diplomacy, my dear lady!" sir michael auberon sighed. but diplomacy seemed likely to be the last thing lady agatha chenevix would learn. mary used to sit under mrs. morres's wing, and listen, through her witty and wise talk, to the utterances of the great. she felt very shy of these companies of distinguished men and women. lady agatha made one or two attempts to draw her closer. then, perceiving that she was happier in her corner, she let her be. in her corner mary listened. she listened with all her ears. her cheeks would flush and her eyes shine as she listened. there was a younger school of politicians which was well represented at lady agatha's parties. their theories had the generosity of youth. sir michael auberon would listen to them, nodding his head, his fine, beautiful old face lit up with as great a generosity as warmed theirs. he was very fond of his "boys." if he must show them what was impracticable in their views he did it gently. he rallied them with tenderness. he had none of the mockery which is so searing and blighting a thing to hot youth. one night mary, looking down the dinner-table, saw a face she remembered. the owner of the face--a tall, loosely-built, plain-looking young man--glanced her way at the moment, and stared--stared and looked away again with a baffled air. mary knew him at once for the boy she had met seven or eight years before at the court. he had aged considerably. men like him have a way of falling into their manhood all at once. his hair was even a little thin on top--with that and his lean, hatchet face he might have been thirty-five. afterwards in the drawing-room he was one of those who stood nearest to sir michael. some of the others laughed at him, calling him don quixote, and she heard sir michael say that the young man's theories were those of the gironde. "the revolution devours her own children," he said, with his fine old ironic smile. "and a good many of us have to eat our own professions before we're forty. the great thing would be if we could keep our youthful generosity with the wisdom of our prime." looking towards mary, he caught the flame of enthusiasm in her eyes, and again he smiled. but this time it was a smile without irony, rather an understanding and, one might have said, a grateful smile. all the world knew that sir michael's private sorrows were heavy ones, and that he leant the more on the alleviations and consolations his public life brought him. afterwards he asked to be introduced to mary and talked with her for a little while, making her the envy of the room. "she has a clear mind as well as a sound heart," he said. "she is on fire with the passion for humanity. take her about with you"--this to lady agatha. "let her see how the people live--what serfs we have under our free banner. there is fine material in her. she should do good work." meanwhile mrs. morres sat by mary, doing crochet, with a quiet smile. her tongue dripped cold water on all the enthusiasms. "believe me, my dear, they will do nothing," she said placidly in mary's ear. that placidity of hers gave her the air of being as relentless as a fate. "parties are tweedledum and tweedledee. let sir michael get into office and he'll do nothing. those fine young gentlemen over there will be the office-holders of twenty years to come, the fat sinecurists and pluralists. the people were better off when, like the lower animals, they had no souls. they were protected by their betters. now they are at war with them and they are more soulless than before. dear me, how much fine talk i have heard that never came to anything!" she would go on till the company had departed, and lady agatha would come to her side, laughing, and ask her what horrible feudal theories she had been propounding. the two differed on every point but one, and that was in the mere matter of loving each other. lady agatha delighted in her cousin's conservatism; and always said she would not have it otherwise if she could. it was a _sauce piquante_ to the dish of their daily lives. "you shan't lead mary astray," she would say with pretended indignation. "if she knew the things sir michael has been saying about her!" "my dear agatha, don't _you_ go leading her astray. politics are no _mã©tier_ for a woman, or they should be subservient to something else. go marry, agatha, and bring children into the world, and when you have reared them you can set up a political salon and theorise about the regeneration of humanity. let miss gray do likewise. you play with these things when you are young--later on you will find them dry bones." "dear me!" lady agatha said, with admiration. "what a pity she isn't with us, mary! what a pity she is only a destructive critic! don't listen to her, child!" that first evening of their meeting sir robin drummond had come to mary's side and turned the page of her music while she sang. she had a fresh and sweet voice, although of no great range or compass, and she could sing, without music, song after song of the old english masters, of arne and purcell and bishop, and their delightful school. "she brings strawberries and cream to town," said someone who was not particularly imaginative. mary was conscious of the young man's scrutiny as he turned her pages, and it embarrassed her, but she made no sign. afterwards she met sir robin many times. he was at this time the adopted candidate for an east-end constituency, and was becoming well known as an advanced politician. he went further than his party, indeed, and somewhat offended even his particular _clientã¨le_ by the breadth of his views. he and lady agatha were at this time engaged in the work of organising labour, especially amongst the girls and women of the worst-paid and most dangerous trades. it brought them often together amid forlorn habitations and hopeless humanity. one of the difficulties was the question of whether the alien women should be brought in. "they will join the union and they will go on underselling all the same," said someone. but sir robin was of those who held that the alien should have equal rights with her english sister, and that it was possible to teach her to stand on her feet like one of the free-born. he was not chary of his denunciations of certain methods among the trade unions and the trade unionists, and therefore a crowd sometimes howled him down. but there was always a minority at least to stand by him, and the minority included the industrious and sober, the honest and thinking, among those he desired to help. by-and-by he fell into a quiet friendliness with mary gray. he used to take charge of the ladies when they went into the east end. lady agatha used to say that he was a drag on the wheel, because he would not let her do imprudent things, because he would veto it when a question of their going into dangerous streets or houses or rooms, because he insisted on their leaving by a side door a meeting which was becoming turbulent, because he was always forbidding some extravagance or other of her ladyship's. "there is one thing about that young man," said mrs. morres, who was chary of praise of her ladyship's party: "he has excellent common-sense, and i thank heaven for it." "ah, yes; he has excellent common-sense," lady agatha echoed, with a ruefulness which made mary laugh suddenly. "you ought to marry him, my dear," mrs. morres went on, looping another stitch of the endless crochet. "marry bob drummond!" lady agatha repeated. "marry bob drummond! why, it is the last thing in the world i should dream of doing." one evening, just at the end of the season, someone brought the latest lion to a small reception at lady agatha chenevix's. he was a very modest and retiring lion, a quiet, very bronzed young man, who wore his arm in a sling. he had had his shoulder torn in an encounter with an african leopard. he had fought almost hand to hand with the beast over the body of a kaffir servant, and had rescued the man at the cost of his own life, it seemed at first, later on of his right arm. it was doubtful whether the strength and vitality of it would ever be restored. he was not merely a brave man, however, this mr. jardine. he had gone to the gold coast, and from there into central africa, inspired, in the first place, by the desire of knowledge and love of adventure. but, amid the thrilling adventures and hairbreadth escapes, there had grown up in his heart the liveliest interest in and sympathy with the people he found himself amongst. he discovered that they had an ancient civilisation of their own. to be sure, what remained of it hung in shreds and patches on some of them; but there were others, civilised after a fashion, which was not the western one. he discovered traditions, folk-lore, ancient poetry, laws, a wealth of customs. understanding the people, he came to love them. they interested him profoundly. he was going back to them as soon as he could. he stayed after the other guests, and was yet talking eagerly to his hostess when the dressing-bell rang. "we dine alone," lady agatha said to the old friend who had brought mr. jardine. "and i go nowhere afterwards: i am fagged out. how glad i am that next week sees us at hazels! if you and mr. jardine could dine, colonel brind?" the old friend answered her wistful look. "our lodgings are not far off; we have only to jump into a hansom; we should be back before the dinner-bell rings. only--this fellow has a host of engagements." "ah!" lady agatha had hardly sighed when jardine woke up as if from a dream. "have i engagements?" he asked. "i do not remember any. anyhow, i am a convalescent, and the privileges of convalescence are mine. i vote for that hansom, brind." after dinner they sat around the fire and talked. although it was june, it had been a sunless day of arid east wind, and lady agatha, who always snatched at the least excuse for a fire because it was so beautiful, had ordered one to be lit. the three long windows were open beyond the red leather screen that made a cosy corner of the fireplace, and the scent of flowers came in from the balcony. paul jardine talked as much as they desired him to talk. he started on his hobby about those west african peoples, and rode it with spirit and energy. his friend laughed at him. "why, jardine," he said, "i can never again call you the lion that will not roar." "am i horribly loquacious?" the hero smiled, but was not more silent. he had great things to tell, and he told them well and modestly. lady agatha sat with her cheek shaded by a peacock-feather fan. there was a deep glow in her eyes. glancing across at her from the opposite corner, mary thought it must be the reflection of the firelight. she came to mary's room after the guests had departed, when mary was preparing for bed, and sat down in the chair by the open window. "what do you think of him, mary?" she asked. "of whom?" mary said sleepily. they had met a good many people during the day, so the question was a pardonable one. "of whom! why, of mr. jardine! who else could it be?" she lifted her arms about her head, and the loose white sleeves of her gown fell away from their roundness and softness. "what a man!" she said, with a long sigh. "what a man! that is life, if you like. how tame the others seem beside him!" "he roared very gently," said mary, "but it was very exciting." "yes, wasn't it? that sail in the canoe down the river, with the jungle on each side of them alive with wild beasts and venomous reptiles, to say nothing of cannibals, and deadly sicknesses worse than any of those. he said so little about the danger. one got an impression of the extraordinary languorous beauty of the tropical vegetation; one smelt it, that african night, with its enormous moon beyond the mists. there was death on every side of him, in every breath he drew. he found what he went for, the antidote to the bite of the death's-head spider. henceforth life in those latitudes will be robbed of one of its terrors. what a man!" "it is a pity that we could not have heard him at the royal society," mary said, with a little yawn--they had been keeping late hours. "if it had been a day or two earlier!" "but i am going," said lady agatha. "why, mary, it is only to alter our arrangements by a day. hazels--the dear place--will keep for a day longer." chapter xii her ladyship at hazels mary found her duties more onerous than they had been in town. it was delightful to see lady agatha among her own people. she had made life easier for them. mary marvelled at the prettiness of the red-brick farmhouses, with roses and honeysuckle to their eaves. she could never get over the feeling that it was only a picture. they would walk or drive to them, and the farmer's wife would come out and beg her ladyship to come in for a glass of cowslip wine; and she and mary would go in to a rather dark parlour--to be sure, the windows were smothered in jessamine and roses and honeysuckle--and sit down in chairs covered in flowery chintz, and sip the fragrant wine and eat the home-made cake, while the topics of interest between landlord and tenant were discussed. then the farmer would come in himself, hat in hand, and his eyes would light up at the sight of the visitor, and there would be more pleasant homely talk of cattle and crops, and the harvest and the plans for the autumn sowing, and the state of fairs and markets. there was nuthatch village, which seemed to have stepped out of morland's pictures. it was all so pretty and peaceful, with its red gabled cottages sending up their blue spirals of smoke into the overhanging boughs of great trees. mary cried out in delight at the quaint dormers, with their diamond panes, at the wooden fronts, at the gardens chockfull of the gayest and most old-fashioned flowers. "as for prettiness," said lady agatha, "it isn't a patch on highercombe, a mile away, and, what is more, i've done more than anyone else to spoil its prettiness. i've filled in the pond and driven the swan and the water-hen to other haunts. i've given them a new water-supply and done away with the most picturesque pump, which was sunk in 1770 by dame elizabeth chenevix. i've put new grates and new floors into the houses, and i've seen to it that all windows open and shut. the pity of it is that i can't compel them to make use of their privilege of opening. also, i've introduced cowls on the chimneys. my friend, lionel armytage, the painter, lifted his hands in horror at my doings. i'd have liked to get at the chimneys, but i'd have had to pull down every cottage in the place to rectify them. oh, i've spoilt nuthatch, there's not a doubt of it. you must see highercombe." "the children seem healthy," mary said thoughtfully, "and the old people walk straighter than one sees them often." "ah, yes, that is it." lady agatha's face flushed and lit up. "i've made it healthy for them. highercombe is a painted lie--a pest-house, a charnel-house, full of unwholesome miasmas from its pretty green, its pond covered with water-lilies. death lurks in that pond. there is bad drainage and bad water; the damp oozes through the old brick floors of the houses. the whole place is as deadly in its way as those west african jungles of which mr. jardine told us." they were to see mr. jardine later. at present he was on a round of visiting at the houses of the great. the names of the people who had elected to do honour to paul jardine would have been a list of pretty well the most illustrious persons in the kingdom. when lady agatha had suggested to him that he might give a week to hazels before the summer was done, he had been eager about it, had even suggested dropping some of his other engagements. but that she would not hear of. she seemed to take an odd pride and pleasure in the way he had conquered the world best worth conquering. "what!" she had said. "drop sir richard greville and lord overbury! not for worlds! you may find it dull. sir richard lives the life of a hermit, and you won't get anything fit to eat at lord overbury's. he never knows what he's eating, and his cook has long given up trying to do credit to herself. i believe that only for his dining-out he'd be starved. even as it is, he's been known to take mustard with his soup and red-currant jelly with his cheese. still--he's lord overbury!" they led a very quiet life at hazels, seeing hardly anyone. lady agatha had declared that she was going to make up for her rackety life in town, as well as to prepare for the winter. she had looked as fresh as a rose through all the racketing, and when she talked about the need for rest she had smiled. as a matter of fact, her energy was too overflowing to permit of her resting as other folk rested. a change of occupation was about as much as one could hope for. and now she was restless as she had not been before, for, energetic as she had always been, she had never driven others. indeed, many people had found absolute restfulness in her ladyship's big, wholesome presence. "the life in town has only stimulated me, mary," she confessed; "just stimulated me and excited my brain. i must work it off somehow. let us begin at the novel to-morrow." they began at the novel. lady agatha dictated it, and mary took it down in short-hand. they worked out of doors. mary had her seat under the boughs of a splendid chestnut tree on a little green lawn. the lawn was at the side of the house, not over-looked, enclosed on three sides by a splendid yew hedge. the dogs would lie at mary's feet. there were roy the st. bernard, and brian the bull-dog, a toy pomeranian, and a little chow. the dogs always stayed at hazels. "if i took them up to town," lady agatha said, "they would see more of me, to be sure, but then they would always be losing me, for, of course, i couldn't take them out in town. and they always know i'll come back--they're so wise. the parting is dreadful, but they know i'll come back." mary sometimes wondered how her ladyship had found time to think out her novel. for it seemed all ready and prepared in her mind. she would sweep up and down the grass while she dictated. mary used to say that it meant a ten-mile walk of a morning. the train of her white morning-dress lopped the daisies in their places; the incessant passage of her feet made a track in the grass. sometimes she would pass out of her secretary's hearing and have to be recalled by mary's laughing voice of remonstrance. "am i afflicting you, mary?" she asked on one of these occasions. "am i overwhelming you? it's a horrible flood, isn't it?" "you are very fluent," mary answered, looking down at the queer little dots and spirals on her paper. "i daresay we'll have to prune it before it's printed. but it is a good fluency, a rich fluency. to me it is irresistible--like a spring freshet, like the sap rushing madly through all the veins of spring." "ah, you feel it?--you feel it like that, mary? i feel it so myself; i riot in it." "it will have no sense of effort--it is vital. i hope we shall be able to keep it up." "why not, o cassandra?" she stood with one hand on the back of mary's chair, and looked up into the tree. "the book should have been written in spring," she went on. "i feel the spring in my blood. why should i, mary, now when it is full summer, and the trees are dark?" "i don't know, unless that you were so busy in spring that you had not time to enjoy it. come, let us get on; perhaps presently you will flag. we must get the book done before anyone comes to interrupt us." "never was there such a willing co-worker. you mustn't overdo it, mary. how many words did i dictate to you yesterday?" "six thousand." "and you gave them to me typewritten this morning." "i wanted to see how they looked in type. it is all right, agatha. even you cannot go on for long, dictating six thousand words a day. we must take the tide at the flow." "afterwards i shall do a play--after i have given you a rest." "more kingdoms to conquer," mary laughed. "there is only one person like you--the kaiser." "i have an immense admiration for him." mrs. morres meanwhile sat and smiled to herself. she had given up the crochet for point-lace, which, as it had more intricate stitches, necessitated the more care. sometimes she knitted and read with a book in her lap. but when she was not reading, she smiled quietly to herself. it was a curious smile, half-satisfied as one whose prognostications have come true, half-dissatisfied as though there was no great cause for congratulation. once mary was curious enough to ask her why she smiled. lady agatha at the piano was playing wagner like a professional musician. mrs. morres's smile grew more inscrutable. "it amuses me," she said, talking loudly, so that her words might reach mary through the storm of the music, "to find that agatha is just a woman, after all. it amuses me--and yet--it had been happier for you and me if she had contented herself with the unrealities of life a little longer." mary did not understand at the moment. she began to understand a little later when mr. jardine came. the novel, after all, had not been finished. for the last week or so before the visitor arrived her ladyship had apparently lost interest in it. "my brain has dried up, mary," she said. "i should only spoil it if i went on. put it away in a drawer, and when i feel like it we can go on again. you want a rest. i've over-tired you." "i felt i couldn't rest till it was done," mary said, with a little sigh. "i wanted to know what became of them all. and it is such an interesting point. tell me, does clotilde marry mark, after all?" "how should i know? i have nothing to do with what she does. clotilde knows her own mind. i do not. wait till we get back to it." "ah! you should finish it--you should finish it. you'll never get that young green world in it again. it was an inspiration. we should have held on to it like jacob to the angel's robe." but for the time lady agatha's literary energy was exhausted. "i daresay there's a deal of fustian in it. there's sure to be," she said. "i don't think anything could be really good that was produced with so little pain. i daresay i'll be for tearing it up, so you'd better lock it away. do you feel equal to walking ten miles? if not, get your bicycle and i'll walk beside you. i've been cramped up too long." this time it was a mood of physical restlessness. she walked and rode and went out golfing, and played tennis, and rowed on the river, and did a thousand things, while mrs. morres made her delicate wheels and trefoils, and smiled a more sibylline smile than ever. at last he came. when the sound of his footstep and of his voice reached them where they stood in the drawing-room awaiting him, her ladyship turned to mary, and her face was full of an immense relief. "i didn't really believe he'd come," she said. "i've been feeling quite sure that something would occur to prevent his coming." "the weeks have been endless," paul jardine said, coming in and taking her ladyship's two hands. "how could you put me off till september? i've had a heavy time. i don't like being made much of by other folk, so i am going out again after christmas." then, to be sure, mary knew. the pair leaped to each other as though they had been two halves of one whole separated long ago, and now drawn together in a magnetic rush. mary had always known that when lady agatha attracted she attracted irresistibly; there was no half-way, no haltings, no looking back possible. "we are out of it, mary, we two," mrs. morres said, and the smile had become a trifle weak and wavering. "what do you suppose is going to become of us? hazels is a pleasant place, and there has always been something of assurance and comfort about agatha. i had a hard life, my dear, before i came here. yet what would she do with us? she can't very well take us out to africa. i, at least, should not know what to do in those places." it was a wooing that was not long a-doing. her ladyship and mr. jardine came in one evening in time for afternoon tea. the days were closing in by this time, and a fire was welcome. there had been rain, and the fire sparkled on her ladyship's black curls and her eyelashes as she stood by the fire, taking off the long cloak in which she wrapped herself when she went out walking in bad weather. her eyes were at once bright and shy. "congratulate me," she said. "he has consented to take me with him. he held out for a long time, but i was determined to go. as though i should take the chances!" "it is i who am to be congratulated," said paul jardine, and the happiness in his voice thrilled his listeners. "of course, i wouldn't have listened to her if she wasn't so splendidly strong. it will be an odd place for a honeymoon. do you think i ought not to have consented to take her, mrs. morres?" "for how long?" mrs. morres's voice shook. all the sibylline quality was gone from it now. "for a year. i must fulfil my engagements. afterwards i must do my best for them over here. i never thought that i could do as i would as a married man. do you think i ought not to have consented?" "she would have gone without your consent." lady agatha came over and put a hand on her shoulder, a kind, caressing hand. "you are quite right," she said. "oh, he has wriggled, but it had to be. it had to be, from the first minute we met." "i knew it." "you did, you wise woman. and you will keep house for me when i am gone? you will take care of the dogs for me? you will oscillate between hazels and town? you will keep the places ready against our return? you are never to leave us." mrs. morres's eyes overflowed. "my dear," she said, "it would have broken my heart to have left you. and mary--what is to become of mary?" "i have a plan for mary, unless she will stay here with you." "i must earn my bread," said mary. "for all the bread you eat, i eat four times as much as you. still, you have talents to be used for the many, as sir michael auberon said. i have no right to keep you from them. you will talk to robin drummond about that. he is starting a bureau for purposes of organisation amongst the women. he has had his eye on you. i told him he could not have you. now, it will fill a gap, perhaps. i shall need you again." "the funny thing," said mrs. morres, and the amusement had come back in her voice--"is that colonel st. leger won't like your marriage at all. he has always wanted you to be married. but now--this african marriage--he will talk about it as though you were marrying a man of colour, agatha, my dear. how his eyebrows will go out!" "to think," said mary, with a little sigh, "that the novel is unfinished, after all." "a novel is so much more interesting," said lady agatha, "when you live it, mary. besides, it has troubled me that if i published the novel i must come into competition with the legitimate workers. they should form a trades' union against us, women of leisure and money, to keep us from poaching on their preserves. they really should. my dears, i have a presentiment that the novel never will be finished." chapter xiii the heart of a father oddly enough, seeing the general's feeling towards his sister-in-law, seeing, too, that he and nelly had hardly ever had a thought or taste that was not in common, a certain affection grew up on nelly's part for lady drummond. an acute observer would have said that the affection had something conscience-stricken about it. there were times when nelly's eyes asked pardon of the dowager for some offence committed against her, and this usually happened when the dowager was making much of her, as of a daughter-in-law who would be dearly welcome when the time came. something of the love lady drummond had borne for her husband had passed on to his niece. she was immensely proud, in her secret heart, of the deeds of the drummonds. despite her hectoring ways, she looked up to and admired the general, although he had been too simple to discern the fact and profit by it. robin's divergence from his father's ways was, secretly, an acute disappointment to her. when she caressed nelly with a warmth which none of her friends would have credited her with possessing, there was compunction with the tenderness. the child ought to have had the delight of marrying a soldier, a hero whom she could adore, as she herself had adored her gerald. when she pressed the golden head to her angular bosom she was asking the girl's pardon for her son's shortcomings. "i shall have heroic grandchildren," she said to herself. "although robin is a throwback to the quaker, the grandsons of gerald and denis drummond must be fighting men." she pondered long over those grandchildren, and derived a grim pleasure from the thought of them. she even spoke of them to the general, when nelly was out of hearing. "it was a disappointment to both of us that robin is a man of peace," she said, acknowledging the fact for the first time. "not but that he is a good boy--a very good boy. the fighting strain will recur in the next generation. we shall have soldiers among our grandchildren." "grandchildren!" growled the general, turning very crimson in the face. "i call it indelicate to discuss such subjects. as for nelly's marrying, why, she's only a child. i should feel very little obliged to the man who would want to take her from me at her age." "nelly is nineteen," the dowager reminded him, "and the marriage can't be delayed much longer. it ought to be a source of satisfaction to us that the young people are so pleased with the arrangement. i know that robin has never thought of anyone but his cousin, and i am sure it is just the same with the dear child." the general grew red again--not this time with anger, but rather as though the dowager's words had stirred some sense of guilt in his breast. he muttered something grumpily, and, discovering that his favourite pipe must have been left in his own den, he escaped from lady drummond for a while. as a matter of fact, his mind had been plotting mischief. he did not care so much that it was against the dowager, if it had not been that the memory of his dead brother came in to complicate things. and, after all, his plotting seemed to have come to naught. he had gone so far as to invite young langrishe to dinner for a specific occasion, without result. the young man had written to say that he had effected his exchange into the --th madras light infantry, and would be so very much occupied up to the time of his departure that he feared dining out was out of the question. the general had known he was going away. he had known it before he received that letter, before he had seen it in the gazette. he had known from the day the regiment had gone by without captain langrishe in his wonted place. he had felt with his arm about his girl's shoulders the sudden shock that had passed through her. so she had not known either. he had not prepared her. there was not an understanding between them. he saluted as light-heartedly as ever to all appearance, but he did not look at nelly. nor did he make any remark on the change in the regiment. after that day the passing of his "boys" ceased to be the old joy to him. something was gone out of the ceremonial. it took all his _esprit de corps_ to pretend to himself as well as to others that he felt no difference. he felt the limpness and dejection in nelly. he saw that her roses had faded, that she walked without the old joyous spring. he heard her no longer talking to the dogs, trilling to the canary. it was january now, and raw, cold weather. it seemed as though the sunshine had vanished from the house for good. the general had been wont to say that the cheerfulness of his house was within it, not without it. he had come home from london fog and rain with a happy sense of its bright fires and spaciousness, its carpets and furniture, not so new that a muddy foot or a stray shower of tobacco-ash was a thing to be feared--old friends every one of them. the love and loyalty within his doors were something that came out to welcome the general's home-coming like a sudden firelight streaming out into the black night. now his little girl was unhappy, and the shadow of her unhappiness was over his nights and days. it was when he felt this that he had written to captain langrishe, saying nothing to her about it, stealing out, in fact, at night to post the letter secretly, he whose correspondence, such as it was--he was no great penman--had always lain in the letter-basket on the hall table for the servants to scrutinise the addresses if they would before it was posted. when the answer came he congratulated himself on his forethought. luckily, that morning he was first at the breakfast-table. of late nelly, who had been wont to rise as cheerfully as a waking bird, was tardy occasionally. the general suspected broken sleep, and had bidden the servants tenderly not to call her, although the breakfast-table was not the same thing with no bright face and golden head opposite to him. when he had read the letter he thrust it into an inner pocket. the servant, who was attending, went away at the moment, and the general got up quickly, and with a stealthy glance at the door, buried the letter in the heart of the fire, raked the coals over it, and was in his place before the servant returned. "confound the fellow!" he said under his breath. plainly, there was nothing more to be done. the child had to go through it. people had to endure such things. yet he was miserable, watching furtively her dimmed roses and the circles about her eyes. his little nell, who had lived in the sunshine all her days! it was, perhaps, not to be wondered at that, in the perturbation of his mind, the pendulum should have swung towards robin. "confound the fellow!"--(meaning captain langrishe)--"what did he mean by making nelly unhappy?" a still, small voice whispered to the general that the young man was acting on some foolish, overstrained, honourable scruple just as he would have done himself in his youth--nay, to-day, for the matter of that. but he would not listen to the voice. he fretted and fumed, puffed himself up into a great rage as men of his temperament will. confound the fellow! he had gone half-way to meet him, for nelly's sake, and the fellow had refused to budge. confound him and be hanged to him! the general would have used much worse language if the simple piety which hid behind his blusterousness had not come in to restrain him. he blamed himself--to be sure, he blamed himself. what a selfish old curmudgeon he had been, always thinking of himself and his own likes and dislikes! where could his nelly find greater security for happiness than in the keeping of gerald's son? everybody thought well of robin. there had never been anything against him. why, not a week ago, one of the finest soldiers in the army, a field-marshal, a household word in the homes of england, had button-holed the general to congratulate him on a speech of robin's. "that young man will be a credit to you, drummond," he had said. "mark my words, that young man will be a credit to you." and the general had been oddly impressed by the opinion, coming from his old comrade in arms, and one of the finest soldiers that ever stepped. and, to be sure, he had been trying to set nelly against robin all the days of her life. when he had come to this point in his meditations he groaned aloud. a thought had come to him of how little nelly would be really his, married to robin drummond. he would have no need for the house then. he would have to dismiss the servants, the old servants of whom he was fond, who adored him, and go into lodgings. he might keep pat, perhaps. even the dogs would go with nelly. he would never have his girl any more. the dowager would be always there. the dowager would know better than anyone how to set up an invisible barrier between nelly and her father. why, since she had been their neighbour things had not been the same. she had carried nelly hither and thither, to concerts and at homes and picture-galleries and what-not. she talked of presenting her at court, with an air of significance which the general loathed. the question in her eye and smile--the general called it a smirk--the very transparent question was as to whether it was not better to wait and present nelly on her marriage. when the dowager was sly she made the general furious. was his little girl to be married out of hand to robin drummond without being given the chance to see the world and other men? he asked the question hotly, pacing up and down the faded persian rug in his den. then a chill came on his heat. he had not been able to keep nelly from choosing, and she had chosen unwisely. he had had a dream of himself and young langrishe and nelly and the babies in the big happy house. they would belong to him--no one would push him away from his girl. they would be together till they closed his eyes. the thought of it now was like a green oasis in the desert; but it was a mirage, only a mirage! and nelly must not suffer. langrishe had rejected her--rejected that sweet thing, confound him! and there was her cousin robin, patient and faithful, waiting to make her happy. he forgot that once upon a time he had been furious with robin for his patience. robin was a kind fellow, a good fellow. he seemed to be always at the beck and call of his mother and nelly, always ready to escort them. why, only yesterday nelly had said that there was no one so comfortable as robin to go about with, and then, in a fit of compunction, had flown to her father and hugged him hard. "never mind, nell, never mind," the general had said. "i never took you about much, did i? we were great home-keepers, you and i. never seemed to want to gad about, did we? i ought to have taken you about more. it was a dull life for a young girl--a dull life. i ought to be obliged to your aunt for showing me the error of my ways, for making life pleasanter for you." he gulped over the end of the speech. "it was a lovely life," cried nelly wildly, and then burst into tears. the general was terribly distressed. he had had no experience of nelly in tears. she had never wept or fainted or done any of the interesting things young ladies were supposed to do in his time. she had been always the light of the house, always happy and healthy and gay. while he looked at the bell uncertainly, being half of a mind to summon assistance, nelly relieved him from his doubt by running away out of the room, and when they met again he did not remind her of the scene. that discretion of his went to her heart. it was so strange and pitiful for him to be discreet, so unlike him. after that he began to praise robin drummond, not too suddenly nor too effusively at first, but by degrees, so as not to awaken nelly's suspicions. he amazed robin drummond by his cordiality in those days, and the young fellow commented on it whimsically to nelly herself. "he has been telling me all my life that i am a poor creature," he said, "and here he is, to all intents and purposes, eating his own words. just fancy his wading through that speech of mine on the estimates and pretending to be interested in it, even praising it, nell. seeing that the speech was all against our maintaining our big standing army, on a motion to cut down the expenditure, it is bewildering. is it a mild joke, nell dear?" "you may call it a joke if you like," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "i call it heart-breaking, heart-breaking. if he would only abuse you as he used to do!" "dear nell, what's up?" asked robin, in great penitence. "i had no idea i was saying anything to hurt you. the dear old man! why, i never resented his abuse. i'd rather he'd abuse me, like a dog, as they say--though i don't see why anyone should want to abuse a dog--if it made you happier." certainly, all nelly's world was very good to her in those days. as for robin drummond, he thought of women with a chivalrous tenderness somewhat strange considering that the dowager was his mother. to him they were something delicate, mysterious, inexplicable. if he had had a sister he would have adored her. not having one, he lavished on nelly the feeling he would have given a sister; and hitherto he had been content with the ardour of his feelings. what could a man wish for sweeter and prettier beside his hearth than little nelly? he had fallen in love with that plan of his mother's for him and nell with lazy contentment. he liked nelly's society, and it did not occur to him that he would be just as well pleased with her daily companionship if he could have it without the tie between them becoming more than cousinly. chapter xiv lovers' parting it might have been better for nelly if her father had told her of those tentative advances to captain langrishe, for then her pride might have come to her aid. as it was, she had nothing to go upon but those looks of his, and his manner to her when they had met at the houses of friends. for they had met, and that was something the general did not know. more, nelly had engineered, with the cleverness of a girl in love, an acquaintance with captain langrishe's sister, a mrs. rooke, who lived in one of the bayswater squares. mrs. rooke was a vivacious little dark woman, with a cheek like a peach's rosy side. she was perfectly happy in her own married life, and she had the happily-married woman's desire to bring lovers together. she had taken a prodigious fancy to nelly. while captain langrishe yet remained in england that house in the bayswater square had an overwhelming attraction for nelly. she had gone there first under the dowager's wing. cyprian rooke, k.c., belonged to an unexceptionable family, and even the proud dowager could find no fault with nelly's friendship for his wife. in those days poor nelly used to feel a perfect monster of deceit. for, first of all, she was deceiving her dear old father. the name of rooke signified nothing one way or the other to him. then there was the dowager, who had proved the most patient and considerate of chaperons, sitting wide-eyed and cheerful till her charge had danced through the programme if it so pleased her; going hither and thither to crowded at homes, attending first nights at the play--doing, in fact, everything to give nelly a good time. to be sure, the dowager attached no importance to the name of langrishe any more than the general did to that of rooke. mrs. rooke gave a good many dances after christmas, and nelly was at them all. sometimes robin was there, sometimes that was not possible. and robin was out of his element at such gatherings, since he did not dance and could find no conversation to his mind while he leant against the wall of the ball-room or hung about the doors. life was so full of work for him that it seemed unreasonable to keep him where there was nothing he could do. captain langrishe turned up at the dances as unfailingly as nelly herself. he came in spite of many resolutions to the contrary, as the moth comes to singe its wings in the flame of the candle. he did not make nelly conspicuous for the dowager or anyone else to see. sometimes he asked her for several dances. again, he would be merely polite in asking her for one; and would yield her up coldly to her next partner and never come to her side again for the rest of the evening. unlike sir robin, he danced conspicuously well. nelly had thrilled to a speech of robin's: "one cannot despise the art of dancing for a man when a fellow like that thinks it worth his while to excel in it." one night, when the guests had departed, mrs. rooke had something to tell her husband. "that little wretch, nelly drummond!" she said. "i thought she was as innocent and candid as a child. would you believe it that all the time she has been engaged to that gawky cousin of hers?" "my dear belinda, all what time?" "well, for a lawyer, cyprian----" "i know i'm obtuse, but the law doesn't favour deductions. all what time?" "why, all the time poor godfrey's been falling head over ears in love with her." mr. rooke whistled. he was fond of his wife's brother. "are you sure, bel? i noticed particularly that he was dancing with the wallflowers to-night. he's a good fellow, so that didn't surprise me. now you mention it, i caught sight of the little girl dancing with jack menzies. she didn't look particularly happy." "she hasn't been looking particularly happy. i have been imagining that godfrey's poverty stood between them. he is so impracticable. and i have been making opportunities for them to meet. after all, she is sir denis drummond's only child, and is sure to be sufficiently well off. and here, after all my trouble, i find she is engaged to her cousin. i wonder what she can see in that ugly stick to prefer him to godfrey!" "she may not prefer him, my dear. it may be a marriage of convenience. and drummond is not a stick. that is your feminine prejudice. he is a very clever fellow, although he has got the socialistic bee in his bonnet. however, he's young, and has time to mend his ways." "i don't want to discuss him. how coldblooded you are, cyprian! i can only think of my poor godfrey going off to the ends of the earth, and his being deceived and hurt by that heartless girl." "you will let him know?" "i certainly shall. he ought to know. it may be the quickest way to make him forget her." "since he seems to have made up his mind to go away without speaking to her, i can't see that any great harm has been done," mr. rooke said, with his masculine common-sense. "i shall never forgive her," mrs. rooke retorted, with true feminine inconsequence. she took an early opportunity of telling her brother what the dowager had told her. the occasion was in her own drawing-room at the afternoon-tea hour, and, since the room was only lit by firelight and a tall standard lamp, his face, where he stood by the mantel-shelf, was in shadow. there had been something portentous in the manner of the telling. for a few seconds he kept silence. then he spoke very quietly. "i hope miss drummond may be happy," he said. he did not trouble to put on a pretence of indifference with bel, just as he did not wish to talk about it. he went on to speak of ordinary topics. that evening he stayed to dinner. he had only a week more in england. under the electric light at the dinner-table his haggardness was revealed. "for once," said cyprian rooke afterwards, "your discovery wasn't a mare's nest, my dear bel. godfrey looks hard hit." the week turned round quietly. nelly had not heard definitely the date of captain langrishe's departure. for six days she kept away from the rookes' house. on that last evening he had been icily cold. the poor girl was in torture. all the week she was calling pride to her aid. the sixth day it refused to bolster her up any longer. the sixth day she met at lunch a friend of hers and belinda rooke's. she asked a question about the rookes with averted eyes. "poor girl," said the friend; "she is in grief over godfrey langrishe. he sails to-morrow." the rest of that luncheon-party was a phantasmagoria of faces and voices to poor nelly. he was going, and she would never see him again, although he had shown her by a thousand infallible signs that he loved her. despite his occasional coldness, she was sure he loved her. her pride was down with a vengeance. she felt nothing at the moment but a desire to see him before he should go--just to see him, to see the lighting up of his gloomy eyes, as they had lit up on seeing her suddenly before he could get his face under control. after that one meeting, the deluge! but she must see him--she must see him for the last time. the kindly hostess insisted on her going home in a cab. when she had been driven some distance, nelly pushed up the little trapdoor of the hansom and gave another address than sherwood square. having done it, she felt happier. however it ended, she was making a last attempt to see him. she could not have endured a passive acquiescence in her destiny, whatever was to be the end of it. the luncheon-party had been prolonged, and the gas-lamps in the streets were lit. it was the close of the short winter's day. night came prematurely between the high bayswater houses. it was almost dark when she stood at last on mrs. rooke's doorstep, asking herself what she should do if mrs. rooke was away from home. mrs. rooke was out, as it happened, but the maid-servant, who knew nelly, and, like all servants, had been captivated by her pleasant, friendly ways, invited her in to await the lady's return. mrs. rooke was expected back to tea. with a smile on her lips she held the drawing-room door open for nelly to enter. nelly passed through. there was a big french screen by the door. she had passed beyond it and out into the warm firelit room before she realised that there was another occupant. someone stood up from the couch by the fireplace as she came towards it. fate had been on her side for once. the person was captain langrishe. "my sister will not be very long, miss drummond," he began, in a tone he tried in vain to make indifferent. "i hope you won't mind waiting in my company." mind waiting, indeed! to nelly, as to himself, the seconds were precious ones. mrs. rooke was shopping on that particular afternoon. it was a kind fate that made it so difficult for her to find just the things she wanted, that sent half-a-dozen acquaintances and friends in her way. he took nelly's hand in his. it was quite cold and clammy, although it had come out of a satin-lined muff. the hand trembled. "i heard you were going to-morrow," she said. "i'm so glad i am in time to wish you _bon voyage_." "won't you sit down?" he set a chair for her in front of the fire. the flames lit up her golden hair, and revealed her charming face in its becoming setting of the sables she wore. he sat in his obscure corner, watching her with moody eyes. he said to himself that he would never see her again, yet he laboured to make ordinary everyday talk. he asked after the general, and regretted that the hurry of these latter days had prevented his calling at sherwood square. "we miss you at the head of the squadron," said nelly, innocently. "it isn't the same thing now that there is a stranger." "ah!" a flame leaped into his eyes. he leant forward a little. "that reminds me i ought not to go without making a confession." he was taking a pocket-book from his breastpocket. he opened it, and held it under nelly's eyes. there was a piece of blue ribbon there. she recognised it with a great leap of her heart. it was her own ribbon which she had lost that spring day as she stood on the balcony looking down at the soldiers. "you recognise it? it was yours. the wind blew it down close to my hand. i caught it. i have kept it ever since. may i keep it still? it can do no harm to anybody, my having it--may i keep it?" she answered something under her breath, which he construed to be "yes." she had been feeling the cruelty of it all, that their last hour together should be taken up by talking of commonplaces. at the sudden change in his tone--although it was unhappy, there was passion in it, and the chill seemed to pass away from her heart--the tears filled her eyes, overflowed them, ran warmly down her cheeks. at the sight of those tears the young man forgot everything, except that she was lovely and he loved her and she was crying for him. he leaped to her side and dropped on his knees. he put both his arms about her and pressed her closely to him. "are you crying because i am going, my darling?" he said. "good heavens! don't cry--i'm not worth it. and yet i shall remember, when the world is between us, that you cried because i was going, you angel of mercy." an older woman than nelly might have had the presence of mind to ask him why he was going. but she was silent. she felt it over-whelmingly sweet to be held so, to feel his hand smoothing her hair. the bunch of lilies of the valley she had been wearing was crushed between his breast and her breast. the sweetness of them rose up as something exquisite and forlorn. his hand moved tremblingly over her hair to her cheek. "give me a kiss, nelly," he said, "and i will go. just one kiss. i shall never have another in all my days. good-bye, my heart's delight." for a second their lips clung together. then his arms relaxed. he put her down gently into a chair. she lay back with closed eyes. she heard the door shut behind her. then she sprang to her feet, realising that he was gone and it was too late to recall him. why should he go? she asked herself, as, with trembling hands, she arranged the disorder of her hair. then the merely conventional came in, as it will even at such tense moments. she asked herself how she would look to his sister, if she appeared at this moment; to the maid, who might be expected at any moment bringing in the lamp. the room was dark but for the firelight. how would she look, with her tear-stained visage and the disorder of her appearance? she could not sit and make small talk. that was a heroism beyond her. and she was afraid to speak to anyone lest she should break down. she adopted a cowardly course. afterwards she must explain it to mrs. rooke somehow. she put the consideration of how out of sight: it could wait till the turmoil of her thoughts was over. she stole from the room, let herself out quietly, and was grateful for the dark and the cool, frosty air. about five minutes after she had gone mrs. rooke came in laden with small parcels. "the captain and miss drummond are in the drawing-room, ma'am," said the maid. "then you can bring tea." mrs. rooke opened the drawing-room door leisurely, turning the handle once or twice before she did so. she was excited at the thought of the things that might be happening the other side of the door. supposing that nelly had discovered that life with a poor foot-captain was a more desirable thing than life with a well-endowed baronet, a coming man in the political world to boot! supposing--there was no end to the suppositions that passed through mrs. rooke's busy brain in a few seconds of time. then--she entered the room and found emptiness. "you are sure that neither the captain nor miss drummond left a message?" she said to the maid who brought the tea. "quite sure, ma'am. i had no idea they were gone." "do you suppose they went away together, jane?" mrs. rooke was ready to accept a crumb of possible comfort from her handmaid. "i do remember now, ma'am, that when i was pulling down the blind upstairs i heard the hall-door shut twice. i never thought of looking in the drawing-room, ma'am. i made sure that the noise of the blinds had deceived me into taking next-door for ours." "ah, thank you, jane, that will do." the omens were not at all propitious. mrs. rooke was fain to acknowledge as much to herself dejectedly. nor did cyprian think them propitious when taken into counsel. when she went downstairs, she found that her brother had come in. he was to spend the last evening at his sister's house. captain langrishe's face, however, did not invite questions. he made no allusion at all to the happenings of the afternoon, and his sister felt that she could not ask him. she had a heavy heart for him as she bade him good-night, although she called something after him with a cheerful pretence about their rendezvous next morning. "it _is_ nine-thirty at fenchurch street, isn't it?" she asked. "do you think you will ever manage it, bel?" captain langrishe smiled at her haggardly. "oh, yes, easily--by staying up all night," she answered. but her heart was as heavy as lead for him. chapter xv the general has an idea when sir denis came home from his club that evening he learned that miss nelly had gone to bed with a headache. pat, who told him, looked away as he gave the information, as though he did not believe in his own words. miss nelly with a headache! why, god bless her, she had never had such a thing, not from the day she was born! to be sure, the whole affectionate household knew that there was some cloud over miss nelly. they didn't talk much about it. pat and bridget knew better than to have the servants' hall gossiping over the master and miss nelly. a new under-housemaid, who was greatly addicted to the reading of penny novelettes, suggested that miss nelly was being forced into marrying her cousin by the machinations of his mother, who was not _persona grata_ with the servants' hall. but pat had nipped the young person's imaginings in the bud. "she may be contrairy enough to give the general the gout in his big toe and the twisht in his timper, as often she's done. but she can't make our miss nelly marry where she don't like. if you'd put your romantic notions into your scrubbin' now, miss higgs; but i suppose it's your name is the matter with you, and you can't help it." the under-housemaid, whose name happened to be gladys higgs, was reduced to tears by this remark, and the tears brought the kind-hearted pat to repentance for his hastiness. "whatever the dickens came over me," he imparted to bridget when they were having a snack of bread and cheese between meals in the room allotted to the cook, who was now also housekeeper, "to go sharpenin' my tongue on that foolish little girl? it isn't for you an' me to be makin' fun of their quare names. 'tis no credit to us if we have elegant names in the counthry we come from." "aye, indeed. where would you find pleasanter thin macgeoghegan or mcgroarty or magillacuddy? there was a polisman in our town by the name of mcguffin. i always thought it real pleasant." "sure what would be on the little girl?--'tis miss nelly, i mean," said pat, in a manner that showed his real anxiety. "she scared me, so she did, with her nonsense, that gladys. for it stands to reason that miss nelly wouldn't mind marryin' sir robin--isn't he the fittest match for her?--if it wasn't that there might be someone else. and who could it be, i ask you, unbeknownst to us that has watched over her from a babby?" "you're a foolish man to be takin' that much notice of that gladys girl and her talk. why shouldn't miss nelly have a headache? why, i remember the miss o'flahertys, lord dunshanbo's daughters, when i was a little girl; and 'twas faintin' on the floor they were every other minute and everyone havin' to run and cut their stay-laces. they were fifty, too, if they were a day, so they ought to have had more sense. why wouldn't miss nelly have quality ways?" "young ladies aren't like that nowadays," pat said dolefully. "'tis the bicycle and the golf. they've no stay-laces to cut, so they don't go faintin' away. and miss nelly, poor lamb, she'd never be thinkin' of doing such a thing." he went off sorrowfully, shaking his head. the mysteriousness of the change in miss nelly perturbed him the more. he looked away from the general when he gave the information about the headache. "miss nelly said, sir," he volunteered, "that she was to be called, unless she was asleep, when you came home to dinner. shall i send up fanny to call her?" "not for worlds," said the general. "i'll go myself. she mustn't be disturbed, poor child, if she has a headache." he went upstairs softly, pursing out his lips as he went along in troubled thought. he opened the door of his daughter's room, and spoke her name in a whisper. there was not a sound. "fast asleep," he said, with a sigh, as he went to his dressing-room to dress for dinner. that was something he would not have omitted for any possible calamity that could befall him. he ate his dinner in lonely state. bridget had done her best by way of expressing her sympathy, but he ate without his usual enjoyment. "sure," said pat afterwards, "he didn't know but what it was sawdust he was atin' instead of that beautiful volly-vong of yours. he could barely touch the mutton, and a beautiful little joint it was. sure, there's a sad change come over the house, anyway." the general gave orders that miss nelly was not to be disturbed again that night. after dinner he retired to his den and made a pretence of reading the papers, but his heart wasn't in it. he missed even a speech of robin's which would have enraged him in happier times. he sat turning over the sheets and sighing to himself now and again; only when pat came in with a pretence of replenishing the fire--it was pat's way of showing his silent sympathy--was the general absorbed in his newspaper. not that it imposed on pat, who mentioned afterwards to bridget that he didn't believe the master knew a word of what he was looking at. about half-past nine the general relinquished that pretence of reading. he felt the house to be nearly as sad as though someone were lying dead in it, and he could support it no longer. he must find out what was the matter with the child, or at least show her how her old father's heart bled for her. he got up quietly from his big easy-chair, from which he had been used to survey his nelly's face at the other side of the fireplace for many a happy year. to be sure, it had not been the same since the dowager had come, and nelly had gone gadding of evenings. still, she had always come in to kiss him before she went off, looking radiant and sweet, with the hood of her evening cloak over her bright head and framing the dearest face in the world. she had always clung to him with her soft arms about his neck, and he had not minded her absence since she was enjoying herself as she ought at her age. he climbed up the stairs of the high house. nelly had chosen a bedroom right at the top, whence she could look away over the london roofs to the mists that hid the country. the blinds were up and the cold winter moon lay on the girl's bed. the general came in tip-toe, trying to avoid creaking on the bare boards, which nelly preferred to carpets. but his precaution was unnecessary. she was lying wide-awake. the darkness of her eyes in her face, unnaturally white from the moonlight, frightened him. he had a memory of nelly's mother as he had seen her newly-dead, and the memory scared him. "is that you, papa?" nelly asked, half-lifting herself on her pillow. "come and sit down. i was thinking of dressing myself and coming down to you." "you mustn't do that if your headache is not better." "it was nothing at all of a headache," she said with a weary little sigh, "but i must have fallen asleep. if i had not i should have come down to dinner. i only awoke just before the church clock struck nine. were you very lonely?" "i am always lonely without you, nell. you have had nothing to eat, have you? no. well, perhaps you'd better come down and have a little meal in the study by the fire. unless you'd prefer a fire up here. the room strikes cold. to be sure, the windows are open. there is snow coming, i think." "i like the cold. i'm not hungry, but i shall get up presently. i haven't really gone to bed." she put out a chilly little hand over her father's, and he took it into his. when had they wanted anyone but each other? what new love could ever be as true and tender as his? "oh!" cried nelly, burying her face in her pillow. "i'm a wicked girl to be discontented. i ought to have everything in the world, having you." "and when did my nelly become discontented?" he asked, with a passionate tenderness. "what has clouded over my girl, the light of the house? what is it, nell?" he had been both father and mother to her. for a second or two she kept her face buried, as if she would still hold her secret from him. his hand brushed the pale ripples of her hair, as another hand had brushed them a short time back. he expected her to answer him, and he was waiting. "it is captain langrishe," she whispered at last. "his boat goes from tilbury to-morrow morning." "from tilbury." the general remembered that grogan of the artillery, the club bore, had a daughter and son-in-law sailing from tilbury next morning, and had suggested his accompanying him to the docks. "why he should have asked me," the general had said irritably, "when i can barely endure him for half-an-hour, is more than i can imagine!" "what is wrong between you and langrishe, nell?" he asked softly. "i thought he was a good fellow. i know he's a good soldier; and a good soldier must be a good fellow. has anyone been making mischief?" he sent a sudden wrathful thought towards the dowager. who else was so likely to make mischief? the thought that someone had been making mischief was almost hopeful, since mischief done could be undone if one only set about it rightly. "no one," nelly answered mournfully. the general suddenly stiffened. his one explanation of langrishe's pride standing in the way was forgotten; it was not reason enough. was it possible that langrishe had been playing fast-and-loose with his girl? was it possible--this was more incredible still--that he did not return her innocent passion? for a few seconds he did not speak. his indignation was ebbing into a dull acquiescence. if langrishe did not care--why, no one on earth could make him care. no one could blame him even. "you must give up thinking of him, nell," he said at last. he could not bring himself to ask her if langrishe cared. "you must forget him, little girl, and try to be satisfied with your old father till someone more worthy comes along." "but he is worthy." nelly spoke with a sudden flash of spirit. "and he cares so much. i always felt he cared. but i never knew how much till we met at his sister's this afternoon and he bade me good-bye." "then why is he going?" the general asked, with pardonable amazement. "oh, i don't know," nelly answered irritably. she had never been irritable in all her sunny life. "but although he is gone i am happier than i have been for a long time since i know he cares so much." "i'll tell you what,"--the general got up quite briskly--"dress yourself, nell, and come down to the study, and we'll talk things over. you may be sure, little girl, that your old father will leave no stone unturned to secure your happiness. i'll ring for your dinner to be brought up on a tray and we'll have a happy evening together. and you'd better have a fire here, nell. it's a very pretty room, my dear, with all your pretty fal-lals, but it strikes me as being very chilly." he went downstairs and rang the bell for miss nelly's dinner. the fire had been stoked in his absence, and was now burning gloriously. he drew nelly's chair closer to it and a screen around the chair. he put a cushion for her back, and a hassock for her feet. the little acts were each an eloquent expression of his love for her. he was suddenly, irrationally hopeful. he reproached himself because he had done so little. he had thought he was doing a great deal when he, an old man and so high in his profession, had made advances to the young fellow for his girl's sake. to be sure, he had been certain that langrishe was in love with nell, else the thing had not been possible. now that his love was beyond doubt the old idea recurred to him. it must be some chivalrous, overstrained scruple about his poverty which came between poor nell and her happiness. standing by the fire, waiting for nelly, he rubbed his hands together with a return of cheerfulness. in a few minutes she came gliding in shyly. that confidence had only been possible in the dark. the general felt her embarrassment and busied himself in stirring the fire. pat came up with the tray--such a dainty tray, loaded with good things. the general called for a glass of wine for miss nelly. he waited on her with a tender assiduity and she forced herself to eat, saying to herself with passionate gratitude that she would be a brute if she did not swallow to please him. the wine brought a colour to her cheeks. she watched her father with shy eyes. what could he do to bring her and her lover together, seeing that it was captain langrishe's last night in england and that he would not return for five years? five years spread out an eternity to nelly's youthful gaze. she might be dead before five years were over. this afternoon she had felt no great desire to live, but that despair, of course, was wrong. she had not remembered at the moment how dear she and her father were to each other. as long as they were together there must be compensations for anything in life. she had expected her father to speak, but he did not. while he had been standing by the fire awaiting her coming he had had qualms. supposing she had made a mistake about the young fellow's feeling for her. such things happened with girls sometimes. supposing--no, it was better to keep silence for the present. if things turned out well, it would be time enough to tell nelly. if things turned out well! what, after all, were five years? to the general, for whom the wheel of the days and the years had been turning giddily fast and ever faster these many years back, five years counted for little. he had a hale, hearty old life. surely the lord in his goodness would permit him to look on nelly's happiness and his grandchildren! it was another thing to think of nelly's children when the match was not of the dowager's making. he inspired nelly with something of his own hopefulness. she saw that he had some design which she was not to share. well, she could trust his love to move mountains for her happiness. the evening was far better than she could have hoped for, and she went to bed comforted. "early breakfast, nell," he said as they parted. "i've ordered it for eight o'clock. but i shan't expect to see you unless you feel like it. these cold mornings it's allowable to be a little lazy." this from the general, who rose at half-past six all the year round and had his cold bath even when he had to break the ice on it. nelly's laziness, too, was a matter of recent date. she had always loved the winter and had seemed to glow the fresher the colder the weather. the general thought of himself as an arch-diplomatist, but he was transparent enough to his daughter. "he doesn't want me at breakfast," she said to herself. "he doesn't want me to ask questions. so i shall save him embarrassment by not appearing." the next morning there was no general to see the squadron of the old regiment gallop past. no family prayers either. what were things coming to? the servants asked each other. and second breakfast at nine for miss nelly! "take my word for it," said bridget to pat, "the next thing'll be miss nelly havin' her breakfast in bed like lord dunshanbo's daughters. five of them there was, pat, all old maids. and they used to sit round in their beds, every one with a satin quilt, and their hair in curl-papers, and a newspaper spread out to save the quilt." "'tis too early and too cowld," said pat, interrupting this reminiscence, "for the master to be goin' out. and he doesn't like bein' put out of his habits, not by the half of a second. i used to think before i was a soldier that punctuality was the most onnecessary thing on earth, but i've come to like it somehow." "the same here," said bridget, "though it wasn't in my blood. i wondher what they'd think of us at home?" chapter xvi the leading and the light the general was at fenchurch street by half-past nine. he rather expected to see old grogan on the platform, and was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed by his absence. on the one hand, he could hardly have borne grogan's twaddle on the journey to tilbury, his mind being engrossed as it was. on the other, he looked to him to cover his presence at the boat. now that he was started on the adventure he was nervously anxious lest he should compromise his girl by betraying to langrishe the errand he was come on, unless, indeed, langrishe gave him the lead. he was as sensitive as nelly herself could have been about offering her where she was not desired or was likely to be rejected. but he assured himself that everything would be right. in the sudden surprise of seeing him, langrishe would say or do something that would give him a lead. he would be able to bring back a message of hope to nelly. five years--after all, what were five years? especially to a girl as young as nelly. they could wait very well till langrishe came home again. at the booking-office he was told that the special train for the _sutlej_ had just gone. another train for tilbury was leaving in five minutes. "you will get in soon after the special," the booking-clerk assured him. "plenty of time to see your friends before she sails. why, she's not due to sail till twelve o'clock. there'll be a deal of luggage to be got on board." the general unfolded his _standard_ in the railway carriage, and turned to the principal page of news. a big headline, followed by a number of smaller ones, caught his eye: "outrage at shawur. an english officer and five sepoys caught in a trap. death of major sayers. regiment sent in pursuit. statement in the house." the general bent his brows over the report. he had known poor sayers--a most distinguished soldier, but brave to rashness. and the wazees tribe, treacherous rascals! the general had some experience of them too. ah, so mordaunt was sent in pursuit. the tribe had retired after the murder to its fastnesses in the hills. he remembered those fortified towers in the hill valleys. he had had to smoke them out once like rats in a hole. ah, poor sayers! the brutes! and sayers had a young wife! he lifted his head from the paper, and stared out of the carriage windows, where tiny cottages, with neat white stones for their garden borders, showed that the train was passing through a residential district much affected by retired sailor-men. the mast of a ship seemed to be a favourite ornament, and a little flag was hoisted on many lawns. flakes of dry snow came in the wind, but, cold as it was, a good many of the old sailors were out pottering about their tiny gardens. here a glimpse of the river, or a church spire with many graves nestled under it, came to break the monotony of the little houses. the general looked without seeing. he was thinking of sayers' young wife--to be sure, she was not so young now: she must be well over thirty--an innocent-faced creature, sitting at the piano in a white gown, singing, while he and poor sayers paced the garden-walk in the twilight. poor woman! how was she to bear it? those knives, too! the general ground his teeth in fury. then suddenly another aspect of the matter flashed upon him, so suddenly that he almost leaped in his seat. why, the --th madras light infantry--he remembered now--it was langrishe's regiment. how extraordinary that he should not have remembered before! it was the regiment sent in pursuit. langrishe would fall in for some fighting--he would find it ready-made to his hand. those little frontier wars were endless things once they started. and what toll they took of precious human lives! in the last one more young fellows of the general's acquaintance had been killed than he liked to remember. such deaths, too! even the bravest soldier might well shrink from the fiendish things the wazees were capable of. suddenly the train pulled up abruptly, so abruptly that for a few seconds it quivered as a horse will after being hard-driven. the general went to the window and looked out. the houses had been left behind and around them was a country of grey mud-flats with the river dragging its sluggish length through it like a great serpent. there was a windmill on the horizon, breaking the uniform grey of land and river and sky. the sky was heavy with coming snow. the guard of the train was standing on the line, beating his two arms against his breast to warm them, and answering stolidly the impatient questions of the passengers. "obstruction on the line in front, sir," he said, addressing nobody in particular. "waggon broke away from the siding and got on to our track. there's a breakdown gang doing its level best to get us clear. how long? can't say, i'm sure, sir. matter of half an hour, maybe." the matter of half an hour became a matter of three-quarters, of an hour, of an hour and a quarter. the train grumbled from end to end. here and there a particularly indignant passenger got out with the expressed intention of walking to his destination. the officials bore it all patiently. it was no fault of theirs. the breakdown gang, was doing its best. it was a very lucky thing the runaway had been discovered just before the train came round the corner. the train for the _sutlej_ must have had a narrow shave of meeting it. the general sat in his compartment, which he had to himself, with his watch in his hand. he was thinking of sayers and sayers' young wife. mordaunt was not married, but he had an old mother at home in england. it was bad enough for the men, the brave fellows. but that women should have to suffer such things through their love was intolerable. the cold intensified. philosophical passengers either wrapped themselves in their rugs or got out and walked up and down, stamping their feet, their hands in their coat-pockets. the general sat, quiet as a fate, staring at his watch. his thoughts were tending towards a certain conclusion. at first he had been merely impatient for the train to get on. as time passed he became more impatient as it was borne in on him that he might possibly be too late for the _sutlej_. he might lose the chance of looking in langrishe's eyes and getting the lead he desired so that he might say the words which would bring happiness to his nelly. still the time went on. his moustache became little icicles. if anyone had been looking at him they might have thought that he suggested being frozen himself, so stiff and grey was he. they were within a few miles of tilbury. it was now half-past eleven. the _sutlej_ was to sail at twelve. was there any chance of his being there in time? the guard had said half an hour! if he had not, the general might have walked with those other impatient passengers. but if the general was a religious man--nay, rather because he was a religious man--he looked for signs and portents from god for the direction of his everyday life. he believed that god, amid all his whirling world of stars and all his ages, had leisure to attend to every unit of a life upon earth. he believed in special providences. everything that was dear to him or near to his heart he commended to god in his prayers. he had prayed for direction and guidance in this matter of his girl and young langrishe. he had thought to do his best. well, was not the breakdown of the train a sign that his best was not god's best? at ten minutes to twelve the track was free, and the train resumed its journey. it was now one chance in a thousand that the general would not be too late. if that chance came, if he saw langrishe he would take it as a sign that god approved his first intention. if the _sutlej_ had sailed--well, that, too, was the leading and the light. as they ran into tilbury station a train was standing at the departure platform. the general beckoned to a porter. "do you know if the _sutlej_ has sailed?" "yes, sir--sailed at ten minutes to twelve. might catch her at southampton, sir, perhaps. there's a good many people as well as you disappointed in this 'ere train. there's another train back in three minutes." "when is the next train?" "three hours' time." the general went to the door of the carriage and looked out; then retired hastily. he had caught sight of grogan and mrs. grogan and a number of boys and girls of all ages. not for worlds would he have let grogan see him. the amazement at seeing him, the questions about his presence there, grogan's laugh, grogan's slap on the back, would be more than the general could bear at this moment. "i shall wait for the next train," he said to the astonished porter. the porter had not thought of tilbury as a place where the casual visitor desired to wait for three hours. the general remained in the train till the other had steamed out of the station. when all danger was over he alighted and walked to the hotel of many partings. he ordered his lunch, a chop and a vegetable, biscuits and cheese. while his chop was cooking he would stretch his legs, cramped by that long time in the train. he walked along the docks, dodging lorries and waggons, getting out at the side of a basin, with a clear walk along its edge. it was empty--the _sutlej_ had left it only three-quarters of an hour ago. he paced up and down by the grey water, lost in thought. the _sutlej_ had sailed, ten minutes before the time anticipated. god had given him the sign. he had turned him from his presumptuous attempt to be providence to his nelly. the general never had been, never could be, passive. he was made for the activities of life. yet his religious ideal was passivity--to be in the hands of god expecting, accepting, his will for all things. it was an ideal he had never attained to, and it was, perhaps, therefore the dearer. he was oblivious of the cold, of the creeping water, of the thickening flakes in the air which nearly blotted out the silent ship the other side of the basin. he saw nothing but the pointing finger, the finger that pointed away from the course he had marked out for himself. he felt uplifted, glad, as one who has escaped a great peril. was his nelly to suffer the torture of an engagement to a man who would presently be every hour in danger of a horrible death? was she, poor child, to suffer like mrs. sayers? like poor old mrs. mordaunt? no. she must be saved from the possibility of that. he would say nothing. he would have to endure the looks she would send him from under her white eyelids, the looks of wistful entreaty. after all, he had not _said_ he was going to do anything. he had implied it, to be sure, but he had not committed himself to anything very definite. perhaps nelly would not discover, for a time at least, the dangerous service langrishe had gone on. she was no more fond of the newspapers than any other young girl. for the moment he was grateful to the dowager that she claimed so much of nelly's time. he began to look forward with a fearful anticipation to nelly's marriage to her cousin. something must be settled at once, before she could begin to grieve over langrishe. he would be alone, of course, but nelly would be in harbour. he did so much justice to robin that he believed her happiness would be safe with him. he felt as if he must go home and put matters in train at once. he was impatient till nelly was safe. it did not occur to him that he was, perhaps, once more wresting the conduct of his daughter's happiness from the hand in whose guidance he humbly trusted. he awoke with a start to the fact that he had been more than half an hour pacing along by the water's edge. he hurried back to the hotel. fortunately, his chop was not put on the grill till he returned, and it was served to him piping hot, with tomatoes and a bottle of burton. rather to his amazement, he enjoyed it thoroughly, but when he had finished it he had still more than an hour to wait. he drove across country to another station, and arrived home early in the afternoon. during the return journey his mind was quite calm and unperturbed. he had had the guidance he needed, and now he had only to let things be--as though it were in his character to let things be! he dreaded meeting nelly's eyes and welcomed the dowager's presence with effusion. he suggested to the lady that she should dine, and afterwards they would visit a theatre--_a soldier's love_ at the adelphi was well worth seeing, he believed. lady drummond accepted, flattered by this unwonted friendliness. he would hardly let her out of his sight all that afternoon. she was his safeguard against nelly's wondering, reproachful eyes. he had to endure those eyes all the next day. then--the eyes retired in on themselves, became introspective. it was hardly easier for the general, that look of a suffering woman in his nelly's eyes. to be sure, poor nelly had known of that journey to tilbury just as well as if she had accompanied him. the only thing she did not know was that he had failed to see captain langrishe. and his silence--the looks of tender pity he sent her when he thought he was unobserved, what could they mean but that his mediation had been in vain? for some strange, cruel reason, although he loved her and he must know he was breaking her heart, her lover would have none of her. even the knowledge that he loved her ceased to be an anodyne in those days. everyone was so good to her. she seemed to have found a way to the dowager's arid heart, as her own son had not. the dowager seemed dimly aware that nelly was suffering in some way, and was tender to her. she came to the general with a proposal. why should they not all go abroad together and escape the east winds of spring? the general leaped at it. once get nelly abroad and she would know nothing of what was happening on the indian frontier. he, and nelly and the dowager. he had not imagined the dowager in such a party--yet, he shrank from the prolonged _tãªte-ã -tãªte_ with nell which the trip would have been without the dowager's presence. robin would join them at easter. they could all travel home together. there was a time of bustle when nelly and the dowager were getting their travelling outfits. a spark of excitement, of anticipation, lit up nelly's sad eyes. the general could have hugged the dowager. "your dear father," the dowager said to nelly one day, "how calm he grows as he turns round to old age! i see in him more and more the brother my dear gerald looked up to and reverenced." the peacefulness, the good understanding, had their effect, too, on nelly. it was good that those she loved should dwell together in amity. she was in that state that she could not have endured sharpness or rancour. only pat shook his head disapprovingly. "if he goes on like this," he said, "he'll be goin' to heaven before his time. i'd a deal sooner hear him grumblin' about her ladyship as he used to do. it 'ud be more natural-like, so it would. why would we be callin' him 'old blood and thunder' if 'twas to be like an image he was? och, the ould times were ever the best!" "he'll come to himself yet," said bridget more hopefully. chapter xvii a night of spring the room was a long bare one, with three deep windows. they were all open so that the fog and the noises of the street came in freely. it had for furniture a long office table, an american desk, several cupboards--the door of one of these last stood open, revealing lettered pigeon-holes inside. everywhere there were files, letter-baskets, all manner of receptacles for papers. there were a number of hard, painted chairs. an american clock ticked on the mantel-shelf, a fire burned in the grate behind a high wire screen. the unshaded gas-lights gave the room a dreary aspect it need not have had otherwise. the only occupant of the room was mary gray, who sat at a small table working a typewriter. she had pulled a gas-jet down low over her head, and the light of it was on her hair, bringing out bronze lights in it, on her neck, showing its whiteness and roundness. the machine clicked away busily. sheet after sheet was pulled from it and dropped into a basket. the basket was half-filled with the pile of papers that had fallen into it. suddenly there came a little tap at the door. mary raised her head and looked towards it expectantly as she said, "come in." someone came in, someone whom she had expected to see, although she had said to herself that she supposed the caretaker of the building had grown tired of waiting, and was coming to remind her that the church clock had just struck seven. "ah, sir robin," she said, turning about to shake hands with him. "who would have thought of seeing you? i am just going home." "as i came past this way i looked up and saw your light through the fog. i thought you would be going home, and that you would let me escort you to your own door. there is a bit of a fog really." "i am glad you did not come out of your way. thank you. i shall be ready in a few minutes. you don't mind waiting?" "not at all. may i smoke?" "do. it will be pleasanter than the smell of the fog." "ah! i hadn't noticed the smell. i have a delusion, or do i really smell--violets?" "there are some violets by your elbow. i was wearing them, but they drooped, so i put them into water to revive them." she turned back again to her work, and the clicking of the machine began anew. he leant to inhale the smell of the violets. then, with a glance at her bent head, he drew one from the bunch, and, taking a pocket-book out of his coat-pocket, he opened it, and laid the violet between two of its pages. while he waited he looked about him. the ugliness of the room did not affect him. the flaring gas, the business-like furniture, the unhomely aspect of the place, did not depress him. on the contrary, in his eyes it was pleasant. he always came to it with a sensation of happiness, which was not lessened because he felt half-guilty about it. to him the room was the room which for certain hours of every day contained mary gray. what did it matter if the case was unlovely since it held her? presently the clicking of the machine ceased, and she looked up at him with a smile. "you are very good to wait for me," she said. "am i?" he answered, smiling back at her. "there is not very much to do to-day. the house is not sitting, and my constituency has been less exacting than usual." she put the cover on her machine, locked up her desk, and then retired into a corner, where she changed her shoes, putting her slippers away tidily in a cupboard. she put on her hat, setting it straight before a little glass that hung in one corner. she got into her little blue jacket, with its neat collar and cuffs of astrachan. then she came to him, drawing on her gloves. "i am quite ready now," she said. they lowered the gas, and went down the stone steps side by side. at the foot of the stairs mary stopped to call into the depths of the back premises that she was going home, and a woman's voice bade her good-night. it was cold in the street, and there was a light brown fog through which the street lamps shone yellowly. the omnibuses crept by quietly, in a long string, making a muffled sound in the fog. as they went towards the nearest station a wind suddenly blew in their faces. "it is the west wind," she said. "and it breathes of the spring." "there will be no fog to-night," he answered. "see, it is lifting. the west wind will blow it away." "it comes from fields and woods and mountains and the sea," she said dreamily. the fog was indeed disappearing. the gas-jets shone more clearly; the 'buses broke into a decorous trot. the long line of lights came out suddenly, crossing each other like a string of many-coloured gems. outside the tube station they paused as though the same thought had struck both of them. "it is like the washing of the week before last," mary said, as the indescribable odour floated out to them. "why not take a 'bus?" said he. "the air grows more delicious." "why not, indeed?" she answered. "except that i shall be so late getting home. and it will keep you late for your dinner." "so it will," he said. "to say nothing of your dinner. i know you had only sandwiches and tea for lunch. you have told me that when you go home you make yourself a chafing-dish supper. you must need a meal at this moment. supposing--miss gray, will you do me the honour of dining with me?" "will you let me pay for my dinner? i am a working-woman, and expect to be treated like a man." "if you insist. but i hope you will not insist." she looked at him for a moment hesitatingly. there was no prudery about mary gray. she had become a woman of the world, and she had had no reason to distrust the _camaraderie_ of men or to think it less than honest. "very well, then," she said, "if you will let me pay for your lunch another time." "why, so you shall," he answered. for a usually grave young man he laughed with an uncommon joyousness. "you shall give me one day a french lunch with a bottle of wine thrown in at one-and-sixpence. mind, i must have the wine." "you shall have the wine. but it isn't good form to talk about the price of a lunch you are invited to." laughing light-heartedly, they plunged into a labyrinth of dark streets. the west wind had brought a gentle rain with it now. it was benignant upon their faces, with a suggestion of grasses and spring flowers pushing their heads above the earth. they passed by the soho restaurants, crowded to the doors. they found one at last in a more pretentious street. over the dinner they laughed and talked. there was something intoxicating to robin drummond's somewhat phlegmatic nature in their being together after this friendly fashion. "you have a crease in your forehead, just above your nose," he said, while they waited for their salmon, the waiter having removed the plates from which they had eaten their _bisque_. "have the working women been more unsatisfactory than usual to-day?" "i was not thinking of the working women," she answered. "it is family cares that are on my mind. supposing you had seven young brothers and sisters whom you wanted to help to place out in the world----" "heaven forbid! it's no wonder you look worried. what do you want to do for them, miss gray?" "there's jim. he's seventeen years old. i think he'd make a very good bank-clerk, but at present he wants to go to sea. there isn't the remotest chance of his being able to go to sea. the question is whether he can get a nomination to a bank. it will be quite a step in the social scale if we can manage it for jim." she looked at drummond with her frank, direct gaze, and he blushed awkwardly. "i don't know anything at all about your people, or anything of that sort, miss gray, but if i could help----" "i don't think you could help." mary's big mysterious eyes under their dark lashes, under their beautiful brows, looked at him reflectively. "you see, you don't know anything about us. i am the eldest of a large family. the others are my stepbrothers and sisters. i love them dearly, and i love my stepmother, too. but not like my father--oh, not at all like my father. i would never have left him only he sent me away. lady agatha was very good to me. she paid me a disproportionate salary. and besides--after i had been away from them for a time they could really do very well without me. cis and minnie grew up so fast. to be sure, none of them make up to father for me. but he was really anxious that i should go. he thought i would be cramped at home, after----" she paused, and then went on: "he would never think of himself when it was a question of me." what she was saying did not greatly enlighten him. but, without a doubt, something would come out of the desultory talk by-and-by. as he watched her in the light of the electric candle-lamps on the table, which, sending their shaded light upwards reflected from the white cloth, made her face luminous in the shadow of her cloudy hair, he was struck again by a baffling resemblance to someone he had known. now and again during the months since they had known each other her face had seemed familiar; then the likeness had disappeared; he had forgotten to be curious about it. at this moment the suggestion was very strong. they had the top of the 'bus to themselves as they went on westward. at this hour the traffic was eastward, and the mist of rain saved them from fellow-travellers. they were as much alone as though they were in a desert, up there in the darkness at the back of the bus, with the long line of blurred jewels that were the street lamps stretching away before them. they passed close to the trees overhanging a square, and the branches brushed them. "the sap is stirring in the trees to-night," she said. "can't you smell the sap and the earth?" "i associate you with the country and green things," he answered irrelevantly. "can you tell me, miss gray, how it is that i who have always seen you in london yet always think of you in fields and woods?" she laughed with a fresh sound of mirth. "we met long ago, sir robin," she said. "i have always been wondering how long it would be before you found out." "where?" "think!" a sudden light broke over him. "you were the little girl who came with old lady anne hamilton to the court. it is nine years ago. i never knew your name. lady anne died one long vacation when i was abroad. i did not hear of it for a long time afterwards. i asked my mother once if she knew what had become of you, but she did not. why, to be sure, you are that little girl." "lady anne was very good to me. she gave me an education. only for her the thing i am would not be possible. and i mean to be more than that. do you know that i am writing a book?" "a novel? poems?" "that is what my father's daughter ought to be doing. no--it is a book on the economic conditions of women's work." "it is sure to be good, _citoyenne_." "i am a revolutionary," she said seriously. "i have learnt so much since i have been at this work. i have things to tell. oh, you will see." "i remember lady anne as the staunchest of conservatives." "yes, yet she was tolerant of other opinions in her friends. she was very good to me, dear old lady anne." "to think i should not have remembered!" "i knew you all the time. to be sure, there was your name. i don't think you ever knew my name. you called me mary all the afternoon. do you remember the puppy you sent me--the clumber spaniel? he died in distemper. he had a happy little life. i wept bitter tears over him." "why didn't you tell me before?" "i thought i'd leave you to find out." "i am a stupid fellow." he leant towards her, and inhaled the scent of her violets. "i don't think i should have guessed it now," he said, "only for the spring. to think you are mary!" he lingered over the name. "i am sorry about the clumber. you shall have another when you ask for it." it was a long drive westward. they got down at kensington church, and went up the hill. close by the carmelites they turned into a little alley. the lit doorway of a high building of flats faced them. "now, you must come no farther," she said, turning to him and holding out her hand. "let me see you to your door," he pleaded. "if you will, but it is a climb for nothing." "what a barrack you live in!" he said, as they went up the stone steps. "it was built for working men originally, but perhaps there is none hereabouts. it is now chiefly occupied by working women. they are extremely pleasant and friendly. to be sure, they are west-end working women. now, sir robin, i must bid you good-bye." they were at the very top of the house. the staircase window was wide open, and the sweet smell of wet earth came in. she had put the latch-key in the door and opened it--she had turned on the electric light. now, as she held out her hand to him in farewell, he caught sight of the pleasant little room beyond. he had the strongest wish to cross the threshold on which she was standing; but, of course, it was impossible. "when my cousin comes back from abroad," he said, "i want you to know each other, miss gray. perhaps you will ask us to tea here." "i shall be delighted," she said frankly. "you like your quarters?" he was oddly reluctant to go. "very much indeed." "you are near heaven." "i hear the singing at the carmelites. i can see the tops of the trees in kensington gardens. to be sure, i ought to live nearer my work. but these things counterbalance the distance. by the way, do you know that mrs. morres is in town?" "i had not heard." "she has come up for a week's shopping." "ah! i must call on her. i like her douches of cold water on all our schemes." "so do i." he looked at her with a dawning intention in his eyes. before he could speak the words that were on his lips the opposite door opened, and a young woman, wearing an artist's blouse, with close-cropped dark hair and a frank boyish face, came out. "i beg your pardon, miss gray, do you happen to have any methylated spirit?" "good-night, miss gray." he lifted his hat and went down the stairs. on the next landing he paused and listened with a smile to the conversation overhead. it appeared that mary had only enough methylated spirit for a single occasion. "then you must come to breakfast with me in the morning," said the other girl. "can you oblige me with a few slices of bacon?" it was the true communistic life. he was smiling to himself still as he walked up the hill homewards. "winter is over and past, and the spring is come," he murmured to himself. and to think that a few hours ago the fog was creeping over the city! chapter xviii halcyon weather mrs. morres was looking benignantly, for her, at sir robin drummond. "well, i must say i'm pleased to see you," she said. "it's very handsome of you, too, to give up the affairs of the nation for an old woman like me. how do you suppose things are getting on without you?" "the house is not sitting this afternoon. you know it rises for the easter vacation to-morrow." "on thursday i go down to hazels. i wanted that bad person, mary gray, to come with me. she says she has to work at her book. did you ever hear such stuff and nonsense? as though the world can't get on without one young woman's book. i told her she could do it at hazels. she says she couldn't--that she'll have to be out all day long. london will not tempt her out, she says. is she to go bending her back and dimming her eyes while the lambs are at play in the fields and the primroses thick in the woods?" "she's an obstinate person, mrs. morres. when she has made up her mind to do a thing----" "ah! you know her pretty well." "we first met about nine years ago." "dear me! i had no idea that you were such old friends. i thought you met first in this house." "lady anne hamilton, the old lady who adopted miss gray, was my mother's friend." he said nothing about the fact that twelve hours ago he had not known mary gray for the child he had played with for one afternoon, nor of the long gap between that occasion and their next meeting. not from any disingenuousness; but he had a feeling that he liked to keep that meeting of long ago to himself. "dear me, to be sure you would be interested in mary. you would know a good deal about her. nine years--it is a long time." if he had been the most consummate plotter he could not better have paved the way for the suggestion he was about to make. "put off your return to hazels till saturday morning. i want to take you and miss gray into the country for a day on thursday." "indeed, young man! and wait for the saturday crowd of holiday-makers! a nice figure i should be struggling among them." "i will be at victoria to see you off." "oh, you needn't do that." mrs. morres turned about with the inconsequence of her sex. "i've brought one of the maids up with me. she will take care of me better than most men. she is alarming, this good susan, to the people who don't know her. but i thought you were going abroad?" "so i am. saturday morning will do me very well." "how did you know i was in town? no one is supposed to. all the blinds are down in front and will be till her ladyship returns." "miss gray told me. i saw her yesterday." she looked at him sharply. his honest, plain face reassured her. a friendship of nine years, too. what trouble could there possibly arise after a friendship of nine years? mary must know that he was all but engaged to his cousin. "does she approve of the country trip?" "i have not asked her. i left that to you to do. she has been shut up in london all the winter. she needs a breath of country air." "so she does. she shows the london winter, though you may not see it. very well, you shall take us both into the country on thursday. mary will not dream of refusing me." "that is it. she means to spend those six days between thursday and wednesday toiling at her book. i have heard her say that she will spend thursday at the british museum." "stuff and nonsense, she shan't! the world will do just as well without the book. she must come to hazels on saturday. you will help me to persuade her?" "i will do my best. how did you leave hazels?" "lovely. for the rest, a wilderness of despairing dogs. they will forgive me if i bring back mary. by the way, what have you got for me to do on friday? if you will keep me in town when all the shops are shut! not that it matters. i've finished all my shopping. but am i to spend my good friday here, in this room? london streets are no place for a poor woman on good friday." "will you go to church? there is a service at a church near here, with bach's passion music." "i should like to, of all things. afterwards, perhaps, mary would give us tea at her eyrie. you and she must dine with me. she is coming this evening to dinner. come back to dinner at half-past seven and help me to persuade her. i can only give you a chop. some mysterious person in the lower region cooks for me. she is the plainest of the plain." "it will be a banquet, with you." sir robin was not a young man who paid compliments easily. when he did pay one it had always an air of sincerity. mrs. morres looked pleased. she was very fond of robin drummond. when he and mary met at the door a few hours later he made a jest about their dining together again so soon, and they laughed about it--to be sure, that dinner at the restaurant was a secret, something that did not belong to the conventional life. there was the air of a little understanding between them when they presented themselves to mrs. morres in the book-room which she used for all purposes of a sitting-room during her flying visit to town. it was a pleasant room, with book-cases all round it filled with green glass in a lattice of brass-work. the books were hidden by the glass, but it reflected every movement of a bird or a twig or a cloud outside like green waters. the ceiling was domed like a sky and painted in sunny italian scenery. it was not dull in the book-room on the dullest day. "did you come together?" mrs. morres asked curiously. "i swear we did not," sir robin replied, with mock intensity. "i came from the east, miss gray from the west. we met on your doorstep." "you looked as if you were enjoying a joke when you came in." "there was time for one between the ringing of the bell and the opening of the door." "ah, you see, the people downstairs are very old." mary allowed herself to be persuaded to the country expedition next day. the spring had been calling to her, calling to her to come out of london to the fields. more, she consented to go to hazels on the saturday. the spring had disturbed her with a delicious disturbance. it was no use trying to be dry-as-dust since the spring had got into her blood. the book must wait till she came back. on thursday the exodus from town had not yet begun. they left soon after breakfast. as mary hurried from her kensington flat to paddington station she met the church-goers with their prayer-books in their hands. it was holy thursday, to be sure--a day for solemn thought and thanksgiving. she hoped hers would not be less acceptable because it was made in the quietness of the fields. it was an exquisite day of april--true holy week weather, with white clouds, like lambs straying in the blue pastures of the sky, shepherded by the south-west wind. the almond trees were in bloom. they had begun to drop their blossoms on the pavements, making a dust of roses in london streets. as they went down from paddington the river-side orchards and gardens were starred with the blossom of pear and plum. everywhere the birds were singing jocundly. the promise of spring a few days earlier had been nobly fulfilled. the sun shone powerfully as they left the country station and went down a road set with bare hedges on either side. a week ago there had been frost. now there was a grateful odour from the millions and millions of little spear-heads of grass that were pushing above the ground. on the banks by the side of the road there were primroses and violets, while there was yet a drift of last week's snow in the sheltered copses. they found an inn by the side of the road. to the back of it lay a belt of woods. in front was a great stretch of cornfield and pasturage. in the distance a church-spire and yet other woods. there was no village in sight. the village was, as a matter of fact, lying about its green and velvety common just a little way down the road. the place was full of the singing of the birds, and of another sound as sweet, the rushing of waters. a little river ran down from the higher country and passed through the inn-garden, turning a water-wheel as it went. the picture on the old sign was of a water-wheel. the inn was called the water-wheel. "what a name to think upon!" said mary, with a sigh, "in a torrid london august! it sounds full of refreshment." "its patrons would no doubt prefer the beer-keg," said mrs. morres, and was reproached for being cynical on such a day. while they waited for a meal they explored the delightful inn-garden. it was not sir robin's first visit, and he was able to point out to them the lions of the place. there was the landlord's aviary of canary-birds, so hardy that they lived in the open air all the year round. there were the ferrets in a cage. not far off, in a proximity which must have profoundly interested the ferrets, there was an enclosure of white rabbits. there was a wild duck which had been picked up injured in the leg one cold winter, and had become tame and followed them about now from place to place. there were a peacock and a peahen, a sty full of tiny, squeaking black piglets, hives of bees, all manner of pleasant country things. a lordly st. bernard, with deep eyes of affection, followed sir robin as a well-remembered friend. "out in the woods," sir robin said, "there is a pond which later will be covered with water-lilies. the nightingales will have begun now. the wood is a grove of them. the landlord owned up handsomely when i came here first that 'they dratted things kept one awake at night.' i was only sorry they did not keep me. but after the first i slept too soundly." "what did you find to do?" mrs. morres asked. "fish. there are plenty of trout in the upper reaches of the river." they found their lunch of cold roast beef and salad, rhubarb tart and cream, delicious. the landlord had some good old claret in his cellar and produced it as though sir robin were an honoured guest. they sat to the meal by an open window. there were wallflowers under the window. in a bowl on the table were hyacinths and sweet-smelling narcissi. after the meal mrs. morres was tired. "let me rest," she said, "till tea-time. what did you say was the train? five-thirty? will you order tea for half-past four? it is half-past two now. go and explore the woods. i believe i shall go asleep if i'm allowed. the buzzing of the bees out there is a drowsy sound." mary voted for walking up-stream, and confessed to a passion for tracking rivers to their sources. they stepped out briskly. she was wearing a long cloak of grey-blue cloth, which became her. presently she took it off and carried it on her arm. her frock beneath repeated the colour of the cloak. it had a soft fichu about the neck of yellowed muslin, with a pattern of little roses. he looked at her with admiration. he knew as little about clothes as most men, and, like most men, he loved blue. she did well to wear blue on such a day. the grey of her eyes took on the blue of her garments, a blue slightly silvered, like the blue of the april sky. as the ground ascended, the stream brawled and leaped over little boulders green with the water-stain and lichens. there were quiet pools beside the boulders. as they stood by one they saw the fin of a trout in the obscurity. they met no one. presently they were higher than the woods and out on a green hillside. when they first appeared the place was alive with rabbits, who hurried to their burrows with a flash of white scuts. "if we sit down on the hillside we can see the valley," sir robin said. "we can look down into the valley at our leisure. it is filled with a golden haze. this good sun is drawing out the winter damps. you shall have my coat to sit on. wasn't i far-seeing to bring it?" he spread the coat, which he had been carrying on his arm, for mary, and she sat down on the very edge of the incline. the st. bernard laid his silver and russet head on her skirt. they had lost sight of the river now. it had retired into the woods. when they sat down sir robin consulted his watch, and found that they might stay for nearly an hour. there was a bruised sweetness in the atmosphere about them, which they discovered presently to be wild thyme. they were sitting on a bed of it. he thought of it afterwards as one of the sweetnesses that must be always associated with mary gray, like the smell of violets. the full golden sun poured on them, warming them to the heart. the bees buzzed about the wild thyme and the golden heads of gorse. little blue moths fluttered on the hillside. the rabbits, lower down the hill, came out of their burrows again and gambolled in the sunshine. "how sweet it all is!" mary said impulsively. "i shall always remember this day." "and i." he plucked idly at the wild thyme and the little golden vetches among the coarse grass of the hillside. a fold of the blue dress lay beside him. he touched it inadvertently, and the colour came to his cheek: unobserved, because he had his hat pulled down over his eyes, and mary was sketching for him in detail the plan of her book. it interested him because it was hers. her voice sounded like poetry. he had not wanted poetry. blue-books and statistics had satisfied him very well, hitherto. but, to be sure, he had read poetry in his oxford days. lines and tags of it came into his mind dreamily as he listened to her voice. he did not touch that fold of her gown again. if he was sure--but he was not quite sure. and there was nelly. he supposed nelly cared for him if she was willing to marry him. if nelly cared--why, then, he had no right to think of other possibilities. something had gone out of the glory and enchantment of the day as they went back down the hillside. those lambs of clouds had suddenly banked themselves up into grey fleeces which covered the sun. the wind blew a little cold. "it is the capriciousness of april," said mary, unconscious of any change in the mental atmosphere. he stopped on the downhill path, took her cloak from her arm, and with kind carefulness laid it about her shoulders. as he arranged it he touched one of the soft curls that lay on her white neck, and again a thrill passed through him. he began to wish that he had not planned this country expedition, after all. he ought really to have started this morning for the continent. going on saturday, he would have very little time to stay. on the homeward way mrs. morres reproached him with his dulness. what had come to him? he hesitated, glancing at mary in her corner. mary had enjoyed her day thoroughly, and was wearing an air of great content. she was carrying a bunch of the wild thyme. she had taken off her hat and her cloudy hair seemed blown about her head like an aureole. she had a delicate, wild, elusive air. he withdrew his glance abruptly. "it is a guilty conscience," he said. "i ought not to come back and dine with you to-night. i ought to put you into a cab and myself into another, go home for my bag and take the night-express to paris. the house only rises for ten days and i have to be in my place on the opening night." mary looked up at him with a friendly air of being disappointed. she was engaged in putting the wild thyme into a bunch, stalk by stalk. mrs. morres began to protest-"well, of all the deceitful persons! after luring me to spend a good friday in town. to be sure, i shall have mary. will you come to the good friday service at st. hugh's with me, mary?" "i should love to come." "very well, then. have your bag packed and come back with me to sleep. we shall get off the earlier on saturday morning. so we shan't miss you at all, sir robin." he looked at her with great contrition. "my mother--" he began. "to be sure, your mother has first claim. to say nothing of another." he coloured. mary was looking at him with kind interest. mrs. morres sent him a quick glance--then looked away again. "to be sure, you must go, sir robin," she said, in a serious voice. "i was only jesting. ah! here we are! so it is good-bye." "au revoir," he corrected. "well, au revoir. i hope you'll have a very happy time at lugano. but you are sure to." a moment later they had gone off in their cab, and he was feeling the blank of their absence. chapter xix wild thyme and violets while sir robin and mary gray sat on that english hillside, nelly and her father walked on a hilly road above lugano. the april afternoon was paradise. below, the lake lay blue as a sapphire mirroring a sapphire sky. the space between them and the lake's edge was tinged with a bloom of bluish-rose, for all the almond groves were out in blossom. below them were drifts of sweet-scented narcissi. all around them lay the mountains, monte rosa silver against the sapphire sky. below the fantastic houses clustered to the lake's edge in their little groves and coppices of green. they were talking of robin's coming. the hour of his arrival was somewhat uncertain. they might find him at the hotel when they returned, going home in the evening quietness, when monte rosa would be flushed to rose-pink and the blue sky would die off in splendours of rose and orange. nelly was certainly looking better. not a hint had come to her of the frontier war in which, by this time, her lover must be engaged. the general starved for his newspapers in these days, if he did not get the chance of a surreptitious peep at one at the english library, or when some friendly fellow-guest in the hotel would hand him a belated print two days old. nelly had a wild rose bloom in her cheek and a light in her eye at this moment. who could look upon such a scene and not praise the designer? not nelly, certainly. as they paused for the hundredth time to look she breathed sighs of content and pressed her father's arm close to hers in a caress. even though one's lover had been cruel and had gone away without speaking, it was good to be alive. the appealing influence of the season was about them, too. they had just peeped into a little wayside chapel, where there was a small altar ablaze with lights set amid masses of flowers. the place was heavy with sweetness. here and there knelt worshippers with bent heads. the general had bowed with a reverent knee, and nelly had knelt with him before they had gone out into the blaze of the day again. "there are only two armies, after all, nell," the general had said, explaining himself. "the army of the lord and the army of the prince of darkness. let us rejoice that we have so many fellow-soldiers in the lord's army, though we fight in different regiments." "to-morrow," said nelly dreamily, "the lights will be all out and the little chapel draped in black. there will be the service of the three hours' agony. do you think we might come?" "i'm afraid the dowager would be shocked," her father replied hastily. "she would look upon it as deserting the flag. many excellent women are very narrow-minded." they went along in silence. at intervals they sat down to enjoy at leisure the beautiful world about them. they did not say much. there was little need for talk between two who understood each other so thoroughly. while they dawdled, half-way round the lake from their hotel, the sun dropped behind the hills and left them in shadow. it was time for them to go home. as they went along leisurely, nelly's face, uplifted towards the sky, seemed to have caught an illumination from it. it was the eve of the great sacrifice. already the shadow and the light of it lay over the world. nelly was thrilled and touched. that visit to the wayside chapel had set chords vibrating in her heart. sacrifice for love's sake appealed to her as it does to all generous, impressionable young souls. though her own personal happiness had vanished, gone down under the world with the _sutlej_, there was yet the happiness possible of making those she loved happy. she had understood her father's wistful looks and tentative speeches. she knew that he desired her happiness to be in her cousin's keeping. the old days were over, the sweet days before that other had come, when she and her father had sufficed for each other. they could never come again, and he wanted her to marry robin. robin's mother, who was good to her, had suggested that she was trying robin's patience too far. why, if she could make them all happy--she was not in a state of mind to appreciate what marriage with one man while she loved another was going to cost her--if she could make them all happy, ought she not to do so? "father!" she whispered. "father!" "what is it, nell?" she rubbed her cheek slowly against his arm, not speaking for a second or two. "father, i am ready to marry robin whenever you will." the general's heart bounded up with an immense relief. "whenever i will?" he said, with an air of rallying her. "is it not rather whenever you will? poor robin has been waiting long enough." "you are quite sure he wants me: i mean soon?" "he'd be a dull fellow if he didn't." the general had suddenly a memory of the time when he had called robin a dull fellow in his secret heart because he had been content to wait, endlessly to all appearances. he put the memory away hastily as an uncomfortable one. "to be sure, he wants you soon, nelly, my dear," he said. "as soon as your old father can give you up to him. you have always been robin's little sweetheart from the time you were a child. he has never thought of any girl but you." he made the speech with a gulp, as though it were distasteful to him. "i never thought there was any girl," nelly said simply. "robin is not at all a young man for girls. only he cares so much for politics. he has not seemed in any hurry." "god bless my soul, to be sure, he is in a hurry. he must be in a hurry. when you get back to your looking-glass, little nell, ask yourself whether it is likely that he should not be in a hurry!" he was talking as much to reassure himself as nelly. to be sure, robin must be as eager a lover as it was in his capacity to be. there was nothing volcanic about robin. he was steady, sensible, reliable! yes, better let the affair be settled at once. june would be a good month for the wedding. he could go afterwards and take the cure at vichy for his gout. pat could go with him. perhaps nelly would take over bridget and some of the other servants. why shouldn't robin and nelly have the house just as it stood? he would make them a deed of gift of it. he could have a bachelor's flat somewhere near the parks and the clubs, with pat to look after him. it would be easier for him if the old house sanctified by many memories were not to be broken up. nelly's exaltation carried her on to saturday afternoon. sir robin had arrived on the morning of that day while the general and nelly were out climbing the lower range of a hill. the dowager was no climber. more than that, she had acquired tact and good feeling it seemed in her latter days, for she left father and daughter very much together. the general's heart had begun to soften towards her. he had begun to ask himself how it was that he could have so persistently misjudged her all those years. if gerald had liked her well enough to marry her, surely he could have done her more justice than so to dislike her. the dowager had her son to herself for some hours of the saturday forenoon. he had suggested following nelly and her father up the mountain track, but she had detained him with a demonstrativeness unusual in her, which struck him like a jarring note. what had come over his mother? she had always been a woman of a cold and even harsh manner, at least to him. to be sure, he had noticed with amazement that she had been different to nelly. she ought to have had a daughter instead of a son. he had no idea that if he had been a dashing soldier he might have been a far less dutiful son, a far less satisfactory member of society than he was and yet have awakened a feeling in his mother's breast which she had never given to him. now he was embarrassed somewhat by her playful insistence on her mother's right to her boy for a time. playfulness sat as ill on her as could well be imagined, and he was captious over her raillery on his hurry to be at his cousin's side, calling it atrocious taste in his irritable mind, he who had never been irritable, to whom it would have seemed the worst of taste to question good taste in his mother. more than one person was irritable with the dowager that day. the general was furiously irritable over the transparent man[oe]uvre by which she packed off the young people together. "enough to spoil the whole thing," he thought, pursing his lips and pushing out his eyebrows as he did when he was annoyed. "indelicate! stupid! i'd rather have her when she was disagreeable. my poor nell! she did not look very happy as she went. i had a great mind to go with her and spoil things, after all." the cousins found their way to nelly's favourite haunt, the little coppice of low almond trees with the troops of narcissi and violets and primroses colouring all the brown earth. they went into the little chapel together. it smelt of incense after the ceremonies of the morning. the mournful black had been removed. there were flowers on a side-table, and the sacristan was setting the candlesticks on the fair white cloth which he had just laid along the altar. the scents in the woods at home had been thin and faint by these. standing with his hat in his hand at the threshold of the little chapel, robin drummond had a memory of the scent of wild thyme. he was not one to hesitate when he had made up his mind. his mother had told him that nelly was waiting, ready for the word which might have been hers any time those two or three years back. her father thought the time had come to arrange a date for their marriage. his mother, too, was anxious to see him settled. neither she nor the general was young any longer. they had a right to look upon their children's happiness for the years that were left to them of life. the young people were high on a mountain path, where few were to be met with except an occasional englishman climbing like themselves, or the goatherds with their little flocks. he had helped her up a steep bit of climbing. the exertion had brought an unwonted colour to her face. her hand lay in his, soft and warm. his closed on it and held it. it was the hand of one who had never done anything toilsome in her life, the hand of a petted darling. he remembered another hand, thin, brown, capable. none of mary's later years of ease had given her the hand of a woman of leisure. it was the hand of a comrade, a helpmate. nelly's hand fluttered in his and was suddenly cold. "well, nell," he said, "do you know what i came here in the mind to ask you?" "yes." he saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom; he noticed the almost terrified look of her eyes. was that how women showed their happy agitation when their lovers claimed them? poor little nell! how easily frightened she was! she had turned quite pale. he would have to be very good to her in the days to come. "haven't you kept me waiting long enough, little girl?" he went on with a tenderness which might easily have passed for a lover's. "i've been very patient, haven't i? but now my patience has come to an end. when are you going to fix a date for our marriage?" "we have been very happy," began nelly with trembling lips. "not so happy as we are going to be. god knows, nell, i will do my best to make you happy, and may god bless my best!" as he said it the scent of some little plant, bruised beneath his feet, rose to his nostrils, sharply aromatic. it was the wild thyme, the fragrance of which had hung about him those few days back, no matter how he tried to banish it. "i will be very good to you, nelly, if you can trust me with yourself." it was not the least bit in the world like the love-making of nelly's dreams. to be sure, he was good and kind, the dear, kind old robin he had always been. she was grateful that he was not more lover-like according to her ideals. if he had taken her in his arms and kissed her passionately like that other--she smelt lilies of the valley where robin drummond smelt the wild thyme--she could not have endured it. as it was, she answered him sweetly. "i know you will be good to me, robin. when were you ever anything but good?" then he kissed her, a light kiss that brushed her lips. he felt his own shortcomings as a lover when he saw the blood rush tumultuously to her face, cover even her neck. why, she must care for him with some passion to blush like that for his kiss. he had no idea that it was the memory of another kiss which had caused that wild flush of colour. "well, nell, when is it to be?" he asked, trying to galvanise himself out of his coldness, trying to make the pity and tenderness which she awoke in him take the place of passion. "when you will, robin." "you will never repent it, god helping me," he said again. they came back, as they were expected to, with things settled between them. robin had consulted a calendar in his pocket-book and named a date--thursday, 23rd of july. he would be free then. the house would have risen and he would be able to devote himself to his honeymooning with a clear mind. he had not asked for an earlier date, but it did not occur to nelly to wonder at that. she was relieved to find it so far off. already she thought of the time between as a respite, the "long day, my lord!" of those condemned to death. the dowager saw nothing wrong with the date. they could wander about the continent leisurely, coming home early in june to prepare nelly's wedding-clothes. the general, after his first irritation had passed, had brought himself to tell her of his plan about the house. she approved graciously as she thought. it was very generous of the general. to be sure, robin must have a town house now he was married. sherwood square was a little out of the way and quite unfashionable. still, it was a fine house in an excellent situation to balance those drawbacks. and of course it must be new-papered and painted and modern conveniences placed in it. that could be done while the young couple were away honeymooning. robin must be on the telephone, of course. that was indispensable. and the furniture must be fresh-covered, so much of it as they decided to keep. a deal of it was old-fashioned and had better go to a sale-room. new carpets too. already the dowager was making calculations of what it was going to cost the general. she was capable of a certain grim enjoyment in the spending of other people's money. "do you propose to live with them, ma'am?" the general asked at last, in a constrained voice. she looked at him in amazement. "why, to be sure. poor child, she will need someone beside her. those servants of yours, denis, they've had their own way too much. i've no doubt there's a terrible leakage in the establishment." "if you propose to live with them, ma'am," the general went on, bursting with fury, "i don't give up my house at all. robin can find his own town-house. the servants have done very well for me and nelly. so have the chairs and tables and carpets. i'd nearly as soon send my own flesh and blood to an auction-room." the dowager was alarmed. she tried to propitiate the general after her usual manner towards him. it was as though she tried to distract a froward child. "dear me," she said, "dear me! i didn't mean to offend you, denis. the house is shabby. those dogs have always sat in the chairs and on the carpets. i only thought that we might put our heads together for the good of the young people." "i'm a dutchman if we will, ma'am!" shouted the general. "as for the dogs, did you intend to exclude them, too, from the fine new house? you'd never teach them not to sit in chairs at this time of their lives." this outbreak was followed by the usual fit of repentance, in which the general reproached himself for his hastiness. to be sure, he had been annoyed that the wedding should have been put off for so long. in his haste he had said derogatory things about robin in his heart, which was unreasonable. the fellow was a member of parliament and had to stick to his post, to stick to his post like a soldier. yet, there would be all those weeks of june and july when bad news might come any day about langrishe: and nell would be in london and would hear of it. so, although the thing had come about which he desired, the general was not happy. chapter xx jealousy, cruel as the grave it was the latter end of april when sir robin drummond presented himself again in the big bare room where mary gray transacted the business of her bureau. the windows were wide open now, and the dull roar of the distant street traffic came in. it had been a showery day, and he had noticed as he came up the stairs the many marks of muddy feet which showed that business at the bureau was brisk. the women were coming at last to be organised, to learn a spirit of _camaraderie_, to see that their good was the common good, to have hope for a future which would not be always starvation and deprivation, sufferings in cold and heats, intolerable miseries crowding upon each other. he came up the stairs, looking sadder and sterner than was his wont. he remembered how all last winter he had run up those stairs like a school-boy, being so glad at last to get to the hour he had desired all day. as he passed up the staircase now he looked at the walls, distempered a dirty pink. outside mary's door they were adorned by the effusions of amateur artists, the children of the working women, messenger boys, casual urchins, with the desire of their kind for scribbling. it was all quite unlovely, yet it had made him happy to come there. it was a happiness that he had had no right to and now it must be relinquished. this was the last time he should come after this intimate fashion. he turned the handle of the door and went in, rather dreading to find mary engaged with other visitors; but she was alone. she turned round from her desk as he came in, and, jumping up at sight of him, she came to meet him with an outstretched hand. "congratulate me," she said. "the book is finished and accepted. strangmans have taken it. they took only a week to decide. i am wild with pride and joy. maurice ilbert is one of their readers. he got it to read and recommended it enthusiastically. they are to publish it in june. wasn't it generous of him, because there is so little of it he can agree with?" "oh, ilbert's conscience is pretty elastic, i should say, and he can agree with many things," sir robin answered. he felt vaguely annoyed that ilbert should have had anything to do with mary or her book. ilbert was one of the younger school of tories, a free-lance he called himself, handsome, conceited, immensely clever, a golden youth with an air of oxford and the schools added to him. he was one of the youngest members of parliament, and was gifted with a dazzling and impertinent wit. sir robin had occasionally smarted under ilbert's sallies. he was a target for them, with his serious and simple views, his lean air of don quixote. mary looked at him reproachfully, as though the speech grieved her. "he is very generous," she repeated. "he has come to see me. i found him most sympathetic. it is not a question of parties. he thinks awfully well of the book. he says it will stir the public conscience. to be sure, it is written out of experience, just the plain story of things as they are. i have learned so much since i began this work." he had got over his first ill-temper, and now he spoke gently. "i am sure it is a good book," he said. "i have always felt that you would make a good book of it because you know. ilbert is a very capable critic." he did ilbert justice with some difficulty. he had a sharp thought of ilbert coming in and out as he had been used to, when he should come no more. for the first time in his life, which had had no room for self-consciousness, he compared himself with another man, handsome, debonair, and remembered the lean visage over which mornings he passed the razor, dark, lantern-jawed, almost grotesque. it was the only aspect of himself he knew, the one which was presented to him when he shaved. "now you are like yourself," mary said sweetly. "it was not like you to throw cold water on my pleasure." he turned away his head from her reconciled eyes. she was making what he had come to say doubly hard for him. "i want to tell you something," he said. "i should like you to hear it from me first, because you have been so good a friend to me. i have spoken to you of my cousin, nelly. i wanted you to be her friend. well--i am to marry my cousin in july." there was silence for a moment after he had said it, a silence broken only by the ticking of the noisy clock on the mantelpiece, by the sounds of the street outside. "there has been an implicit engagement between my cousin and myself," he went on as though he set his teeth to it. "i couldn't tell you when it began. it was made for us. i was always ready to be bound by it. she is as sweet a thing as ever lived; but sometimes i have thought that perhaps, perhaps, the cousinly closeness would make the other tie a difficult thing for nelly to accept. i was wrong. she has no desire to break through that implicit bond." he was making an explanation, and mary gray was not the girl to misunderstand him. "i am very glad," she said cheerfully, "very glad. i hope you will be very happy. i am sure that you will be." he looked at her with relief, which was not altogether agreeable. he had not done her any wrong after all. she was not angry with him. but, to be sure, why should she be? it was unlikely that she would have taken more than a friendly interest in him. he mocked at himself, and thought of his harsh uncomeliness. if he had been ilbert now his conduct of all this winter past would have been unpardonable. but ilbert and he were made in a different mould. oddly, the thought did not comfort him--was a bitter one, rather. "won't you sit down and tell me about it?" mary said, her eyes looking at him frankly and kindly. "i am not at all busy. the business of the bureau is pretty well over for the day, and i can finish my proofs at home. do, sir robin." she pushed a chair towards him, and he sat down in it. he felt that he ought to go. it was a concession to his own weakness that he stayed. and he had no inclination at all to talk about his engagement. he tried to say something, tried to imagine what a man happily engaged to be married would find to say to a sympathetic woman-friend about it. he could think of nothing, only that so far as he could see there was no consciousness in the serious bright eyes that watched him. to be sure he ought to be glad. he would be the most miserable hound on earth if he wished her to be unhappy because he was marrying his cousin. yet he was not glad of that ready sympathy. "well," she said at last, "you have nothing to tell me." "what can i say"--he laughed awkwardly--"that i have not already said? we have been brought up like brother and sister, but our elders always expected us to marry when we should be old enough. we have been taking it easy, nell and i; thought there was plenty of time, you know." "and at last you have decided that the plenty of time is up?" she said, filling the gap in his speech. her eyes were wondering now. it was a strange thing to her that lovers should take it easy. "yes, that was it." "of course, i understand now why you felt you had to go that thursday in holy week. it was very good of you to give us so much of your time." "you didn't tell me how you got on, what you did," he said eagerly. he was glad to escape from the discussion of his too intimate affairs. "what did you do on good friday, after all?" "mrs. morres spent the day with me. it was a lovely day. we went to the service at st. hugh's. the music was wonderful. afterwards we sat by the open window and talked. my window-box was full of daffodils. they are just over now. mrs. morres said it was like the country. afterwards i locked up the flat, put the key in my pocket, discovered a hansom--it wasn't easy, but 'tilda, who comes in to tidy up for me every day, managed it. her young man is a hansom-driver. i stayed the night at the square, and we went down to hazels next morning." "was it good?" "exquisite. i finished the book there. we had miraculous weather. i was able to work out of doors in the very same green garden where her ladyship and i worked at the novel last year. the dogs used to sit all around me: and i believe the birds remembered me. i am sure i recognised one robin. i came back like a lion refreshed, with the full copy of the book done up in my portmanteau. since then i have been enjoying the sweets of a mind at ease." "you look it." she did, indeed, look like a flower refreshed. she was wearing a soft grey gown with a little good, yellowed lace about the shoulders. the lace had been a gift from lady anne. it gave the final touch of distinction to mary's air. she had the warm, pale complexion that goes well, with grey, and her hair seemed to have more than usual of gold in it. standing against the light it was blown out like a little aureole full of stars. he had thought that he could like her in nothing so well as her dark blue frock, but now he thought that grey should be her only wear. "what time do you leave?" he asked, glancing at the clock. "not for a long time yet. it is only half-past five. people come in and out here up to quite late. i foresee that my hours will be later and later." "you mustn't let them take too much of your time. you must have time for exercise, for meals, for rest, for your friends----" "i am so profoundly interested in the work that i don't grumble. as for my friends, they can see me here. for exercise i walk most of the way between kensington and this, either coming or going. society is not likely to claim me--at least, not in her ladyship's absence. my few friends can find me here." it was on his lips to ask her to let him walk part of the way home with her. he might have this last pleasure since he was coming here no more, at least not in the old way. but, as though her words had been a challenge, there was a clatter of wheels and horses in the narrow street below. "a carriage," mary said. "it will be one of the fine ladies who are interested in philanthropy and politics." there was a rustle of silks and murmur of voices coming up the stairs. sir robin sat holding his hat in one hand, vaguely annoyed. why should one of those meddlesome fine ladies choose for the hour of her empty, unimportant visit his last hour with mary gray? he sat irritated, shy, awkward, his feelings faithfully reflected in his face. the door opened. a lady came in whom he had occasionally met in drawing-rooms, a slight, tall woman, with a brilliant brunette face. a delicate perfume came with her entrance. she was finely dressed, as fine as a humming-bird, and it became her. she looked incredibly young to be the mother of the slim youth who followed her. the youth was maurice ilbert. his mother, mrs. ilbert, was well known as one of the most brilliant and exclusive hostesses in fine london circles. now she was holding mary's two hands in her own grey-gloved ones. "i insisted that my son should bring me to see you, miss gray," she was saying with _empressement_. "i hope you will excuse my descending on you like this. but i positively had to. this wonderful book of yours--my boy has been talking of it every hour we have been alone. it is such a pleasure to meet you. ah--sir robin drummond, how do you do? are you also privileged to know about the wonderful book?" to robin drummond's mind ilbert's smile and nod had something amused, mocking in them. he had acknowledged the greeting with the curtest of nods. now he got up, shook hands awkwardly with mrs. ilbert, and made his farewells to mary gray. it was sheer ill-temper drove him out as soon as they had come. he had wanted to ask mary if he might bring nelly when she returned to town. he had wanted ... a good many other things. but now he stalked away from her presence with fury in his heart. if the ilberts were going to take her up!--to exploit the book! the ilberts belonged to the young tory party which his soul detested, or he said so in his wrath; as a matter of fact, he had not many detestations, and in the matter of politics he had no personal rancours. yet at the moment he thought he had, and fancied that a part of his indignation was because mary gray, who had learnt in the radical school, was going to be made much of by advanced tories. as he sat in his hansom, "stepping westward" into the heart of the sunset, he bit the ends of his moustache, and it was like chewing the cud of bitterness. mary gray had expanded to answer the genial warmth of mrs. ilbert's manner as a flower opens to the sun. it was not in her to be ungracious, and mrs. ilbert was a charming woman. and now he asked himself what was he going to do for the next month or six weeks till his mother and nelly came home? all the winter he had been in the habit of seeing mary gray two or three times a week. he had been home a week from lugano, and he had kept away; and all the time something stronger than himself had seemed to be tugging at him to take the old familiar road. he had found it a hard struggle to keep away for those ten days. and how was he going to do it for all those weeks to come? he had always had so much to say to her--or, at least, there had always been things he wanted to say, for in his most intimate moments he was naturally rather silent. for a second his thoughts escaped his control, and settled on the pleasantness that bare ugly work-a-day room had meant to him all the winter through. the sodden winter streets, swept by bitter winds, horrible in fog and snow, through which he had hurried on his way had had something heavenly about them. "ah, le beau temps passã©!" he pulled himself together with a sharp shock of reproach. he was to marry nelly in less than three months' time, and he was an honourable man. when nelly was his wife he meant that every thought of his heart should belong to her. he must see mary gray no more. yet as he pushed the thought of her away from him it came to him that another man might find the ugly gas-lit room, the wet winter streets with their bawling crowds and flaring lights, something of the same magical world that he had found them. supposing that man were ilbert? well, supposing it were so, what business had he to resent it? but however he might ask himself rhetorical questions, the jealousy of the natural man swept over him in passion and fury. he said to himself that now he knew why he had always hated ilbert. it was a prevision of this hour. and at the moment the general was offering up his heartfelt thanks that nelly's happiness was secure in the keeping of one so steady and reliable, if rather dull and slow, as robin drummond. chapter xxi two women the travellers came home the first week of june. during the weeks that had come and gone since easter they had wandered about as the fancy took them. rome, florence, genoa, venice. they followed a path of wonders; but, somewhat to her father's dismay, nelly did not prove the passionate pilgrim he had expected. she looked on listlessly at the wonder-world. now that her first exaltation had died away it did not seem so simple a matter to make others happy. there was no royal road, she discovered, to the happiness of others any more than to her own. her father said to himself that nell would be all right as soon as the wedding was over. he had not come to the point of thinking yet that marriage with robin drummond was not the way the finger of god had pointed out to him. it was impossible not to notice nelly's listless step and heavy eyes. the dowager put down these things to ordinary delicacy, something the girl would outgrow. "she wants a husband's care," she said. "to be sure, my dear denis, you have done your best for her. but what, after all, could you know about girls?" "as much as robin drummond, ma'am," the general said, with a growl; and was not placated by the dowager's tolerant smile. he was at once glad and sorry when the weeks were over. he dreaded, for one thing, going back to london where nelly might hear news of godfrey langrishe. to be sure, he had acted entirely for her happiness, yet he had an idea that nell might be angry with him for keeping things from her if she found out that langrishe's regiment was engaged in the deadly frontier war. he had been so used to being perfectly frank with her that his reservation galled him. he had studied with attentiveness the columns of such papers as had come his way, dreading to find langrishe's name among the casualties. hitherto it had not occurred, and for that he was deeply grateful. if there had been news he must have betrayed it to nelly by his eyes and his voice. "i wish we could have stayed longer," she said to him on the eve of their departure from italy. "and i, nell." "oh," she looked at him in wonder. "i thought you were keen to be gone." "is it likely?" he asked with playful tenderness, "that i should be anxious to shorten the time in which you are mine and not robin drummond's?" they were alone, and she turned and put her head on his shoulder. "i shall always be yours," she said. "and i think marriage and giving in marriage a weariness of the spirit." "not really, nell?" the general looked at her golden head in alarm, but already she was reproaching herself. "never mind, dear papa," she said. "i didn't altogether mean it. poor, kind robin! what a very ungrateful girl i am to you all!" as soon as they got back the dowager engaged her in a whirl of shops and dressmakers, and for that the general was grateful. he resorted to man[oe]uvres in those days to keep the newspapers out of nelly's way that revealed to himself hitherto unsuspected depths of cunning. he opened the papers with a tremor. the orange and green and pink bills of the evening newspapers stuck up where nelly could see them, laid on the pavement almost under her feet, brought his heart into his mouth. if they could only tide over the dangerous time, and nelly be married and gone off on her leisurely honeymoon! langrishe might almost fade out of her mind, become at least a gentle memory, before anything could happen to him: or the deadly little dragging war might be over and langrishe have carried out a whole skin. it was the height of the season and nelly had her social engagements as well as the preparations for her wedding. as often as was possible robin drummond put in an appearance, but the house was sitting and much of his time was taken up. he looked rather more hatchet-faced than of old. once, sitting in the strangers' gallery of the house, the general heard someone say as robin was about to speak: "who is that careworn-looking young man?" careworn, indeed! the general fumed and fretted over it, the more because it fell in with a certain secret thought he had had once or twice. robin had always been somewhat too much of an old head on young shoulders to please his uncle. to be sure, he had fed on blue books and slept on statistics, yet his engagement to a lovely girl like nelly ought to have made him look happier. it was indecent in the circumstances, that's what it was, that anybody, with the remotest justification for the epithet, could call him careworn. once robin on an afternoon when the house was not sitting called for his cousin and carried her off in a hansom without saying where he was taking her to. that was something of which the general heartily approved. if robin had done it oftener his opinion of him would have gone up immensely. he rubbed his hands while he asked the dowager what mrs. grundy would say to such doings. "supposing they made a runaway match of it, ma'am, where should we be?" he asked cheerfully. to which the dowager replied that robin would never think of anything so silly. why should he, when the wedding was fixed for the twenty-third and everything ordered, even the bridesmaids' dresses and the wedding-cake? "perhaps for that reason," replied the general. but this was a dark saying to the dowager. the visit that afternoon was to mary gray. even nelly had heard of the book which sir michael auberon had praised so highly, which the newspapers had declared to be more interesting than any novel. she had roused herself to be interested in the visit, to talk, to ask questions, to look about her, as they drove into the east, instead of gazing inwards with that introspective glance which had given her eyes of late the beauty of mystery, making them larger and darker than they had been in the old days. she was exquisitely dressed, in a long cloak of cream lace over an indian muslin frock, and an airy hat of chiffon and feathers. she had put on her best for her outing with robin, her visit to robin's friend. it was one of the sweet things she was always doing, with an intention in her own mind to make up for some lack or other which certainly her lover had not felt. when she alighted in the busy street people stared as though they had seen a white bird of paradise; and coming into mary gray's room with a basket of roses in her hand she looked like a bride. now, at least, she wore the pilgrim air. she looked curiously about the unlikely place which housed the wonderful woman as she set down her roses, then back at mary herself. mary had come to meet her with outstretched hands. her bright look at robin drummond was full of sympathetic admiration, of felicitation. she kissed nelly warmly. she was not an effusive person, and nothing had been further from her thoughts than kissing, but her heart went out at once to this charming girl. "_how_ good of you to come to see me!" she said, pressing nelly's hands in hers. "into the east, too! and you must be so busy just now." "i have been longing to see you," nelly responded. "robin has talked so much about you." at that moment nelly had no doubt that he had talked. "and i wanted to see you here, in your ordinary life. robin says you will not be here much longer--that there will be an official position found for you. and it was here that 'creatures of burden' was written!" "nearly all here," mary said, smiling down at the young enthusiast. robin drummond stood aside, in one of his characteristically awkward attitudes, his hat in his hand, watching them. he was not thinking sufficiently of himself to feel awkward, although he looked it. he was thinking of those two dear women, as he called them to himself, objurgating himself for his unworthiness to be the kinsman and lover of one, the friend of the other. he had never seen nelly look like that before. her air of worship was charming. now she let mary gray's hands fall while she went swiftly to the table on which she had deposited her beautiful red roses. "i brought them for you," she said, offering them to mary gray. "how delicious! how sweet of you!" the smell of the roses was in the room. it might have been the aura of the two exquisite women, he thought. nelly had come in carrying a little whiff of scent that went with her, as much a part of her as the soft rustling of her garments. he closed his eyes and there came to his memory, sweet and sharp, the odour of wild thyme. not a second of time had passed when he opened them again. mary was still praising her roses. she was holding them to her face, leaning towards nelly as she did so. her expression was more than kind: it was tender. she put down her basket of roses and took nelly's hands between hers. for a moment she held them against her breast before she relinquished them. she spoke with a little tremor in her voice. why was it that robin drummond thought suddenly of the nightingale who leans his breast upon a thorn? in an instant the thrill in the atmosphere had passed. she was bustling about to make them tea, if her soft, quiet movements could be called bustling. she brought a kettle from the unpainted deal cupboard which housed her utensils of every day. she disappeared for a few seconds and returned with the kettle full of water and set it on the gas-stove. she pushed the papers away from one end of the table and covered it with a dainty tea-cloth. she brought out cups and saucers of thin japanese porcelain, some sugar, a loaf and butter, a box of biscuits. while she set her table she went on talking and smiling at them. the kettle began to sing on the fire. "ah!" she said, with a sudden thought. "the milkman will not call for an hour yet. what are we to do?" "let me go and forage," said drummond eagerly. "the nearest dairy is a good bit off." "trust me to find one." when he had gone the two girls sat down and looked at each other. no wonder she was beloved, mary thought to herself, gloating over nelly's golden head, her blue eyes with the dark lashes, her lovely colouring, her innocent mouth. she had a poor opinion of her own beauty and rarely looked in a glass, but she was none the less generous to beauty in others. "and you are very happy?" she asked. she had an inclination to put her arms about nelly drummond as though she were a beautiful child. she was so glad robin had remembered to bring her at last. it had been strange and lonely when he had ceased to come as he had been used to. it had been so pleasant to look up when his tap came at the door and to see his plain, pleasant face looking at her with a friendly smile. she had grown used to his visits all that winter through; and when they had ceased abruptly she had missed them more than she cared to acknowledge to herself. she had an impulse to take nelly's hand to her breast and hold it there for comfort. "and you are very happy?" she said again. she was prepared for a happy girl's outpourings. what she was not prepared for was the sudden shadow that fell on nelly's face, the weariness, as though she had been brought back to the thought of something disagreeable. a sudden wintriness went over her charming face. the eyes drooped, the lips trembled and were steadied with an effort. "i ought to be very happy," she said. "everyone is good to me. i have the dearest old father in the world and robin is so kind and good. i ought to be very happy and to make other people happy." but she was not happy! mary stared at the golden head with incredulity. for the moment nelly's mask--a transparent one enough at best--with which she faced the world was down. no happy girl had ever spoken so, looked so. and it wanted only a few weeks to her marriage! mary, no more logical than women less intellectual than she, felt as her first impulse a coldness, chilling her heart that had been so warm towards the girl robin drummond had chosen. the chill must have reached nelly's delicate apprehension, for she looked up in a startled way. "robin promised me your friendship," she began. "and, to be sure, it is yours," mary gray said, still wondering at the inexplicable thing that robin drummond's promised wife could have secret cause for unhappiness. she had no further inclination to caress the girl for whom she had been passed by. "we are going to be great friends," she said with a cold sweetness. then the kettle boiled over and created a diversion. while mary was still mopping up the pool it had made on the floor sir robin returned. his voyage of discovery had not been in vain. he had indeed chartered a hansom to make it, and had brought back fascinating things in the way of cream and tea-cakes and other dainties. as he came in he glanced at the two whom he hoped to see friends. a shadow rested on nelly's face. he saw nothing amiss with mary gray as she went to and fro, busy with the little meal, and had no fault to find with her words as they parted. "we are going to be great friends, miss drummond and i," she said. but the note of the nightingale that leans his breast on the thorn, the note of self-sacrifice and yearning tenderness had gone out of her voice. chapter xxii light on the way it wanted three weeks to her wedding when one day nelly suddenly came upon mrs. rooke in one of the narrow, fashionable streets south of oxford street. mrs. rooke was coming out of a florist's shop, and she was carrying a sheaf of lilies in her hand. for one second she looked as though she would have turned aside and avoided nelly. then she came straight on with a little unfriendly uplifting of her white chin. she might have passed with a bow if nelly had not stopped straight in her path. "how d'ye do?" she said coldly. "what a delightful day! i had no idea you were back. but to be sure ... i must congratulate you. it is next month, is it not?" "yes; it is next month," nelly said with stiff lips. "the twenty-third of july, to be accurate. i have wondered about you. i hope mr. rooke is well and cuckoo and bunny." bunny was the youngest hope of the rooke household, a wise, fat, golden-haired child, who had taken a huge fancy to nelly. at the mention of his name his mother faltered. she had been used to swear by bunny's sagacity. bunny had been fond of nelly drummond; and there had been a time when bunny's mother had referred to that fact as though it were nelly's patent of nobility. "cuckoo is at school. bunny hasn't been very well. those east winds in may caught him. i had a horrible fright about him. imagine bunny--bunny--choking with croup! i thought i should have gone mad!" for the moment she had forgotten nelly's offences, and only remembered that she had been bunny's friend. nelly looked back at her as aghast as herself. "croup! i never thought of such a thing," she responded. "he has never had it before, has he?" "never. that was why i was so terrified. i didn't know what to do. there, don't look so frightened about it! it is over--weeks ago. indeed, the next day he was about, as well as ever. i should never be so frightened again. it was the horrible novelty of it." that frightened look in nelly's eyes had softened the little woman's not very hard heart. "i wish i had known," said nelly. "i have wanted to come to see bunny. i brought him a toy from paris--a lamb that walks about by itself." "ah! you were thinking of him!" there was complete reconciliation now in the mother's voice and eyes. how could she hate the girl who loved bunny and had remembered to bring him from paris a lamb that walked about by itself? she put an impulsive hand on nelly's arm. "come home with me and see him. you are not very busy? you can spare the time?" nelly was on her way to keep a dress-making appointment, but she felt that not for worlds would she have said so. she flushed up quite happily. that moment of hostility on mrs. rooke's part had chilled her sensitive soul. "might i call at sherwood square for the lamb, do you think?" she asked diffidently. "to be sure you may. and i'll tell you what--stay to lunch with me. there'll be nobody but ourselves, of course. it comes to me now that i haven't seen you for centuries." "yes; i should like to stay for lunch, thank you." mrs. rooke rather wondered at the pale determination which came over nelly's soft face, succeeding the flush of a minute before. it did not occur to her that nelly had been pushing away from her with both hands during the weeks since her return the temptation which at this moment was offered to her. nelly was only too conscious of the strength of her desire to hear something of godfrey langrishe. it was a feeling she did not dare look in the face. if she had had any idea at the time she agreed to marry robin that she was going to be haunted by the thought of another man she would never have agreed. even of late there had been moments when her common-sense had whispered in her ears, protesting against the folly of marrying one man when another had so taken possession of her thoughts. but day by day the net had been drawn closer about her feet. the wedding-clothes, the wedding-breakfast, the bridesmaids, the wedding-cake, the hundred and one arrangements for the wedding, had all been strands of the net that held her ever tighter and tighter. how could she, at this stage, contemplate the breaking of her engagement? how could she? the courage of her race had not risen to that. mrs. rooke suggested a 'bus, and nelly agreed. now that she had done the thing against which her conscience protested she did not want to think over-much. she even wanted to postpone the hearing of the name which she had been hungry to hear for so long. the news she had desired too. how was she going to listen to his name, to talk of him calmly? she wanted time to gain courage. a 'bus did not give one opportunities for talking, hardly for thinking. she knew perfectly well that she should find a clear coast at sherwood square. the general had come part of the journey into town with her on his way to the club. poor sir denis! if he could only have seen his nelly now he would not have been so easy in his mind. lady drummond was engaged during the morning hours; she had to lunch with an old friend. nelly had been contemplating lunch in a quiet regent street restaurant rather than the going back to the lonely meal at home. she had known that a telegram to robin would have brought him to her side, but she had not meditated sending that telegram. she had been glad, in her innermost guilty, repentant heart of her morning of freedom from mother and son. the 'bus rumbled along as that vehicle of the middle ages does, making a prodigious screaming in the ears, filling one with horrible electric thrills as the brake was jammed down. neither conversation nor thinking was possible. nelly closed her eyes a little wearily in her corner. the other people in the 'bus had stared as she got in at the fresh daintiness of her attire, conspicuous in the dingy vehicle. now, as she leant back with closed eyes, the tired lines came out in her face. mrs. rooke, from the other side of the 'bus, glanced at her with pitying wonder. "dear me!" she thought to herself. "it isn't the nelly drummond i knew. what has she been doing to herself? she must have been racketting a deal. she doesn't look in the least like a happy bride should. poor child! i wonder if she is marrying against her will?" arrived at sherwood square the lamb was brought down and displayed to bunny's delighted mother. pat whistled for a hansom, and when the two ladies were in he carried out the animal and placed it in front of them, where it created some excitement in its passage through the street. behold nelly, then, presently seated on the nursery floor, winding up the lamb for bunny and forgetting all about her beautiful lavender muslin frock. the mother and nurse stood by as eager as nelly herself. bunny, indeed, was the least interested of the party. to be sure in the wonder-world of bunny's mind baa-lambs that went of themselves and bleated were no great wonder, even though it was a pleasing novelty to find one in his nursery. he was more excited over the reappearance of nelly herself and stood by her with one fat affectionate arm about her neck in a contented silence. in vain his mother asked him if he wasn't pleased. "he is always like that," she said at last. "we took him to the hippodrome and he only yawned, even when seeth's lions came on. he didn't take the smallest interest." "begging your pardon, ma'am, that he did," the nurse interposed. "he were flinging 'imself on his precious 'ead twenty times a day for a week after. 'twas a wonder he had any 'ead left, the precious lamb. them there dratted clowns, i don't 'old with them nohow!" the reconciliation between bunny's mother and bunny's friend and admirer was complete by the time they went down to lunch. nelly had begged for bunny's presence at the meal, and so the young monarch of all he surveyed was seated opposite to her in his high chair, with a napkin tucked under his chin, playing a fandango with a spoon and fork on the little table in front of him. bunny filled the lunch-hour, bunny's sayings and doings--there were not many of the former, but his mother managed to extract gems of wit and wisdom from his taciturnity--bunny's likes and dislikes, bunny's amazing development. only once was langrishe's name mentioned. he had sent home a beautiful mug of beaten silver for bunny. at the sound of his name nelly's eyes were suddenly startled: she caught her breath; the colour swept over her face and ebbed away, leaving her paler than before. presently the luncheon-hour was over and bunny had been carried off for his afternoon's outing. the half-hour or so in the drawing-room was over. nelly was drawing on her gloves, standing by the window which over-looked the narrow slip of square, invisible now for the flowers on the balcony. the fateful visit was nearly at an end and godfrey langrishe's name had been mentioned only once. she had a wild thought that her one opportunity was slipping out of her grasp. she had come here to have news of him. she must not come again. she must try and forget that he existed till such time at least as she could think of him calmly. now she _must_ know, she _must_ hear, what was happening to him away there at the end of the world. she glanced furtively around the pretty room, to which she would not come again. it was as though she said farewell to its comfort and pleasantness. she was not going to see bunny and his mother again, not for a long time at least. her gaze came back to the window, pausing ever so slightly on its way to glance at a portrait of langrishe which hung on the wall, a portrait painted in the days when he had been his uncle's heir, by a great painter. she had been conscious all the time she had been in the room of the presence of the portrait although she had not looked its way. the picture had caught the quiet passion and intensity of godfrey langrishe's gaze, as though he looked on deeds of glory and fought his way towards them. the face was less stern than she remembered it; it had yet some of the bloom and bonniness of his boyhood; renunciation had not written its deeper meaning in lines about the lips and eyes. she opened her mouth to speak of him, but at first no words would come. the fastening of her glove took all her attention it seemed. she had turned to the light for it, away from mrs. rooke's sympathetic glances. she had almost controlled her voice to speak without trembling when the thing was taken out of her hands. "i must not let you go," mrs. rooke said, "without giving you a message from godfrey. a message and gift. it came a week ago. see--here it is. i was going to post it to you." she took up a packet from the side-table. "how is he?" at last it was said. nelly's hand closed over the little packet. she would open it when she got home. to think that he remembered--that he had chosen a gift for her! was there a word with it, perhaps? her first letter--and her last letter--from him was lying perhaps in her hand. but what was it mrs. rooke was saying? she bent her ears greedily to listen. "he was well when he wrote, but the letter was written some time ago. where he is, it is not easy to get letters carried in safety. one never knows what may be happening. it is, of course, a terrible anxiety." the tears came into her eyes. there had been a little shadow over her brightness even while she had watched bunny. nelly had been aware of it dimly. what did she mean? "anxiety!" nelly repeated falteringly. "why should you be anxious? he is not ill, is he?" her heart had sunk, heavy as lead. her soul cried out in fear. "you know he is with the punitive expedition against the wazees for the murder of major sayers and his companions? you never can tell what dreadful thing may be happening to him. it isn't possible you didn't know? and i had been thinking you hardhearted! ah!" her arms went round nelly. "it isn't possible you didn't know? _don't_ look like that! do you care so much as all that, nelly? why, then, why, in the name of heaven, did you let him go? why are you marrying your cousin? my poor godfrey!" she was conscious of a strident voice shouting the evening papers in the street outside. indeed, even while she spoke to nelly, half her brain was listening in a strained way to that voice as it came nearer. what was it the creature was shouting? before she could hear distinctly the voice died away again in the distance. "why did i let him go?" nelly repeated after her. "because, because, he would not stay. he knew that i loved him, but he would not stay. he never seemed to think of staying. when he had broken my heart it seemed that i might as well make others happy. my father, lady drummond, my cousin; they have been so good to me always." "but you were engaged to your cousin, weren't you, when godfrey left?" little mrs. rooke's dark eyes looked black in her frightened face. "you were engaged to your cousin, were you not, just as you are to-day?" "i never accepted my cousin till--till captain langrishe had gone. it was understood that when we grew up we should marry to please our parents if we saw nothing against it. no one would have wanted to bind me if i did not wish to be bound." mrs. rooke flung up her hands with a dramatic gesture. "heaven forgive me, my poor nelly, for it was i who sent godfrey from you! i told him you were engaged to your cousin. i had been told so explicitly by lady drummond herself. how could i doubt that it was true?" nelly turned a white face towards her. oddly enough, in spite of its pallor the face had a certain illumination. "so he went away because of that. only that stood between us. do you think i am going to let that--a lie, a mistake--stand between us? i am going to break off my engagement, even at the eleventh hour." the daughter of the drummonds had found the courage of her race. she stared uncomprehendingly at the alarm in mrs. rooke's expression. "don't do anything rash," the little woman said, in a frightened voice. "supposing godfrey did not come back. supposing----" again there sounded in the distance the voices of the vendors of evening papers. the voices came nearer, one, two, half a dozen of them. they were all shouting together. "there must be some news," mrs. rooke said under her breath. "i shall come and see you to-morrow," nelly said. "to-morrow i shall be free to come and go where i like. do you know that i was bidding this room and you and bunny a long good-bye five minutes ago? and if he never comes back--well, he will know i waited for him." so preoccupied was she with her intention that she never noticed the newspaper boys and men fluttering their stop press editions like the wings of some birds of evil omen. as she sat in the hansom she drew the engagement ring off her finger and dropped it into her purse. then she sighed, as though an immense burden had fallen from her. chapter xxiii the news in the _westminster_ as nelly's hansom drew up at her own door another hansom was just turning away from it. she wondered with an impatient wonder who could have come. at the moment she could not have endured any hindrance between her and her project of telling her father that the engagement with robin was to come to an end. she was not in the least afraid of what she had to do. the spirit of the drummonds was thoroughly awake now. beyond her announcement to her father lay something vaguely painful which at the moment she did not consider. she would have to tell lady drummond and robin, of course, and it would hurt them: they would be angry with her. she was going to make a scandal, a nine days' wonder. her father would be grieved--angry, too, perhaps; but that could not be helped either. and then--some resentment stirred in her heart against him for the first time during all the years in which they had been together. he had kept her in ignorance of her lover's peril. she was not a child that she should have been kept in ignorance. for the moment she had no tender excuses for him. if he had been candid with her, then all this trouble about robin might have been spared, for she could never have promised herself as wife to another man while the one she loved was in daily and hourly danger. she went into the house with a look of stern accusation on her young face. the dogs came shrieking down the stairs in vociferous welcome as usual, but she took no notice of them. being old dogs and wise, they recognised a forbidding mood in her, and retired with deprecating wrigglings of their bodies. she asked pat if there were a visitor in the drawing-room. "no, then, miss, only the master. i can't make out what came over him at all to be comin' home in a hansom." he was minded to tell her that the general was not looking himself, to give her an affectionate, intimate warning; but she passed him by. he stood watching her, holding the door open in his hand till she took the bend of the staircase that hid her from his sight. "bedad, the dowager couldn't have done it better," he said, "shweepin' by me without a 'by your l'ave, pat'; and the master, callin' me 'murphy' to my face, what he's never done since he left the rig'ment. i wonder what's the matter with pat. 'twill be 'corporal' next." nelly looked into the drawing-room. her father was not there. she turned the handle of another door, the door of the general's own particular den, and going in she found him. she never thought of asking herself how he came to be there at this hour of the day, he who lived by rule, the click of whose latch-key had sounded in the hall-door every evening at a quarter to seven as long as she could remember. the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to ten minutes to five. the general was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace as though he had dropped into it on his entering the room. he was doing absolutely nothing, and that was an alarming thing enough, if but she had noticed it. a green evening paper was crumpled on his knee. if she had eyes to see it there was calamity in his attitude and his looks. but she had no eyes. she was too much absorbed in the thing she had to do. "what, nell!" he said, getting up as she entered. "we must have come home almost together. where have you been, child?" to his own ear his voice rang false, but she did not notice it. she did not meet his kiss. she did not see that he was looking at her with a fearful apprehension. "what is the matter, nell?" he stammered, noticing the alteration in her looks. she came and stood beside him, seeming to tower above him. "father," she said, "i am not going to marry robin. i want him to know at once." "not marry robin!" this was something the general was unprepared for. "not marry robin! god bless my soul, nell! it's very late for you to say such a thing--within three weeks of your wedding! and all the arrangements made! what will people say? what will the dowager say? you can't play fast and loose with a man like that, nell. why, it will be the talk of the town." he tried to work himself up to the old fretting and fuming, but there was no heartiness in it. under the projecting eyebrows his old frostily-blue eyes had a scared look. but if he had been in such a passion as he had shown on a certain historic occasion when the regiment had nearly scattered before the approach of screaming dervishes--a passion which had rallied the men and won sir denis his v.c.--it would have been all the same to nelly. "all that is perfectly immaterial," she said. "i am sorry for robin and for aunt matilda. but all that will pass. i was mad to consent to the marriage. i am only glad that i came to my senses in time." was this nelly?--this young, sure, inflexible creature! he stared at her in utter amazement. "supposing i were to say that you must go on now since you have gone so far, nell?" he said, and felt at the same time the futility of the saying. "i never thought my girl would play so shabby a trick on gerald's son. you know that people will laugh at robin?" "they won't. robin is not the sort of person to be laughed at--at least, not for long. besides, if it is any consolation to you, father, i may tell you that it will not hurt robin much: robin is not and never has been in love with me." "what!" the general now was genuinely indignant. he had forgotten for the moment his other perturbation, whatever it might be. "what do you mean, nell? your cousin not in love with you! after all the years during which you have been meant for each other! impossible, nell! robin _must_ be in love with you." "he is not; he never has been. that is my consolation, so far as he is concerned. father, why did you keep from me the fact that captain langrishe was fighting the wazees? why did you?" the general's colour deserted his cheeks once again. "poor langrishe! what was the good of letting you know, nell? you used to be--interested in the poor fellow." "you shouldn't have kept it from me. i didn't read the newspapers, or i should have known. do you know why i didn't read them? because if i had i must have turned to the army news. i was fighting that as a temptation. i was trying to drive him from my mind. i kept away from his sister, although she had been kind to me; i went nowhere where i might hear his name. then to-day i met her by accident. i went home with her. she told me--do you know what she told me?" "what, nell?" "that her brother went away under the impression that i was engaged to robin drummond. aunt matilda had told her so and she had told him. so that is why he left me." "i see," the general groaned. "a nice lot of trouble has come out of that scheme of your aunt matilda's for marrying you and robin. i never would agree to it; i used to say: 'let it be till the children are old enough to choose for themselves.' i wish i had taken a stronger stand. i only wished for your happiness, nell. i always liked poor langrishe, and felt i could trust him with even what i held dearest on earth. i did my best for you, nell. if i kept his danger from you, it was only that i hoped to keep you from suffering like those other poor women." she did not notice the haggardness of his face, nor the repetition of "poor langrishe." she was too much absorbed in getting to the root of things. she was determined to know everything. "what happened when you went to tilbury?" was this young inquisitor his nell? "i didn't see him. the boat had gone." "and i thought you had offered me to him, and that he had rejected me! oh, i know you would have done it in the most delicate way. there need not have been a word spoken. but it would have been the same thing in the end. i thought his love was not great enough to conquer his pride." "my train broke down, nell; i came ten minutes too late. i thought the hand of god was in it." "it was a mere accident. god had nothing to do with it. i am only grateful that it has not ended worse. if i had married robin and then discovered these things----" "don't say that you couldn't have forgiven me, nell." the general took out a big white silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it. "don't say that you couldn't have forgiven me! i meant it all for the best. my little nell couldn't be hard with her old father." she stooped suddenly and caught his hand to her lips. she noticed with a tender contraction of her heart that it was an old hand--knotted, with purple stains. "i should be a brute if i could be angry with you," she said; and the tenseness of her face relaxed to its old softness. "ah, that's right, nell--that's right. we couldn't do without each other. you've always your old father, you know--haven't you, dearie?--no matter what happens. i'll stand by you, nell. i'll take you away. no one shall be angry with my nell." "you are too good to me," she said. "and i've been angry with you! what a wretch i was to be angry with you! on my way here i telegraphed to robin to come this evening. i must get it over. you shall take me away if you will afterwards. i would stay and face it if it would do any good, but it wouldn't. after all, there is no great harm done. robin's heart will not be broken." "and afterwards, nell?" "afterwards? oh, you and i shall be together." "yes; we did very well when we were together. listen, nell." he put his arm about her. "i want you to be strong and brave. i came home to tell you, lest you should hear by accident. his poor sister did not know----" the general's den looked out on the square gardens. it was quite a long way across them to the road; yet through the quietness of the golden afternoon there came the shouting of the newsboys. it all flashed on nelly with a blinding suddenness. to be sure, they had been calling the same thing while she stood with his sister and learned why he had left her, only she had not known. "he is dead," she said, with an immense quietness. it was as though she had known it always. "no; not dead, nell--terribly wounded, but not dead. he is in english hands." he stopped, shuddering. if he had been in those black devils' hands to be tortured to death! he had been only saved by a sudden rush of his men. even his wounds would not have saved him from torture if god had not delivered him out of their hands. "show it to me." all of a sudden she saw the newspaper which had been lying crumpled on his knee. that had contained the news all the time while they had been talking about things that mattered so much less. he did not try to keep it from her. he turned over the paper and found the page of it which had the latest news. there it was, with its staring headlines. she seemed to have seen it just so, in another life. she read it through to the end. it had been an ambush. the small detachment of troops had been led by the guide into the midst of a large body of the enemy--it had been surrounded. captain langrishe had fallen, as had a young lieutenant. the men had stood shoulder to shoulder, fighting desperately. by the most desperate courage they had rescued the bodies of their officers, which were being carried by the tribesmen into one of their towers among the hills. they had fought their way back with the bodies strapped to their horses. lieutenant foley proved to be dead. he had been hacked and hewed with knives. captain langrishe had been more fortunate; the life was still in him when the last intelligence had been sent down. there was very little hope of his recovery. nelly neither cried out nor fainted. when she had finished the reading she laid down the paper quietly. her father watched her in mingled terror and relief. she was seeing it all--the rocky gorge with the inaccessible hills on either side, filled in with scrub and low trees; at the little neck of the gorge the dreadful tower; the small body of britishers fighting their way step by step backward; the dazzling blue sky over all. was heaven empty that such things happened? she remembered in a kind of daze that she had been at a garden-party that very afternoon. she had worn for the first time her white silk frock with the roses on it and she had seen in many eyes how well it became her. that had happened in another world. a great gulf stretched between even the events of the afternoon and this time--this time, in which she knew that godfrey langrishe was dead or dying. "i wish he might have known," she said quietly, "that after all i was not engaged to robin." chapter xxiv the friend robin drummond had heard from his cousin's own lips his dismissal. her father would have spared her, but nelly would not hear of that and he let her have her way. she told robin everything in a dull, unmodulated voice, with a dead-tiredness in it which revealed her unhappiness more eloquently than words could have done. she stood by the mantel-shelf, holding one hand over her eyes while she told him. when she had finished there was a momentary silence. "you are not angry with me?" she asked, turning about and looking at him with eyes of suffering. "my poor child! could i have the heart to be angry with you?" "ah! that is right. you were always kind, robin. i shouldn't have liked you to be unkind now. you must win me your mother's forgiveness." "she will come round in time." he had an idea his mother would take it badly. but, of course, she would have to come round. the whole bad business had been her fault in a way; and if she was hard on nelly, he felt like telling her so. "i am glad to think i have done you no great harm, robin. indeed, the harm would have been in marrying you. i have realised for some time that i was not essential to your happiness." he opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. he was not a diplomatist. "i am very fond of you, nelly," he said, after a pause. "yes, i know you are. so am i fond of you. it was not enough, of course; i ought to have known better." "and i. i can't forgive myself, nell, for having been in a way the cause of the mischief. take courage, dear. all may yet be well. god knows what happiness is in store for you." "god knows," she echoed; but there was no assurance in her tone. the general, lying in wait for him, drew him into his own den. he put his hand on robin's shoulder, leaning heavily on it, like an old man with his son. "i'm sorry for this, so far as it concerns you, my lad," he said. "but my great trouble is for my girl. she is taking it too quietly. i don't know what is happening--inside. one knows so little about women--how they take those things. she ought to have a woman with her." "his sister. she is a good little woman, and she adores him. she would be good to nelly." "you can't go tearing off to people's houses at this hour of the evening"--it was nine o'clock--"and asking them to come with you. to be sure, the sister knows. i don't want nell talked about." "nor i. let him come home well and then they can talk of the nine-days' happy wonder. i'm going to the sister. if she fails, there is miss gray." the general snatched at the idea. "she came to see nell the other day and i liked her. i began with a prejudice--i've no liking for women who take up the trade of politics. writing books, too! i'm glad my nell doesn't write books. i shouldn't like to see her name stuck up in the papers. but this miss gray of yours. she overcame my prejudice. she looks clean, my lad, clean outside and within. nell's fond of her. the dogs pawed her as if they had known her all her life. i trust a dog's judgment. she didn't mind it either, though she was fresh as a daisy. what do you propose to do? to ask her to come round and see nell to-morrow, if the sister fails? you can't very well ask her to come to-night." he looked wistfully at robin. "miss gray often works late," the other said, consulting his watch. "if she is at home, why shouldn't she come back with me? she may be out, of course; the world has begun to run after her. she is not much attracted by the world, but she gives kindness for what she takes to be kindness. she is not conventional. if she feels she is wanted she won't mind coming in at ten o'clock." "i believe nell would talk to her," the father said eagerly. "if nell would talk to someone my mind would be at rest. poor nell! the purpose of my life was to keep her from pain and sorrow." he went back to his room shaking his old head, and robin drummond went out into the night. he drove first to mrs. rooke's house, and found the mistress absent. she had gone off to an old mother who had to be consoled. fortunately it was not far to mary gray's little flat, not more than ten minutes' hansom drive. he told the driver to wait while he ran up the stone steps. to his relief, when he had rung the bell at the white door he heard someone stirring within. mary herself opened the door. "forgive my coming at this hour," he began apologetically. even as he spoke he remembered that he had had a chance of seeing those little rooms that held mary and had relinquished it on that bygone good friday. he looked enviously beyond mary herself to the glimpse of lamplit room. he could see a white wall with pictures on its panels, a bit of a dwarf bookcase, a chair drawn to a table heaped with books, a green-shaded reading-lamp. against the lighted background mary's cloudy hair stood out illumined. "what is it?" "it is my cousin. she is in great trouble. i will explain to you as we go along. can you come to her? her father is anxious about her." she was a woman in ten thousand. she asked no questions, although it occurred to him that it must seem odd to her that she should be summoned, that nelly should be in great trouble, seeing that he and her father were well. "shall i stay the night?" she asked. "your cousin was so very anxious that i should come and stay with her. she showed me the room i should have--next to hers. sir denis seconded the invitation warmly. i said that i would try to come." "it will be the best thing in the world. how long will you take to get ready? i have a hansom at the door." "five minutes." she came down the stairs in four and a half minutes. robin had been expeditious; it yet wanted twenty minutes to ten by his watch. he helped her into the hansom, got in himself and placed her little bag at their feet. the hansom turned up the hill. she waited for him to speak. "nelly has found out that she made a mistake," he said quietly. "her heart was not given to me, but to a captain langrishe of her father's old regiment. news has come that he has been badly wounded, so badly that in all probability he is dead by this time. he had exchanged into an indian regiment, and almost as soon as he got out he was sent into the hills on the business of this wretched little war. those conquests of ours, what they cost us! why should we have all those thousands of miles of frontiers to defend? why can't we stay at home and let the territories be for their own people?" she smiled quietly to herself in the corner of the cab. the sudden excursion into politics was so characteristic of him. the wind of the summer night came cool and friendly in their faces. the blue heaven was studded with stars. a little half-moon hung above the quiet shadows of the square through which they were passing. for the stillness they might have been miles away from london. "what a don quixote you are!" she said. "i believe you would cede india if you had your way." "i believe i should. don't you wonder at me, miss gray? my forbears devoted their existence chiefly to extending the boundaries of the british empire. am i not their degenerate descendant?" "oh, you're a fighting man in other ways. you don't mind facing a hostile audience and saying unpalatable things to them. mr. ilbert says you'll have to fight for your seat at the next election." "i wouldn't be bothered with a seat i hadn't to fight for. all the same, i'm obliged to ilbert for his interest in my affairs. do you know that he referred to me as a little englander the other night, as though there were only one way of loving one's country and that to rob other people of theirs?" his tone was an offended one. the name of ilbert seemed to have power to irritate him. he resented the idea that ilbert had talked to mary of him, disparaged him; he supposed she saw ilbert often. the idea was exceedingly distasteful to him. "he has the highest opinion of your honesty and capacity, your patriotism too," mary said. he did not want ilbert's commendation; he hated that mary should quote his opinions. he lay back in the hansom, staring before him, and his expression was one of unmixed gloom. even her neighbourhood had no power to cheer him, although at first he had had a sensation of delight in her nearness to him, the perfume as of flowers that hung about her, the soft folds of her dress which he had touched in the darkness. they were driving along sherwood square now. across the square itself robin could see the lit windows of the general's house. their time together was short, he thought; and perhaps the same thought occurred to mary, for she touched his sleeve with a gesture of sympathy. "will you let me say," she said, "how sorry i am for the pain and trouble this must be to you?" "you mean, because nelly has--has chucked me?" "yes; i mean that." for a moment he looked down in silence. he wondered if he had any right to tell the truth. would it not be like a disparagement of nelly if he were to confess that he had never loved her? a memory floated into his mind. it was of lady agatha chenevix and something she had said to him once at a dinner-party. "when i must be indiscreet----" she had begun. "yes?" he had answered laughingly. "when was your ladyship ever anything but indiscreet? and who has made indiscretion adorable like you?" her ladyship had bidden him hold his tongue with frank camaraderie, and had finished the speech. "when i am indiscreet, i am indiscreet to mary. she is like a little well, into which one drops one's indiscretions and puts the lid on." "a very clear, transparent, honest well," he had said. after the momentary pause he lifted his head. the rest of the world might think him heartbroken if it would; he wanted mary to know the truth. "as a matter of fact, miss gray," he said, "nelly has not broken my heart. she had always been very dear to me, like a dear little sister. there was a time when i felt that it would be quite easy to fall in with my mother's plan and marry nelly. but i had come to the conclusion that my feeling for her was not enough for marriage, before that time in the spring when my mother intimated to me that nelly was ready to fulfil her engagement. i never considered it an engagement. i was actually about to make things clear when that intimation was given to me. then, i was led to believe that nelly had taken it as binding. what could i do only go on? if nelly cared for me--i confess that i ought to have known it to be an unlikely thing--then my great concern in life was that nelly should not suffer. it was all a pretty bad mistake, but i am glad it has gone no further." he heard something like a sigh, so faint that he could be hardly sure he heard it. it was, in reality, mary's thanksgiving and great relief; a burden which had lain at her heart for months past taking wings to itself and flying away. she had not acknowledged to herself that cold doubt about robin drummond, who had seemed to come so near to her, while all the time he belonged to another woman. she had pushed away the doubt with loyal refusal to hear it; but it had been there all the time. now it was gone for ever. there was no more need of excuses or explanations to her own heart. "thank you for telling me," she said. they were at the house-door and the hansom had pulled up. they went up the steps between the couchant lions and before they could knock pat had opened the door, as though he had been listening for them. "miss nelly is in the drawing-room, sir," he said in his privileged irish way; "but the master has just gone into the study." they went up to the drawing-room. nelly was sitting in a chair by the open window as robin had left her, tearless, her unemployed hands lying in her lap. the circle of dogs about her watching her with anxious eyes would have been humorous in other circumstances. the lamps were lit behind her, but there was no light on her face, except the dying light in the pale western sky. "i have brought you a visitor, nelly," robin said. she looked up indifferently. then something of interest stirred in her face. "you have heard what has happened?" she said in a half-whisper. mary knelt down beside her and put her arms round the little frozen figure. "why, you are cold!" she said. "come away from the window. i am going to ask for a fire, and then you will talk to me about it." robin drummond left them together, and went down to tell pat to light the fire in the drawing-room, because miss nelly was cold. chapter xxv the one woman mary gray's loving, capable care and sympathy carried nelly through the worst days of her trouble. there were times when mary had to hold the girl's hands, to fight with all her might against the acute suffering which menaced for a time her sanity and her health. the horrors into which nelly fell when she thought upon the things which happened in such wars as this with cruel and cunning savages, were the worst things to fight. there were hours in which all the fears of the world seemed to be let loose on the unhappy child, when it seemed impossible to vanquish those powers of darkness with one poor woman's love and prayers. during these days mary gray hardly left nelly's side. fortunately she had ceased to direct the bureau, and another capable, much more common-place, young woman had taken up her task. the official appointment was on its way, but had not yet arrived. so she was free to devote herself to her friend. the doctor whom sir denis called in could do little for the patient except prescribe sleeping draughts to be taken at need. he understood that the girl had had a shock. he suggested a change, but nelly would not hear of that. she must stay on in london where the first news would come. so stay on they did, through the torrid heats of july, when the dust was in arid drifts on the square green gardens and blew in through the open windows, powdering everything with its faint grey. "this young lady is better than my prescriptions," the doctor said handsomely of mary gray. and added, "indeed, what can we do for sorrow except give the body a sedative?" "if she could face her trouble clear-eyed," mary said, "i should feel glad in spite of everything. it is these mists and shadows in her mind that it is so hard to fight against." after a little while they were left pretty well to themselves in sherwood square. the dowager was angry with nelly as her son had anticipated; and, after a scene with robin which prevented a scene with sir denis, she had gone off over the sea to the court. everybody went out of town: even sherwood square emptied itself away to the sea and the foreign spas. only robin drummond stayed in town and came constantly. during the early days when nelly kept the house and refused obstinately to go out of doors, he would leave sir denis in charge and carry mary off for a walk in the square. the first sign of interest that nelly showed in other things than her sorrow was when she indicated to her father the distant figures of mary and robin moving briskly along at the farther side of the square. "do you notice anything there, papa?" she asked. "what do you mean, my pet?" sir denis was quite flurried at nelly's suddenly coming out of her brooding silence. "i mean mary and robin," she answered. "it has been borne in on me that that is why robin was not in love with me. poor robin! he would have gone through it heroically. never say again, papa, that he is not a true drummond. and i should never have known if he could have helped it that i wasn't the only woman for him." "you don't mean to say, nell, that robin is in love with miss gray?" "that is it, papa." the general turned very red. for a second his impulse was towards wrath; then he checked himself. "to be sure, as you didn't want him, nell, it would be the height of unreasonableness to expect poor robin to be miserable for your sake. and miss gray is a fine creature--a fine, handsome, clever creature. still, there is a great difference in their positions. it will be a blow to the dowager." "mrs. ilbert would not have minded." "god bless my soul! you don't mean to say that miss gray could have had ilbert?" "she has refused him, but i don't think he has given up hope." "god bless my soul! why, the ilberts are connected with half the peerage. we drummonds are only country squires beside them. such a handsome fellow too, and with such a reputation! why should she refuse ilbert? is the girl mad?" "robin was first in the field. but i happen to know that mary refused mr. ilbert while yet robin and i were engaged. what do you think of that?" "madder and madder. i don't understand women, nell. such a fellow as ilbert! why, he might marry anybody. we must make it easy for them with the dowager, nell--as easy as we can. we owe a good deal to miss gray." "oh, she'll come round--she'll have to come round." "do you suppose they understand each other, nell?" "i don't think robin has spoken. he seems to be waiting for something. i have only noticed the last day or two. before that i was absorbed in my troubles--such a selfish daughter, papa." "my darling, we have all felt with you. it is so good to see you more yourself, nell." "ah!" she turned away her head. "i have a feeling--there is no reason for it at all--that good news is coming. i felt it when i awoke this morning." meanwhile robin drummond and mary had the square almost to themselves, except for a gardener or two. all around the square were shuttered and silent houses. it was the most torrid of early august days, and presently the heat drove them to a sheltered seat beneath a tree. in the mist of heat around them the bedding-plants, the scarlet geraniums, the lobelia and beet, made a vivid glare. only in the forest trees, too dense for the dust to penetrate, were there shadow and relief. they were talking of nelly. "she will be all right now," mary said. "she has come out of the darkness. even if she has his death to bear i think she will bear it. she reproaches herself for the pain she has caused her father." "poor uncle denis! he lives in terror about nelly. she is all he has had since her mother died." "i think he may rest easy now. nelly is not going to die--not even of grief. now that she is better, sir robin, why don't you go away? i know your yacht is waiting for you, and you have got the london look; you want change." "i shan't go till there is news one way or another." "there ought to be news soon. it is hard on you waiting from day to day." "i don't feel it hard. perhaps if the good news came i might induce them to come away with me on the yacht. it would be the best thing in the world for them. for the matter of that, why don't you go away? you also have the london look." "oh, i shall go gladly when i may. i am really longing to be off. do you know what i shall hear when i go over there?--a sound i am longing for." "what?" "the rain. i close my eyes now and fancy i hear it pattering on the leaves. oh, the music of it! one is never long without it at home. we've had six weeks without rain here. can't you imagine the soft, delicious downpour of it? the music of the rain--my ears hunger for it." "oh, now indeed i see that it is time you went. you will probably have enough of the rain." he spoke gloomily, and she laughed. "it will probably rain all the time i am there. and i shall be able to forgive it because of its first delicious moments." "what are you going to do?" he asked the question almost roughly. "i am going to be with my father, in a mean, little two-storied house of six rooms. at least, it is mean outwardly; but no house could be mean inside where he lived and spread his light. he will have to be at his work every day till he gets his fortnight's holiday in september. if i get away in, say, a fortnight's time, i shall help my stepmother about the house while he is at business all day; i shall have a thousand things to do. they have only one servant; and my stepmother and sisters do the greater part of the work. they would treat me like a queen when i go over there, if i would let them; but i never do let them. i love dusting, and cooking, and mending, and helping the little ones with their lessons. then as soon as my father is free i am going to carry them off to a hotel i know between the mountains and the sea. it is a big, old-fashioned house, and there is a lovely garden, full of roses and lilies, and phlox and stocks and hollyhocks and mignonette and sweet peas. i stayed there once with dear lady anne. we shall all have a lovely time. there is a trout-stream at the end of the garden and the trout sail by in it. there are hundreds of little streams running down from the mountains. they make golden pools in the road and they hang like gold and silver fringes from the crags that edge the road." there had been a deliberation in what she told him about the little house. but she was mistaken if she thought to surprise him. he was picturing her there at her domestic duties and thinking that no small or mean surroundings could dwarf her soul's stature. hadn't the hideous official room that held her been heaven to him?--the singing of the naked gas-jets the music of the spheres? "it will be a great change from london," he said. "i am going back to the old days. i have refused to see any of my fine new friends. the ilberts will be staying over there with the lord lieutenant at the same time. i have forbidden mr. ilbert to call." again his mood changed to one of unreasonable irritation. what had she to do with the ilberts, or they with her? "if i find myself over there i shall certainly call," he said, with an air of doggedness. "oh, very well, then, you shall," she said merrily. "_you_ won't embarrass us, not even if we have to ask you to dinner." an hour or two later the good news came, brought by mrs. rooke in person. captain langrishe could hardly yet be considered out of danger, but he lived; he had been sent down in a litter to the nearest station, where there were appliances and comforts and white people all about him, outside the sights and sounds of war, beyond the danger of recapture by the enemy. nelly bore the better news well: she had been prepared for it, she said. seeing her so quiet, mrs. rooke brought out a scrap of blue ribbon cut through and blood-stained. it was in a little case which had been hacked through by knives. it had been sent home to her at the first when there was no hope, when, practically, godfrey langrishe was a dead man. "it is not mine, my dear," she said to nelly, "and i think it must be yours. i did not dare show it to you before." nelly went pale and red. yes, it was her ribbon, which had fallen from her hair that morning more than a year ago when captain langrishe had ridden by with the regiment and the wind had carried off her ribbon. she received it with a trembling eagerness. "yes, it is mine," she said. "i knew he had it. he showed it to me before he went away." "how furious godfrey will be when he misses it!" mrs. rooke said. "somebody will be having a bad quarter of an hour. and now, nelly, when are you going to be well enough to come to see my mother? she longs to know you. she is the dearest old soul. she wanted me to bring you to her while yet we were in suspense. but i waited for news, one way or another." "i should love to go," nelly said. "she has a room in a gable fitted up for you; the windows open on roses. the place is full of sweet sounds and sights. all through this trouble her thoughts have been with you. will you come?" "if papa can spare me." "then i shall ask him, and we can go down on saturday. won't he come for the day? when you know my mother i am going to leave you there with her. poor cyprian is off to marienbad and i must go with him. he's dreadfully afraid of losing his figure. a fat lawyer, he says, is the one unpardonable thing. will you look after my mother?" the general was only too glad to give his consent to the plan which had brought the colour to nelly's cheek and the light to her eye. after leaving nelly in sussex he and robin would go down to southampton, get out the yacht and cruise about the coast till nelly felt inclined for a longer run. so mary gray was free to go. she went out in the afternoon, leaving robin to look after his cousin. the general had gone off to the club with a lighter heart than he had known for many a month. robin had suggested a drive, but nelly would not hear of that. she was going to save up her pleasure, she said, for sussex and saturday. she consented to walk in the square, where she had not been for quite a long time. he noticed that she looked delicate and languid and his manner to her was very tender. in fact, a new under-gardener in the square, who was very susceptible to romance, put quite an erroneous interpretation on robin's manner to his cousin, and hovered in their vicinity with eager curiosity till he was pulled up sharply by one of his superior officers. "so we are all going to scatter, nell," drummond said, half regretfully. she glanced at him. "poor robin! it was too bad, keeping you in town." "i haven't minded it at all, i assure you, nell. indeed, i couldn't have gone happily while you were in suspense." "robin," she said suddenly, "what are you waiting for?" he started. "waiting for?" he repeated. "what do you mean, nell?" "you're not going to let mary go without speaking to her?" under her light shawl her hand felt for and held the locket which contained the blood-stained blue ribbon. "haven't you waited long enough? i believe she would wait an eternity for you, but don't try her. speak now." "my dear nell," he stammered, "it is only a fortnight or so from the day that should have been our wedding day." "i was thinking as much. what have you had in your mind? some foolish quixotic notion. what were you waiting for?" "to tell the truth, nell, till you should be happy." "don't take the chances of letting her go away without telling her. do you think i haven't known that you were in love with her all the time? why, that first day i saw her i said to myself in amazement, 'where were his eyes that he could have chosen you before her?'" "nelly, how do i know that she will look at me?" "she will never look at anyone else. speak now, if only in fairness to the men who might be in love with her, who are in love with her and may have false hopes." "she won't look at me, nell." "she has sent mr. ilbert about his business, but he will not let her be. he says that so long as she is not anybody else's she may yet be his. i didn't want to betray him, but i must make you understand." poor ilbert! for a moment drummond's mind was filled with a lordly compassion towards him. ilbert rejected! and for him! to be sure, he knew mary cared for him. she was not the girl to have admitted him to the intimacy of last winter unless she cared. she had borne with him exquisitely. she had even taken her successful rival to her breast. he had made her suffer, the magnanimous woman. suddenly he took fire. he had been a slow, dull fellow, he said to himself, and quaked at the thought that ilbert might have robbed him of his jewel. now, he felt as though he must follow her, and make her his without even the possible mischances of a few hours of absence. "she comes back to dinner?" he asked. "she comes back to tea," his cousin answered, "and you have made me tired, robin. i am going to rest till tea-time." they went back to the house and nelly left him in the drawing-room while she went away to her own room. he knew that she was giving him his opportunity and was grateful for it. how could he have been so mad as to think of letting mary go away with nothing settled between them? he walked up and down restlessly, while the dogs watched him in amazement from their cushions. it was a topsy-turvy world in which the dogs found themselves of late. they had almost reached the point of being surprised at nothing. it was lucky the carpet was so faded and shabby, for of late the general had worn a path in it with his restless movements; and now here was his nephew behaving as though he were an untamed creature in a cage and not a sober, serious legislator. at last he heard her knock, and her light foot ascending the stairs. she looked surprised to find him alone and asked rather anxiously for nelly. "you didn't let her get over-tired?" she asked, apprehensively. "no; we walked very little. she said she would rest till tea-time. well, have you packed?" "i have put my things together. i am going to ask to be allowed off to-morrow. i shall sleep at the flat to-morrow night, if they can spare me, and be off the next morning." "you are glad to be free?" "very glad. i was also glad to stay. and you?" he rose up to his awkward length from the chair into which he had dropped on hearing her knock and went close to her. "i shall never be free again in this world," he said. and then, with a change of tone: "do you suppose i am going to let you go over there a free woman?" he drew her almost roughly to him. "i have always loved you," he said. "and i," she answered, "i have loved you since i was sixteen." "my one woman!" he cried in a rapture. chapter xxvi golden days the time went peacefully with nelly and the mother in the little house among the sussex woods. and presently, since nelly showed no indication of wishing to join them, and could not be spared indeed, and since robin was plainly ill at ease yachting up and down the coast, the general declared his intention of going off to a grouse-moor in scotland, rented by an old friend, over which he had shot year after year for many years back. on hearing of this sudden change of plans robin expressed a polite regretfulness, but the general looked at him with twinkling eyes--he and robin had come to be on the best of terms of late--and bade him be off to dublin without any confounded hypocrisy about it. "you've been wishing me anywhere, my lad, this last week or two except aboard the _seagull_," he said. "not but what you've borne with me--oh, yes, you've borne with me; a lad of my own couldn't have done more: and now you've earned your reward." so the general went off northward for what was left of the grouse season. later, he was to go into sussex for the partridge and pheasant shooting, not so far from where nelly was living in a state of blissful peace, with excellent reports of langrishe's recovery coming by every mail. and be sure, the _seagull_ spread her white wings and flew, as fast as wind and wave could carry her, across the irish sea. sir robin presented himself unannounced at the little house in wistaria terrace, where the youngest but two of the miss grays opened the door half-way to him, and was visibly alarmed at the sound of his title. the little house smelt of cookery, perhaps of washing, although doors and windows were open. but little robin drummond cared for that. beyond the demure child who had admitted him he caught sight of mary sitting on the shabby little grass-plot, in a wicker-chair, with a japanese umbrella over her head. and roses could not have been sweeter than the atmosphere. the simplicity which belonged to his character came out in his dealings with mary's family. walter gray came home to find his daughter's grand lover stretching his long figure on the grass at her feet, while the smaller grays, their shyness quite departed, rolled and tumbled over him as confident as puppies. to be sure walter gray, with his disbelief in distinctions of rank as otherwise than accidental, was not unduly elated by the fine company in which he found himself. he looked hard and long at robin drummond as hand met hand. then a bright look of reassurance came over his face. he could trust even mary to the owner of those eyes. they discovered a deal in common later on as they walked, with mary for a third, in the long twilight and early moonlight. walter gray imparted his secret thoughts as to a spiritual brother. his dreams, his aspirations, his utopia of a world as he would have made it, he laid bare to robin drummond in his slow, easy talk, with a hand through his arm. "he was born to be a great man," robin drummond said to mary later, in a generous enthusiasm, "and he shall not miss his vocation. he must have leisure and ease. when we are married he shall have a corner of the court to himself, and he shall put his dreams into black and white. i know the room; it looks into an elm-tree, and the owner of the room has the key to the birds' secrets. there is an oriel window, and in the room is a little old organ, yet wonderfully sweet. you shall play to him when he lacks inspiration." "he could do better with the young ones about him and the mother grumbling placidly in his ear," said mary. "then they shall have the cottage. it is within the walls and looks to the mountains. it is a roomy old place and has a big overgrown garden of its own." "i wonder if he will take it from you?" "he will have to," said the lover. then they went back to supper: and he was introduced to gerald, the young bank-clerk, whose mind was not yet cured of the fever for the sea, who had a roving eye in his smooth young face; and marcella, the eldest one of the young grays, who was a typist in the same employment as her father. and though at first the young people were shy of mary's lover they were quickly at home with him. the fine breeding of walter gray had passed on, to some extent, to every one of his children. "it will be my privilege to look after them," robin drummond said to mary. "as for the lad, he will never be a financier. he is too old for the navy, but why should he not learn the seaman's trade on the yacht? he has a pining look which i don't altogether like." "it will be said that you are marrying all my people," mary said uneasily. "we shall not hear it said," her lover answered placidly. "we shall be out of hearing of that sort of thing." when their friendship had the ratification of weeks upon it he broached the matter of the cottage to walter gray. they were walking together as they usually did of evenings; and walter gray walked with a stick, leaning on him, with the other hand thrust through his arm. he had a groping way of walking, which drummond had noticed and ascribed to his abstraction from the things about him. after drummond had unfolded his plans there was a silence, during which he watched walter gray curiously. was he going to refuse, as mary had suggested? they were near a lamp on the suburban road which stood up in the boughs of a lime, making a green flame of the tree. walter gray pulled up suddenly and lifted his eyes to the light. "do you notice anything?" he asked. drummond peered down into the eyes. yes, there was a slight film upon the pupil of one. "cataract," said walter gray cheerfully. "i shall never be fit for my work any more, even if an operation should be successful. marcella knows. good girl, she has kept her own counsel. i have not been working for some time at the watches. mr. gordon, kind soul, continues my salary. i have been learning type-writing against the days that are to come. i confess i have a desire to write a book. i have saved nothing, sir robin drummond. how is it possible, with fifty shillings a week and eight children? i have no pride about accepting your offer. if my scrip is empty and yours is full i don't object to receiving from a fellow-pilgrim what i should give if our cases were reversed." "ah! that is right," said robin drummond. "as for cataract, in its early stages it is easily curable. sir george osborne----" "i will do whatever you and mary wish. but i anticipate blindness. i shall not mind very much if i have the light within. there will be the book to solace my age; and after a time i shall not be so helpless." the dowager came round after all sooner than was expected. the reconciliation was hastened by a letter she received from mrs. ilbert congratulating her on her prospective daughter-in-law. "my poor maurice," she wrote. "i don't mind telling you, dear lady drummond, that maurice was head-over-ears in love with your charming and distinguished daughter-in-law that is to be. the boy takes it very well, says that the better man has won, which is exactly like maurice. since your son has chosen a political career i congratulate him on having such a woman as miss gray by his side. she will be a force in political life, so says maurice. and she will be the noblest inspiration. though i am grieved that she is to be your son's egeria and not mine yet i offer you and sir robin my heartiest congratulations. i may add that i also congratulate the party to which your son belongs." lady drummond had rubbed her eyes over this letter. congratulate _her_--was it possible?--on being the prospective mother-in-law of mary gray, the daughter of a man who worked for his living at repairing the insides of watches! she, the widow of a hero, a rich woman of social importance! congratulate _her_ and robin and robin's party! and not one word of congratulating mary gray! was caroline ilbert mad? however, the thing impressed her. it worked by slow degrees into her mind. she had listened often to such foolish heresies as that which declared brains more important than rank or wealth. in a general way she had not dissented. brains were very important. gerald had thought a good deal of brains. if he had lived he had meditated a book on napoleon's wars. she had often met writing and painting and musical people in her friends' drawing-rooms. they had not appealed to her nor she to them. but she had grown accustomed to their presence there and to meeting them on an equality to which in her heart she had never subscribed. however, she had the wisdom to see that there was no use in holding out against her son and to console herself with the idea that mary was going to be a personage, even apart from the incredible social promotion of marrying sir robin drummond. so she actually reached the point of coming in person to wistaria terrace to make a formal recantation of her opposition to the marriage, and to take mary to her imposing, black-bugled breast. to be sure the little house had almost driven her back from its threshold. she filled the small shabby hall, she fell over the brushes left by the general servant who had been scrubbing the oilcloth, not expecting her ladyship; she sat uncomfortably on the green rep chairs of the drawing-room staring at a berlin-wool banner-screen which represented a poodle with beads for his eyes, at the silver shavings in the grate, and the school drawings, finished by the nuns, of the younger misses gray. there were certain aspects of that drawing-room dear to mrs. gray which mary had been too tenderhearted to try to alter. there mary had found her and had been moved in her innermost humorous sense; but she had been glad to be friends with robin's mother, and so had done her best to advance the reconciliation. lady drummond had a surprising proposal to make. it seemed that her friend, lady iniscrone, had placed at miss gray's disposal for the wedding the big house on the mall formerly occupied by lady anne hamilton. lady iniscrone wrote that they had heard of miss gray from a friend of lady agatha chenevix, and had felt interested in her progress ever since. of course, remembering the tie which had existed between lord iniscrone's aunt and miss gray, lord and lady iniscrone could never be without interest in miss gray's progress. mary smiled a smile of fine humour over the reading of the letter. at first she was in the mood to refuse. but, being her father's daughter, and so endowed with that sense of the comedy as well as the tragedy of life which makes it easy to regard things and persons equably, she consented at last. she would have preferred to be married from wistaria terrace, but she had no difficulty in making a concession to robin's mother. so the wedding-breakfast was spread in the dining-room where she and lady anne used to have their meals together. mrs. gray held a terrified reception of the few fine folk whom lady drummond had declared it necessary to ask in the long drawing-room with the three windows where lady anne used to sit with little fifine in her lap. mary had wished to be married from the poor little house where she had grown up, but on her wedding day she felt that she had done as lady anne would have wished. there was nothing changed in the house: the old-fashioned substantial furniture, the faded carpets and curtains, were just the same. there were one or two familiar faces among the servants. after all, lord and lady iniscrone had used the house little, since lord iniscrone had developed a chest affection which kept him following the sun round the world for three-fourths of the year. the marriage had taken place earlier at the big, dim old church behind which wistaria terrace hid itself away, and the few fine folk were not bidden to the wedding but to the reception. a great many glittering things were spread out on the tables in the long drawing-room. it was surprising how many well-wishers the new lady drummond seemed to have in the great world. sir denis drummond had come over for the wedding, and nelly was a bridesmaid, with mary's type-writing sister, marcella. she was a different nelly from her of a couple of months earlier, her delicacy gone, her old pretty bloom come back, her eyes bright as of old. "mrs. langrishe wants me to return to her!" she confided to mary, "but we are going to sherwood square. you know, _he_ is on his way home. in a week or two he will be on the sea. he must come to me, not find me there waiting for him. do you know, mary, that though his mother and sister have taken me to their hearts, he has not written me a line? you don't suppose, mary, that he could be going to keep silence _now_?" "of course not," said mary. "seeing what you have suffered for him----" "he must never know that," nelly said, with gentle dignity, "until he has spoken. what should i do, mary, if he never spoke? but i think everyone would keep my secret, even his sister and mother. i asked them not to speak of me in their letters. i am in suspense, mary." "it will not be for long," the happy bride assured her. as though she were wiser than another in knowing the way of any particular man with any particular maid! chapter xxvii the intermediary some time in december captain langrishe came home. nelly knew the day and the hour that he was expected, but she was as terrified of meeting him as though she had not had so much assurance of his love for her. she knew the events of the day as though she had been present at their happening. cyprian rooke's brother, a young, distinguished doctor well on his way to harley street although only a few discriminating people had found him out, had gone down to southampton with mrs. rooke and her mother to meet the invalid, who even yet must bear traces of the terrible illness through which he had passed. nelly could see it all, from the moment the big boat came into southampton docks till the arrival in london. captain langrishe was going down to his sister's cottage in sussex. the mother and sister, who already claimed nelly as their own, had been eager for her to be there on their arrival, or to come later. but nelly was adamant. "he must come to me," she said. "and i think the one thing i could not forgive is that anyone should interfere: _anyone_, even you two whom i dearly love. promise me that you will not." they had promised her. they were women of discretion; and they felt that now he was come back to them things might safely be left to take their own course. to be sure, as soon as he could he would go to nelly as to his mate, naturally, joyfully. in an early letter, written before nelly's embargo, mrs. rooke had told him that nelly's engagement had been broken off. later, she had conveyed the news that robin drummond had consoled himself with rapidity, and was to be married to the miss gray whose book on the conditions of women's labour among the poor had made such a stir, and not only in political circles. godfrey langrishe in his letters had not commented on these communications. "let godfrey be!" said the sister, who knew him with the thoroughness of a nursery companion. "he will do his own wooing. he would not thank us for doing it for him." all next day nelly waited. after the very early morning she did not dare go outdoors lest he should come in her absence. the general went off to his club to be out of the way. at a quarter to seven he opened the door with his latch-key and came in, more than half-expecting to find an overcoat which did not belong to him in the hall. there was none; and he went on to the drawing-room with a vague sense of disappointment. langrishe must have been and gone. in the drawing-room he found nelly alone. "well, papa," she said, as he came in, and offered no further remark. "no one been, nell?" he asked, with a little foreboding. "no one." "ah, well, to be sure the boat must have arrived late. they may not have got back to town till to-day." the next day passed in the same way, and the next day. the fourth day nelly went out and did her christmas shopping. she held her head high now, in a spirited way which hurt her father to see, for her face was very pale. that evening she put on a little scarlet silk dinner-jacket, in which the general declared that she looked every inch a soldier's daughter. but the brilliant colour only made her look paler by contrast. on the fifth day the general, instead of going to his club, went to see mrs. rooke and fortunately found her at home. he hardly knew the little woman, but she was a friend of nell's and had been good to her. besides, he was so bent upon getting to the root of the business about langrishe and nell that he felt no embarrassment on the subject of his errand. "my dear," he said, bowing over mrs. rooke's pretty hand--he had a charming way with women--"i have come without my daughter knowing. perhaps she would never forgive me if she knew. tell me: what is the mystery about your brother? why has he not been to see us?" "i am so glad you came to ask me, sir denis," mrs. rooke replied. "i was just about to go to nelly. godfrey is so obstinate. the doctors cannot say yet if he is going to be a cripple or not. his sword-arm was almost slashed through. jerome rooke, my brother-in-law, says it will be all right. on the other hand, sir simon gresham shakes his head over it. godfrey is to see him again in a few weeks' time. he is waiting for his verdict before he speaks to nelly. my opinion is that if the verdict is adverse he will never speak at all." "why, god bless my soul, then!" shouted the general in his most thunderous voice, "he must speak before! he must speak before! everything must be settled. they shall hear sir simon's verdict together." those people had been right who had called sir denis unworldly. mrs. rooke blinked her pretty eyes before his outburst. "you know, of course, sir denis, that his profession will be closed to him in case his arm doesn't get well. godfrey has always felt that he had too little to offer your daughter. but now--it will be a maimed life if the worst happens. both my mother and i appreciated godfrey's reasons. we could not say that he was not right. poor godfrey! i don't know what he will do if he loses his profession. you know he was devoted to his work." "i know, ma'am." the old soldier's eye lit up with a sudden spark. "in any case, with the help of god, he will have nell to comfort him. your brother's address is----" "you are going to him?" "it seems the one thing to do. i've no pride about offering my girl where i know she is deeply loved." "you are a trump, general!" mrs. rooke said, with sparkling eyes. "thank you, ma'am," the general answered, blushing like a school-boy. "i was never one to sit with folded hands. the lord didn't make me like it. and i've asked his direction, ma'am; i've asked his direction humbly, and i hope humbly that he is granting it to me." "well, god speed you!" mrs. rooke said. "godfrey will be good to nelly, sir denis. he has always been so trustworthy. and he has had so many hard knocks. he deserves happiness in the end." "he shall have it, with the help of god." the general never made any forecast without the latter proviso, although that was often said only in the silence of his heart. the railway journey, unlike the last made in the cause of nelly's happiness, went without a hitch. the day was a beautiful, bright, sunshiny one, with clear skies overhead. the general had the carriage to himself, so that he was able to sit with both windows open as he liked it. he felt the winter air quite invigorating as the train rushed through the pale golden landscape. robins were singing in the bare trees, which showed their every twig outlined delicately against the pale sky. the brown coppices and hedges by which the train hurried were bright with the scarlet of many berries. the general, sitting up spare and erect--he had never lolled in his life, and held all such soft ways only suitable for ladies--contrasted the journey with the last; and took the radiant day like a good omen. he wished nell could have been with him to have the roses blown in her cheeks by the delicious fresh wind. however, he was going to bring her home roses, pink roses; the white rose in his nelly's cheek did not at all please him. the little house was quite near the railway, a gabled, two-storied cottage with diamond-paned windows, and creepers and roses all over its walls. even yet on the sheltered side there was a monthly rose or two on the leafless bushes. the house basked in the sun; and mrs. langrishe's red-and-white collie came to meet the general, wagging his tail with a friendly greeting. the maid who opened the door smiled on him. she knew him for miss nelly's father; and nelly had a way of making herself beloved by servants wherever she went, and not only because she was ready always to empty her little purse among them. mrs. langrishe? mrs. langrishe was out, but was expected in to lunch. the captain had just come in. would sir denis see him? sir denis would see the captain. he followed the maid through the clean, orderly little house, every inch of it shining with the perfection of cleanliness, to the study at the back which opened on the garden. captain langrishe was sitting in a chair in a dejected attitude at the moment the general first caught sight of him. he sprang to his feet, turning red and pale when he saw who his visitor was. "well, my lad," the general said, taking the uninjured left hand in a cordial grip. "and how do you feel?" langrishe looked up at him with shy eyes. "to tell the truth, sir denis, not very cheerful. i have been, in fact, keeping company with the blue devils pretty well since i came home. you know----" "yes, i know. we must hope for the best. but, if you can't carry a sword any longer, why it must mean that the master of us all has another post for you. and now, why didn't you come to sherwood square?" "i couldn't, with this in suspense," langrishe stammered. "it is most kind of you to come to see me." "my dear boy," the general put his hand on langrishe's shoulder, "you must come, with this in suspense. do you know that my girl has looked for you day after day?" the young man flushed and stared at the general's kind face in bewilderment. "i would rather die than cause her a minute's pain," he said, with quiet fervour. "you have caused her a good many," the general said grimly. "not willingly, i am sure of that, or i wouldn't be here. haven't you heard how she suffered? why, god bless my soul, i was afraid at one time that i might be going to lose her; and all through you, young man--all through you. now i'll have no more shilly-shally. if nell is fond of you and you are fond of nell----" "god knows how i love her!" langrishe cried out, a glow of passion lighting up his worn, dark face. "but you don't understand, sir denis. i feel sure you don't understand. i have nothing in the world but my sword. my uncle, sir peter, gave me that. he gave me nothing else. lady langrishe, who nursed my uncle through an attack of the gout before he married her, has just presented him with an heir. i have no hopes from my uncle. if i lose my sword-arm i lose everything. i am likely to lose my sword-arm, sir denis." "whether you do or whether you do not is in the hands of god," the general said. "i don't think nell will mind very much if your sword-arm is ineffectual or not. you've done enough for honour, anyhow. and i'm not going to betray any more of the child's secrets. you'd better come and hear them yourself. i'll tell you what: come on christmas day. come to lunch and bring your bag with you. i daresay you won't want to cut your visit short?" "you really mean it, sir denis?" "mean it, my lad? i've meant it for a long time. i've watched your career, langrishe. i know pretty well all about you. you'd never give me credit for half the cunning i've got." the general rubbed his hands softly together and tried to look machiavellian, failing ludicrously in the attempt. "there's no man i would more willingly trust my girl to. why, i went after you to tilbury when you were going out--to find out what you meant. i'll tell you about it." for the moment the general forgot completely how he had man[oe]uvred in the second place to marry nelly to robin drummond. in fact, he didn't remember about it till he was going home, and then, after a momentary shamefacedness about his unintentional disingenuousness, he decided, like a sensible man, that there was no use talking about that now. before that time, however, he had lunched with mrs. langrishe and her son after a talk with the latter. now that he had succeeded in breaking down the lover's scruples, godfrey langrishe was only too anxious to fling himself into the next train and be carried off to his love. but the general would not have it so, though he was pleased at the young man's impatience. "it wants but five days to christmas day," he said. "come then. you can spare him, ma'am?" to mrs. langrishe. "i have had to spare him for less happy things," the mother responded cheerfully. there was no happier old soldier in all his majesty's dominions than was sir denis drummond on his homeward journey. in fact, he found himself several times displaying his gratification so evidently in his face that people smiled and looked significantly at each other. one lady whispered to another of the christmas spirit. it was by a stern effort of his will that he composed his face as he went up the stairs of his own house. he didn't deceive pat, who had admitted him--for once the general had forgotten his latch-key. pat reported to bridget: "sorra wan o' me knows what's come to the master; he's gone up the stairs, and the heart of him that light that his foot is only touchin' the ground in an odd place." "'twill be somethin' good for miss nelly then," bridget replied sagely. the general schooled his face to wear an absurdly transparent look of gloom as he entered the drawing-room, but it was quite wasted on nelly, who didn't look at him. she had a screen between her face and the fire as she sat in her fireside chair, and her little pale, hurt, haughty profile showed up clearly against the peacock's feathers of the screen. the general had meant to have some play with nell, but that forlorn look of hers went to his heart. "i saw langrishe to-day, nell," he said. "he's coming for christmas. we can put him up--hey?" "papa!" he heard the incredulously joyful half-whisper, and he felt the pang that comes to all fathers at such a moment. nell was not going to be only his ever again. he had been enough for her once on a time; yet, here she was, come to womanhood, breaking her heart for a stranger. "if i were you, nell," he said gently, "i'd be seeing about my wedding-clothes." chapter xxviii noel! noel! captain langrishe arrived only just in time for lunch on the christmas day. by the time he had been shown his room and had deposited his bag and returned to the drawing-room it was time for the luncheon-bell. the meeting between nelly and himself would have seemed to outsiders a cold one. to be sure, it took place under the general's eye. one might have supposed that the general would have absented himself from that lovers' meeting, but as a matter of fact he did not. nelly's flush, the shy, burning look which langrishe sent her from his dark eyes, were enough for the two principals. for the rest, all seemed to be of the most ordinary. no one could have supposed that for the two persons mainly concerned this was the most wonderful christmas day there ever had been since the beginning. during lunch langrishe talked mainly to the general. they had plenty to talk about. the general found it necessary to apologise to nelly for "talking shop," an apology which was tendered in a whimsical spirit and received in the same. pat, waiting at table, quite forgot that he was sir denis drummond's manservant, listening to the stirring tale; and was once again corporal murphy, back in "th' ould rig'mint." in fact, he once almost forgot himself so far as to put in an eager comment, but fortunately pulled himself up in time. he mentioned afterwards to bridget that the captain's talk had nearly brought him to the point of "joinin'" again. "only that i remembered that at last you'd consinted to my spakin' to sir denis i couldn't have held myself in, bridget, my jewel," he said. "but the thought of gettin' kilt before ever i'd made you mrs. murphy was too much for me." there was considerable excitement in the servants' hall over captain langrishe's presence. pat, of course, knew all about him since he belonged to "th' ould rig'mint"; but it was through bridget's feminine perspicacity that it broke on the amazed couple that it was for him miss nelly had been breaking her heart all the time. "it 'ud do you good," said pat, "to see the way she carries her little sojer's jacket, and the holly berries on her pretty head like a crown." to be sure, the younger ones of the servants' hall were talking too, and they even approached pat, who outside the duties of his office was not awesome, for the satisfaction of their curiosity. "just wait," said pat oracularly, "an' ye'll see what ye'll see." the speech meant nothing to pat's own mind except that they would be all wiser later on. however, it went nearer the mark than he had intended. the afternoon of christmas day was always the occasion for a christmas tree. everyone in the house was remembered in the distribution of presents, even the dogs. the tree was set up in the servants' hall and the general had never omitted to distribute the presents himself in all the years they had been at sherwood square. he had mentioned the tree to langrishe at lunch, apologising for asking his assistance at so homely an occasion. his eye twinkled as he said it; and rather to nelly's bewilderment the young man blushed like a girl. apparently he had heard of the christmas tree before, for he made no comment. after lunch the lovers were a little while alone. sir denis had his secrecies about the tree, gifts which had to go on at the last moment and to be placed there by himself. when he came back to the drawing-room he was aware from the looks of the young couple that everything had been satisfactorily arranged between them. he looked as cheerful himself as anyone could desire. while he put those last touches to the tree he had been thinking how good it was that he was going to have his children to himself, no troublesome dowager with her claims and exactions to come between them. for a long time to come, anyhow, langrishe must be off active service; and they would all be together in the kind, spacious old house. and presently there would be nelly's children. please god he would live to deck the tree for the delight of nelly's children! it was the thought of the golden heads of the little lads and lasses yet to be dancing about the tree that brought the dimness to his eyes, the look of happy dreams to his face. the tree was far from being a perfunctory, haphazard affair. everything had been thought out and planned beforehand. the servants sat in a circle with eager, expectant faces. in front of them was a circle of dogs. the dogs' presents were not much of a novelty. a new collar for one, a new basket for another, a medal for the oldest of the dogs; the possible gifts were very soon exhausted, but they made hilarity, and the dogs barked as they received their gifts as though they understood and enjoyed it all, as no doubt they did. there was a delightful sensation for the servants' hall when the gold watch which had been hanging near the top of the tree was handed down, and its inscription proved to be: "to bridget burke, on the occasion of her marriage to patrick murphy, with the affection and esteem of the master and miss nelly." the servants' hall broke into cheers. they had all known that there was something between bridget and pat, but the thing had hung fire so long that it might well have hung fire for ever. pat's present was a ten-pound note for the honeymoon. mr. and mrs. murphy were to have a fortnight together after their marriage in some seaside place, before settling down to their old duties. sir denis had made pat the offer of a cottage in the country, but this pat had refused, to his master's great relief. "sure, what would you do without me?" he said. "i was thinking the same myself," responded the general. the general had it in his mind that presently, when those children came, it might be necessary to give up sherwood square and live in the country for their sakes. a little place in ireland now, the general thought, where there was always plenty of sport and good-fellowship. however, that might wait. but the thought was a sweet one, to be turned over in the old man's mind. sometimes the present took odd shapes. there was a young housemaid whose eyes were ringed about with black circles, eyes pale with much weeping. her mother was ill among the essex marshes, and the only chance for her life, said the doctors, was to get her away to a mild, bracing place for some months. bournemouth would do very well. bournemouth? why, heaven was much more accessible, it seemed, than bournemouth for the poor mother of many children. "emma brooks," said the general. "i wonder what's in this envelope for emma brooks." poor emma came up, smiling a wavering smile that was on the edge of tears. she took the envelope, peered within it, and then cried out, "oh, god bless you, sir!" it contained a letter of admission to a convalescent home at bournemouth for six months, and the money for the expenses of getting there. "it's my mother's life, sir," cried emma. "you shall go home to-morrow, my girl, and take her there," said the general. "i'll pay whatever is necessary." at last the tree was stripped of nearly everything but its candles and its bright dingle-dangles. there was a little basket at the foot of the tree addressed to the general, which had been moving about in a peculiar way during the proceedings, and had been a source of much fascinated interest to the dogs. on its being opened a fat, waddling, brindle bull-dog puppy sidled himself out of a warm bed, and made straight for the general's feet. a puppy was something sir denis never could resist, and though there were already several dogs at sherwood square, all desperately jealous at the moment and being held in by the servants, he discovered that he had wanted a brindled bull-dog all his life. "but what is that," he asked, "up there at the top of the tree? why, i was near forgetting it. come here, pat, you rascal, and hand it down to me. it's a pretty, shining thing for my nelly, as bright as her eyes. hand it down to me, pat. i want to put it on her pretty neck." the gift was a beautiful flexible snake of opals in gold, with diamonds for its eyes and its forked tongue, such a jewel as the heart of woman could not resist. the general himself clasped the ornament on nelly's neck, where it lay emitting soft fires of milky rose and emerald. there was a little pause. the tree seemed to be finished. the women-folk began to clear their throats for the _adeste fideles_ with which the festivity concluded. afterwards there was to be a glass of champagne all round. the pause, however, was a device of the general's to give more effect to what was to follow. captain langrishe had been standing apart, his shy and modest air commending him the more to the women who thought him so handsome and the men who knew him for heroic; for had not pat sung his praises? and to be sure, the women's hearts swelled at beholding a hero taking part in their own particular festivity of the year, a hero that is to say with his heroism brand-new upon him and from the outside world, so to speak. they were so accustomed to a hero for a master all the year round, that in that particular connection they hardly thought upon him. "i believe, after all," said sir denis, as though he were talking to children--it was his way with women and children and dependents and animals--"i believe there's something for my girl which she'll think more of than anything else. it's hidden just down here at the foot of the tree, and might very easily be over-looked if one didn't know beforehand that it was there. captain langrishe, will you give this little packet to my nelly? it's your gift. she'll like it from you." langrishe came forward, looking radiantly happy and handsome, and wearing withal that look of becoming shyness. he extracted from somewhere near the roots of the tree a white paper-covered packet, very tiny and tied with blue ribbon, which he undid with quick, nervous fingers. when he had laid the covering aside it revealed itself as a little ring-case. opening it, he took out a beautiful old-fashioned ring, a large pearl surrounded by diamonds. he held it for a second between his fingers; and turning round he went to nelly's side and taking her hand lifted it to his lips. then he slipped the ring on to her third finger. "my dear friends," said the general in an agitated voice, "i am very happy to announce to you the engagement of my daughter to captain langrishe." at that the cheering broke out, led by pat. as the dogs joined in, and even the brindle puppy added his shrill note, there was the happiest, merriest uproar lasting over several minutes, during which the general stood, looking proudly from the shy and smiling lovers to those dependants whom he had really made his friends. and at last, when the pause came, the general spoke: "and now, my friends," he said, "to show that god is not forgotten in our happiness and in our grateful hearts, we will sing the _adeste fideles_." proofreading team. sara, a princess the story of a noble girl by fannie e. newberry a princess she, though not by birth: her title's from above, her heritage the right of worth, her empire that of love. contents chapter i. omens, good and ill ii. storm and trouble iii. a search and its ending iv. uncle adam and morton v. madame and "the princess" vi. happy days vii. a tea-party viii. news from the nautilus ix. rebellion x. robert glendenning xi. betty's quilting-bee xii. new fortunes xiii. from killamet to dartmoor xiv. new friends, new duties, and a new loss xv. morton has a picnic xvi. the princess holds a "drawing-room" xvii. molly gives a party xviii. a visit from miss prue xix. bertha gillette xx. weakness xxi. the prince cometh xxii. good-by to killamet [illustration: 'you must have had a big haul father, to make such a rent!' said sara as she drew the fish net toward her.] sara, a princess chapter i. omens, good and ill. "sairay! sairay!" the high, petulant voice rose shrilly through the steep, narrow stairway, and seemed to pierce the ears of the young girl who sat under the low, sloping roof, nearly bent double over the book in her lap. she involuntarily raised both hands to her ears, as if the noise distressed her, then dropped them, straightened herself resolutely, and answered in a pleasant contralto, whose rich notes betokened power and repression,-"well, mother?" "your fayther's got to hev them nets mended right away, he says, an' my han's is in the dough. be you at them books agin?" "yes," said sara; "but i'll come," rising with a sigh, and carefully slipping a bit of paper between the leaves of her book, before she laid it on the rough board shelf at one side of the little garret room. as she passed directly from the stairway into the kitchen, or livingroom, her father turned from the hopeless-seeming tangle of soiled and torn netting on the floor before him, and looked at her half wistfully from under the glazed brim of his wide hat. "was you studyin', sairay? ye see, i've got into a bad sort o' mess here, an' we may git our orders fur the long fish any day." "that's all right, father! no, baby, sister can't take you now," as the little fellow on the floor crept to her feet and set up a wail; but her smile, and a replaced toy, silenced the cry, and brought back comfort and complaisance to the puckered little face. sara then stepped to her father's side, and drew the large soiled fishnet towards her, looking with dismay on the broken meshes; but her voice was still bright, as she said,-"you must have had a big haul, father, to make such a rent!" "waal, 'twas partly thet, but more the ice. ye see, it's jest breakin' up now, and it's monstrous jagged-like; 'twas thet did it, i reckon. kin ye fix it, sairay?" "yes, father." she was soon seated, the dirty mass across her knee, and the large bone shuttle in her hand flying rapidly in and out. but while her young stepmother went and came, talking a good deal, and the baby pulled and scrambled about her knees, her thoughts were far away, in the large schoolroom at weskisset. for one short, happy year she had been an inmate of the seminary there, and in her thoughts this year was the round top of her life! all events dated from before or since her "school-time." all paths with her led to weskisset, as with the ancients all roads led to rome: it was her athens, her mecca, almost her jerusalem. sara's own mother, though born inland, had come as schoolmistress, some twenty years since, to the little fishing-village of killamet (now sara's home), where she was wooed and won by the handsome, honest, daring young fisherman, reuben olmstead. sara was their first child, and upon her the young mother lavished untold tenderness. when, at the birth of the twins, nearly seven years later,--two infants having died between,--she yielded up her own gentle life, her last words had been,-"don't forget, reuben, that sara is to have an education. i can see already that she is going to care for books, and she'll need it more than ever, now--promise me, husband!" and the good man would sooner have cut off his weather-beaten spear-hand than break his promise to that dying wife. in fulfilment of it he had struggled with what, to his fellow-villagers, seemed most foolish persistence, in order to give his oldest child immense and needless advantages, though it had been difficult enough to find the ways and means for these. even after the usual annual three months of the "deestric" for several years, he had felt that his solemn promise still bound him to allow her at least one year at the seminary. nor did the loss of his aged mother, who had been housekeeper since his wife's death, weaken this resolution; and it was, perhaps, partly to make it possible for sara to leave home, that he had married the young woman of the shrill voice, two years ago. she could look after the house and children while "sairay got her finishin' off," as he expressed it. but sara, like many another scholar, found that her one poor little year was but a taste of wisdom, but one sip from the inexhaustible stream of learning, and, back once more in her childhood's home, was constantly returning to those living waters, with an unquenchable thirst. it was her stepmother's pet grievance that "sairay was allers at them books," which was hardly true; for the girl took all the care of her younger brother and sister, and much of the baby, while not a few of the household duties devolved upon her. but she undoubtedly was apt to hurry through her tasks, and disappear within the little attic room above the kitchen in cold weather, or under a certain shady cove down by the sea in summer, as soon as these were finished. she had been netting but a short time when morton and mary came tumbling in, two lively youngsters nearing eleven years, whose bronzed and rosy cheeks betokened plenty of sunshine and fresh air. "say, pa!" they cried in a breath, almost stumbling over the baby in their excitement, mary, as usual, in advance, "is it true you're going out for the long fish to-morrow? jap norris told us so on our way home from school." the father's kindly eyes rested upon them with an indulgent twinkle in their depths. "waal, naow, if there's a bit o' news in this hull taown thet you younkers don't pick up, i'd like to find it! yes, ef jap norris said so, i s'pose it's true; he oughter know, bein' as his fayther's the cap'n. how long'll it take to finish up thet air net, darter?" "not much longer; but isn't it early to start, father? the ice is hardly broken up, is it?" "waal, it's breakin' fast, sairay; another day or two like this'll fetch it, an' it's 'first come best haul,' ye know, nowadays, sence all creation's got to runnin' to the banks. seems like it ain't skurcely fair for them sportin' men to go out jest for fun; they might leave cod an' herrin' to them what makes a business o' catchin' 'em, seems to me; but there, 'tain't so easy to keep a mortgage on the sea!" and he laughed good-humoredly. meanwhile molly, as they called the little mary, had flung off her hood, and now was down on the floor playing with baby ned, who welcomed her with crows of delight, for when she felt good-natured she was his favorite playmate. the room would have seemed overflowing to a stranger, with its curtained bed in the alcove--or rather square projection--at one side, its fireplace at the end, and cradle, table, spinning-wheel, reels, and nets, to fill every available space left over. even the ceiling was made useful; for along the rafters were hooks which supported spears, oars, and paddles, while one wall was prettily tapestried with a great brown net, its sinkers hanging like ornamental balls along one edge. the windows were small and the ceiling low, but the fire shone merrily, and gave light, warmth, and cosiness to the crowded apartment. it was sara who had pleaded for the restoration of the open fireplace, and the removal of the cook-stove to a bit of shed just back; and though at first the young mother had fretted at the innovation, she found it so much more cheerful, and such a saving of candles in the long evenings, that she had ceased to grumble. as the night closed in, after their quickly disposed of supper, they all drew closer about the drift-wood fire, and no one, not even mrs. olmstead, seemed inclined to talk. sara's eyes wandered often from her book to the rugged face of her father, and each time she saw his eyes gazing thoughtfully into the flames. in fact, the only sound in the room was the sleepy simmer of the watersoaked logs, and an occasional giggle from the twins, who were absorbed in some game which they played with horn buttons on a bit of board, marked off with chalk into the necessary squares. once the baby gave a sweet, low laugh in the midst of his dreams in the cradle, and then honest reuben olmstead turned and smiled towards the little one in a sad fashion, which made sara feel the tears near. "poor little goslin'!" he said tenderly. "daddy hopes there'll be suthin' for him to do not quite so tough as facin' march sou'-westers; but then, who kin tell? he's a likely little chap, eh, sairay?" "yes, father; he's a dear baby!" he turned a little, and glanced back at his wife, who stood across the room reeling off twine, and, hitching his chair a trifle nearer the girl, said in a lower voice,-"sairay, ef 't should ever happen 't they was left to you to look arter, all three on 'em, would ye be good to the little fellar too, eh?" "you know i would, father!" "waal, waal, yes, i s'posed ye would, sairay. i really did, naow; only he ain't jest the same to ye as the twins, to be shore, so i jest thort i'd ask, thet's all, sairay." he nodded at her once or twice in a conciliatory way, then turned back to his fire-gazing for a long moment, after which he rose stiffly, with a half moan of reluctance. "waal, s'pose i must go daown to the boats, an' help 'em a while. guess likely nick hornblower ain't good fer much to-night; too much grog aboard, i'm feared. hand me them boots, sonny." morton, having just risen from his game badly worsted by molly, who could never refrain from taunting her conquered foe, was glad to make a digression by bringing both the hip-boots and a long worsted scarf, as well, and after the father had passed out came to his older sister's side. he gave the outer log one or two gentle kicks, which sent the sparks flying upwards like a covey of fire-flies, and finally said in a voice too low for mrs. olmstead to hear,-"sara, i got a licking to-day!" "morton! what for?" "'cause i sassed the teacher. he don't know beans, sara, he don't; and i can't help grinning in his face when he tells us things just the opposite of what you do." "but i may be wrong, morton. what was it?" "it's lots of things, all the time. guess when you tell me a river runs west i ain't a-going to say it runs east, am i? no, sir; not for anybody!" sara smiled. "well, morton, we'll have to be pretty sure about things then, won't we? where's your geography? let's go over the lesson together. oh! you're on russia, aren't you? i was just reading something about that country myself. think of its being so cold they chop up the frozen milk and sell it in chunks; and they go to bed in a sheepskin bag, which they draw up all about them, and fasten around the neck." "i'd like that!" laughed the boy. "tell me some more;" and he dropped upon a low seat, which was simply a square block of wood in the chimneycorner, while molly, her face all alight with eagerness, joined the group. these true stories of sara's were the children's delight; for she had the faculty of making them more interesting than fiction, as she told them in simple, vivid language, with her sweet, full voice, pointed by her intelligent face. but after a time they were sent off to bed, and sara was left alone with her mother, who now sat knitting before the fire. the wind had risen outside, and was wailing mournfully around the cottage. the young girl shivered to hear it. "sounds like a death-wail, don't it?" said mrs. olmstead, noticing the movement. "when the wind hes thet sorter long scream in it, it allers means trouble, and your pa off for the long fish to-morrow!" she shook her head dismally, and went on in a lugubrious tone, "besides, didn't ye notice the windin' sheet in the candle las' night, an' didn't ye hear the howl o' thet dog along towards mornin'?" sara's eyes were fixed upon her with an interested, yet half-doubtful look. she had heard these superstitions from babyhood, till they had become almost a part of her religion. yet she sometimes questioned, as now. "but, mother, mightn't these things happen, don't they happen often, and nothing come of it? i'm sure there are winding-sheets always if the tallow is poor, and that dog of john updyke's howls every time they go away and leave him alone. it seems to me, if god is so great that even the winds and the sea obey him, he might warn us in other finer, higher ways if he wished to; besides, why should he warn us when he knows he is doing everything for our best good? you don't warn the baby when you give him medicine, even though you know he won't like taking it." "sairay! sairay!" her mother lifted an admonishing finger, "be careful how you talk about the a'mighty! babies is different from growed-up folks, and, besides, i guess ef the lord ain't too good to count the hairs of our heads, he can even take notice of a dog's howl!" and sara, who had the reverent soul of a little child, was once again silenced, if not convinced. just then, too, her father entered, bringing a great gust of cold air with him as he opened the door. "up yet?" he asked in his big, cheery voice, as he unwound the gorgeous worsted comforter from about his throat, and shook off the sleety rain from his tarpaulin. "waal, this fire's a purty sight, i vum, for it's a dirty night out, an' no mistake. but we'd better all turn in naow, for we must be stirrin' early to-morrer; we've got our orders, an' i'm second mate o' the nautilus." "o father, the nautilus? that old tub? i thought you said she wasn't sea-worthy." "oh, waal, not so bad as thet, quite. to be shore she's old, an' she's clumsy, but i guess she's got a good many knots o' sailin' in her yet, sairay. i guess so. leastwise thet's whar i'm to go, so it can't be helped, thet's sartin. now, wife, ef you'll git out my kit," and he turned with some directions concerning his departure, while sara, feeling she was not needed, crept silently up to bed, her soul distracted between gloomy forebodings, and the effort to trust in god and hope for the best. the next morning, however, broke clear and fine, which was a great comfort; for whatever storms and dangers her father and friends must and would, doubtless, meet on the great ocean, it was something to have them start with fair winds and sunny skies. all were up before dawn, except the baby, who slept on in blissful unconsciousness of any impending change; and soon the women stood, with their shawls over their heads, down on the sandy, crescent-shaped beach, watching the last preparations. it was an impressive scene, and never lost that quality to sara's eyes, though she had been used to it since infancy. as she stood now, near but hardly a part of the noisy throng, she was about midway in the crescent, at either end of which there gleamed whitely through the morning mist the round tower of a lighthouse. these were only nine miles apart as the bird flies, but over thirty when one followed the concave shore; and the eastern light warned of treacherous rocks jutting out in bold headlands and rugged cliffs, while the western served to guide the mariner past quite as treacherous shallows, and a sandy bar which showed like the shining back of some sea-monster at low-tide. within this natural harbor was the little fleet of sloops, smacks, and schooners, getting up sail, and shipping some last half-forgotten supplies, while numerous smaller craft were paddled or rowed about, closer in shore. the wide white beach, unbroken for a considerable sweep by even a headland, was now alive with an excited crowd--talking, laughing, weeping, and gesticulating, while back on the higher ground could be seen the small, straggling village, of but little more than one street, where nearly all the houses turned a gabled end to the highway, while a well-trodden path led through a drooping gateway to a door somewhere at the side or rear. there were few trees to hide their unpainted homeliness; but some windows showed house-plants and muslin curtains within, while the most noticeable architectural features were the long, open sheds, used for cleaning and packing fish, and a bald, bare meeting-house, set like conscious virtue on a hill,--the only one to be seen, just back of the village, and only worthy the name because there was nothing whatever to dispute its claims in the way of highlands in that region. as sara stood half dreamily taking it all in, more by imagination than eyesight, for it was still mistily gray, except off to the east beyond the cliff light, where the sky was brilliant with the first crimson blush of the morning, a man approached her, a young fellow, still tall, trig, and ship-shape in figure, as few seamen are apt to be after thirty. "good-morning, sairay," he said respectfully; "we've got a fine day for the start, a'ter all." "yes, jasper, very fine, and i'm glad enough. the last start was dreadful! i cried all the next night, for, don't you remember? the wind kept rising till it was a perfect gale, and i couldn't help thinking of that dreadful mare's head point. mother was sure you'd get there about midnight, and saw signs and warnings in everything." he laughed cheerily. "oh, she enjoys it, sairay; don't 'grudge her that comfort, for a'ter all we mostly gets home safe, barrin' a broken rib perhaps, or a finger. i've had three falls from the rigging, and one wreck, and i'm pretty lively yet!" a general movement seawards interrupted them. this was the final scene, the actual start. he held out his hand quickly. "well, good-by, sairay." "good-by, jasper. you'll look after father? that is, he's getting old, you know, and if anything should happen"-"i won't forgit, sairay. i'm on the sea gull, but i'll see him now and then. good-by." his voice was wistful, but his eyes even more so, as he clasped her hand in a quick, strong pressure which almost hurt her, then turned, and went with great strides towards his father's long-boat just about pushing off; for this was jaspar norris whose father was captain of the fleet, and by far the richest and most consequential man in killamet. sara turned from the young man's hand-clasp to her father's embrace. "waal, sairay, we're off, an' good luck goes with us, ef a man kin jedge by the weather. good-by. god bless you, darter!" sara could not speak, but she held him close a minute, then stood with tearful eyes and watched him embark, telling herself he had always returned safe and sound, and surely he would again. even her heartache could not dull the beauty of the scene, as, with all sails set, the white-winged vessels glided smoothly out toward the open sea, and suddenly her face grew bright, and she caught her breath in excitement, for just as the leader rounded the lighthouse, the tips of the masts caught the first rays of the rising sun, and gleamed almost like spearpoints in the strong light, which soon inwrapped the whole fleet in a beautiful glow. others saw it as well as herself, and some one shouted, "a good sign! a good sign!" while a hearty cheer rose from the little group of women, children, and old men upon the beach. sara joined in it, and felt glad as well as they; for while she might have doubts of howling dogs and dripping candles, this seemed an omen that heaven itself might deign to send as a comfort to their anxious hearts. chapter ii. storm and trouble. they turned homewards presently, and sara, walking between the now momently subdued morton and molly, heard her name called with a purity of pronunciation so seldom accorded it in killamet that she knew at once who spoke. "it's miss prue, children; run on home, while i stop and see what she wants," she said, turning from them and passing through the little gateway in a neat white paling fence at her side. then she followed the path to the door, as usual near the rear of the cottage, but here prettily shaded by a neat latticed porch, over which some vines, now bare of leaves, clambered, while a little bay-window close by was all abloom with plants inside. between the plants she caught a glimpse of a smiling face, which presently appeared at the door. "good-morning, sara. come in a minute, child. i haven't seen you this fortnight!" sara smiled up into the kind elderly face, around which a muslin cap was primly tied. "no, miss prue, i've been very busy getting the nets and father's clothes ready; he's been expecting the start every day." "yes, i suppose so. what a fine morning for it! i've been watching them from the skylight through my binocle; 'twas a brave sight!" "yes, beautiful, only that father is getting old for such hardships. i dread his going more and more every time." "ah! but where will you find a stouter heart, or a steadier hand and eye, than belong to good old reuben olmstead? he can put many of the young men to shame, thanks to his temperate life! your father is one of the best types of his class, sara,--brave, honest, and true,--did you know it?" as she spoke, she led the girl from the tiny entry, with three of its corners cut off by doors, into a pleasant room lighted by the aforesaid bay window. it had a bright red-and-green square of carpeting in the centre, with edges of fine india matting; a large cabinet of seashells and other marine curiosities occupied one end; a parrot was chained to a high perch near an open franklin stove at the other, and the walls between were decorated with queer plates and platters of dragon-china, while great bunches of tassel-like grasses and wings of brilliant feathered fowl filled the odd spaces. motioning her guest to a small easy-chair, miss prudence plunkett took her own, one of those straight-backed, calico-cushioned wooden rockers dear to our grandmothers, and drew it up opposite the girl's. "no, child, you musn't worry! reuben olmstead's a good sailor yet, and, better than all, a good man. his father will look after him more tenderly than you can," giving her cap an odd little jerky nod, which caused the parrot to suddenly croak out,-"'taint neither!" "hush, poll, nobody's talking to you! it's astonishing, my dear, how much that creature knows. she thinks when i nod my head i'm trying to convince her of something, and it always makes her quarrelsome." "'tis too!" croaked the bird again, determined to get up an argument, if only with herself. sara had to smile in spite of her sadness, at which the creature gave such an odd, guttural chuckle, that she laughed outright. "that's right; pretty poll, nice poll! cheer up, cheer up!" she rattled off, looking, through all these merry outbursts, so unutterably solemn, that the effect was ludicrous in the extreme. "silly thing!" said sara, wiping her eyes. "she always will be heard; but while i think of it, i must tell you how i've enjoyed your 'studies in russia' that you lent me, miss prue. it must be fine to travel and see the world!" "yes; and it's decidedly comfortable, too, to sit by a good fire and see it through other people's eyes, sara. these thrilling adventures, these close shaves from shipwreck, fire, frost, and robbery, are much pleasanter to read about than to realize, i imagine. do you know, i always feel like adding a special thanksgiving for books to my daily prayer. what _would_ my lonely life be without them?" sara's eyes kindled. "i've felt so, too, miss prue; and another for you, because you have helped me to enjoy so many!" "all right, my dear, remember me in every prayer, if you will. it's doubtless better thanks than i deserve, but i won't refuse anything so good; and now what shall it be to-day, more russia?" "you said something about one,--'a trip through siberia,' wasn't it?" "oh, yes!" the elder woman stepped across the room, and opened a glass door screened by a thick red curtain, thus displaying several book-shelves thickly packed, from which she selected the volume named; then handing it to sara, who had risen to depart, said gently,-"my dear, i don't like that little line between your eyes; it looks like discontent; or is it only study?" sara flushed. "something of both, perhaps." "smooth it out, child, smooth it out! no one can hope for wisdom until he has learned patience; now is your time to cultivate your own. did you ever see a mountain top that could be reached without a hard scramble, sara?" "i never saw a mountain top at all, miss prue," smiling whimsically. the elder woman laughed. "then you have so much the more in store for you; for i'm sure you will see one some day, if it is only the delectable mountains above. meanwhile, climb on, and keep looking up." "i'll try," said sara humbly, and took her departure, comforted and inspired, as always, by this cheery old maid, whose lover had lain over twenty years beneath the waves, never forgotten, never replaced, in the strong, true heart of his unmarried widow. when sara reached home she found need for her patience at once, for the baby was crying, and her mother looked cross and fretful. "wall," she said in her shrillest tone, as the door closed behind the girl, "you've come at last, hev you? an' another book, i'll be bound! pity you couldn't turn into one, yourself; you'd be about as much use as now, i guess!" "then we'd both be 'bound,' mother, wouldn't we?" trying to speak lightly. "give baby to me, won't you, you're tired." she held out her arms to the screaming child, who went to her at once, growing more quiet the moment he felt her tender clasp. "there! now i hope i kin git a minute to myself. where you been, anyhow, sairay?" "at miss prue's--she called me in. mother, there's been a pin pricking him! see here, poor little fellow!" and sara held up the bent bit of torture, then threw it into the fire, while the relieved baby smiled up at her through his tears and cooed lovingly. "it beats all how he likes you, sairay!" said the mother in an apologetic tone. "i never thought of a pin, an' it allus makes me ready to fly when he yells so. what did miss prue hev to say?" "oh, not much; her parrot kept interrupting," laughing a little. "i always talk with her about her books or curiosities, nearly; how pretty it is there!" "miss plunkett comes o' good stock. her folks hev been sea-captings ever sence they was pirates, i guess. and she's rich too; she must hev as much as two thousand in the savings bank down to norcross, 'sides her nice home." "she's good!" said sara with emphasis, as if nothing else counted for much. "wall, nobody's goin' to say she ain't in killamet, sairay, leastways, not many. in course she's ruther top-headed an' lofty, but it's in the blood. ole cap'n plunkett was the same, and my! his wife,--mis' pettibone thet was,--she was thet high an' mighty ye couldn't come anigh her with a ten-foot pole! so it's nateral fur miss prue. now, sairay, i'm goin' over to my cousin lizy's a while, an' if baby--why, he's gone to sleep, ain't he?" sara nodded smilingly, and her mollified mother said, more gently,-"wall, my dear, lay him in the cradle, an' then you kin hev a good time a-readin' while i'm gone. i s'pose you kain't help takin' to books arter all, seein' as your ma was a school-ma'am." "thank you," said sara, more for the kindness of the tone than the words, and the little domestic squall that time passed over quite harmlessly. but these were of daily, almost hourly occurrence. sara's larger, broader nature tried to ignore the petty pin-pricks of her stepmother's narrower, more fretful one; but at times her whole soul rose up in rebellion, and she flashed out some fiercely sarcastic or denunciatory answer that reduced the latter to tears and moans, which in time forced from the girl concessions and apologies. to do the little woman justice, she was often sorely tried by sara's grand, self-contained airs,--unconscious as they were,--and by her obliviousness to many of the trivialities and practicalities of life. mrs. olmstead loved gossip, and sara loathed it. the woman delighted in going to tea-drinkings, and afterward relating in detail every dish served (with its recipe), and every dress worn upon the momentous occasion; the girl could not remember a thing she had eaten an hour later, nor a single detail of any costume. "but, sairay," her mother would urge, after the former's visits to miss prue or mrs. norris, places to which she was seldom asked herself, except with great formality once a year perhaps; for the early and lifelong friendship these families had extended to sara's own mother was not so freely bestowed upon her successor. "but, sairay, think! you say mis' jedge peters from weskisset was there; _kain't_ you tell what she wore? was it black silk, or green cashmere? and was the sleeves coat, or mutton-leg? and do think if she had on a cap, kain't you?" "i know she looked very nice," sara would reply helplessly; "but, really, i can't think, mother. you see, she was telling about the work in the hospitals,--the flower mission, they call it,--and i was so interested i couldn't take my eyes off her face." "wall, then, the supper, sairay. you must know what you was eatin', child! did mis' norris use her rale chany that the cap'n brung over, or only the gold-banded? and did she hev on them queer furrin' presarves, with ginger an' spices in 'em, or only home-made?" "well, let me see. i think they had spices, that is, i'm not quite sure, for captain klister was there, and he got to 'reeling off a yarn,' as he said, about the mutiny at benares in '57, when he was buying silks and shawls there, and i didn't notice just what was served, i was listening so intently." at which the poor woman, greedy for news, would flare up and abuse her stepdaughter roundly, bringing up, each time, every former delinquency, till sara either turned under the weight of them and felled her with a sarcasm, or, more wisely, fled to her attic and her books for solace. thus some weeks slipped by, bringing milder and more settled weather; but, as if winter and spring had roused all their forces to repulse the irresistible oncoming of the summer, along towards the beginning of may there was a cold storm of wind and sleet, lasting three days, which blasted the too confiding and premature fruit-buds, and ruthlessly cut off the heads of all the peeping, early wild-flowers. sara, surrounded by the children, stood looking from the window one afternoon, soon after this storm broke. "how glad i am she didn't take baby!" she said, pressing the little fellow's cheek against her own. "i felt those last two sultry days were weather-breeders. do you remember whether she took her heavy shawl, molly?" "no, i don't b'lieve she did; wait, i'll see." the little girl, always alert as a bird, ran and peeped into the wardrobe, then called out,-"no, here it is! i thought she didn't have it. she took her other, 'cause it's newer. she'll be awful cold to pay for it, won't she, sara?" "i'm afraid she'll take cold," said the older girl, with a worried look. "put another stick on the fire, morton, and shut the shed door tight when you come through. how the wind does blow!" mrs. olmstead had gone early that afternoon, with a neighbor, to attend the funeral of a friend in the next village, and must return through this storm in an open wagon, very insufficiently clad. it was dark before the party arrived; and as she came in shaking her wet clothes, and trying to make light of her shiverings, sara looked at her in alarm. "you've taken cold, mother," she said, handing the eager, crowing baby to morton, and hurrying to divest the little woman of her wet wrappings. "no, i guess not," she answered hoarsely, her teeth chattering so that she could scarcely speak; "but i'm ch--chilly now." she huddled over the fire, while sara and molly brought warm, dry clothing, and chafed her bloodless hands. their solicitude touched her. "you was allus good to me, girls!" she said gratefully. "i feel lots better now. this fire's rale comfortin'!" bending almost into it in her desire for warmth. but the vociferous baby would no longer be silenced; and she took him from morton's arms to her own, hugging him close, and growing warmer at once from the contact of his dear little body. "it's good to be home agin," she murmured sleepily. "i hope your pa's safe at anchor to-night: it's terrible bad weather, sairay." "where did the rain overtake you, mother?" asked the latter, as she hurried about preparing a cup of hot tea and a plateful of food. "jest this side the cross-roads; and, my! how it did drive! we got it e'enamost in our full faces, an' it cut like a knife; but 'twas jest as fur back as 'twas forwards, an' mis' ruttger was as anxious to git home to her young uns as i was. yah-h! but i'm sleepy!" with a long yawn. "you'd better get right to bed, mother, as soon as you've eaten this; and i'll undress baby and bring him to you. you're warmer now?" "rale comf'able, thank ye. i do hope they ain't got any such wind out to the banks! you ain't asked me about the funeral, sairay." "i was so busy, mother; were there many there?" "e'enamost a hundred, i should think; they come from as far away as norcross an' weskisset. p'fessor page of the seminary was there, an' he asked after you; he said you was a fine scholard. then there was the pettibones, an' the hornblowers, an' the scrantouns. oh, 'twas a grand buryin'!" "did they all wear crape tied round their arms? and how many white horses did you see?" broke in molly. "if you saw seven in a row, it means you'll die 'fore the year's up. i never saw but five." "hush, molly! don't talk such foolishness! come, mother, your voice sounds very hoarse and tired. hadn't you better get right to bed?" "wall, i guess so; but don't hurry me so, sairay! i kain't a-bear to be hurried! an' i'm tryin' to think how many horses i did see, but--i've-forgotten." another long yawn, while her head drooped wearily; and sara, alarmed at her white face and the purple rings about her eyes, hurried her away without more ado, in spite of her drowsy and fretful resistance. she had scarcely touched the pillow, however, when she dropped into a heavy slumber; and the girl, filled with vague forebodings over her, and also because of the storm, sent unwilling molly up-stairs alone, and camped down, fully dressed, before the fire, with a pillow and comforter. the next thing she realized was the feeling that she was rising out of unknown depths of nothingness; and, after one bewildered glance about the room, she finally became conscious of a faint, hoarse voice calling, "sairay! sairay!" she dragged herself to her feet, all cramped and stiff from her uncomfortable position, and at last, fully aware of her surroundings, answered, "yes, mother, i'm coming!" as she hastened to the bedside. bending over it, she fairly started at the pallor of the face upon the pillow, from which the dark eyes seemed starting with an expression of pain and anxiety which set her heart to beating heavily. "sairay," whispered that strange voice, "i'm sick--i'm awful sick--in here." the hand, already at her side, pressed it more closely, and her brows contracted with pain. "o mother! what is it? your lungs? you've taken a dreadful cold." she nodded; and sara flew to call morton, and send him for the doctor, then heated the flannels her mother asked for, and vainly tried to soothe the now frightened and crying baby. it seemed an age till the doctor came stamping in,--a pudgy little man, with an expression of unquenchable good-humor on his round, florid face. "well, well," he said briskly, rubbing his hands before the freshly kindled blaze, "caught cold, has she? lungs sore? that's right! plenty of hot flannels. now, let me see." having warmed himself, he proceeded to examine the sick woman; and sara saw that his face was more serious as he turned away. he gave her careful directions about the medicines, and said he should look in again after breakfast (it was now towards morning); then tied his hat down with an old worsted tippet, and prepared to depart. sara followed him outside of the door, unmindful of the sweeping gusts of wind, and his admonitions to stay indoors or she too would be ill. "yes, doctor, but just a moment; what is it?" "pneumonia." "oh! and is she very sick?" "well, you look after her just as i tell you, and, god willing, we'll pull her through. now go in and dry yourself quick! i don't want two patients in one house." he pushed her in, shut the door behind her with a bang, and was gone. the memory of the next three days was always like a troubled dream to sara,--one of those frightful dreams in which one is laboring to go somewhere, to do something, without success. work as she would, day and night, assisted by the kindly neighbors and the frightened children, she could not stay the progress of that fatal disease; and on the fourth it terminated in the going out of that life which, with all its faults, had been kindly in impulse at least. as sara bent over her mother at the last, trying to win a word, a look, the closed lids were raised a moment, and the dying woman said feebly, "sairay, you've--allus--been good! don't leave--the baby. there's--the-money;" and, unable to finish, her voice ceased, her tired lids closed for their last, long sleep. she would never find fault, never give commendation, again. how the thought smote sara as she stood helplessly gazing down upon her through her blinding tears! "o mother, mother! i ought to have been more patient," she moaned as they led her away; "but i will try and make amends by my goodness to baby." "yes, that's right," said mrs. ruttger, wiping her eyes. "we kain't none of us help what's passed atween us an' the dead, but it oughter make us better to the livin'. not thet i blame you, sairay; some folks, even good ones, is dretful tryin' at times; but i know jest haow you feel, fur i've been thar myself." there is among these honest fisherfolk a strong feeling of communism, which shows itself in the kindliest ways. they may be close-fisted, hard-headed, and sharp-tongued with each other when well and prosperous; but let poverty, wreck, illness, or death overtake one of their number, and the "nighest" of them at a bargain will open heart and purse with an astonishing generosity. sara found all responsibility taken out of her hands. in fact, miss prue, finding her standing in the midst of her room with her hand pressed to her head, gazing bewilderedly about, and asking softly, "where am i?" took her vigorously in hand, and soon had her in bed, where, exhausted as she was, she slept for hours without dreams or movement,--a sleep which doubtless saved her an illness, and brought her strong young body into excellent condition once more. through all this sara longed inexpressibly for her father, but knew it was hopeless wishing. all she could do was to intrust the news to a fishing-smack which was about leaving harbor, and might possibly run across the nautilus somewhere on the broad highway of the ocean. yet, even then, he could only return in case of some lucky opportunity; for the fleet would not put back for weeks yet, as this was their harvest-time, when even the dead must wait, that the necessities of the living might be supplied. after a few days things were strangely quiet and natural once more. morton and molly, thoroughly subdued for the time by recent events, helped her about the house, the short winter's term of school having closed for the long vacation. even the baby seemed less fretful than before; and the lengthening, softening days went by in a quiet that left sara many hours for her beloved books. but the children were needing clothes, and she herself must have a cotton gown; so, as the little store of silver in the old blue teapot had been almost exhausted by the simple funeral requirements, she put on her sunbonnet one afternoon, and leaving the baby, with many injunctions, to the care of the twins, started to call on squire scrantoun, who had for many years been her father's banker. the old gentleman's office was in a wing of his big yellow house of colonial architecture, and was entered by means of a glass door, which now stood open in the balmy warmth of an early june day. stepping within, she found him reading a paper, from which he glanced up to scowl inquiringly at her over his glasses, afterwards relaxing his brows a trifle as he observed,-"oh, it's you, sara: come in, come in! here's a seat. now, what can i do for you?" "thank you, squire; i came to get some money if you please." "money? oh, yes, certainly. want to borrow a little, eh? well, i guess i could accommodate you; how much?" she looked up inquiringly. "not to borrow, squire; but i've had extra expenses, as you know; and, as father always leaves his money with you"-the squire put down his paper, and looked at her so queerly the sentence died on her lips. "i haven't any money of your father's--don't you know? he drew it all just before he sailed, and took it home; said his wife wanted him to. she had dreamed of a good place to hide it in, i believe." he smiled sarcastically as he made the explanation; and sara, in her new tenderness toward the dead mother, resented this smile. "mother was a good manager," she said warmly, "and father always trusted her." "oh, of course! reub olmstead always trusts everybody; he's born that way. but didn't she tell you where she'd put it before she died?" "no; but now i remember, she tried to, i'm sure. she began something about the money, but was too weak to finish--poor mother!" "quite likely; it's a pity she couldn't have finished. but then, you'll find it somewhere. look in all the old stockings and sugar-bowls,-there's where these people generally stow away their savings,--and if you don't find it, why, come to me; i can let you have a little, i guess, on interest of course." he took up his paper again; and sara, feeling sore and resentful, rose, said a curt "very well," and walked out. two years ago she might not have noticed his contemptuous reference to "these people," nor to her father's innate trust in human nature; but now, for some reason, they rankled, and she was glad to get beyond the reach of his small, keen blue eyes and rasping voice. chapter iii. a search and its ending. sara had not walked far, however, before she began to feel the silent, irresistible influences of the day. it was the balmy blossoming time. the whole atmosphere was rich with sweet scents and sounds, while the sky had that marvellous depth and tone which makes the name of heaven seem no misnomer. the sea, limpid and tender, wooed the shore with gentle whispers and caressings, which seemed to have no likeness to the wild rushes and blows of two months before. she looked towards it wistfully,--for sara loved the sea,--then, yielding to the homesick impulse, turned from the narrow street to the beach, and walked briskly away towards a spur of rock which jutted into the water sharply at some distance away. arrived here, she sought with assured footsteps a certain zig-zag way-it could hardly be called a path--which wound in and out among the bowlders, skipping some, leaping others, trenching on the edges of little pools left in some rocky hollow by the high tide, and finally led her, after a last steep scramble, into a niche of the sea's own hollowing, which she had always claimed as her own. seated just within, she could look down upon a narrow causeway, into which the water came tumbling through an aperture in the rocks much like a roughly shaped gothic window, and, having tumbled in, tumbled out again, with much curling and confusion, leaving its angry foam in sudsy heaps along the rocky edges which opposed its farther advance. this bit of nature was named the "devil's causeway" by the natives, who have a way of bestowing all particularly grand and rugged sites upon that disagreeable personage; but sara, having no mind to give up her favorite spot to his satanic majesty, always named it to herself the "mermaid's castle," and had a childish legend of her own about an enchanted princess confined here and guarded by the sea until the coming of the prince,--her lover. happy to be here once more, sara leaned back against the rock, which felt warm, kindly, and familiar; then, removing her sun-bonnet, fanned her flushed face, and looked dreamily away to the pale opaline horizon, against which some sails showed inkily, like silhouettes. she was wondering vaguely why sails should look so white in shore and so black far out to sea, when she was startled by a sharp tap! tap! apparently at her very elbow. she jumped a little, then listened wonderingly. it came again--tap! tap! tap!--then a pause; and then an unmistakably human exclamation of impatience, while a bit of rock went whirling past her, to plunge with a resounding thud into the torrent below. she leaned just the least bit forward and looked around the side of her alcove to see a funny sight. there stood a little man in the attitude of the colossus of rhodes, his bare bald head red and perspiring, and his eyes glaring through huge gold-bowed glasses at a bit of rock in one hand, which he had evidently just broken off with the hammer in the other. he was muttering something unintelligible to sara, and looked altogether quite queer and cross enough to be a denizen of this ill-named locality. sara, laughing to herself at the funny apparition, was drawing into the rocky shell again, when a mischievous puff of wind suddenly caught her gingham bonnet from her limp grasp, and sent it flying down the chasm after the piece of rock. she heard the exclamation again, louder and more guttural than before, then the full moon of a face peered around her sheltering wall, and the voice said,-"hein! a yoong mees! beg pardong, then--have i deesturb you?" "no, sir," rising to her feet; "only i've lost my sunbonnet!" looking ruefully down to where it hung tantalizingly in sight, but far out of reach, on a jutting point of rock. he looked too, then shrugged his shoulders with a sympathetic air. "if i have only been some tall now, mees, or if i could some climb down there--but, alas!" he shook his head, and threw out his hands with a helpless motion, and just then a clear whistle rose from the base of the cliff, giving the tune of "annie laurie." the two looking down then caught a glimpse of a strong white hand, issuing from a black coat-sleeve, which was extended towards them, as the nervous-looking fingers grasped a ledge of rock preparatory to a spring, when the little man burst out,-"ha! mine nevew! robare, robare, look! look dis way!" the whistle ceased, and a head was thrust forward,--a well-cropped, chestnut head,--while a voice as clear as the whistle sang out,-"hello, uncle! that you, up there? how did you make it? haven't got a rope to give me a lift, have you?" "no, no, vait! dat--dat--zing--oh, you tell he!" turning impatiently to sara, for, in trying to speak quickly, his limited english had quite deserted him. she called out obediently, in her rich young voice,-"wait, please! do you see the sunbonnet just above your head? if you will get it and go around to the beach, i'll meet you, and point out the way up here." "indeed i will!" was the quick and courteous response; and she saw the fingers tighten, then the head give a little spring upwards, when the hand clutched the bonnet, and all disappeared. "i have it," was called up an instant later. "now for the beach!" sara turned with a smile to the little man, who nodded kindly, raising his head to lift the hat that was not there, then, with a bewildered look, he whirled around two or three times and gazed at her helplessly. _"los'!"_ he murmured, with so comical a look of dismay that sara could scarcely keep from laughing outright. "los'! an' it ees tree now of dose hat that ees gone, alas!" "perhaps i can find it," she said encouragingly. "why, what's that?" suddenly catching sight of a bundle of things in a hollow just below. sure enough, there was the hat, also a coat, and a round tin box sara was afterwards to know as a specimen-case. she sprang lightly down, handed them up to the absent-minded little geologist, and went on her way, meeting the nephew on the lower ledge. he lifted his hat politely as he saw her, and, holding out the bonnet, said,-"i presume this is your property?" "yes, thank you," she returned, flushing a little as she received it. "you were very kind to get it for me." "indeed, no; it is you who are kind, rather! did you pilot my uncle leon up that steep place?" "oh, no, sir! he found the way. see, after you get around this rough ledge it is easy till the last climb; that is quite steep. just follow me a moment, please." "as long as you wish"--he began gallantly, but she did not wait to hear; and, having led him to a spot whence he could see his uncle, she pointed out the further way, slightly bowed her head in adieu, and, waiting for no further parley, turned about and walked briskly homewards, remembering it was high time to return to the baby, and begin a search for that hidden money. * * * * * it was late afternoon of the next day, and poor sara stood in the midst of her family and household treasures, looking the picture of despair. around her was collected every description of bag, box, and bundle, also the baby, while morton and molly (the latter secretly delighted with all this excitement) were turning things upside-down and wrongside-out, with vim enough to have furnished pinkerton's whole force. but now they had come to a halt; for so far, though everything on the premises had apparently been emptied, no money had appeared, and the three stood confronting each other, with dismay written on their faces. "_can't_ you think of another place, molly?" asked sara in desperation. "she couldn't have torn up the floor, could she?" molly's eyes danced. "what if we had to take up every board! my! 'twould tear the old house all to pieces, wouldn't it? but, sara, there isn't another place anywhere; we've been everywhere that even a mouse could get, i'm sure!" "then it _must_ be among these things, and we have overlooked it. here, morton, you take that pile; you this, molly; and i'll attack these rags; though it doesn't seem possible that she could have put it in a rag-bag." for a moment there was silence, as each delved and peered, the baby more industrious than all the rest, snatching at everything, to clap to his mouth, only to toss it aside for something else when he found it was not eatable. "well, sara, say what you will, i'm sure 'tisn't in my heap," said morton. "what shall i do with all these bits and papers, anyhow?" "let's see, it is nearly tea-time. put them right into the fireplace, and light them to boil the kettle." "all right; and o sara! do let's have some crisp fried potatoes with our herring: this work has made me as hungry as a black bear!" "yes, yes, do, sara!" cried molly, hopping up and down. "and some molasses on our bread too; the butter's all gone." "well, molly, you'll have to slice the potatoes then." "of course i will; where's the knife?" whirling about over the thickly strewn floor, glad of any change from what was becoming a wearisome and fruitless task. "molly! molly! you're making everything fly! do be more careful!" "yes'm," dropping suddenly into a ludicrous imitation of the waddle of a goose; "i'll stop flying, and paddle." "you need a paddle!" muttered morton, contemptuous of such antics; and he proceeded to stuff the rubbish into the chimney-place, adding a light stick or two. soon there was a leaping blaze under the squat black kettle, which the boy watched with satisfaction. "there!" he said, "we won't have to look those over again. why, what's baby got? it looks just like a wad of tobacco. here, neddie! neddie! don't put that in your mouth; give it to brother, quick!" but master baby had no idea of giving up his treasure-trove, and resisted so stoutly that a regular scramble ensued. for his dimpled fingers were shut so tightly over the wad that morton could not at first undo them, and the baby, wrenching his hand away, crept rapidly to sara, half crying, half laughing, then, with a sudden thought, turned when in front of the fireplace, and with a wild little giggle of mischief and rebellion tossed the thing into the very midst of the blaze. the three were all laughing in sympathy, sara on her knees before the rag-bag, molly with knife and potato suspended in air, and morton just as he had tipped over sidewise on the floor when the baby broke away, when suddenly sara gave a quick, piercing cry. "see! see! o morton! morton!" and reached out her arms in a desperate way, too paralyzed for the instant to rise. morton, following her wild glance, echoed the cry, for the supposed wad of tobacco, uncurling in the heat, was now plainly seen to be--a roll of greenbacks! morton sprang forward and made a lunge for them; sara, regaining her wits, did the same, while molly shrieked and whirled like a dervish, but alas! it was too late! their scorched fingers clutched only a crumbling blackened roll, which fell to pieces in their grasp, and the day's search for that money, which meant all the difference between comfort and privation, had ended in a tiny heap of ashes, which a breath would blow away. for one long, dazed, dreadful minute sara and morton stood gazing at each other, the boy's blue eyes large as saucers, and sara's brown ones turned to black by desperation; then the baby, frightened at the silence and their strange expressions, began to cry and tug at sara's dress, demanding to be taken up. this broke the spell. molly gave way to an agony of crying; morton said brokenly, "oh, what will we do?" and sara, stooping mechanically to lift the unconscious little cause of all this trouble, gave a long, quivering sigh, and murmured helplessly, "god only knows!" and, indeed, the prospect was dark enough. those greenbacks meant the savings of months, doubtless, put by bit by bit, for just this occasion, and to have them thus destroyed in one careless instant seemed too cruel! after a little they could talk about it. "where could it have been?" sobbed molly, making a dab at her eyes with the potato, but remembering in time to substitute the corner of her apron. "i don't know," said sara; "it was wrapped in brown paper, i think. even if we had seen it, we would have thought it but a twisted scrap. did either of you see neddie when he picked it up?" no one had, until morton spied it on the way to his mouth, and all conjectures were useless so long as the little fellow could not explain. instead, morton said more hopefully, "but, sara, perhaps this isn't all there was. she might have hid it in two or three places." sara shook her head dubiously; such wisdom was more than she could hope for in the young mother. "no, morton, i don't believe there would be enough to divide. we must look this trouble squarely in the face." "but, sara," persisted the boy, "jap norris always says father's the most forehanded among them all, and rich for a fisherman. you know he never spends a cent for grog." "yes, morton, i know. poor father! it's too bad, when he works so hard for us!" and for the first time tears trembled on her eyelashes. then, dashing them bravely away, "well, what's done can't be undone. o baby, baby! if you knew the mischief your bits of hands have done!" holding them up, and spatting them gently together till he crowed with delight. "but come, molly dear, where are those nice fried potatoes we're to have for supper? 'there's no use in crying for spilt milk,' you know." molly gave a last sob, then looked up with the sun breaking through her tears. "burnt money's worse'n spilt milk, sara; but i'll tell you what, when the coddies are all gone, i'll go lobster-catching, can't i? it's awful fun!" there were few circumstances in life out of which molly could not extract "fun" in some shape. indeed, in less than five minutes she was laughing gayly, and caricaturing the whole scene just passed, from the baby's wilfulness, to sara's shriek of dismay and rush for the burning greenbacks. sara, oppressed with care and forebodings as she was, could not help smiling, and the smile seemed to ease her of her burden just a trifle. "well, we haven't come to want yet, thank god!" she thought hopefully. not want as they knew it, though the most of us might consider them little short of it. there were still herring, "coddies," and potatoes in store, and some groceries, while the pile of wood back of the shed was large for that village. then, too, summer was near, when their needs would be fewer. to be sure, the new dresses must be given up, but they still had one change apiece, and there were some things of the dead mother's which could be used, for poverty does not admit of morbid sentimentality. "oh, we can live, surely, till father comes home," was sara's summing-up that night, as she lay wide-awake in her bed after all the rest had long been sleeping. then, turning over with the resolution to trust and fear not, she clasped the naughty baby (whom she had never thought of blaming) in her arms, and, with a last uplifting of her soul in prayer, dropped gently into slumber. chapter iv. uncle adam and morton. the days slipped quietly away, and sara managed, in the midst of all her duties, to read with the children at least one hour of each, and to get a little time besides for her own deeper studies. she found she could take the old school-books which she had thought once so thoroughly learned, and dig new treasures from them; while the books from miss prue's, nearly all of a scientific character, were read and re-read with ever deepening interest. but it was not the printed page alone that sara studied. she had always been fond of long walks, and in these her keen eyes, directed everywhere, lost nothing that nature had to show her. the shapes of the clouds, and their relation to the weather, the different phases of the sea, all the queer collection of weed and mollusk that it cast ashore, the formation and colors of the cliffs, the different shades and granulations in the sands of beach and pine grove; everything gave her active, hungering mind food for thought and speculation. she seldom returned empty-handed from these strolls, and a rude little set of corner shelves she and her brother had managed to nail together, was rapidly filling with the oddest and prettiest of her findings. she managed, also, to interest the children in these things, and taught them a lesson some people never learn,--how to use their eyes. thus, living close to nature's heart, they could not be absolutely miserable, though want did press them closely. sara had enjoined secrecy on the children in regard to the money. she was naturally reticent, and dreaded the gossip of the little town, which made a nine-days' wonder of every small happening; and had besides that self-respecting pride which dislikes to thrust its misfortunes on a careless world. but perhaps more than all, a certain loyalty to the dead mother closed her lips. she would not have her blamed for her foolishness now she could not defend herself, poor thing! and they would manage somehow till father returned. if worse came to worst, she could borrow of squire scrantoun, though she felt she could not resort to that humiliation except in case of actual necessity. so long as a potato or herring was left in store, she would wait for relief; but one thing did cause her most anxious thought, and that was how to procure milk for the little one. as she stood one morning counting over the few pennies left in the old blue teapot, and wondering what she should do when they were gone, the door was flung open, and morton, flushed and bright-eyed, entered and threw something at her feet. it was a wild goose, limp and drabbled, and sara looked up in surprise at the boy. "you didn't shoot it, morton?" "no; but i killed it!" exultantly. "i've got the 'honk' so i can do it nearly as well as uncle adam standish; and this morning i was down in a nice little cove, when i saw this old fellow light on the water close by. then he paddled out and began feeding along the beach. so i 'honked' to him, and he answered, and i kept on, and he came closer. i'd first broken off this piece of rock to bring home and show you that bit of crystal in it, when i thought i'd use it, and i rose up and let fly! well, it toppled him over, and i jumped out and caught hold of him before he could get away, and wrung his neck--and there's the goose, and here's the rock!" he pointed triumphantly to each, while molly executed a sort of scalpdance about the group, snapping her fingers and smacking her lips, as she cried, "won't we have a dinner, though? and i'm so sick of herring! you'll cook it for dinner, won't you, sara?" the young girl hesitated a moment, her eyes going from one eager face to the other with a deprecating glance. no one knew better than she how delightful this change of diet would be; but she quickly put aside her own desire, and said gently, "i'm so proud of you, morton! molly and i can't complain with such a man to look after us, can we? but look at this. i have only a few pennies left, and i was wondering what we should do for milk for baby. now, if we can all be unselfish, and let you sell this goose to mrs. norris or miss prue, it will buy milk for some time yet. don't you see, dear?" the boy's face flushed darkly, and all the brightness died out of it, while molly's became as blank as the wall. "it's all the baby's fault," he said bitterly. "we'd have had plenty of money but for him. let him suffer too!" "morton!" his head drooped at the grave tone, and molly choked back something she was about to say. "could you really bear to see that little darling suffer, morton? you know you couldn't! we all know he never meant to do such mischief. look at his innocent little face this minute; could you see it grow thin and pale for lack of the food he craves?" morton gave one look, and melted. "i didn't really mean it," he stammered; "only i'm awful hungry, sara." "my brave soldier! i know you are. but you're going to be the help and standby of us all till father comes home. i'll bake the potatoes to-day, you like them so, and you may have a wee bit of baby's milk to eat with them." this appeal was not lost. the boy straightened up proudly. "well, give me the goose," he said resolutely; "i'll take it to mrs. norris. i saw company driving up as i came by, so i guess she'd like it." molly made no remonstrance to this, except to draw down her round face to a doleful length, and drawl out a ridiculous wail common among the sailors,- "'i'm bound away to leave you- good-by, my love, good-by! i never will deceive you no never, mary ann!'" which she pointed by giving the stiffened foot of the defunct goose a last fond shake in farewell. so it was with laughter and good feeling, after all, that their dinner for that day was renounced. but the little episode had given each a spirit of self-sacrifice, which was to help them through many hard times, while it had put an idea into morton's head that he was not slow to act upon. as soon as he had disposed of his goose to mrs. norris (who snapped it up eagerly, and paid him well, its opportune arrival saving her the great mortification of giving her friends a fish dinner), he sought out old adam standish, the acknowledged sportsman of the village. as usual, he found the heavily bearded, long-haired, keen-eyed old man sitting on a bench before his cabin, and at the minute gazing down the long barrel of a shot-gun which he had just been cleaning. "hello, uncle!" was morton's greeting. every man is an "uncle" in killamet, unless he is a "cap'n," or a "squire." "hello!" said adam, lowering his gun. "oh! it's you, sonny? come up and have a seat," sweeping together the empty gun-shells, bits of rag and wadding, small tools, etc., at his side. "how's your folks?" "all right," remembering with a sudden sense of pleasure the money for baby's milk safe in his pocket. "been gunning lately?" "waal, some, a brace or two o' brants; jest hand me them pincers, mort. why? want to buy?" "no; i want to shoot." "hey? you! he, he!" "i killed one this morning, uncle adam." "whar'd ye get yer gun?" "didn't have none." "hey? little boys shouldn't tell squibs." "i'm not squibbing; i 'honked' to it from behind some rocks, and then knocked it over with a stone." "ye did? waal, purty good! purty good! goin' to hev it fer dinner, i s'pose?" "n--no, i sold it to mrs. norris." "did, hey? what'd she giv ye?" morton told him, and the old man ruminated a while, as he industriously cleaned, primed, and loaded his gun, while morton waited, watching a long, plume-like line of smoke along the distant horizon, which he knew was from a portland steamer. finally adam set down the gun with a contented air, and observed,-"haow airly kin ye git up?" "at three, if you say so." "waal, come along abaout four ter-morrer mornin', an' i'll take ye 'long o' me." "but i haven't any gun, uncle adam." "don't need none! i'm a-goin' to show ye what guns is _fer_. when you've got that idee bagged, it'll be time enough fer the weepon. i ain't no patience," he went on, putting his hands on his knees and bending forward impressively, "with these fellers what mangles their game. i s'pose it's plain that the a'mighty made wild fowl to be shot, but the man what breaks their wings and leaves 'em to crawl off an' die in misery ain't human, he ain't! make clean work o' it, or let 'em alone, _i_ say," and he began gathering up his traps in a manner that convinced morton the conference was over. so he said good-morning, and went whistling down the village street, the wind from off the sea tempering the downpour of the sun on white cliff and sand, and lifting the wide rim of his torn straw hat to caress his ruddy cheek. away out on the bay was a schooner tacking against the wind, while just rounding rocky point was a trim little yacht with all sail set, flying straight in for killamet beach. "how pretty she rides!" he thought, and wondered, boy-like, if when he was a big man he would sail his own craft,--the end and aim of every fisher-boy along the atlantic coast. as he dreamed, he turned and walked down over the satiny sand of the beach to the water's edge, and now could see that there were three people in the yacht,--a little round man with big spectacles at the rudder, a taller one, young and trim-looking in his tourist costume, who stood boldly out on the bowsprit, while a beautiful woman with blond hair leaned gracefully back in a steamer-chair. with native courtesy morton hastened to assist in securing the boat, and was rewarded by a hearty "thank you, my boy!" from the younger man, and a brilliant smile from the lady, which covered him with blushes and confusion. the older man seemed in a brown study, and only glared at him absent-mindedly through his large glasses. "ah, robare!" said the lady with an odd little accent, "i have now a thought; it may be this boy could to us tell of some public-house near by, to which we could go for this night." all turned to morton, who said hesitantly,-"yes, there is one, or at least there's miss zeba osterhaus; she keeps store in her front window, and has rooms up-stairs that she doesn't use. sometimes she takes in a painter fellow, or the goose-men." "the what?" laughed the young man, advancing with a large portfolio, which he had taken from the yacht as soon as she was made fast. "why, the men that come for the wild geese--gunning, you know." "ho, yes indeed! i'd like to be a 'goose-man' myself, for once in a way. what do you say, uncle and aunt; can you make yourselves contented with your geological and artistic prowls to-morrow, and let me off for a bit of a shoot?" both gave a ready assent, and the speaker turned to morton. "and now, my boy, can you add to your favors by showing us the way to this--what's her name?--you mentioned, and telling me, as we go along, where i can get hold of a good guide and sportsman about here?" as he spoke he attempted to slip a half-dollar into the boy's hand, but it was sharply withdrawn. "i'll tell you all i can, sir, without pay," flushing as he spoke; for a sudden memory of the cruel needs at home made him almost regret yielding to his first impulse of pride and self-respect. the young man flushed a little also, and slid he silver piece back into his own pocket rather quickly. "pardon me," he said in a graver tone than he had yet used. "i shall be very grateful for your information." "well, sir, there's old uncle adam standish, he's the best i know," said morton, as they led the way towards the village, followed by the others. "he can hit his bird on the wing every time, and he can 'honk' so's to fool any goose alive, and find the best blinds of anybody 'longshore." "really? he must be a genius!" "yes,"--wondering what a genius might be,--"if he'll only let you go with him you'll have a good shoot." "if he'll let me! why shouldn't he? i expect to pay him for his trouble." morton laughed. "_that_ wouldn't make any difference. he doesn't seem to care much for money; all he notices is how a man handles his gun. if you hold it just to suit him, he'll go, and if you don't, he won't." "how ridiculous! well, do for goodness' sake tell me in what manner i must handle the gun that i may please this criticus." morton bridled with indignation. "he ain't a cuss, uncle adam ain't. he's a nice man, and he knows what he's about too. if you'd see some o' the fools that come down here to shoot you'd be particular too, i guess. they're a good deal more apt to hit their guide than the birds, i can tell you." the young man laughed heartily. "my boy, i hadn't the slightest intention of calling your relative names; that was simply a title many men would be proud to bear." "that's all right." in a mollified tone; "but he isn't any relation to me. everybody calls him uncle." "ah, i see. you make me feel wonderfully interested in this wise adam, and only in a fright for fear i won't hold my weapon to suit him; couldn't you give me a lesson or two, now?" morton looked at the stranger askance; was he making fun of him? then straightening his boyish shoulders, he said proudly, "i can tell you something better than that. _i'm_ going gunning with adam to-morrow morning at four o'clock, and perhaps i can get him to take you along too, if he likes your looks." "let us hope he may!" observed the other fervently. "what! is this the place we're bound for?" looking dubiously at the weather-worn cottage opposite, in whose gable end was a primitive bay-window, through which could be seen half a dozen jars of barber-pole candy hobnobbing sociably with boxes of tobacco, bags of beans, kits of salted mackerel, slabs of codfish, spools of thread, hairpins, knives and forks, and last, but by no means least, a green lobster swimming about in a large dishpan. morton wondered what this stranger could have expected better than this, and remarked encouragingly,-"she's got carpets on most all her rooms, and she hooks the nicest rugs in killamet,--all big flowers, or cats lying down,--the prettiest you ever saw!" "aunt felicie, do you hear that?" flinging the question over his shoulder. "we are about to meet your rival! you paint flowers, and she,--just hear the alarming word,--she 'hooks' them! cats, too, and dogs, did you say? does the verb have a dishonest meaning here in killamet, my boy?" morton stared back wonderingly, not understanding much except that in some way either he or miss zeba, or perhaps killamet in general, was being held up to ridicule, and that it was his business to resent it. "i don't know, sir," he answered stoutly, "what you mean: but if you want to know whether miss zeba is a nice woman, i can tell you that; she's just as good as gold, sir! and i suppose if folks don't like our ways in killamet they needn't come here, there's plenty of room outside, i guess." the young man turned and gave him a critical look, which soon grew approving, then held out his hand. "this is the second time i've had to ask your pardon; will you make up, and be friends? i like you, and if they've got any more of your sort here, i shall like killamet!" morton extended his hand readily enough, and felt it seized in a close, strong pressure which pleased him, though he could not have told why, and the young man turned again to his aunt. "here we are at--now, what is that name, my lad?" "miss zeba osterhaus, sir." "oh, yes! i believe i could remember it if i could once see it spelled, however"-the rest of his sentence was broken off by the sharp jangle of the bell above the door, as morton opened it; and the warning note brought miss zeba herself from an inner room. whatever of fun had been dancing in the young man's eyes suddenly died out at the sight of her. she was small, like a little child, but had the wan, drawn, yet sweet-looking face of a middle-aged woman, while between her shoulders she bore that fleshy symbol of christian's burden, that painful affliction, that almost intolerable deformity for a woman to endure, a hump back. instantly the young man's hat was off, and the young man's voice grew almost tender, as he said,-"we beg pardon for disturbing you, but is this miss osterhaus?" "yes, sir," she responded, with a quaint little old-time courtesy, directed with much precision, so as to include the three adults, beginning with the lady. "and have you a spare room, or two; do you ever take in strangers for a few days?" "sometimes, sir, when they do be gentlefolk, like you," with a smiling little nod; "a lone woman can't be too keerful." the blond lady stepped forward and took up the word in her sweet foreign voice. "ah, it will be such a kindness, and we are most easy to bear, i hope you will find." "yes, as my aunt says, you will not find us hard to suit; we can put up with a few inconveniences, if necessary. might we look at your rooms?" these were found to be so neat and cheerful--in spite of low roofs and small windows--that a bargain was quickly consummated; and having planned with miss zeba for a dinner in half an hour, the young man turned to his little guide. "now," said he, with the fun leaping to his eyes again, "now for the ordeal! will you conduct me to this diogenes of a gunner, and have him tell you, without a lantern, whether i am the man he is looking for, or no?" "yes, we'll go," said morton in a matter-of-fact tone; "but i don't think he's looking for you. he never goes a-nigh the post-office, because he says he hates a crowd; so even if you'd written some one that you were coming, he wouldn't know it." "ah, yes, i see; we will take him entirely by surprise, then; well, 'lead on macduff!'" "my name's morton olmstead, if you please, sir." "and a good name too, laddie; i like it, and what's more i like you! you're going to make a fine man some day, did you know it?" morton's eyes kindled. "i mean to, sir. sara says i can if i will; she says the good god started me with a sound brain and a healthy body, and i ought to be able to do the rest." "she does, eh?" opening his eyes surprisedly. "and who may this wise and epigrammatic sara be, i'd like to know?" morton concluded to let the suspicious word go unchallenged. "yes, sir, she is wise and good. she's been to school lots, and she's my oldest sister." "ah, indeed? that accounts for your unusually good english, i suppose. i had wondered at it here." morton felt this to be a compliment, so turned red and squirmed, not knowing just how to acknowledge it, and his friend, perhaps to relieve him, asked kindly, "how old is sara?" having already decided she was nearing the thirties, at least. "she's seventeen, sir." "is that all?" quickly. "such a mere girl, and yet talks like a wiseacre, eh? how does she look?" "well, she's tall, and walks straight and proud-like, and her hair's kind of copper-colored where the sun shines on the waves in it, and her eyes are big and brown, and can drag a lie right out of you, sir; but when she laughs her teeth shine, and there's a dimple in one corner of her mouth, and she looks pretty well." "h'm, i should think likely," said the young man in a musing tone, then, as morton turned a sharp corner, "what, that way?" "yes, sir; there's uncle adam now, sitting on his bench smoking, and he looks good-natured; aren't you glad?" chapter v. madame and "the princess." for once the old man was sitting quite still, doing nothing, unless you can call smoking a very dirty and ill-smelling pipe an occupation. he nodded to them and puffed away, saying between his whiffs,-"how d'ye do, stranger? you agin, mort? set daown, both on ye; settin's jest as cheap as standin' raound here," indicating the bench on the other side of the door with a blackened thumb. but neither cared to sit, and morton lost no time in coming to business. "he wants to go gunning with us in the morning, uncle adam, may he?" adam eyed the young man, who returned his gaze with frank, smiling eyes, without speaking. "kin ye shoot?" asked the old sportsman at last. "a little," modestly. "waal, what--tame turkeys?" contemptuously. "no: i have shot wild ones, as well as prairie-chickens, quail, and-deer." "what! be thet some o' your college sass, naow? i git so full o' thet every season, it makes me sick!" "i'm not a college student, and i generally tell the truth. i've lived west for some years, and have had some good hunting at odd times; but, to be honest, i don't know anything about your bird-shooting here, and i'm hankerin' after an experience!" the homely native word pleased the old man, and he smiled leniently. "waal," he said, removing the pipe to knock out the ashes and put it in his pocket (much to the other's satisfaction), "waal, i guess we kin fix it. mort, here, an' me, we was goin' out airly in the mornin'. ef you kin turn out in time, ye mought go with us. i've got a gun for you, but you'll hev to pay fer the powder an' shot, an' give me my share o' the birds." "we won't quarrel about terms," laughed the other. "i'll be on hand without fail, and am much obliged." "oh, ye're welcome; good-day. remember, four sharp, naow!" as they turned to go. "you see," said the young man to the boy, as soon as they were beyond ear-shot, "he didn't put me through the manual of arms, after all. i feel almost defrauded of my just rights. do you suppose i knocked the conceit out of him with my talk of big game?" "i don't know," said morton, "but i guess he took a liking to you. he's queer about that. sometimes he won't look at these fancy fellers that come down from the city, no matter how much they offer. he says he can't abide 'em--that a fool of a loon is too good to die at their hands!" "and he isn't far wrong, i'm thinking. are you going that way? then you will pass near the yacht, won't you? have you any objections to taking a look at it, to see if it is safe? oh, and by the way, there's a basketful of eatables stowed away under the stern-seat that we won't need now; couldn't you dispose of them in some way?" "i think i could, sir," said morton demurely, dropping his lids, not to show too strongly the joy in his eyes, for if he had been hungry in the morning, he was ravenous now. "all right, then; good-by, my little friend--or, rather, _au revoir_. i'll see you in the morning," and the two separated, mutually pleased with each other. a few minutes later morton entered the home kitchen, joy beaming from his countenance, and a large basket hanging from his arm. "sara," he cried, "have you been to dinner?" "no, we waited for you; but how late you are. it's after two." "all the better, for here's a dinner to match the biggest kind of an appetite! see here, and here!" he spread out with intense satisfaction sandwiches, fried chicken, cakes, doughnuts, and cheese, besides jellies and fruit, while molly fairly howled with delight, and even sara's eyes shone happily; for, unless you have lived for a week on salt herring and potatoes, topped off by a long fast since breakfast, you cannot understand how good those things looked to the hungry children. "but, morton, you didn't tell mrs. norris, did you?" sara asked in a distressed tone. "i didn't want"-"now, don't you worry, sara! i sold her the goose, and got my money-here it is; but this is another kind of game, and while we're eating, i'll tell you the whole story," which he at once proceeded to do, for, hungry as they were, they all fell to with scant ceremony. the next morning the blond lady, being bereft of both escorts, started out for a stroll on her own account. you have before this, doubtless, divined her to be the wife of that same little man sara had met on the cliff; and we now formally introduce her as madame grandet, wife of professor leon alphonse grandet, of the academie des sciences at paris, who was now prosecuting his geological studies in new england. she herself was endowed with no mean artistic talent, her specialty being the painting of flowers in water colors, and, as she always sketched from nature, she had become almost as much of a botanical student as her husband was a mineralogical. but this morning the quaintness and quiet of the village tempted her into a stroll down its long street, before she should seek the pine woods farther back, in search of hidden beauties, and one picture that she came upon held her spell bound for a moment. this was a small, poor cottage, painted only by the sun and rain, before which, on a tiny square of green, a baby was rolling about--a cunning little fellow with rings of silky light hair, while on the low doorstep sat a girl of such unusual appearance that the lady stared in undisguised admiration. her head was bent above a book, and the auburn shades of her luxuriant hair caught the sunlight in every wave and tendril; her eyes were cast down, but the dark lashes curled upward from the slightly flushed cheek thick and long, while the brows were as daintily perfect as if laid on with a camel's hair brush; the nose was straight and delicate; the mouth, now set with deep thought, firm and sweet, while the chin carried out this look of decision, and would have been almost too square but for the coquettish little cleft which gave it the needed touch of femininity. her complexion, unblemished, except for the sun-tinge which showed an out-of-doors life, was of that peculiar tint, neither blond nor brunette, which is usually found with hair of that coppery hue, and the whole artistic head but crowned a form whose grace and roundness not even her ill-fitting gown could conceal. "one of nature's gems!" whispered the on-looker in her native tongue. "and what a cherub of a baby! i must make their acquaintance." she took an orange from the satin bag hanging on her arm, and held it towards the little one, who had now toddled to the open gate, and was gazing shyly at her. he looked at the tempting yellow apple, then back at sister, oblivious in the door-way, then once more at the coveted fruit, and was conquered. as madame grandet stepped towards him, he did not retreat, but reached up his dimpled, dirty little hands (he had been making sand-pies) and caught the fruit she dropped into them. then he gave a delighted little laugh, which roused sara, who raised her large eyes, now dreamy with far-away thoughts, but which flashed into pleasure at sight of the two. "pray pardon me," said madame with a gracious little nod; "i would not deesturb you, but the babee, he ees so sweet! you will let me give to him the orange?" "oh, certainly; thank you! it will be a great treat for him," rising and coming forward, with her book in her hand. "won't you come in and rest a moment? the sun is warm this morning." "thank you, mooch; it ees indeed most warm! may i not here sit on the step of the door by yourself?" "oh, let me bring you a chair," running to get one. "there, this will be more comfortable," placing it just within the open door. "that is true; t'anks! come, mine babee, let me to you show how an orange is to eat, when one has no care for the appearance--it is nature's own way." she cut a tiny hole through the thick rind with her pearl-handled penknife, then put it to the child's lips and bade him suck out the juice, as the little bees suck honey from the lily-buds. sara watched her delightedly. how graceful, fair, and easy she was! what a beautiful dress she wore--perfectly simple, yet with an air of taste and style even her unaccustomed eyes could note. how delicate her features, how refined her voice, and with what a small white hand she managed the little knife! she felt at once that here was a woman different from any she had ever seen before--perhaps the first one for whom she felt the word "lady" was no misnomer. her admiration showed so plainly in her honest eyes that the madame was inwardly amused, as well as pleased, yet not at all discomfited, for she had been used to admiration all her life. "what is the book you read, my dear young lady, may i ask?" she said presently. "it is hugh miller's 'testimony of the rocks,'" answered sara. "so?" it was the french lady's turn to look undisguised astonishment. "and does it for you have interest then?" "yes, indeed; did you ever read it? don't you think it is wonderful how those long-buried veins of rock are made to tell us god's own plans and workings? i can never see a cliff that i don't begin to wonder how it was formed, and what secrets it may contain. i am like baby with his toys," smiling till her dimples deepened, "i want to break it in pieces and find out how it was made!" "but that is joost like my leon! always he goes about with his hammer tapping, tapping, at every bit of stone. is it then that you, too, are a geologist?" "oh, no, not that! i do not know enough, only sometimes i find a specimen; i have a few inside, if you would care to see them?" "indeed i care," rising at once; and when she stood before the wellfilled shelves we have before mentioned, she cried out in astonishment,-"but, surely, my leon must see these. you have here some greatly rare bits. ah, what a beautiful pink rubellite! i have not seen ever a finer. and this geode is most perfect. did you yourself find them?" "yes, nearly all, except what my brother has brought me, and in this neighborhood too; i've never been more than twenty miles away in my life." "and i do see you have them labelled and classed so neat as my leon could do. you must indeed let me bring him to see you. he is my husband, and a--a--i forget now your english word how to say--but he eats and sleeps and dreams over dose minerals, and he would almost forget of me, the wife whom he adores, for one fine new piece of old rock with the print of a bird's toes therein!" sara laughed with a merrier sound than she had known lately; and the lady, delighted to have pleased her, joined in. "oh! it is laugh we can now, my child, but some days it ees not so funny, for he does come home too often with no hat, or perhaps even his coat that is left behind; but the hammer--ah, he would never from that to part did he not have a single clothes left!" sara suddenly turned, her eyes dancing with merry interest. "wait! was he here about a month ago? does he wear glasses, and is he short and"-"it is, it is! you have then seen him?" "yes, indeed!" and she related the meeting on the cliff, to the madame's genuine enjoyment. she kept nodding her bright head, and finally burst out, as sara told of the lost sunbonnet and its rescuer:-"he vas my nevew, robert glendenning" (she pronounced it however robare glendneeng); "and is he not one handsome, fine young man?" "i did not look at him long, but i think he is," blushing a little. "and are not you the party my brother told me of yesterday? i did not think then it was the two gentlemen i had met who were so kind to him. morton is not any too good at description!" "morton, ah, yes, that ees the bright youth who did put my brave robare to the rout! and he is thy brother, then? may i not know thy name also, my fair young mees?" "it is sara olmstead, ma'am, and i am a fisherman's daughter." "and i, my fisher-lass, am name madame grandet now, though my girl name it was felicie." "oh, how pretty!" "you t'ink? do you know it mean 'happy,' 'fortunate,' and i am that, for i have few cares, and my husband does indulge every wish i can make. and your name, does it mean something good also?" "i have read somewhere that it means 'a princess,'" blushing more than before; "but that is hardly the meaning my name should have," giving a quick glance about upon her homely surroundings. "i do not know. you have the grand air, and--ah, i have it! i have it! you must be a king's daughter, a princess indeed!" "but, madame, my father is plain reuben olmstead, a good and honest man, yet only a fisherman." "but, no, my child, you do not yet comprehend. the king, it is thy father in heaven, and thou must be one of those who call themselves the king's daughters. it is a great society which does extend over the whole world of christians, and each one of the members does take her pledge to do some good each day, for the help of mankind. it is 'in his name' that they do this, and their reward it is in heaven!" she spoke with great earnestness, and sara listened breathlessly. a princess, a daughter of the king of kings, endowed with the birthright of high thoughts and noble deeds, enrolled in the royal order of the saviour of men! surely here was a destiny grand and glorious enough to satisfy the highest ambition. her eyes darkened with the rush of thoughts that kept her silent, and finally she drew a long breath, looking up with such humility, yet kindling joy, that her words seemed but an echo of her glance. "i will be one; teach me how!" as she spoke, the baby who had been sitting on the doorstep contentedly sucking his orange, now broke through the rind of his yellow globe of sweets, to find nothing left but a bitter shell, and thereupon set up a wail and toddled over to sara. she lifted him up with tender words of comfort, applied a dampened towel to his sticky face and hands, then brought him in her arms to the doorstep again, where she seated herself near the madame, who had resumed her chair just within. the absence of any adults in the house suddenly struck the latter, and she asked, "where is then the mother, mees sara?" "in heaven," said the girl softly. "she died when i was little; and poor baby ned's followed her a few weeks ago, since father went for the long fish." "ah, how sad! how sad! and have he not hear of this trouble?" "i do not know; not unless he got the word i sent by captain smalley. but, you see, his smack may not have sighted the nautilus at all. it seems as if father would have tried hard to come, if he had heard," she added, her eyes growing misty; "we need him so!" "poor child, poor little one!" murmured the lady in her own language, then in english, "but what is it you speak,--the 'long fish'? do not all your ships return each saturday?" "no; not now. that's the way they do at many of the fishing-villages, i have heard, but we are a long way from the banks, and there's mare's head, which every vessel must round to make our harbor, so dangerous a point that our fleets used scarcely ever to get by all in safety; for when a man is hurrying home to his own fireside on a stormy saturday night, he is not as careful as he should be. so now our boats stay out through the season, and when they have a big haul put into gloucester or annisquam to sell their fish, only bringing home such as they cannot find a market for. it saves many wrecks, and they make more money, but it is often hard on those left at home!" "yes, yes, that is true, i make no doubt! but do you live here quite alone, you and the babee?" "oh, no; there are my brother and sister,--the twins. morton is the one i spoke of; he has gone gunning with uncle adam standish, and the young man who must be your nephew, i'm sure; and molly has gone on an errand." "that morton--it ees one fine boy! his air do say, 'behold the american citizen in me!' is it not?" sara smiled and sighed. "he is a good boy, and my mainstay now, for it is hard sometimes to manage for so many; but will you not please tell me some more about the king's daughters, madame?" her new friend, nothing loath, went into further details of that marvellous organization, telling of the silver cross, which was a passport to the best society and gentlest treatment the world over; describing its growth by tens, its circles within circles, its active benevolences and astonishing influence--all that of which the world has been hearing, almost as a child listens to a fairy-tale, with wonder and delight, yet only half credulous. she also promised to send her copies of those beautiful stories, "ten times one," and "in his name," which first gave rise to the grand idea; and when she finally made her adieus, it was to leave sara in a happy dream, filled with new hopes, desires, and resolutions, all petty cares for the time being quite forgotten! chapter vi. happy days. when morton came home that night, it was with more of the air madame grandet had so graphically described than usual, for he bore two braces of birds, which he exultantly dropped, with a silver dollar, into sara's lap. "why, what is this?" she asked, surprised at the money. "it's mine," was the proud reply. "mr. glendenning gave it to me. he said i had earned it, as well as the game, for i had done all the hard work in bagging the birds; and o sara, but he's a fine shot! uncle adam is that fond of him he's been trying to get him to stay all summer. he says he's a _man_, if he does wear short pants!" sara laughed. "two braces of birds, a dollar, and some new friends, how rich we are, morton! you shall have a supper fit for a king, now, and i, one good enough for a princess!" with a meaning smile over her inner thought. "won't we? make it a roast, sara, with lots of gravy and stuffing, the way they do at mrs. norris's; and oh! i 'most forgot, when we came by miss zeba's, the pretty lady came out and said, 'tell your sweet sister we will make her a morning call to-morrow, if she do please'--them's her very words." "'those are,' you mean. do try, my boy, to speak correctly, at least. i begin to think people are judged more by the way they speak than the way they dress, among intelligent people, so be careful." "that's so, sara, for mr. glendenning said i spoke good english, or, at least, that because you were so wise was why my english was correct, something like that." "why, what does he know of me?" astonishedly. "oh, nothing much, only i said you'd been to school, and so on. sara, i believe i'll go up-stairs and lie down till supper's ready--i'm just about tuckered out!" "humph! do you call _that_ good english, morton?" "well, it's just what i am, if it ain't fine talk," yawning loudly, and before she could correct him again, the urchin made a grimace of defiance, and fled up the stairs to his bed in the loft. the announcement of that supper "fit for a king" brought him down good as new in an hour's time, and i think few royal personages ever enjoyed a meal more, for "hunger is the best sauce" now as ever. the next morning the three from miss zeba's arrived, quite curious over this orphaned family the madame had talked so much about. as for young mr. glendenning, ever since morton's description of his sister, which instantly recalled to his memory a blushing, beautiful face, and a hand outstretched for the gingham bonnet in his own, he had been secretly wondering in what way he could make his surmises certainties, without ungentlemanly intrusion; so you may be sure he had no better business in hand when his aunt proposed the call, while her husband would go miles any day to view a really fine specimen. molly, in the doorway, painfully enchained just then to her stockingdarning, first sighted the trio, and announced in an excited whisper:-"they're coming, sara, they're coming! have you got the baby washed, and the braided rug over the broken board in the floor?" both these important ceremonies having been attended to, she seated herself once more, with an attempt at composure, though every line of her speaking face was alert with anticipation. "ah!" said the madame, eying her from the road, "that must be the girltwin,--molly they do call her. what a _chic_ little face it is! do look with what an air she will make as if she does not see us; it ees inimiteeble!" they turned into the little gate, much amused, and she finally looked up, with such an assumption of astonishment they could scarcely keep from laughing outright; then sprang to her feet, and made a twinkling little bow, which set the young man's eyes to dancing, and entirely captivated madame, at which sara appeared in the doorway, with her fine greek head, and rare smile, to give them greeting. then morton turned from the fish-lines he was straightening, and looked his honest, quiet pleasure, as different in manner from his twin-sister as a staid, slow proud-stepping heron is different from a flitting, fluttering, flamewinged oriole. after madame's introductions, which were hardly necessary, as both gentlemen at once recognized sara (the younger one with an acceleration of his heart-beats which rather surprised himself), the professor became at once immersed in the mineralogical specimens, with sara to answer his questions. his nephew plunged into an animated talk with morton about blue-fishing, and the blond lady divided her attentions between molly and the baby, whose merry little outbursts soon won the two would-be fishermen from their discussion. molly was just then giving an account of her schoolteacher, talking like a little steam-engine, all dimples, gestures, and tossing curls. "why, he isn't anywhere near as good as sara in books, and you can tangle him up just like a salmon-line!" she cried. "it's lots of fun to see him when we all get to asking questions faster'n he can think; but then, he's awful good about the claws!" "the what?" asked glendenning. "why, you see, when we girls catch a lobster we always keep the claws in our desk, to pass around and suck with our bread at lunch (don't you like lobster-claws? they're splendid!), and he don't mind if we sometimes take 'em out in schoolhours. he says fish is good to make more brains, which we need, and when our mouths are full we can't be buzzing! we never had one so nice about that before." "how wise this modern aristotle must be!" the young man broke in amid the laughter. "but i doubt if even a lobster-claw could keep you still!" the little maid gave him a shy glance, containing more of coquetry than her sister would ever know. "i'm pretty still in church," she said, "that is, if 'tisn't _too_ long. do you think it's very bad to just look 'round at the clock sometimes? our church clock's right under the gallery scats, behind us, and it goes the slowest of any i ever saw! sometimes, when i've waited 'most an hour before i looked 'round, it won't be five minutes by that clock! miss prue plunkett's my sunday-school teacher; and one sunday when i had a cold, and my neck was so stiff i couldn't move, she said it didn't better those old jews any to be a stiff-necked race, but it certainly did me. sometimes miss prue talks so't i can't understand just what she means; but sara likes her first-rate, and so do i too, most generally." "molly!" came admonishingly from the corner where the shelves were, "i'm afraid you're talking too much." "yes, she is, sara," put in morton earnestly. "she's just _rattling!_" the madame leaned back, laughing in keenest enjoyment. "i had forgotten how delightful it is that children may be in a state of nature," she said. "ah, robare, how can we go back to those doll-childs at the hotel, with their so fine costumes, and so of-this-world-weary airs, now? you have no doll-houses, my infants, no fine toys that move by the machine-work within, no bicycles, no anything for play; what, then, does amuse you all the day's length in this most sleepy town?" the children stared at her with round, puzzled eyes. what did they find to amuse them? with the cliffs, and the sand, and sea, and the nice little lobster and clam basins they knew about; and the countless shells for dishes, and fish-scales for jewellery, and kelp for carpets, and dulse and feathery sea-fern for decorations. "dear me!" cried molly, "there's things enough; all we want is _time_. here i've wasted a whole morning darning stockings and talking to you!" the outburst that followed this _naive_ confession brought uneasy sara to her sister's side; and with a hand on one of those restless, twitching little shoulders, she managed to keep her respectably quiet through the rest of the call. as the guests went down the village street it was funny to hear their comments. "it ees a most fine collection, all varieties and classified most orderly," observed the professor, intent on the minerals. "such specimens! and impossible to keep in order!" broke out the young man, meaning something entirely different. "but the oldest is a rare one, and"-"ze oldest? yes, but there be some vich are mos' rare of dose later ones, too. but"-"the little feather head!" laughed madame out of her thought, oblivious of what had gone before, "but _jolie_ and bright"-"zat so bright on, it ees no feddar-head, felicie; you mistake. that was the rusty, dull"-"rusty! dull! that so brilliant bird of a child! what mean you, leon?" "child? who say child?" dazedly. "oh, stop, stop!" interposed their nephew, raising both hands, "don't have a family jar over nothing. uncle's on geology, and auntie on babies; don't you see?" and the discussion ended good-naturedly in a laugh all around. they came every day after that, during their lengthened stay of a week, and often the professor would press sara into service to direct him in his search for treasures, while madame stayed with molly and baby; and morton took many a delightful sail in the yacht with mr. glendenning after bluefish or salmon. those were happy, plentiful days in the little cottage, for fresh fish or game was almost constantly on their table, while the overplus, sold to their richer friends, kept baby in milk, and all in necessary supplies. besides, madame's quick eyes soon penetrated into the real poverty behind the hospitable, self-respecting air of the little household, and she managed in many delicate ways to assist them. feeling instinctively that there must be no hint of remuneration to sara for her really valuable services as guide to her husband, she struck up a trade in wild-flowers, delicate algae, and shells with molly, buying all that the child could bring her (and the little girl was famous for these findings), afterwards teaching her to mount them in exquisite designs on bristol-board for possible future customers. morton, too, was paid a liberal percentage on fishing-tackle, etc., so that among them all the wolf was kept decidedly at bay, and sara felt every night like adding a special thanksgiving to her prayers, because she was not forced to ask a loan of squire scrantoun. chapter vii. a tea-party. meanwhile, she was learning to systemize her time so as to make the most of it, and, given a fresh impetus in her studies by this new companionship, spent the days so busily she scarcely had time, till night laid her on her pillow, to wonder where father might be, and when he would return. so far, with the exception of the storm which had proven so fatal to her mother, the season had been quite free from gales, or "breezes" as the fishermen call them; for with these hardy people a good-sized tornado is only a "stiffish breeze" usually. but when these new, delightful friends went away, it seemed as if everything changed. dull, foggy days, with fitful gusts, succeeded to the lovely month just gone, and the skies were leaden and threatening. then, too, little by little, the wolf began creeping towards their door, for sara, in the large liberality of her nature, did not well know how to deny the eager wants of the children, so long as she had any means to gratify them; and was not so wise in hoarding against a rainy day as an older head might have been. still further, to add to her gloom, baby had a slight attack of measles, over which she worried more than was necessary; and, altogether, august was for her a blue month, with only two bright spots to recall. one of these was when morton, red and exultant, came lugging home a mammoth express package, with molly, fish-knife in hand, dancing about him like some crazy apache squaw about a war-captive, though she was only impatient to cut the cord. when her wish was finally gratified, sara's delighted eyes beheld two volumes she had long been wishing for, and a pretty dress-pattern; morton's caught sight of some tackle that fairly electrified him, with a suit of clothes better than he had ever owned before; molly's darted with lightning speed to a neat jacket and hat, also a handsome herbarium book for her algae; while baby set up a squeal of joy at sight of some novel toys and picture-books, leaving sara to the full appreciation of a dainty infant outfit below. of course these most acceptable gifts were from the grandet party,--now in boston,--who had proven themselves thus more constant than most "summer friends," and generous almost beyond belief, as sara thought. the other red-letter day was one when the whole family was invited to tea at miss prue's. they went early, as was the fashion in killamet, morton stiff and conscious in his new suit, and baby filled with undisguised admiration for his own new shoes, while both girls looked so unusually "dressed-up" in their boston finery, that miss prue naturally concluded good reuben olmstead must have left his family well provided for during his absence, and had not the slightest idea how closely pressed they were for actual money. they had been seated but a few moments, morton gravely staring at the dragon-china with meekly folded hands, molly tilted on the edge of her chair like a bird about to fly, and the baby on sara's lap wide-eyed and inquiring, when polly thought the quiet was growing oppressive, and broke out,-"pretty poll! pretty poll! how d'ye do? oh, you fools!" at which molly ran over in a rippling little giggle, so infectious that every one had to join in. miss prue turned to her with an indulgent smile. "bless her heart! it would be dull here if 'tweren't for polly, wouldn't it? let's see, i've a new game somewhere, from boston; it's bits of rhyme and scraps of knowledge, i believe; i never played it, but perhaps you and morton can make it out," and soon the two were seated, bending over a light stand, quite happy for the nonce. meanwhile, baby was so impressed with the dignity and solemnity of the occasion that he kept his round eyes fixed unwinkingly upon the parrot (who occasionally addressed a remark to him), until the weary lids closed, and he dropped his sleepy little head over against sara's shoulder. then she and miss prue had a long, delightsome talk, in which she told her good friend all about the grandet party, the order of the king's daughters, those beautiful, impressive books of hale's, and something-not a great deal, for sara was naturally reticent of her inner life--of the hopes and longings kindled by them in her soul. as the kind old maid watched her noble, expressive face, and noted the clinging little figure in her arms, she sighed, wondering,-"is here to be another life-long sacrifice? are these sparkling, youthful hopes to settle down into the dull, smouldering fires of duty-a fire which will always boil the domestic kettle, and warm the family hearth, but never be a beacon-light on the hill of effort, to help the world onward?" then she checked herself. "is any life well lived, however humble, quite lost to the world? and does not god know better than i where to put her?" and thus ending her reflections, she turned with a brighter look to say, "my dear, don't let _anything_ discourage you from carrying out your views! i believe this life of ours is like a flight of steps leading to a throne. when we have performed all that is required of us on the first step, we must go on and up but sometimes, alas! we will not do what we should, and have to be ordered back. then how painfully slow seems the climb to our former position! but, if we can only always hear that 'come up higher,' and keep steadily on, slowly it may be, so slowly the steps seem but an inch high, we will surely reach the throne in time--or in eternity." sara's luminous eyes rested intently on her face. "the steps may not all be beautiful or easy," she breathed. "no, nor will be, my dear. there is a little book of essays i have, and one is called 'the gospel of drudgery;' i want you to read it." miss plunkett rose and stepped to the book-case on the opposite side of the room, being enjoined, sleepily, by mistress polly meanwhile, to "come again, and don't be long!" when old hester appeared in the doorway, to bob a courtesy, and announce,-"tea is served, miss prue." hester was a character in killamet, and must be described. she was a pure-blooded african of guinea, who, when a wee child, was rescued from a slave-trader by captain plunkett, miss prue's father. the poor little black baby's mother had died during the cruel march to the coast, and the little creature, become almost a skeleton, and looking more like a baby chimpanzee than anything human, was made a pet of by the crew on the homeward voyage, growing fat and saucy daily, so that when the captain presented her to his daughter, then an infant of two years, she was as cunning a specimen of a negro baby as one often sees. instantly the fair little prudence took a great fancy to her, thinking her, doubtless, some new queer kind of doll; and from that time the two were almost inseparable companions. the little stranger was soon given free papers, formally adopted, and baptized under the christian name of hester plunkett; and from her twenty-first birthday had always received wages for her services. her love for the family, especially miss prue, almost the only survivor of this especial branch, was simply unbounded; and nothing could have tempted her to leave the latter. even as she made the simple announcement, her great, soft black eyes rested lovingly on her friend and mistress, then turned, with a smiling welcome, upon the children. "i'll tend the baby ef he wakes, miss sairay; let me lay him down now," she said, lifting him with her powerful black hands; "he likes his old aunt hester!" and she nestled him against her broad bosom, and bent her stately white-turbaned head caressingly over him. molly, who was always fascinated by her, watched every movement, her eyes dancing, and her checks dimpling with some inner thought. "come, what are you sparkling over now?" cried miss prue, taking the child's hand to lead her to the dining-room. "i know you've an idea in that little brain of yours, because it's almost ready to jump out of your eye-windows!" molly gave a little hop--she seldom walked--and caught the aged hand in both of hers. "i'll tell you, miss plunkett, but you musn't tell anybody, will you?" "i'll try to keep it a secret, molly." "well, what do you s'pose hester looks like?" "now, molly! you wouldn't make fun of good old hester, would you?" "but i'm not making fun, miss prue, indeed and indeedy i'm not, only she _does!_" "well, like what, molly?" by this time they had reached the dining-room, and molly drew her behind its door, to whisper mysteriously,-"she looks just like rocky point when there's a high wind. then the rock stands up there black and big and square, just as hester does; and her muslin turban is the spray up over the top of it, don't you see?" miss prue nodded comprehensively, for the resemblance of the tall, straight negress to that bold headland was something she could recognize herself, now it was brought to her notice. "i think you're right, dear; but come, our supper is waiting. pray excuse me, sara, for keeping you and morton standing here; this little lady-bird and i have been exchanging confidences behind the door!" what a supper it was! well worth waiting for, morton thought, for the queer foreign-spiced preserves and the hot pickles (which made molly wink tearful eyes rapidly, and say, "no more, thank you, ma'am!" with great promptness) were all there; besides dainty cakes, such as only hester could make, and tea that was to the common beverage as nectar to vinegar. once molly paused, inspecting a small cream-cake in her hand with a grave air. "what is it, dear? what are you thinking?" asked miss prue, to whom the child was always a whole page of fun and epigram. "i was thinking, ma'am, how does this froth get inside the cake?" "molly, molly! you are too curious," said her sister. but now an idea suddenly struck the child, rippling and dimpling over her bright face like a breeze over a little lake. "oh, i know!" she cried, "i know! you just churn the cream, and then pour the dough around it, of course!" which lucid explanation seemed perfectly satisfactory to herself at any rate. all the stiffness of that first half-hour was now gone, and the rest of the stay was one riotous frolic, in which baby ned, sweetened by a long nap and a good supper in sara's arms, joined merrily; and, as miss prue watched the little party leave her gate in the late dusk, it was through misty eyes, for she could not help thinking of the home she might have known, had not the sea claimed her husband for its own. after this happy day came a few that were anxious enough to poor sara; for the little hoard was getting fearfully low, and now, too, the provisions were nearly gone. "i'm afraid, morton," she said one morning, "if we don't hear something from father this week, i'll have to borrow of squire scrantoun." molly's nose went up. "i don't like him; he's a scowly man! let's borrow of uncle adam or miss prue." "but old adam standish is nearly as poor as we, molly." "no, he ain't," with a toss of her head; "he's got a heap of money! he keeps it in an old shot-bag, and i've seen it myself; he's got--well, as much as five dollars, i do believe!" as this magnificent sum did not impress sara so much as it should, the child concluded to drop finances for a while and attend to baby, who was busily engaged just then in pulling straws out of the broom, a loss the well-used article could ill afford. sara stepped past the two at their frolic and looked out of the open door. it was a glorious morning, the air washed clean by a thunder-storm during the night, and the sea still white-capped from its violence. as she was watching with admiration its turbulent beauty, morton, who had come to her side, burst out,-"why, sara, look in the offing, isn't that the seagull at anchor? why, it is, it must be! then jap norris is here, and can tell us about father!" "are you sure, morton? i can't make her out from here.' "well, i can! i know the old sea-gull like a book; and look! look, sara, if that isn't jap this minute coming down the street!" sara looked, recognizing the straight young figure at once, and turned back to her brother with a quick pang of foreboding that slightly paled her sweet face. "morton," she said huskily, "he brings us news of father!" chapter viii. news from the nautilus. when the fleet to which the nautilus belonged reached the banks, everything seemed exceptionally propitious. the weather was fine and tranquil for march, and the fish fairly asking to be taken. in fact, it was all "too lucky," as old captain sennett of the nautilus growled occasionally, he being, like all sailors, superstitious to the core, and "fond of his blow," as the crew put it. they made a "big haul," with which they put into port, and after disposing of it started out again, only to make a trip as disastrous as the former had been fortunate. there was a week of the "dirtiest" kind of weather,--head-winds, fogs, and treacherous "breezes," which strained every timber in the old tub of a nautilus, as she rolled clumsily about in the turbulent waves. at length there came a night (it was one of those in which sara had watched with baby during the measles) when the sea, as if scorning all previous performances, seemed lashing itself into a very climax of rage. smutty rags of clouds flew across the ominous horizon, and spiteful gusts, apparently from every direction of the compass, caught the old nautilus in wild arms, and tossed her about like a foot-ball. she had sprung a slight leak also, nothing dangerous in a stanch vessel, but an added straw, which might prove the last in this straining wrestle with wind and sea, and she did not answer her rudder as her steersman could have wished. "will she stan' it, cap'n, think ee?" asked reuben anxiously, as a momentary pause in the pounding and smashing found them together. "god a'mighty knows!" was the solemn answer. "if her rudder"-the rest was drowned in a new shriek of the blast, and reuben threw himself flat and clung for dear life to the winch, as a wave washed over the deck, smashing everything breakable into kindling-wood, and almost drowning the two, whom instinct and long practice helped to cling, in spite of the fact that the very breath was beaten out of their bodies. but this, bad as it seemed, was only the beginning of troubles. there were hours of just such experiences; and reuben's strength, robust as it was, began to fail him beneath the strain. in such storms there is no rest for the sailor. something is needed of him every moment, especially upon these fishing smacks and schooners, which carry such small crews; and often forty or more hours will pass with literally no rest at all. they labored on until evening set in once more, and all hands had just been ordered aft to secure a broken spar, when nick the boy uttered a fearful cry, which gave every man a start. they followed the direction of his horrified gaze, and saw a danger which paralyzed the stoutest nerve. just ahead was a "gray-back,"--sailor parlance for a wave which is to all other waves as a mountain to a hillock,--and reuben felt their doom was sealed, for the old nautilus, disabled as she was already, could never stand that terrific onslaught. with one short, desperate prayer he closed his eyes and clung with the grip of the dying to the shattered spar. it was all over in a moment. a roar like a thousand thunders, a stunning blow impossible to imagine, and then--a broad, wreck-strewn expanse, amid which those few poor atoms of humanity showed but as black dots for a moment, soon to be sucked beneath the seething waves. by dawn of the next day the storm was over, for that gray-back had been one of those climaxes in which nature seems to delight; and, having done its worst, the winds hushed their fury, and wailed away into a chill, sullen, but clearing morning. the remainder of the fleet, scattered in every direction by the storm, did not discover the absence of the nautilus till mid-forenoon, when bits of wreckage, into which they sailed, soon told the pitiful story. towards noon two bodies were found, that of the captain and steersman, afloat in the pilot-house, but no more; the fate of reuben, the boy, and the three other hands could only be conjectured. the next day the drowned men were given honorable burial; and many of the remaining vessels, having been almost disabled by the fury of the elements, had to make for the nearest port for repairs. then came a fair and "lucky" run, in which not a hand could be spared to carry the news home, for these fishermen learn to look almost with contempt upon death and disaster. many a poor fellow with a broken limb must go days, even weeks, before he can reach a physician; and the friends on shore are left as long in ignorance of their fate. nearly a month had passed, then, since that awful night, when jasper norris, dreading his task as he had never dreaded any physical danger in his life, walked down the village street toward sara and morton in the cottage doorway. the former watched him with a growing feeling of suffocation and tightness about her throat and heart, for the droop of his figure was ominous. had there been good news he would have given a sailors' hurrah at sight of them, and bounded on, waving his cap in welcome. but, still in dead silence, he turned into the little broken gate, and walked up the path to the door. sara, quite white now, and leaning for support against the jamb, kept her piercing eyes on his face, though his would not meet their gaze; while morton rolled great frightened orbs from one to the other, as from within came unconscious molly's gleeful babble, and the baby's sweet little trills of laughter. "jasper!" gasped sara in desperation, "why--why don't you speak?" he looked up, and made a hopeless gesture with his hands. "don't, sairay," he said huskily, "don't give way, but--but i've bad news." a great trembling now shook her limbs, and she lifted her hands as if to ward off a blow, but her agonized eyes seemed dragging the words out of him. "your father, sairay, he's--he's--the nautilus went to pieces, like the tub she wor, and he's"-"_drowned!_" screamed morton, putting his hands to his ears. "who's drowned?" cried molly, running to them. "why, jap, that you? where's pa?" sara, who had not spoken, at this dropped to the doorstep, and, doubling up in a forlorn little heap, buried her face in her hands. morton burst out crying; and molly, with a puzzled look around, joined in promptly, thinking it the proper thing to do, though she had not yet an idea of what had really happened. but why prolong the heart-rending scene, as little by little jasper stammered out all the story he had to tell, and the poor children began to realize how doubly orphaned they were? this was a grief before which the loss of their. stepmother seemed as nothing. they had loved their big, kind, good-natured father as a companion, far more than a parent; and the thought of never meeting him again, of never hearing his wellknown greeting after his absences,-"waal, waal, younkers, come and kiss your old dad! did you miss him much, eh?"--seemed intolerable. sara, under this new blow, for a time lost all self-control, and broke into such a passion of grief, that jasper, much frightened, ran for the nearest neighbor, mrs. updyke. she soon appeared,--a gaunt woman, with a wrinkled visage, and a constant sniff. "land sakes!" she cried, upon hearing jasper's ill news, "yeouw don't say! well, well, it's a disposition o' providence, to be sure!" by which she doubtless meant a dispensation, though it did not much matter, for no one paid the slightest attention to her moral axioms just then. by this time the news had spread, and the neighbors were flocking to the afflicted cottages; for all the drowned men had lived in killamet, and were well known, while each had left a wife, mother, or some weeping female relative, to mourn his loss. but all agreed that the olmstead case was hardest, or, if they did not, mrs. updyke took pains to impress that idea upon them with a decisive sniff; for, being a next-door neighbor, she naturally desired that the affliction close by should outrank all other distress in the village. but, finding sara oblivious just now to everything but her grief, she left her to pace back and forth, wringing her hands and moaning like some caged creature, contenting herself with telling the children "they could mourn for their poor pa jest as well with less noise," while she prepared to receive the sympathetic callers with an intense satisfaction, which the solemnity of the occasion could not quench. "yes, it's a awful visitation," she sniffed, as the curious, friendly women flocked in; "i don't know's i ever hearn tell of a harrowin'er! four orphans, with no pa nor ma!" (sniff, sniff.) "molly, when that babby squirms so, is it pins or worms?" "he wants sara," sobbed the poor child, whose laughter and dimples were now all drowned in tears. but sara, unheeding of everybody, still kept up that wild walk back and forth, back and forth, every groan seeming wrenched from her very soul; and poor baby had to squirm,--and stand it. ah! that is a lesson that comes almost with our first breath! "poor child!" said one little dumpling of a woman. "let me take him home: he'll be amused with my johnnie, i know. come baby!" and, managing at length to coax him away, she took him to more cheerful surroundings, where he was soon quite as happy sucking a peppermint lozenge, and watching johnnie with his toys, as if no father lay buried under the cruel, restless sea. meanwhile, awed by sara's intense grief, the women stood about, quite powerless, and gazed at her. "cain't we do nothin'?" asked betty pulcher, who could never endure inaction. "what is there to _do?_" "nothin'," sniffed mrs. updyke solemnly, "least-wise, not now. ye see, thar won't be no funeral to make ready fur, an' the sermon won't be till a sunday. i've gin the house a hasty tech to red it up; an' ef the armatts an' the simcotes (them o' his fust wife's kin, an' his own, ye know) should come over from norcross, we'll hev to divide 'em up. i kin sleep two on 'em, an' eat four, i guess, ef the rest on ye'll do as much." each one agreed to do their best, this cannibal-sounding proposition meaning nothing worse than true fishwives' hospitality; and the group had gathered in a knot to discuss in low tones the children's "prospec's" for the future, when mrs. norris and miss plunkett came in. they were cousins, and something alike in face and manner, though the spirituality in miss prue's visage became a sort of shrewd good-humor in that of mrs. norris; and now each proceeded in a characteristic way to her duty. miss prue went straight to sara, and took the poor, unstrung little bundle of nerves into her arms, her very touch, both firm and gentle, bringing comfort to the half-crazed girl. she did not say much of anything, only kissed her and wept with her; but soon the violence of sara's grief was subdued, and her heart-rending moans sank into long, sobbing breaths. mrs. norris, after one pitying look, turned to the women. "don't you think, friends, it is possible that seeing so many makes her worse? we all want to do something, i know. mrs. deering, you're so good with children, why not take the twins home with you for to-day? perhaps your own bairnies will help to comfort them! and, betty pulcher, their clothes will need some fixing, no doubt, for sunday. you're just the one to manage that; and get mandy marsh and zeba osterhaus to help you: they'll be glad to, i know. and you, mrs. updyke, and mrs. shooter,-were you going to look after the cooking, and so on? there'll likely be a crowd over for the sermon." as each one was given just the work she preferred, and as there seemed little more chance of excitement here, they soon separated, not realizing they had been sent home, however; and a blissful quiet reigned. when mrs. norris stepped outside to close the gate after the last one, a voice arrested her. "mother! mother!" she turned. "why, jap, what are you doing there?" as her son came around one of the rear corners of the little building. "i'm just--waiting. say, mother," tremulously, "will it--kill her?" "kill her? who, sairay? no, indeed. she's lots better now. gracious! you look sick yourself, child!" "i'll never do such a thing again, mother,--never! i felt as if i'd stabbed her to the heart. do--do you s'pose it'll make her--turn agin me?" "gracious! no; what an idee! why, you've worked yourself into a regular chill, i declare. go home, and tell hannah to fix you up a good stiff dose of jamaica ginger right away. well, i never!" "then you think she's coming out of it all right?" "i think she's enough sight better'n you'll be, if you don't go and do what i tell you this minute; now hustle!" and jasper, knowing his mother's decisive ways, walked away without more ado. but not home; not to hannah's ministering care and the jamaica ginger, but to a little cove by the sea where, with his body thrown flat on the rocks, and his face buried in his hands, he wept like a child himself, for pure sympathy with that orphaned girl who was so dear to him. chapter ix. rebellion. but the poor, perhaps fortunately, have little time for mourning. as the first hint of the long winter came in on the september's equinox, poor sara had to rouse herself, and she began to look about her with despairing eyes. friends, so far, had been most kind, and the little family had never actually suffered; but now that the few summer resources for picking up an occasional dollar were ended, what had they to look forward to in the long months to come? reuben olmstead had owned the poor little cottage in which they lived, so a roof over their heads might be counted on, but not much besides; for his share in the last fishing-expedition, promptly paid over by jasper, had soon been swallowed up by the family's needs, so greatly reduced had they become before it arrived. sara was not, perhaps, a good financier,--few girls of barely eighteen are,--but she had done her best, and her feeling had often been that of a mother-bird, wearied by a long day's search for worms, who always finds the mouths stretched wide as ever, clamoring for more. the task of filling those mouths seemed a hopeless one. "what can i do?" she thought, as she sat huddled over the tiny fire one day, waiting for the children to come home from school. "the flour is all gone, and the potatoes nearly, and so little wood!" she shivered, then turned to see if the sleeping baby were well covered, and resumed her dreary musing. "i don't wonder our people almost welcome a wreck when they are so poor. of course it's wicked; but if there must be storms, and ships have got to go to pieces--god forgive me! i believe i was almost wishing for one, myself! if there were only something i could do; but what can i? here are the children; they must be cared for, and the baby above all,--what can one do when there's a baby to look after? i suppose some would say, ask her people to take him; but who is there? her mother is dead, and her father a deaf old man who can't live long; she had no sisters, and her brothers are sailors who are off all the time. there's only her cousin 'liza, and i couldn't give the poor little fellow up to that hard, coarse woman; besides, i promised her and i promised father to care for him myself. if i could go out into the world, it seems as if i might find a place; i am strong and young, and not afraid to work, but here there is no opportunity." then, after a long, silent gaze into the fire,-"god certainly knows all about it; he could help me if he would; i wonder why he doesn't? does he treat us as i sometimes do baby--corner us all up till there's only one way to go, and so make us walk straight? but to walk straight now looks as if it led to starvation." her head drooped lower, and her thoughts grew too roving and uncontrolled for connected expression; in fact, her brooding had become almost actual dreaming, when the door swung back with a bang, and the two children rushed in, molly screaming with laughter and resistance as she fled before morton, who was close at her heels. "sara! sara! make him stop! i"-she was stopped herself by a sudden crash, and all three stood in blank affright and astonishment as the oval, gilt-framed mirror, which hung between the front windows, fell to the floor in the midst of them, and shivered into a dozen pieces. it had been one of the proud possessions of their own mother when she came to the house as a bride, and was the principal ornament of their humble living-room, as all swiftly remembered; and besides, there was that gloomy superstition which had been instilled into them since infancy,--a broken mirror meant death and disaster. even sara was not proof against this. in fact, there are scarcely any of us, no matter how good and wise we may be, who do not have some such pet remnant of barbarism clinging to our souls; and sara now stood, pale and aghast as the others, looking at that fateful, shattered glass! the baby, thus rudely awakened, set up a lively scream, which broke the spell of awed silence that seemed to have held them all until now. molly, with a flounce of resignation, cried out,-"well, it's more trouble, of course, but we're getting used to it fast!" sara said, rather sharply,-"go get the baby, molly, and be quiet, if you can; and, morton, help me gather up the bits." while morton, who was already down on the floor, remarked in his slow, thoughtful way,-"i don't see what we've done, sara, to have things keep happening so dreadful, do you?" sara did not know. just then the usual sweetness of her nature seemed turning to gall. if she could have put her thoughts into words, she would have said it seemed as if some awful thing, instead of the god of love, sat up aloft mocking at her wretchedness; and she felt for the instant, as she crossed the floor after the old broom, an impotent rage, almost scorn, of this mighty power which could stoop to deal such malignant blows against a helpless girl. it was but a moment,--one of those fierce, instantaneous rebellions of the natural heart, which overcome us all at times of utter wretchedness,--then, just as she laid hands on the broom, there came a cry, a choked, wondering cry from morton,--"sara! o sara!" she turned; what now? the boy, in removing the larger fragments of the glass from the boards at the back of the frame, had come across something slipped in between, and now held it up with shaking hands and shining eyes. it was a neat pile of greenbacks, laid out straight and trim, with a paper band pinned around them. sara looked, comprehended, and felt like falling on her knees in repentant gratitude! but, instead, she sprang towards him, and caught the package from his hands. twice she counted it; could it be possible? here were three hundred dollars; a sum that seemed like a fortune to the girl. three hundred dollars between them and suffering; and the thing up aloft became instantly a friend, a father, and a god! molly, attempting a pirouette with the baby, now stumbled amid the _debris_, and for an instant distracted sara's attention, as she sprang to steady her, and catch the imperilled little one from her irresponsible arms, and morton remarked hesitantly,-"say, sara, i guess i wasn't feeling just right about things, and i declare this makes me sort of ashamed!" "ashamed? pshaw! well, it doesn't me!" cried molly, dancing about. "now i can have a new dress, and some shoes- "'way hay, storm along, john, old stormy, he'"-"molly! molly! how often must i tell you not to sing those coarse sailor songs? now, do sit down, before you cut your feet on this glass. morton, you see poor mother did divide that money, after all. i presume she left out just a few dollars for every-day expenses, which was what baby threw in the fire, but this must be the bulk of the money that father brought from squire scrantoun's." "yes," said morton, still with solemn emphasis; "and perhaps, sara, broken looking-glasses don't always mean that somebody's going to die; if they did, this would have broken last summer, wouldn't it?" "i don't know just what to think, morton," squeezing the baby for very joy, while this great gladness made her eyes brilliant, "only i guess we aren't forgotten, after all! i want to remember that always now, no matter how sorrowful we may be; will you help me, morton?" "if i don't forget myself," said her brother; "it's kinder hard to feel good when everything goes contrary, but i'll try;" and as he spoke, she saw him select a sliver of the broken glass, and, wrapping it in a bit of paper, lay it away in a drawer where he was allowed to keep his few treasures. "why, what's that for, morton?" she asked curiously. he flushed a little, then said very low,-"it's to make us remember," and she felt that the whole circumstance must have made a deep impression on the boy. not so molly. she mourned the glass because now she had no better place before which to arrange her curls than in one of the larger pieces left, which, being cracked, gave her such a resemblance to a certain old fisherman with a broken nose, who was her special aversion, that she hated to look at herself, which was, possibly, not a bad thing, for she was in danger of growing vain of her pretty, piquant face these days. but for a long time sara went about the humble home with a humbler heart. she felt that she had been a traitor to her kingly father, and took the pretty little white cross madame had sent her and pinned it up, face inwards, against the wall. "i am not worthy to wear it," she said, "until i have done something to atone for my rebellion." but the winter passed quietly away; and, if no opportunity offered for any great deed of atonement, there were always the little worries of every day to be patiently borne, not the least of which was a sort of nagging spirit which had gone abroad among the old neighbors and friends of the olmstead family. possibly they were a trifle jealous of sara's looks and bearing; it may be those who had predicted failure for her, "because them as keeps so stiddy to books ain't apt to hev much sense at things what caounts," were disappointed that she succeeded so well, or,--let us be charitable,--perhaps they thought the children all needed a little maternal scolding on general principles; anyhow, whatever they thought, there was something unpleasant in the air. sara felt it keenly, and drew still farther into her shell of reticence, keeping closely to her studies and home duties, until the neighbors had some excuse for their plaints that "she didn't care for nothin' nor nobody but them pesky books!" one day mrs. updyke came in, sniffing as usual, and casting a hasty glance about the room with her cold, restless eyes. "how d'ye do, sairay?" she remarked, loosening her shawl. "i thort as how ye mought be lonesome, so i come over an' brung my knittin' a while; you got some on hand tew, i s'pose?" "well, not knitting, but i've sewing," said sara, trying to feel hospitable, and wondering what mrs. updyke would think if she should confess that she scarcely knew the meaning of that word "lonesome." "let me take your hood and shawl, won't you?" "waal, while i set; is the babby's well as usual?" with a keen glance at the little fellow, who was happily dragging a pasteboard cart on spool wheels about the floor. "very well, thank you; and grows so fast! he walks nicely now, and can say 'monnie,' and 'mawta,' and 'wawa,'--that's me,--besides several other words." "h'm; got any flannils onto him?" "oh, yes; i made some out of father's old ones," with a sigh at the beloved name. "ye did, hey? hope they fit som'ers near." she now critically examined the room once more; but as it was far neater than her own, she could not reasonably find any fault there, so started on a new tack. "how old's morton?" "twelve next summer." "gittin' to be a big boy, ain't he?" "yes, and such a good one! he is a great help to me." "waal, he orter be; some boys o' twelve airns their own livin', don't ye know?" "yes; and morton can do something when it comes warmer, but he needs more schooling yet, though, indeed, he often does odd jobs on a saturday that bring in a little. he's an industrious boy, and i want him to have a good education." "waal, as to thet, some folks thinks too much o' book-larnin', _i_ say! your fayther didn't hev much o' it to boast on, an' see what a good pervider he was. books is well enough, but sense is better, an' forehandedness is best o' all." as she talked, her needles clicked sharply amid the clouded blue yarn of her half-formed sock, and her eyes, almost as sharp, kept roving about, while the uneasy nose seemed determined to root out anything that might escape them. just then molly came in breezily, her curls flying, and her cheeks a bright pink, and, seeing the visitor, managed, all in one instant, to give sara a lightning glimpse of a most disgusted little visage, even while she turned with a dimpling smile to say,-"why, mrs. updyke, is it you? then that must be why zeba osterhaus and betty pulcher were crossing the street in front of your house; i guess they couldn't get in." "crossin' the street--where? jest below?" beginning to wind up her yarn hurriedly. "hed they railly been to my haouse?" "well, i'm not sure, but i think so; i didn't ask 'em where they'd been." "and be they to thet little stuck-up mis' gurney's naow?" "they went in there--yes." "h'm. jest bring my shawl, sairay. come to think on't, i've got an arrant there myself this arternoon--come nigh to disremembering it. waal, good-day; why don't ye come over ever? when ye want advice, or anythin', i'm allers there," and the woman ambled swiftly away, having quite forgotten the lecture she had prepared for the "shiftless, bookish gal" she was leaving, and only intent on learning what zeba and betty could want with her opposite neighbor. molly dropped into a chair, and laughed merrily. "didn't i get rid of her slick, though? say, sara, what does she make you think of?" "hush, molly, she's a good soul, and means well." "so's a cow, but you don't want her trampling all over your garden! i'll tell you what she's like--an old rabbit in a cap. she keeps her nose going just the same, and her ears are even longer." "molly! molly!" "well, it's so, and you can't deny it. do you know, sara, she stopped morton and me this morning, when we were going to school, and told him it was a shame for him to 'set araound, a-livin' on his sister, and he ought to get a berth in one of the fishing-smacks, and would if he had any grit to him.' it made mort as blue as anything, and he's gone down to uncle jabez wanamead's now, to see about shipping." "molly, are you _sure?_" springing up in excitement. "i won't have it. he's too young, and hasn't had half schooling enough; and, molly, are you certain he went there?" molly nodded, quite enjoying this excitement in her usually placid sister. "then i must go after him, and leave you to tend neddie. oh, _why_ can't people mind their own affairs?" poor sara, trembling all over, started hastily towards the wardrobe for her outer wraps, when a stamping outside the door arrested her, and in a moment the boy entered, knocking the last bit of snow from his boots as he did so. sara's eyes, bent upon him, discovered something in his expression which made her cry out,--"morton, what have you been doing?" "doing? why"-"tell me the truth!" she commanded, almost fiercely. he turned upon molly with sudden anger. "have you been tattling? i'll bet you have!" "no, but i told sara; you didn't tell me not to." "lots of good 'twould have done, if i had! you never kept a thing in your life--never!" "did, too, morton olmstead!" her pout melting swiftly into a mischievous smile. "well, what, i'd like to know?" "my shell chain--so there! you've tried and tried to get it away, and you never could!" at which comforting remembrance she broke into a laugh, which was so infectious even morton had to smile. but he turned from her with a disdainful gesture, only to meet sara's anxious, questioning eyes. "well, i've shipped," he answered doggedly, "that's what!" "morton!" with the word all the strength seemed to go out of her, and she dropped weakly into a chair. "who with?" she asked sternly, for once forgetting even grammatical rules in her intense dismay. "with uncle jabez wanamead; he's going out in a week or two, and needs a boy." "morton, you can't go!" a determined look settling over her white face. "it's a rough, dreadful life! old jabez drinks like a fish, and you'll have to mix his grog a dozen times a day; then you'll have all the dirty work to do, day and night, and be sent aloft where a cat couldn't cling, with the boat pitching like a sturgeon, and, as likely as not, be thrown to the deck with a broken arm, if you're not killed outright. and when all's said and done, you'll never be anything--_any_thing but a fisherman!" "what else was pa?" stoutly. "anybody'd think you was ashamed of him!" she hesitated for a moment, and in her excitement began pacing the room, her face working with contending emotions, while the children sat still and watched her, awed into silence. at length she stopped before them, and seated herself in the chair which had always been that father's when at home, and said, in a voice so sweet and sad that it thrilled even molly's careless little soul,-"no, morton, never, never ashamed of our father! instead, i love and revere him, for he was a true, good man,--'one of nature's noblemen,' as miss prue once said,--but, listen, morton! it wasn't _because_ he was a fisherman, but in spite of it; for, though it is a life that makes men brave, sturdy, fearless, and honest, it makes them also rough, profane, and careless in life and death; in fact, it develops their bodies, but not their minds or souls. "and, o morton, i so want you to be all that father was, and something more. i want you to be educated and refined. that mr. glendenning was as brave as the best of our fishermen, and dared face any storm, but how kind he was, and gentle! how respectful to poor zeba, how thoughtful for his aunt and uncle, and what a gentleman in every way! morton, i want _you_ to be a gentleman too." "he can't, sara," put in molly, her eyes big and round, "he's too poor; a man's got to have at least a hundred dollars to be a gentleman, and morton hasn't but three cents." sara smiled, and the boy looked slowly from one to the other in a ruminating way. "but everybody's twitting me with being a lazy good-for-nothing, sara, and i can't stand it! besides, i told uncle jabe i'd go, and now i've got to." "you can't; i forbid it!" her eyes flashing. "go at once and tell him that it is not to be thought of." it was an unwise speech, as sara instantly felt; for morton, though he could be coaxed into almost anything, was worse than a mule when driven. now the dogged look she was learning to dread settled over his face, and he squared his shoulders sturdily. "well, i guess you'll find i can, sara olmstead, and it will take somebody older and bigger'n you to stop me, too! so 'forbid' till you're tired, if you like; i've given my word, and i'm going--that's settled!" the poor girl's heart sank like lead, and she could have bitten her unruly tongue out for those foolish words. she knew only too well that morton would have the support of nearly all their friends in killamet, who could see no reason why he should not follow his father's calling, and begin, like him, at the bottom of the ladder, as "the boy." though they knew the hardness of the life, they reasoned that it "helped toughen a youngster, and make a man of him." to them, sara's ideas were foolish and high-flown, their notion of a "gentleman" being too often associated with city "lubbers" who came down to spy out the land--and sea--in their ridiculous knickerbockers and helmets, and who did not know a jib from a spanker, or had any idea when a sailor spoke of the "hull" of his vessel, that he referred to anything but the sum of its component parts! gentlemen, as a class, were not held in high esteem at killamet. even captain norris laughed at fine manners, and would doubtless say,-"oh, give the boy a chance to try his sea-legs, if he wants to--a little toughening won't hurt him." no one but miss prue would thoroughly sympathize with, and stand by her, and what were she and miss prue against so many? they ate their supper in a glowering silence, unusual in that cottage, even molly for once being oppressed by the gloomy faces about her; then, still in silence, she washed the few dishes, while sara undressed the baby; morton, meanwhile, taking up a school-book, in which he sat apparently absorbed, until his twin, happening to pass behind him, stopped, and, with a flip of her dish-towel, cried out,-"why-y, mort olmstead, you're studying your g'oggerfy upside down!" he gave her a scowl, but his face flushed sensitively, as he quickly reversed the book, and sara, turning a little from the fire, where she was cuddling the baby, met his eyes with so loving and tender a look that he could scarcely bear it. something rose in his throat, threatened to rise in his eyes too, and feeling that his only safety lay in flight, he muttered that he had an errand down town, caught up his hat and worsted tippet, and ran out of the door, nearly knocking some one over who stood upon the step. "well, i like being welcomed with open arms," laughed a manly voice outside; "but there is such a thing as too hearty a greeting, eh, morton?" and the boy, too dazed to speak, re-entered the room, followed by mr. robert glendenning. chapter x. robert glendenning. sara rose, with the now sleeping baby in her arms, and stood with the firelight playing over her noble young form, and with something--was it the firelight too?--flushing her sweet, sensitive face. she had no idea what a picture she made, nor how fair she appeared in the eyes of the young man in the doorway; for her thoughts were full of chagrin at what seemed the untidiness of the room, with baby's clothes and the children's books scattered about, and the fact that she had on an old, worn dress, instead of the boston cashmere. for she did not realize that our most beautiful moments come from thoughts within, and are quite independent of dress and adornment, and that to-night the struggle she had been through made her expression so lovely, she had never been more attractive. she held out the hand that could best be spared from the little one's support, and said cordially,-"i'm very glad to see you, mr. glendenning; are your aunt and uncle here?" "no, miss olmstead; i left them in boston, and just ran down for a day or two, before i go west once more. i--had business." she saw him seated before she stepped to the alcove bed to lay the baby down, then, coming back, took a seat on the other side of the fireplace, and asked softly,-"have you heard?" "yes," in the same tone; "miss zeba told me. you did not write to auntie?" "i could not--yet." there was a little pause, which was broken by an outburst from the other side of the room, where the children were supposed to be studying. "i tell you 'tis too, morton olmstead. i'll ask sara, now!" "well, molly, what is it?" she turned to ask. "isn't it right to say 'seven and six _are_ twelve?" morton says it isn't." "why, certainly," began sara obliviously, when the guest interposed,-"how'll seven and _five_ do, molly? perhaps that will suit morton better." molly tossed her head at her grinning brother, pouting an instant, then broke into a giggle, as she caught the full force of the sell, and went on with her sums, while sara remarked,-"i am not quick at such things, mr. glendenning. i wish i were! you spoke of going west just now; do you go soon?" "yes; my home is in chicago. i have been east nearly six months on business for my firm, and now am recalled." she looked pensively into the fire, and he thought he heard a little sigh, which perhaps encouraged him to go on, though it was with something like embarrassment that he said,-"i felt before going so far that i ought to make a call on some of the good people here: it may be years before i return." "h'm," muttered molly; "i tell you, if i ever get away i'll never want to come back." "well, nobody'd want to have you, either," muttered her brother in return. "a girl who can't add two simple little numbers!" molly contented herself with making a face at him, and the two by the fire continued their rather patchy discourse:-"i have sometimes thought," said sara, "that we will have to leave here now, though i haven't much of an idea where we should go, or what i could do--but i must do something soon." he was longing to ask all sorts of questions, but dared not; instead, he leaned forward, and said earnestly,-"miss olmstead, i have been thinking of that, and i want you to promise me you will not take any decisive step without consulting my aunt. if i had known--all, i would have brought her with me, but here is her latest address," producing a card. "write her everything, and let her counsel you, will you?" she bowed her head. "it's very kind of you all to care, and if you are sure she would not be annoyed"-"annoyed? what an idea! why, aren't you both daughters of the king? doesn't that make you sisters? i know you will not break your word, miss olmstead." "no, she won't," said molly briskly; "when she says she is going to send us to bed early, she always does it." "molly!" cried sara, half-laughing, half-angry, "i think it must be your bedtime, now." "there! that's just because you want to talk to mr. glendenning," whined the child. "last night, 'cause you was lonesome, you let us sit up till nine. i don't think it's fair!" "well," laughed the young man, to cover sara's embarrassment, for she had blushed like a rose at this, "i did have something in my pocket; however, as it's only for early-go-to-beders, i don't believe i'll produce it to-night." molly was on her feet in an instant. "i always go to bed early, mr. glendenning, only when sara wants me to sit up, like last night: you don't blame me for that, do you?" "indeed i don't; and seeing you're so anxious to go to-night, i think i will give it to you, after all," slowly drawing a package from the pocket of his great-coat, which was thrown over a neighboring chair. molly grasped it, managing to get out a hurried "thank you," under sara's eyes; pulled at the string, whirled around a few times in search for a knife, though morton was holding his out all the time, and finally, getting to the box, snatched at its cover--and dropped the whole thing, the bonbons inside rolling all over the floor. "oh, oh, oh! sara," she screamed, dancing up and down, "they're running away! what are they?" the young man laughed heartily. "only french creams and candied fruits, child; you may not like them as well as miss zeba's striped lemon and horehound sticks, but i thought i'd give you a taste of vanity fair, at least." "is that its name?" asked molly, who had secured a chocolate-cream, and was now burying her little white teeth in its soft lusciousness. "oh, how sweet! and it melts while you're tasting. is vanity fair all that way?" "pretty much," he said gravely, with an odd look at sara. "well, it's nice," she concluded, after a second taste, "but there isn't much to it; you can't _chomp_ it like horehound, or wintergreen candy. _i_ like to chomp!" "i presume so, and suck lobster-claws too, don't you? the fact is, i fear your tastes are too commonplace for you to thoroughly relish these french sweeties, and i'm glad of it! now, don't eat too much to-night, for a very little of vanity fair goes a great way, you'll find. and now, good-night." "good-night, sir. i suppose some is for morton?" "i left that to your magnanimity." "my who?" bewilderedly. "do you mean sara? well, then, i may as well give him half this minute, 'cause she'll certainly make me," and the two finally disappeared, molly laboriously counting over the recovered bonbons, to be sure the division was exact. he turned back to sara. "it is too much care for you," he said warmly. "think of that boy, who will soon be beginning to assert himself, and molly, who is enough to keep a whole family on the alert, to say nothing of the baby. how are you going to manage?" his reference to morton reminded her of their difference, which for a time she had forgotten, and she told him about it, adding,-"what can i do?" "stand firm," he said at once. "but wait; i see how hard that will be, with the whole town against you. let me think." she waited, watching him, while he gazed into the fire. finally he turned again to her. "you spoke of leaving here, why not do so now, soon? put it to morton that you need his protection and help, and go to boston. you have some means?" "yes." if sara had mentioned the sum of these, the young man would have been aghast; but, accustomed as she was to the most frugal living, it seemed large to her. "then what is to hinder?" eagerly. "uncle leon will stay there this winter, anyhow; and they can find you a small flat, where you could keep house in a cosey way. then there are things you can do at home, i am sure; things for the woman's exchange, say, that'll help you out." sara's eyes brightened. it was her dream to go out into that wider life she had read of, and this seemed her opportunity. "what would i have to pay for such rooms?" she asked. "oh, that would depend on locality, the conveniences, and so on; probably from eighteen to thirty dollars, although i am more familiar with western than eastern rentals, but i presume that's somewhere near it." sara, supposing him to mean this as the yearly rental, thought it moderate enough, and went on,-"if it were not for baby, i could teach perhaps, or go out to sew; but i'll have to wait till he's older for that." "would you take the baby?" he asked surprisedly. "how could i leave him?" she returned. "i thought perhaps--didn't your stepmother have any relatives?" "a few; but they are not people with whom he would be happy," she said simply. he looked at her with a puzzled face, made a move to speak, then stopped, ashamed to utter what was in his mind; ashamed to tell her that such devotion to a half-brother would hardly be expected of her, and that, freed from him, she might make a far easier start in life. instead, he merely nodded his head understandingly, and kept silence, feeling that here was a nature not to be approached, except with care and reverence, first putting off the dust-soiled shoes of custom and worldly prudence, as unfit to enter there. after a little more talk he rose reluctantly. "our good mrs. updyke will be scandalized to see a light here after half-past nine," he remarked lightly. "have you any word to send to aunt felicie?" "always my love and reverence," said sara, with a touch of the oldfashioned manner that robert thought one of her greatest charms. "and, if you think i may trouble her, i will write what there is to tell, though even miss prue does not know all the dreams i have had for the future." "why should she?" asked the young man jealously. "my aunt may not be so old a friend, but i am sure she is as good a one." "she's more than kind! i can't understand," with a little burst of confidence, "why you are all so good to a poor fisherman's daughter like me?" they had risen, and he had shaken himself into his fur-trimmed great-coat; now he turned, hat in hand, and looked down upon her, for, though sara was tall for a girl of eighteen, he towered well above her. "you ask why?" he began in a quick, eager tone, then something in her calm face seemed to alter his mind, or at least speech, for he added more carelessly, "do you think it so queer? but you forget you are a princess!" laughing lightly. "well, good-night; it is time for me to go," and, with a more hasty farewell than he had intended, he turned, and left her standing in the doorway. * * * * * the next morning he was sitting before a cheerful grate fire in his aunt's private parlor at a certain hotel in boston, his long legs stretched towards the blaze, and his chin dropped meditatively on his breast, while she, at the other end of the leopard-skin, worked busily on some fleecy white wool-work, occasionally glancing towards his darkly-thoughtful face. "ah, well, robare," she said at last, "this is then your last evening here?" he shook himself a little, sat upright, took his hands from his pockets, and, forcing a smile, turned to her. "yes, aunt felicie; and a nice way to spend it, glowering at the fire! where's uncle?" "he has to that meeting gone at the natural history building; i cannot its name remember. why? had you a private word to say?" "well, i haven't told you about my trip yet, to killamet." "ah! it was then to killamet that you have been? i have thought so, though you did say it was a business trip." "and so it was, partly; old adam has sold my yacht, and i went to get the money." "are there, then, no banks with drafts, or notes of post in killamet?" rallyingly. "don't tease, auntie, but listen. i called on the little princess." "of course." "and, aunt felicie, her father is lost at sea, and she is caring for all those little ones, alone." "ah, the poor child! is she then born to trouble, as the sparks do fly upward? are they very, very poor, robert?" "no; she said they had means, though it is probably but little, a thousand or two at most; they seemed comfortable, though you know how plainly they live; and, aunt, she is more beautiful than ever!" "yes, hers is of that kind of beauty that does grow, as her soul grows, for it is from the within. did she to me send any special word?" "yes, her 'love and reverence;' can't you imagine just how she said it, with that little priscilla touch which is so quaintly charming?" then he told of morton's revolt, and the advice he had given sara, at her request; also the promise he had extorted. "and now, aunt, she must have help; not only advice, but other things perhaps." "never from you, robare!" sharply. "of what are you thinking?" "you have always let me help in your charities, auntie," he said in a wheedling tone; then, tossing back his head suddenly, "but this is different, of course; only just think, aunt felicie, how the poor child's hands are tied!" "but the poor child's spirit is not, my robare, and it is that of a free-born fisher-lass, who would not be dependent, even in its thought; leave sara to me, my dear boy; i think it is that you may trust my discretions, is it not?" he leaned forward, caught the pretty white hand from its flying task, crushed it against his lips, then, flushing hotly, rose from his chair, and walked down the room, ashamed of the agitation he could not suppress. there was silence for a moment, while the perky little bougival clock on the mantel ticked merrily, and madame's needles kept the time; then robert broke it abruptly. "aunt, i'm almost twenty-four." "yes." "and worth a clear ten thousand." "yes." "and make at least three thousand a year." "yes." "and uncle and yourself are my nearest relatives." "i am aware." "well, haven't i a right to please myself?" "you haven't a right to tie yourself by your hands, and your feet, for a whimsey which may pass away. go back to your busy chicago, my robare, and work hard, and live the right, pure life for one year, then tell me what is your thought." "_must_ i, auntie?" it was with the old boyish voice and manner he said this, and his aunt broke into a laugh, though her eyes were wet. "you naughty child! will you now obey your good _tante_, or not?" "yes, ma'am, i will; but you will keep me posted?" "possibly, my boy," bending carelessly over her work. "aunt felicie," he strode up to her with sudden passion. "do not answer me so! i am a man, and i love this fisher-lass with all my heart!" he had stopped directly before her, and she saw that his face was white with feeling. down went the worsted-work, and, rising, she flung both arms about his neck. "my robare, my nephew, my son!" she cried in a choked voice, "i want the best that earth and heaven can give to you; and you--you do push over my ambitions, and expect that i will at once be glad and gay." "but, auntie, you admire her too." "i do, robare; she is good and fair to see; but you must of the others take thought too, and she does need many teachings, dear." "you'll teach her, auntie?" "oh, be quiet, then!" pushing him pettishly away. "of what use to argue with a man so enamoured? go thy western way; obey me, and i will tell you every week all that there is to tell. are you content?" "i'll have to be," laughing a little at her expression; "but remember," turning in the doorway, "if i don't hear, i shall immediately find that business compels an eastern trip." and, shaking a warning finger at her, he disappeared to his packing in an opposite apartment. madame grandet, meanwhile, resumed her work, and held it till the door had closed behind the young man. then she dropped it, her smiles vanished, and she grew grave and thoughtful; for, though far less worldly than many, she was too much of a frenchwoman to look upon a misalliance without a shiver of dread and apprehension. her relationship to robert was only by marriage, but an own child could not have been dearer, for he was bound to her by all the traditions and ties of a lifetime. his mother, pretty nadine grandet, had been her earliest friend, and they had lived side by side, in a little village on the ouise, until she was wooed and won by the american artist, robert glendenning, who had been attracted to that neighborhood by his studies, and the fame of sevigne, whom he worshipped afar. he finally brought his pretty french bride to america, and they lived happily in an eastern city till the little robert was twelve years old. then a sudden illness took the wife and mother to heaven, leaving the husband and son to keep house in a bohemianish way, until nadine's studious brother, leon, who had meanwhile married the lifelong friend of his sister, felicie bougane, decided to come to america. the grandets had no children, and as soon as the madame's eyes fell upon the little robert, who was wonderfully like his dead mother, her heart went out to him; and from that time on he had been like a son to her, especially after his father's death, a few years later. as the artist was unusually prudent, and no genius, by which i mean he painted pictures which the public could understand, and therefore did buy, he left a snug little sum to his son. this the young man decided to invest in chicago, and chose architecture for a profession, two wise moves, as subsequent events proved. as for his uncle and aunt, they had no settled home, but followed wherever science beckoned, and a wild dance she sometimes led the two, as the poor little madame often thought. but this winter certain proof-sheets anchored them in boston; hence robert's intense desire that sara should make haste to settle under his aunt's protection, before some new flitting should put too great a distance between them. this devoted aunt was ready to make any sacrifice for her dear boy, but not so ready to see him make one; often a much harder thing for a loving heart. the madame, being of huguenot ancestry, and as sturdy a protestant as ever lived, could have suffered martyrdom, like her grandfather of blessed memory, for the faith that was in her; but to see her boy suffer perhaps a ruined life because of one mistake in early manhood, terrified her, and she was now often sorry she had let her artistic admiration for that unusually fine head in the cottage doorway lead her to such lengths the summer before. sara as a pet and _protegee_ was one thing; sara as her nephew's wife quite, quite another! but in her varied life she had learned the two wisest lessons god ever sets his children,--those of waiting and trusting. so, after a halfhour's silent meditation now, she resumed her work with a more cheerful look and manner. "what is done is done," she said in her own tongue. "the only thing left is to make the best of it;" and when robert returned, after completing the preparations for his journey, he would never have dreamed that she had a care upon her mind, or the least foreboding in her heart, to see her bright face, and hear her sunny laughter. chapter xi. betty's quilting-bee. as for sara, the interview with robert glendenning roused her to a new interest in her changed life, and to new hopes and plans, which are always delightful to youth; and these kept her from sinking back into that settled sadness which had been almost unnatural in one of her years. first, she wrote the promised letter to madame grandet, which was no light task for one so little accustomed to the use of the pen. it began stiffly enough, but after the first few sentences the interest of her subject so occupied her, that she forgot to choose her words, and, when afterwards she read it over, she felt almost frightened at its ease and abandon. "i'm afraid she will think it too--too--not respectful enough," she said, eying the closely written sheets dubiously; "but if i write it over i shall have to send morton to zeba's for more paper," and, pressed as usual by economy, she let it go without change, thereby greatly astonishing and delighting the madame. "for," thought she, "a girl who can write like that is of no common clay, and is bound to find her level. if it is to be as the wife of my robare that she reaches it, have i any right to keep her back?" after sara had written the letter, her loyal heart reproached her so that she could not rest until she had also invited a talk with miss prue; so one fine day when there was just a hint of spring softness in the air, as delicate as the flavor in a perfect dish, she wrapped baby in his cloak, and drew him on morton's sled to the cosey bay-windowed cottage. miss plunkett seemed delighted to see them, so was the parrot, who insisted on so much notice at first, that conversation progressed only by hitches; but, becoming sleepy after a time (for miss polly was an ancient maiden, and extremely fond of her "forty winks"), she relapsed into a grunting quiet, and, as baby was also still and happy over some blocks always kept ready for his use, the two soon became deeply engaged. when, however, sara had gotten as far as the removal to boston, the elder woman threw up her hands in dismay. "goodness! child, of what are you thinking? are you left so well off that you can afford even to think of this thing? why, my dear, even i, with my means, which most killamet people think large, would feel as if abandoned to the wolves, there! i couldn't begin to live on my income." sara's eyes opened wide. "but, dear miss prue, i haven't so much altogether as you have in a year." "then, are you crazy, child? you'll feel as if cast on a desert island in that crowd of strangers, with no one to care whether you live or die; and you couldn't live six months on so little." "but mr. glendenning said i could get two or three rooms for somewhere from eighteen to thirty dollars, and i hoped, with the rent of the cottage here"-"a month, sara, a month; surely you didn't expect to pay so little for a year!" "why, yes, i did; i'm afraid i'm dreadfully ignorant, miss prue." "as bad as a chicken just out of the shell," shaking her head with comical lugubriousness. "go to boston, indeed! you'd starve to death on a doorstep, all four of you, i can see you now, laid out like a row of assorted pins, for all the world. humph! boston, indeed!" with bridling earnestness. "besides, what business has that glendwing, or whatever his high-falutin name may be, to mix himself up with our affairs? i declare, sara, i've a great mind to move the whole lot of you down here, and take care of you myself. i would, too, if it wasn't for polly; but she'd quarrel with the children all day long, and make life a burden." sara laughed, but looked disappointed too. "i see it's not to be thought of now, miss prue; but i hoped i could work there, and indeed i don't know what there is to do here." "well, there's that, of course, and i'll have to own that cousin nancy prime, who lives in hartford, always says, when i talk so, that there's no place where the poor are so well looked after as in a large city; but it seems to me just like a howling wilderness, and, besides, who wants to be looked after? i don't, nor you either; we want to have our own means, and be independent of charity." "yes; but it won't take so very long to finish my little capital, then what will i do if there is no work to be got? and you know there isn't any here." "advertise for summer boarders," said miss prue brilliantly. "i don't know why people shouldn't come to killamet, as well as to fifty other places along this coast. it's only because when they get here there's no place to put them in, or, possibly, they haven't discovered our great merits yet. our beach, and the scenery about it, are finer than those of half the places they throng, and what if they do have to come either by stage or boat the last few miles! it gives all who don't consider time, and are only off for an outing, so much the more variety. if you advertise as i've seen people do before now, you could make it seem a perfect paradise, and not be half so far out of the way, either." "i never thought of that. _i_ take boarders? how queer!" "well, everything's queer, that is about you; my life has been humdrum enough, we all know; but you seem marked out for exceptional fates--and fortunes perhaps." a funny light glinted in the girl's eyes. "i'm afraid the summer boarders would think _they_ had been marked out for hard fortune, after eating my meals. what do i know about fancy cooking?" "nothing; and you don't want to. most of them have got their stomachs so upset by their high-spiced frenchy dishes that they've got to have a change of diet. you can cook fish to perfection, for i've tried you, and make good bread, and you are naturally neat and dainty, which goes for much. take my cookbook home, and study up a few simple, nice recipes this winter, so's to be ready. don't try for too much, but do excellently well all you undertake; and try it. you know i'll help you all i can; i believe you'll succeed!" "but what rooms have i?" "i knew you'd say that, and i am prepared with an answer. there is, to begin with, the spare room off your living-room." "oh, that?" broke in sara, as if miss prue had touched on something sacred. "yes, just that: we all have too much veneration for our spare rooms. now, answer me truly, of what earthly use is it to you?" "why, none; but mother's best things"-"will lie there, given over to spiders, dampness, and moths, till they fall to pieces. use them; that's what they were made for, and, so far, they haven't fulfilled their purpose in life much better than some of the rest of us," smiling at her own conceit. "get them out, air them, and use them; then, if needs be, and you could get boarders enough to warrant it, you could have the roof raised, and make that loft into two nice rooms; but that is far ahead yet. take two people first, for your spare room, then get mrs. updyke and mrs. filcher to lodge a few more, and you board them. isn't that a scheme?" with a triumphant laugh. "if i can do it; but i'm afraid, almost." "so am i!" with a funny look. these sudden changes of base were a characteristic of miss prue's; perhaps she believed, with emerson, that "unchanging consistency is the mark of a stagnant soul." "but what else is there for you here, safe at home?" "nothing," discouragedly. "if there was only a canning factory, i could work in that." "well, there isn't, so there's no use wishing. after all, i believe my plan is practicable. of course you are young in years, but you've had any amount of experience; then you would only take women and children, and they'd be easy with you." (o confiding miss prue!) "i believe i'd try it, really." if "in a multitude of counsellors there is safety," there is often also confusion, as poor job had occasion to experience; and sara felt that the more she talked about her future, the less she knew what disposition to make of it. finally she abandoned the subject with something like despair, and asked a question in regard to the neighborhood, which made miss prue say quickly, "oh! that reminds me, sara, i want you to be sure to go to betty's quilting-bee; you will, won't you?" "o miss prue! must i? you know i never liked those bees, and now"-"yes, i understand all that, still i want you to go. i have reasons. you are a king's daughter; make it one of your acts of self-denial." sara laughed. "that seems odd enough, mayn't i ask your reasons?" "no; well, yes, i believe i will tell you after all. i heard two of the girls talking about you the other day, never mind who, and i didn't like what they said. the fact is, sara, they think you feel above them." "oh! how can they?" "well, they do, and perhaps they're half right; there, you needn't color so! _i_ won't say you're not above them, but you mustn't feel so. did you ever think, sara, that you might get up a circle of ten here?" "why, no." "well, why not? it wouldn't hurt the girls, nor you either," dryly. "anyhow, i want you to go to this quilting, wear that pretty new dress, and be just as nice and cordial as you know how." sara sighed, but acquiesced. she had always obeyed miss prue, but this was a trial. she wondered, all the way home, just why it should seem so. did she really feel above the other girls, that they failed to interest her? was it pride that made her long for quiet, and her books, rather than for the society about her? could it be she only cared for miss prue because she was richer and better born than the others? "no!" she said emphatically to that last, "i should love her in rags, i'm sure; but i do like her better because she is neat and trim, and can talk intelligently about anything. i wonder if it's wrong to feel so? i must remember that being a king's daughter makes it more necessary that i should be thoughtful for all. how prettily madame explained those two words, '_noblesse oblige_' to me. 'the nobility of my birth constrains me.' so, if i call myself one of the royal family, how courteous and kind i must be to every one, whether agreeable or not." thus, when the wednesday came which was to see betty's quilt upon the frames, sara left baby, with many instructions, to the children; and, dressed in her best, wended her way to the low brown house in the edge of the pine grove, where betty lived with her parents, and an overflowing household of younger children, and whence she was not sorry to go to the smaller, but less crowded cottage of young nathan truman, second mate of a schooner, of whom she was as proud and fond as if he had been captain of an east indiaman, with both a town and country house. to-day the front room, which resembled sara's, only that its furniture was far more battered and worn, was cleared of everything but a row of chairs, which followed the length of its four walls in lines as even and true as those of an infantry regiment "dressed up" to the toemark for inspection; and through the centre, upon the rude and clumsy frame, was stretched a quilt of wonderful construction and a blinding confusion of colors. it was a "remembrance quilt," betty explained, as soon as the company had arrived and filled the funereal rows of chairs, being pieced from bits given her by all of her friends and acquaintances. "here," she said, indicating a point of brick-red calico which helped to form a many-rayed figure, whose round centre was in bright yellow, "is the first new dress ma had after she got merried, and here," indicating a lilac muslin with white spots, "is her weddin' gown itself. then there's a bit of the dress 'at was found on thet gal 'twas cast ashore ten year ago; and there's a piece o' thet one 't zeba osterhaus hed on when she hed her pictur' took, an' these," blushing brightly, "are scraps o' my own dresses thet i ain't wearin' yet. then there's hunderds more, but i guess you'll reco'nize most on 'em. i've pieced it 'starpattern', ye see,--an' do ye know?--there's one thousand an' ninety pieces in thet thar very quilt!" there was a universal cry of admiration and astonishment at this triumphant announcement. "how long did it take you?" asked zeba, examining the pattern and workmanship with renewed interest. "wall, i've been at it now this goin' on two year; kep' it fur ketch-up work, ye know." "wall, we'd better set to," sniffed mrs. updyke, fitting on a huge steel thimble open at the top; "they ain't much arternoons to these short days, anyhow. i'll take this star, an' you, sairay, may work on the next, so't i kin kinder watch ye. 'twon't do to hev any botch-work on this quilt." sara obeyed, but not with alacrity. it only needed the added discomfort of mrs. updyke's supervision to make her quite wretched; but miss prue, at the other end, happened to look up just in time to see the disconsolate air with which the girl drew her chair forward, and called out sharply,-"why, what are you doing over there, sara? i thought, of course, i could depend upon you to thread my needles for me;" and sara, not daring to show her pleasure at this release, made a gentle word of excuse to mrs. updyke, and crossed the room to her friend. "oh, thank you!" she murmured, dropping beside the older maiden, who was chuckling slyly; "i couldn't have sewed well at all there, she frightens me so." "humph! well, she needn't, for there isn't a poorer needlewoman in killamet. there's the queer thing about that woman--she can't really do one thing well, yet her satisfaction is complete." all this in an undertone, entirely covered by the scraping of chairs, rustling of dresses, and wagging of tongues, as the company drew up to their positions around the masterpiece; and still thus protected, sara whispered on,-"but, dear miss prue, tell me, isn't such a piece of work an awful waste of time? calico is only a few cents a yard now, and it does not take such a great deal." "but think, my child," interrupted miss prue with a solemn look, "these remembrances!" and, as if by chance, her finger dropped upon an ugly chocolate colored bit both remembered as having been worn by a poor crazed creature called "silly jane," who belonged in the county house, but spent a good deal of time wandering about the shore. sara burst into one of her rare laughs, and betty called out,-"what's the fun, sairay? pass it 'round, can't you? we've been awonderin' what you 'n' miss prue was a-gigglin' over!" the idea of miss prue's "giggling" rather shocked sara; but that lady answered at once,-"and _we_'ve been wondering if anybody else would ever take the time to do such a piece of work as this." "oh!" cried betty, quite complimented, "i guess there's plenty would; i enjoyed it! it's such fun, when you're j'inin' the pieces together, to call up where you seen 'em last, an' what the folks that wore 'em was doin'." "well, there's something in that i'll admit; but do you need a piece of my dress to recall my personality to your memory always, betty? if i've got to cut my clothes into bits"-"oh, no'm," laughing; "but it's different with you. we'd all remember you, of course, but there's some, now"-"silly jane, for instance? i see you've a piece of her usual gown." betty hardly knew how to take this, but miss prue looked so pleasant and kind, she laughed again. "wall, in course, there ain't much to remember her for; but she was about the only one in town 't i hadn't been to, so i thort i wouldn't leave her aout, ye see." "yes, i see," stooping to bite her thread; at which mrs. updyke sniffed out,-"wall, fer my part, i think it's a purty nice thing when a gal spends her time in sich work; she cain't be doin' anythin' wuss" (sniff), "that's sartain!" miss prue laughed. "makes me think of grannie green. when her rot of a husband used to be sleeping off his sprees, she'd say, 'i'm allers so thankful when he gits real far gone, fur then i'm sure he cain't be doin' anythin' wuss.'" "dear me!" bridled betty, "i hope you don't mean to compare me to thet wretched old jed green!" "no, my dear; but i used to wonder, then, if he couldn't have been doing something better,--but there! it wasn't to discuss poor old jed green that i came here; but, first, to work on this wonderful quilt, and, second, to ask you girls why you don't get sara to form you into a society of king's daughters here?" "'king's daughters?' we look like king's daughters, don't we?" tittered dolly lee. "very much," said miss prue, with that air of hers which made her so great a favorite, an air of _bonhomie_, almost impossible to describe. "we've been told on good authority that we are made in the king's image, so it must be true." "oh!--_that_?" cried betty. "certainly; you didn't think we free-born yankees--descendants of the puritan fathers--were going to claim relationship with any of those effete european aristocracies, did you?" with a droll look at sara. "n--no." betty, not half understanding, but fully aware of miss prue's drolleries, was determined not to be caught in any trap now, so kept to monosyllables; and the latter, having created sufficient interest to insure a hearing, proceeded to make her explanations in regard to such a circle. in a small, isolated village anything which links one, even distantly, with the great throbbing world outside, is eagerly welcomed by the young. these all have their dreams, hopes, and fancies connected with this sphere on which we move, and they are usually far too wide to be contained within one square mile of territory; unless, perchance, that mile teems so thickly with humanity as to offer every possible form of comedy and tragedy. for it is not trees and hills and skies, or even the sea, which can satisfy youth; but living, breathing, suffering human nature. by and by they tire, perhaps, of the latter, and go back to nature,--in love, as they have never been with man,--but that is after disappointment has made the heart sore. to-day the thought of allying themselves with thousands of other girls and women in the effort to do good, set every pulse to new beating, that had ever throbbed with one spark of love for the master; and there succeeded one memorable quilting where dame gossip was almost entirely excluded. as they scattered for home, after betty's nice supper, sara found herself, as usual, at miss prue's side; and, looking up into her friend's face, said, with a mischievous smile,-"so that's why you wanted me to go to the quilting, is it? if you had told me"-"you wouldn't have gone!" interrupted her friend promptly. "i know you so well, sara! there's a--a--well, an aloofness about you that i feel it my duty to struggle with," giving the girl a merry glance; "_some_ people might call it pride,--i don't." sara looked troubled. "i know you think so, miss prue, but i'm sure i don't feel so. what, indeed, have i to be proud of?" sadly. "only," with more spirit, "i can't tell all i know to every one, and it bores me dreadfully to have them tell me all they know!" miss plunkett laughed with enjoyment. she liked to rouse sara occasionally; and listened with dancing eyes as the latter continued,-"now, yesterday, zeba and dolly came to call (by the way, i was reading your ruskin's 'stones of venice' so think what it was to be interrupted!), and what do you suppose they talked about every minute? why, it seems mrs. felcher has a brother living in boston, who has invited her to visit him, and sent her a box of pretty things; they named over every one, even to a 'frame-bunnit covered with sating, and with a bunch of blows on top!'" miss prue had grown grave. "yet poor zeba could teach us both a grand lesson in cheerful patience," she said gently. sara crimsoned, but did not answer for a moment. they had reached miss prue's gate now, and the latter turned into it. "wait!" the girl then said, almost passionately. "i am not worthy to be a king's daughter! leave me out of your ten; tell them i can't live up to the simple requirements; i"-"hush! sara," laying a hand on her young friend who was quivering with feeling, "i understand it all; you think the lord has put you into a niche where you do not belong, for which you have no fitness. are you sure you know more than your maker? perhaps he sees that, by clipping a bit here, or adding a trait there, you will be exactly the one for this niche. why don't you try and help this beautiful plan, instead of hindering it?" then, with a quick change of tone, "well, good-night, daughter; remember the first meeting of our circle next thursday: i shall depend upon you!" and she hurried in, not giving time for another word. chapter xii. new fortunes. sara went home with slow steps, and a questioning heart. "am i cold and proud?" she thought. "is it wrong to be indifferent to these petty things about me, and to love books better than people? do i look for defects rather than virtues, i wonder? oh, dear; how much harder it is to _be_ right than to _do right in this hard world!" she opened the cottage door, and saw a sight that drove away all other thoughts; for there sat uncle jabez wanamead in close conversation with morton, while molly, open-mouthed, was holding baby, and drinking in every word. it was a great shock to sara; for having returned to the battle with her brother, fresh-armed with authority, after glendenning's departure, she had made such an impression upon him that she supposed he had entirely given up his dream of being a fisherman, and was now only thinking of a flitting to boston. but, evidently, from his flushed, interested face at present all her labor was in vain. uncle jabez rose awkwardly as she entered, with a "good-evenin', sairay, thort i'd call 'round a spell." "good-evening," she said, constraining herself to be pleasant. "it is growing warmer out." "yaas, looks like a break-up, some, makes a feller think o' the banks these days. thort i'd see what mort hed laid aout to do 'bout shippin' 'long o' me." "he is not going," said sara promptly. "i have other plans for him," with a beseeching look at the boy, who avoided her eye. "wall, in course, jest es ye say, but i do s'pose, ef reub olmstead was alive naow, his word would be go." sara winced. during all this struggle she had been cruelly hampered by her feeling that, possibly, she was acting entirely against what was likely to have been her dead father's wishes, and now this fear rose so strongly again as almost to paralyze her. "if he were only here--if i could put the responsibility into his hands--if i had any one," she was saying to herself, when there came a thought that calmed her, as the mother's voice calms a frightened child. "i have a father; why don't i put it in his hands?" her rigid face relaxed into a lovely smile, and, looking at her brother with the winning sweetness she could assume at times, she said,-"i will say no more about this matter, morton; you have only our heavenly father to answer to now. decide as you think is right. uncle jabez, will you give him till to-morrow?" "sartain, sartain; and, see here, my boy: i'm free to say i've urged ye to go, fur i need a clipper-built little feller like you; but i say naow, ef i hed as good a sister's you've got, i'd think twicet afore i went agin her, an' thet's the truth." there was no mistaking his earnestness; and as he picked up his old tarpaulin, and shook hands with sara in farewell, the respect and friendliness of his manner thrilled her with pleasure and surprise. after he had gone she talked lightly about other matters, had a frolic with molly and the baby, helped morton with his examples, and mended a coat of his which had come to grief, all as if there were not a care upon her mind, and indeed there was none; she had cast it on the lord. morton was very quiet all the evening, but just before he mounted the steep steps to his chamber in the loft he came to her side. "sara," he said. she looked up sweetly. "i've decided." "yes, morton?" "i'm going to stay at home." "my dear, good brother!" she drew him down and kissed him tenderly, while the tears stood in the eyes of both; and from that moment there was a new bond between them, stronger than the past had ever known. one day some weeks later morton came in with a large roll from the postoffice, and threw it into sara's lap. "ah!" she said eagerly, "it is professor grandet's hand; what can he have sent me?" and hurried to tear the wrapper open. inside were several articles in pamphlet form, two being his own composition, and the rest by another well-known scientist, all relating to the strata and minerals of this very portion of the coast. being just then at leisure, she began one in which a certain sentence had caught her attention, and soon looked up with an air of excitement. "see here, morton! this is certainly a mistake; and in b----'s paper, too," reading aloud a certain statement in regard to the rock formations about a mile inland. "he has, you see, made the same mistake we did at first in regard to the dip of that vein, and which we afterwards discovered to be wrong, when we came across the outcropping near the old judd farm. don't you remember?" "yes," said morton, dropping his fish-lines to come nearer; "let's hear what he says about it." she read him a page or two, and they talked the matter over still further; then she continued her reading, only to break out again after a little. "listen, morton! professor grandet is with us. he isn't sure, but, from surface indications, he thinks just as we do, and the two men are having a great argument. they're going to discuss the matter next week before the geological society. do you know, i'm half tempted to write professor grandet what we have discovered? it might make it perfectly clear to him." "well, i would," said morton, going back to his lines, more interested in them than in what, had he known it, was to have a great and lasting influence on his own and sisters' lives. so next day sara seated herself, with an old atlas for a desk, and wrote with care and precision what she had to tell; then, directing the missive, she went to the old teapot in search of the two cents to pay its postage. as she lifted the lid and peered in, a sigh escaped her, for the little store of silver and copper was getting low; soon it would be necessary to take another bill from the roll of greenbacks so carefully hoarded; and the thought alarmed her, for already it was greatly reduced in size; then, remembering the lesson of dependence she was trying to teach herself, she took out two of the pennies, and resolutely replaced the lid, resolving not even to think of what it was, apparently, beyond her power to remedy. yet she could not keep herself quite free from worry these days. each change of season in our fickle climate means expense; and now the spring was coming on, bringing its especial needs, her feeling was often one of sick despair. it is so hard for the young to learn simply to wait; and poor sara felt that, to make the outlay necessary for the reception of summer boarders, would actually impoverish them, and then--what if the boarders never came? the thought was appalling! in this frame of mind she was putting on their frugal supper of dried herring, with baked potatoes and salt, a few weeks later, when morton dashed in. "my gracious, sara! i believe you get more mail than even squire scrantoun. just look at these!" there was another roll, evidently pamphlets, and two letters,--one from professor grandet, the other in an unknown hand. she hurriedly opened the professor's, and struggled through its tangled and much abbreviated chirography, looking up finally with a pale, puzzled, yet radiant face. "i can't quite make it out. i think--it seems to say that my letter has done him much good; he says it was read before the society, and is printed somewhere." "perhaps it's in that paper book," suggested molly, looking up from a shell box she was making. "this? why, yes; i didn't think,"--tearing it open. "this seems to be a report of the twelfth annual meeting"-"oh, do look and see if it's got your letter in!" broke in impatient molly, springing up, and letting her shells drop in a pearly shower to the floor. sara turned the leaves excitedly, then stopped; and her sweet face flushed a vivid crimson. "it is--it is here--in print--just as i wrote it; and it says, 'letter from miss sara olmstead, of killamet, in which the vexed question is definitely settled.'" many of us have experienced the tingling rapture of seeing our opinions in print for the first time; but it could be to few what it was to sara, isolated, and of humble station as she was. it seemed as if that thrill of pleasure came from the very centre of her being, and tingled even to her finger-tips, while morton and molly, more demonstrative, if not more glad, danced about her with regular whoops of delight; after which the former mounted an uncertain chair for a rostrum, and read off the modest, concise, and clear little epistle with a flourish that ending in a crash, as the chair gave way, and landed him in the midst of molly's shells, with crushing effect. "oh, oh!" laughed sara, "do be careful;" while, with a scream of dismay, molly fled to the rescue of her treasures. amid the hubub the excited girl had almost forgotten the other letter; but, as quiet was restored, she opened it, and read, with such astonishment as no words can depict, this business-like note:-miss sara olmstead: _dear madam_,--on recommendation of professor grandet, after reading your letter lately published in the twelfth report of the m. g. and m. society, i am empowered by the board of control of dartmoor college to tender you a position in the geological department, as assistant to professor macon, in charge. the duties are not heavy,-mostly classification and correspondence,--and will only require your attendance six hours per diem. the salary is ten dollars per week. please reply, stating your decision, as soon as possible, and address, yours truly, j. g. adams. sara looked up with something like awe. "morton," she said in a tone that almost frightened him, it was so solemn, "the lord is taking care of us; we needn't have any more fear now, for we are safe with him." i think few people sat down to a happier, though not many to a more frugal meal than theirs that night. sara had not then a misgiving in regard to her fitness for the position; she was so filled with the impression of its being heaven-sent, that she felt, as did the apostles of old, that "words would be given her, what she should say," and wit also, what she should do. as to the salary, it seemed princely to these modest little folk; and the only wonder was, how they should ever spend it. "but how will you manage about baby? i don't suppose they'd let him come to college," giggled molly, with her mouth full of potato, at which she naturally choked, and had to be patted on the back by morton, who perhaps performed the ceremony with more vigor than was necessary. "there! there! morton, gently dear. now, molly, don't speak again till you've swallowed your food. of course i will have to find some good, trusty person to look after baby while i'm gone, for i mean you both to go to school every minute that you can." the child made a wry face at this. "and i just know they'll have it most a hundred weeks in a year; they always do in big cities, hattie felcher says so." "no, they don't," said morton promptly. "well, i guess she knows, mort olmstead! her uncle lives to boston, and"-"well, she don't, if she says that!" calmly boning his sixth herring. "she does too!" red with excitement; "she was there visiting when she was a baby, and she"-"hush, molly! morton, why will you be so tantalizing? think a minute, dear, and tell me how many weeks there are in a year; then you'll see what morton means." molly, after an instant's calculation, saw the point, and shot a wrathful glance across the table. "well," she remarked, in a judicial summing up of the matter, "you may think you're smart, but that don't help your fare and hands from being so greasy they're just disgusting; and i don't care, so!" "neither do i," said morton, calmly attacking his seventh herring, and his hot-headed little sister, as usual, was vanquished by his superior coolness and precision. this time even miss prue was satisfied, and entered heartily into all the plans and arrangements for the flitting, while morton forgot his own disappointment in the interest of this great change. they were in the midst of the packing, sara, miss prue, and morton, with molly guarding the baby, who had a savage desire to snatch at everything and destroy it, when the elder maiden laughed out,-"sara, i've a scheme; you can let the house as a summer cottage, instead of taking the boarders i once insisted upon. now, come! isn't that an idea?" "if i can't sell it," said sara. "of course, but then you can't. nobody ever sells anything in killamet except tobacco. i doubt if you could give it away!" sara smiled and sighed in a breath. "i'd hate to do either, but i fear it will never be our home again, so why cling to it? but really, do you suppose any city family would be satisfied with this?" indicating the large, littered room with a sweeping gesture. "why not, just for the summer? they crowd into far more uncomfortable places, i'm sure. i can imagine this room with pretty rugs and cane chairs, and a hammock slung across the alcove, and a pinebough ablaze in the fireplace, being a most attractive nook some cool summer evening, after a long day of blue-fishing; and there's one nice bedroom besides the loft." sara shook her head dubiously. "i wish some one would take it, but i'm afraid it will have to stay closed and useless. molly, molly! do watch the baby; he's just starting for the best glass sugar-bowl with the hammer, and i think he has some tacks in his mouth." baby having been made to disgorge his too sharp repast, the talk ran on to other things, miss prue giving much valuable advice on "how to live on ten dollars a week;" but the sage maxims were so interspersed with hammerings, hunts, and hurry, that i fear much of their value was lost on sara. it happened to be a fair day when they left for the new home, and it seemed as if all killamet turned out to bid them god-speed. they ate their last dinner with faithful miss prue, then, accompanied by a goodly little procession, walked down to the beach, where jasper norris, who had somehow happened home a few days before, was waiting with his tidy little wherry to row them across the bay to norcross, where they would reach the railroad, their goods having been sent by wagon a day or two before. it was curious to see how differently each of the olmstead group was affected by this leave-taking. sara was pale and still, and her beautiful, sad eyes heavy with unshed tears; morton had an air of manliness new and good to see, and seemed determined to look after every one and everything; molly's cheeks were red, and her eyes aglow with excitement, as her feet danced over the white sand, while baby laughed at the surrounding friends with charming impartiality, and talked every minute in his own particular dialect, which eye and motion made almost as intelligible as the queen's english. at length they stood on the crescent beach, the sea rolling in at their feet, as sara had watched it so many times. a fresh april wind curled the waves into fluffy white turbans (as molly observed), and an april sun gave them an almost blinding sparkle. each lighthouse gleamed whitely across the bay, and the tall cliff rocks stood out in bold relief against the dazzling blue of the sky; but jasper saw it all as through a mist, for his heart was heavy. what did this departure portend? would it break up their life-long friendship? he was glad to see his mother take sara's hand, and, as she kissed her tenderly, exact a promise that she would write occasionally. but when the others crowded around, each eager for the last word, he turned away and busied himself with his tiller-rope, sick at heart. at last the good-bys were all said; morton had taken his seat at the rudder, and molly was nestled with baby on a cushion in the bottom of the taut little boat, when, just as jasper was holding out a hand to help sara aboard, she turned and gave a last, long, lingering look over the quaint little town in its radiant setting of sea and sky. "good-by, all--all i love!" she said brokenly, then turned to jasper, and was soon silently seated in her designated place. the young man, also silent, took up the oars to fit them into the rowlocks, when suddenly molly was seen scrambling to her feet. "wait, jap, wait!" she cried eagerly, and leaping over the seats, sprang lightly ashore. "why, what is it?" "have you lost something?" "what can the child want?" were some of the questions showered after her from boat and beach, as she was seen to stoop and plunge a quickly bared arm into the water. she drew it forth again, and held up something green and many-clawed. "it's just a lobster i saw," she said calmly, as she climbed back to her place with the surprised crustacean gingerly suspended from her dripping hand. "we can boil it to-morrow, sara, then i'll have the claws to suck; where shall we put it so't it won't grip the baby?" the laughter called forth by this characteristic escapade effectually dispelled all tears and sadness. even jasper grinned, as he handed the creature on to morton, to be thrown into the bait-box under the stern-seat, and, amid lighter sallies and laughter, instead of tears, they rowed away. but sara's eyes rested upon her well-loved birthplace until they had rounded the lighthouse, and the familiar scene was quite shut out by the intervening tongue of land. it was about mid-afternoon when the little party entered the railway coach at norcross; and this being molly's first glimpse of a train of cars, her eyes would have put an owl's to shame for size and roundness, as she sat on the very edge of the seat, and stared uneasily about her. jasper, having fixed them comfortably, gave a hurried hand to each, leaving the last for sara. he had thought a dozen times just what he would say to her at parting, but everything went out of his head in the nervousness of that last anxious moment, with the engine apparently determined to run away with all who would linger over their farewells, and he simply uttered a choked "well, good-by, sairay!" as he held her hand an instant in a trembling clasp. "good-by, jasper, i shall not soon forget your kindness; but do hurry off before the train starts." so does the rush and rattle of modern times overpower romance and sentiment. but, safe on the station platform, he watched the one window he cared for with misty eyes, while sara on its other side felt that the last of home was leaving her, while before her stretched only a strange, untried, uncertain future. chapter xiii. from killamet to dartmoor. the train started with a shriek, faintly echoed by excited molly, the bells clanged, belated men swung themselves up to the rear platform, there was the quick panting of impatient haste through the monster's whole length, till the jerks settled into a contented glide, and molly's distressed puckers broadened into a smile of delight. "it's like flying!" she gasped, turning from her intent gaze out of the window. "everything's flying, only the trees and fences all go the other way. i tell you i like it!" dartmoor was about a three hours' ride distant, so it was not yet dark when they reached there, and were met by madame grandet, who had been in the college town with her husband for a fortnight. how good it was to see her charming face again! sara felt the stricture of forlornness and fear about her heart loosen suddenly at sight of her. "here are you all then, quite safe and well!" she said merrily, as she took the baby from his sister's tired arms, "and i have a carriage for you; pray follow." they obeyed; and soon the party were driving through the broad, quiet streets, bordered by old elms and maples whose summer foliage must stretch a green canopy quite across them, thought sara. she gazed about her, and was delighted with the comfortable, old-time look of the deep-verandaed houses, set solidly in the midst of green lawns, outlined by winding shell walks of dazzling whiteness. once she uttered a cry of pleasure, as they crossed a large green park interspersed by broad avenues, with a pile of gray stone buildings surrounding three of its sides, while elms of rare height and grace were scattered irregularly over its velvety surface. "it is the campus that you now see," said the madame, answering the question in her eyes, "and those large buildings are of the college a part. do you observe over this way, to our right, a wide, wide arch with a statue above? it is the entrance to the museum, in which you do work, and this beautiful street we drive upon, it is the college avenue, and here are the homes of the faculty that we now pass." "do we live with the faculty?" inquired molly, whose neck seemed in danger of dislocation, so constantly did she keep it twisting and turning. "ah! no, hardly so," laughed the madame; "it is on a little street that i do find apartments for you, but it is nice there; i do hope you will be pleasured." "oh, i'm sure we will! baby dear, don't chew your pretty cloak-strings, you will spoil them. ah! is this the place?" as they whirled around a corner and stopped shortly in a narrow but clean court, surrounded by small, trim cottages with tiny squares of green in front. the madame led them up a gravelled foot-path--there were no fences--to a door in one of these, which she opened and entered. "follow, follow!" she called out merrily, and flitted up the narrow, uncarpeted stairway. she stopped at the head of this, and stood till all had gathered about her in the dim little hall-way, then, with a graceful flourish, cried, "behold then!" and threw wide a door. there was a universal shout of satisfaction, which made the madame's eyes dance, while sara's grew misty with feeling; for that kind little frenchwoman had almost settled their rooms for them, doing all an outsider could do, so that the bare, homeless look many of us can remember when newly entering a tenantless house, was quite removed. after the first pause of surprise, the children began running wildly about, while the madame and sara took it more leisurely. "see," said the former, "it is here your sitting room, with three pleasant windows, and a bit of a fireplace under this wooden mantel. when it is dressed with something bright it will not so bare seem. here are two cosey bedrooms with the air and light, and a so large closet between, besides this cunning little bath-apartment, which i know you will much prize. then here," throwing open a door, "is your kitchen, with two fine windows, and this tiny range. is it not pretty?" she ran about, showing its conveniences, and explaining how these apartment-cottages were built by a humane society, to furnish comfortable homes for those who had little means, ending:-"and the rent, my dear, it is so small--so very small--only a little ten dollars a month!" it did not seem small to sara, but she would not damp the madame's enthusiasm by saying so; and in time she learned to appreciate, and be grateful for, this really cosey flat at so low a rental. "the family below is very nice," said madame; "their name it is hoffstott, and he is a little german baker of much baldness on his head, but greatly smiling and pleasant; the wife is about the same in her width as she is in her height, and laughs with a big mouth, and white teeth fine to see; and they have two little girls with yellow braids, like that candy of molasses miss zeba did have in her windows--and all so clean! ah!" with a charming gesture, "it do shine through every room with soap and sand, and the brush that scrubs!" "dear me!" sighed sara, "i'm afraid i can never suit them then; baby will get things around so!" "never do you fear of yourself, little princess!" tapping her gently on the shoulder. "i can still in my mind see your beautiful white floor and shining window-panes, down there by the sea. you, too, are clean, my sweet child, i know! now, have you any supper had?" "why, no, not a bit!" laughing. "i had almost forgotten." "well, i hadn't," said morton, "i'm about starved!" "i, too!" cried molly, and the baby put in a pathetic plea for "bed-emik" that was irresistible. "ah, such fun!" cried the madame merrily, as she whisked off her wraps. "i did think it would be so, and i had that good hoffstott to send us a nice little tin kitchen that i now have hidden away in the warm oven; and see! i did take some dishes out of the barrel. we will have a supper to make a _chef_ rave with envy soon!" if it would hardly produce so dire an effect on a head-cook, it certainly gave supreme satisfaction to the partakers; for in the tin kitchen, which seemed to prying molly like some fortunatus box, was a dear little pot of baked beans, some steaming rolls, and potatoes baked in their jackets, while from a cooler place came a dainty glass of jam, and some cake. it was now dark, and the children felt surrounded by wonders. as molly expressed it, "madame just turned a handle, and the light shot out; and turned another, and the water fell out;" and she asked, innocently enough, if, when they wanted milk or tea, all that people had to do here was just to move a handle, and let it run out of the wall! but madame, after her laughter, answered this by proceeding to steep some tea in an odd little contrivance over the gas-jet, much as sara did over the logfire at home; but neither morton nor molly would have been surprised to see food come sliding in, all cooked, or clothes all made, by the simple turn of a crank, so like fairyland was it all. when, at length, the kind madame left them, sara looked about her with an odd feeling, half forlorn, half thankful. it was certainly a snug little haven, yet everything was so new and strange she felt as if she could never get used to it. but, during the next day or two, which was passed busily, getting the rooms into better shape, she gradually grew accustomed to the odd contrivances, and acknowledged their convenience. mrs. hoffstott came up, and kindly offered her services, and the baby took such a fancy to the good-natured german woman that he would hardly leave her for any one but sara. as to the little girls, they fraternized with morton and molly at once, and introduced them to their home below, and their father's shop on a neighboring street, before the day was over. by sunday morning--their flitting had been on a certain thursday-everything was in excellent order, and sara had begun to feel that the little flat was indeed home; so the blessed day was spent in the quiet and rest they all needed. as they sat around the tiny grate in the twilight, morton looked slowly all about him. the room was square, with a large double window in front, and a single one at the side. by the madame's suggestion, and with her help, these windows and the mantelshelf had been prettily draped with inexpensive material, which was, however, delicate in tint and pattern. upon the floor was the only carpet sara owned--old-fashioned, and perhaps too bright for artistic tastes, but looking warm and comfortable that chilly spring evening. then there was a table, also draped, while the collection of minerals was conspicuous upon a set of shelves in one corner; and about the fire were a few home-cushioned chairs. plain, to homeliness, as it was, yet the effect was so entirely one of brightness and comfort that morton broke out with,-"well, sara, this is pretty nice! rather better than uncle jabez's old cabin on the mary jane, isn't it?" "i'm so glad you think so, morton! and i'm sure you will like school here. mrs. hoffstott has taken such a fancy to baby that she will take care of him for me until i can find some one else; so tomorrow we begin our education,--you and molly and i." "you, sara? how funny! why, you are through with yours, aren't you?" "no, molly, i sometimes think i am just beginning; and if you dread the starting in to-morrow, so do i! bring the bible, morton, and let's read a chapter, to give us courage for the ordeal." it was indeed an ordeal! after starting off the children, with the little hoffstotts to pilot them, and seeing baby happy with some toys in their mother's trim kitchen, sara put on her modest wraps, and walked briskly, not giving her courage time to weaken, from the little court toward college avenue. at its farther end she was to meet professor grandet, who lived there in a professional boarding-house of intense respectability and learning, from whence he was to accompany her to the museum, a programme which had been arranged with sara by himself and madame, when they had called saturday evening. she found him awaiting her in the doorway, beside his wife, who greeted her with a cheery word, and bade her, laughingly, have no fear, for she knew all about professors, and really, in most things, they were no wiser than common people! then, laughing mischievously in her husband's face, she gave him a little push down the steps, which came near upsetting both his balance and his dignity. but before he could turn to remonstrate she was volubly bidding him not to go off into a brown study over some plesiosaurus, and forget all about his charge, or make a mistake and introduce her to the dinotherium, instead of professor macon; then, gayly waving her hand, she vanished behind the closing door. "she has ze spirits zat are high--she!" he said with a smile, for everything this bonny wife did seemed good to him. "it is ze best sing zat it ees thus, for she ees much alone--_la pauvre petite!_ now, i must zis sing say to you, mees sara; it will not be allowed zat you keep zat mos' fine colleczione while ze college have you in employ--zat ees contraire to ze rule. what would you with it then? if you it will zell, i s'all be mos' happy to buy, eh?" "certainly, if it is against the rule to keep it; but that seems queer!" "but no, it ees quite right, you zee? ze collecziones mus' be for ze college--all--no private ones; it will not do." "yes, i see; all must work for the general good when making a collection." "yes, yes, it ees so." they were now passing into the museum building, whose wide and lofty corridors sent a thrill of awe through the impressionable girl. feeling very small and young, she followed the professor over the tiled floors, then through two or three large apartments filled with strange looking beasts and birds of a startling naturalness, past long glass cases, where she caught hasty glimpses of everything possible in shell, bone, stone, or mineral, then across a narrow corridor, where the professor stopped and tapped at a door. "enter!" was called loudly from within, and they obeyed. it was a bright, sunny room they stepped into, not large, in comparison with those they had passed through, though here, too, were smaller glass cases, as well as tables heaped with jars and specimens, and two kneehole desks of fair size. from one of these a gentleman advanced; not a large man, but having a fine head and face. his black hair was thrown carelessly back from a broad white forehead, while his mouth and chin were concealed under a full dark beard. his eyes, of the same dusky hue, peered keenly through glasses. "professor, here i have mine leetle vriend, mees sara olmstead; and zis, mees sara, ees ze good man with whom you do vork, professor macon." the professor and his new assistant shook hands, while the latter felt she herself was being classified and labelled by those penetrating orbs. "i'm happy to meet miss olmstead; pray be seated. don't hurry away, professor grandet; can't you sit down a while, also?" "not zis morning, t'anks; i haf mooch to do. well, mees, i leaves you in good hands; _au revoir._" "good-morning; and thank you," said sara timidly. "thou art mos' velcome; adieu!" and with a flourish of his hat he was gone. "you may take off your wraps in here, if you please, miss olmstead," said professor macon, leading the way to a small cloak-room; then, as she returned unbonneted, he pointed to the desk near his own. "this is your place, and for this morning your work will be labelling these specimens. when you are the least uncertain about one, speak to me, please. you will find everything needed before you." he returned to his own work, and sara soon grew absorbed in hers; for it was the kind of task she liked, and had often spent hours over, for pure amusement. how it brought back the shore and the cliffs! the long rambles inland, also, and the evenings on the floor amid her specimens, down before the drift-wood fire. she forgot her surroundings finally, so interested was she; and once the professor, glancing up, smiled a little at sight of the bent head and eager, intent face. he watched her, unperceived, for some seconds, then, with a nod of satisfaction, returned to his own labors. the three morning hours passed as one in this congenial labor, then there was the brisk walk home to meet the children at a light lunch, and look after baby. she found the little fellow supremely contented with his new quarters, having made loving advances to a gray kitten who, though suspicious of his favors, was too meek to escape them; and mrs. hoffstott declared he had been "so goot as nefar vas!" the older children were voluble over their school, morton talking most of the great, cheerful rooms, with their wonderful conveniences for study; while molly expatiated at large over a little girl with the euphonious name of henrietta may hendrington, with whom she seemed to have fallen rapturously in love! half-past one found them all at work again, and the afternoon hours were even shorter than those of the morning to all but baby, who began to grow homesick towards four o'clock, and who could not be comforted, even by the children, who were out of school at three. he wanted his "wawa," and no one else. it was really pathetic to see how the little fellow clung to her, hiding his pretty wet eyes in her neck, and lovingly patting her shoulder, as he crooned his wordless reproaches in her ear, and mrs. hoffstott, looking on, thought this must indeed be a good sister to win such hearty affection, and felt her own motherly heart warm to the forlorn little orphaned brood. but, as sara climbed the steep staircase, with the child clasped close, and opened the door of their little snuggery above, her heart was full. how had the loving father cared for his children! here she was, a princess indeed, in her own domain, surrounded by her loving subjects; and when she shut the door she seemed to shut out sorrow and care, for here all was peace. how they enjoyed the nice hot supper, and the visit afterward, baby in sara's lap, warming his pink toes before the bit of a blaze, which these chill nights of early spring demanded! then, when the little fellow was in bed, out came the books, and all was still, as molly hunted out lakes and rivers, morton puzzled over fractions, and sara revelled in owen, ready at any moment to give her help to the younger ones. perhaps some dainty miss of eighteen, enjoying her first winter in "society," and counting up her bouquets and admirers after last night's party, might think it too tame an existence; but to sara, reared amid toil, privation, and loneliness, it was a veritable bit of eden. it could not be expected that such a beautiful girl as sara could cross the campus several times a day, and pass unobserved by the hundreds of students who felt this to be their special stalking-ground; and finally, one morning when an unusual number of graceless young "sophs" and "freshes" were on guard there, she was subjected to so many stares, smiles, touchings of the hat, and half-heard remarks, that she entered the workroom with flushed cheeks and a perturbed manner which could not well escape the professor's keen eyes. "you have walked too fast, miss olmstead; there is no such hurry these sunny mornings." "it isn't that, sir; i--it is not agreeable crossing the campus." "ah!" with a lift of the eyebrows and a quizzical look at the lovely disturbed face before him. "i can well believe it! well, there's a better way, if you would like to try it; at least a more secluded one," giving her a keen glance. "when you come down college avenue, watch till you see a large brown house with a tower, and a porch with heavy pillars"-"oh, yes, sir; and a deep green lawn in front; i've often noticed it." "very well," smiling agreeably, "that's my home. turn in at the carriage-drive, and follow it until you see an opening in the hedge; go through, and keep to the little foot-path; it will bring you here, for it's my own private way." "thank you," said sara, "i will be very glad to use it," and seated herself at her desk in the business-like way she was acquiring, much to the professor's secret amusement. that noon, as he sat opposite his wife at table, he said,-"marian, i want you to look out of the window about a quarter past one, and you will see a _rara avis_." "goodness! henry, you're not having any of those horrid dinornis things brought to the house, are you?" he laughed. "no, my dear; this rare bird i have in mind is simply a handsome girl, who doesn't enjoy being stared at by the students,--in a word, my little helper, miss olmstead,--and i've told her to travel by my own crossroads, because she comes in all of a flutter, mornings, after running the gantlet of those college scamps on the campus." his wife gave a quick, appreciative nod. she was a pale, dark-eyed woman, with a face of rare intelligence and sweetness. "indeed i do want a peep at her, henry; she's the fisher-girl with the family on her hands, that madame grandet told us about, isn't she?" "yes, the same; let me give you another croquette, wife." "no, thanks; i've sufficient. and how does she appear, very provincial?" "not at all, that i can see, unless to be modest as a violet, and business-like as a night-editor, be provincial. she speaks good english, and sensible, too, in a peculiarly pleasing voice, and has the most finished manners, to my notion; for she goes quietly about her affairs without fuss or remark, and says what there is to say in brief, clean words. no, she is anything but _outre_." "really, my dear, i never heard you praise a woman so highly before." he smiled quietly. "i neither praise nor dispraise, marian; they are, with one notable exception simply out of my ken, ordinarily; but i like this little girl, where she is, unusually well." "be sure, then, i shall watch for her with all my eyes! don't forget your papers, dear; oh, and turn your pockets inside out at once, please, till i see if you have any of my letters yet undelivered!" he obeyed with a matter-of-course air, which showed this to be a common occurrence with the absent-minded scientist, and having yielded up two dainty, square missives, which he had not carried more than two days, took his departure. an hour later sara turned in at the designated carriage-drive, and followed its windings up near the house, then off towards the dividing hedge, never seeing two bright, interested eyes which were peering through the filmy lace curtains, and taking pleased note of her trim, erect figure in its black dress, and lovely, thoughtful face, below its plain straw hat; then passed through the hedge, and, with all the delight of a child exploring some bit of woodland, followed the wellworn little path, which crossed a corner of the next yard, then skirted a tennis-court, wound by a rather suspicious-looking dog-kennel, then led into an unused grassy lane, reminding her so gently of home that she longed to linger; but, pressing on in her narrow way, she finally brought up before a gray stone pile, in which was a small door, and, opening it with some caution, found herself in the tiny square entry just back of the familiar cloak-room. professor macon took in her pleased face at a glance. "you liked my little by-way?" he asked. "immensely!" with a hearty accent. "may i always use it?" "most assuredly!" and without more words both bent to their absorbing tasks. chapter xiv. new friends, new duties, and a new loss. the sale of sara's collection to professor grandet brought her a neat little sum, with which she added a few much-needed articles of furniture to her rooms, making them more modern and comfortable; and through mrs. hoffstott she finally succeeded in finding a trusty little girl, who was glad to come during the hours of sara's absence to tend baby and do the left-over bits of work for the pittance she could afford to pay. even this left a perilously small amount for the house expenses, and the clothing of the four; but the latter necessity was made easier by madame grandet and miss prue, both of whom found they had many articles too good to throw away. the latter had pressed enough of these upon sara, during the packing, to make molly and herself quite comfortable, for, as miss prue always wore black, her dresses were suitable now; and, the madame had come to the rescue with some of the professor's cast-off trousers for morton's use. it was one saturday afternoon, and sara, consequently, at home by three o'clock, when she stood, armed with a pattern and some formidablelooking shears, about to attack a light gray pair of these, when there came a quick little "rat-tat-tat" at the door. "open it, molly," she said abstractedly, thinking it might be either kathie or grisel; but instead of the round pink and white face and yellow braids she looked for, there appeared a tall lady, richly dressed, whose pale, fine countenance was quite unfamiliar. the lady advanced. "this is miss olmstead, i know; and i am mrs. macon. i have often seen you through the window at home." sara greeted her with a blush, and drew forward the best chair, inwardly experiencing a deep regret that she had not changed the baby's pinafore, and had kept her cutting operations in the parlor. mrs. macon, however, seemed to notice neither, but praised the baby's pretty rings of hair, saying he reminded her of one of raphael's cherubs, and asked molly about her school, taking in, with evident amusement, the child's original answers, and little twists and tosses, till sara could recover her equanimity, and be her own quiet self once more. then she turned to her with some word of commendation for her laborious life, and added, with a light laugh,-"you looked quite fierce with your great scissors as i came in. it wasn't the baby's hair you thought of cutting, i hope?" "oh, no, indeed! i wouldn't cut his dear little curls for anything! i was trying to--to cut out some pants for morton." "you poor child! what a genius you must be to attempt it! do you think you can?" the tone of perfect _camaraderie_ seemed to drive away the last vestige of sara's shyness. "i have once or twice at home, but it's different here: the boys dress better, you see, and morton's getting very particular. i've a good pattern, but i do feel a bit frightened to put my scissors into the goods." "of course you do," rising, and going over to the table to look at the pattern pinned carefully over the old garment. "but, my dear, couldn't you cut to better advantage by turning this a little? here, let me show you." with a rapid movement she unfastened and cast aside the jetted lace wrap she wore, and filling her mouth with pins, after the manner of womankind, began mumbling her explanations, as she turned and twisted the paper about, sara, meanwhile, looking on with the earnestness of a priestess of athene, listening to her oracle. months of meeting in fashionable parlors could not have made them so intimate as those ten minutes over that pattern, while their heads bobbed together, and their tongues ran on in unison. for when it was adjusted, mrs. macon insisted on superintending the cutting, and when this was satisfactorily accomplished, to the exclusion of the one worn place, and the ink-spatters, she was as elated as sara herself. "there! we've done it, we've done it! now, if you only get them together right; you're sure you'll remember which is the front, and which the back, and when you stitch them--where's your machine?" "i haven't any," said sara. "dear heart! and were you going to sew those long seams by hand?" sara nodded deprecatingly, as much as to say she knew it was wrong not to have a machine, but she couldn't help it; and her visitor was so charmed with the look in her sweet eyes, that she gave her cheek a playful little tap as she said,-"it's not to be thought of! i've an excellent machine which stands useless half the time; you shall come and learn to use it: this will be just the thing to begin on. why can't you come now? i'm anxious to see them underway, and, besides, i haven't a doubt morton needs them; boys always are needing new trousers!" sara had to acknowledge that he did; and the upshot was, that in less time than it takes to tell it, baby was turned over to molly, and sara, with her bundle, found herself in mrs. macon's carriage, riding home with her, to the astonishment of the coachman, who had been preparing his mind for a long, sleepy afternoon on the box, while his mistress consulted her list, and made her formal visits. the fact is, she had forgotten all about them; just now the most interesting thing in her rather monotonous life was sara and those trousers. an acquaintance begun in this manner could never be quite formal again. mrs. macon was warm-hearted, and often-times weary of doing nothing in her great silent, childless house. she adopted sara and her little brood from that moment, and to be adopted by marion macon was to fall into good and gracious hands. she led sara, now, straight to the sewing-room, in which was the machine, throwing wide the blinds of the broad window before which it was placed. "did you ever use one?" she asked anxiously, as she removed the cover. "yes, once or twice. miss plunkett had one." "miss plunkett; that's a name i know. i have heard my mother mention a captain plunkett she knew as a girl; they were a good family, the plunketts. then you know them?" sara spoke of the life-long friendship between that family and her own, but in so modest a way that the lady's respect for her increased with every word; but both were too intent on business to give much time to genealogy. sara proved an apt learner, and soon was making the treadle fly, while her hostess, seeing her well underway, ran down-stairs for a time. when she came back sara had performed the cunning task of getting the pockets in place, and was finishing off the long seams. "how rapidly you work!" cried her new friend. "my husband told me how business-like you were." "did he say so? i'm glad he thinks i am!" cried sara, much pleased. "it would be so annoying to a man like him if i were not." "and why to him especially, miss olmstead?" asked the wife curiously. "because he is absorbed in his work, and cares for nothing outside. in fact, one always is with that work," enthusiastically; "it takes your whole being for the time." "yet the last girl he had was a dreadful little idler, and would interrupt him in the midst of his most interesting researches to ask the silliest questions." sara shook her head mournfully. "i don't see how she could!" "well, to tell the truth," bending forward confidentially, "isn't it awfully dry and uninteresting? there! i wouldn't dare lisp it before my husband, but isn't there a good deal of--of--well, humbug, about it?" "humbug!" sara's eyes glowed. "that's because you haven't studied these things, mrs. macon. think, think what it must be to have your husband's power to peer into the past! "think of taking two or three bones, and from them constructing an animal now extinct; or, think of knowing from an impress on a stone, made years ago, what animal had walked over its then soft surface. humbug! oh, mrs. macon!" the lady laughed. "well, don't for mercy's sake, ever hint that i suggested such a thing; i see you're nearly as far gone as henry himself. but, as for me, i must say i can't get specially interested in post-pliocene things, when there's so much going on around us; and how you, with all those children to look after, and their clothes to make, can care for fossils and bones, and bits of rock and mineral, is a conundrum to me." "i hope i don't neglect the children for the bones," said sara, so deprecatingly that mrs. macon laughed again. "don't worry about that! they look all right, anyhow, what i've seen of them. now come, it's getting too dark to sew, and you have these nicely together; fold them up, child, and come down-stairs with me." this was the first really elegant house sara had ever entered; and as she followed the lady over the soft carpets, past bronze and marble, into a beautiful room, through whose western end, wholly of glass, came a rosy glow from the setting sun, she could hardly keep back her cry of delight. it was the dining-room, and seemed dazzling to sara, with its rich tones in wall and rug, its buffet a-glitter with glass and silver, and its green garlanded windows; but her native instincts were nice, so it was only in her eyes that this astonished admiration found expression. mrs. macon made a careless gesture towards the table, which was partly laid. "sit down, my dear," she said, "and we will have a bit of a supper together; mr. macon has gone into the city, and won't be back until a very late dinner. how do you take your tea, please?" it was a delectable little spread, nearly all the dishes being novelties to sara, even the familiar lobster being scarcely recognizable in its frenchy dress; but she felt the refinement and delicacy of it all, as an infant feels the softness of velvet, not comprehending, only enjoying. in speaking of it afterwards to the children she remarked,-"i can't tell you what it was, for i have eaten meals i really relished better; but it was there, and i have never experienced it anywhere else, not even at miss prue's. it seemed as if i were in a palace, with soft music and sweet odors about me; yet there was no music, and the only fragrance was from the tea. no, i can't tell what it was; but sometime-_some_time, molly, i hope you will feel it too!" "well, if it's going to make me feel solemn and creepy i don't want to," said that young damsel with decision. "that's the way i felt the first few sundays in the church we go to here; it was so big and high, and had so many colors on the walls, and such dark, purple corners. i kept expecting something to happen; but i'm getting over it a little, for nothing ever does, you know, except the preaching and singing. only, sara, that reminds me: there's one thing i've been going to ask you about this ever so long; are the singers all hunchbacks, like zeba osterhaus?" "dear me! no, molly, i hope not. what a question!" "well, then, what makes them hide so behind those red curtains? i've tried and tried to see if they were like other folks, but i couldn't; and if they are, i don't see why they act so queer!" sara tried to explain, but molly evidently still held to her original opinion; there was some mysterious reason for their modesty, else why did they not stand out plain and high, as did the village choir at home? and it was many weeks before she could be moved from her stand in the matter. sara's work went on much the same after the close of the collegiate year, though now professor macon was away a large part of the time; yet, as he was constantly sending home cases of specimens, she was usually kept nearly as busy as before. but one day, sitting at her desk with only a few unimportant odds and ends of work before her, her thoughts drifted away, and soon formed themselves into words and sentences which seemed clamoring for definite expression. she seized her pen and some blank paper, setting them down as rapidly as possible, and before she quite realized what she was about had written several pages. finally, stopping to glance over her work, she felt encouraged to continue it, which she did till her working-hours were over. that night more thoughts came to her, and the next day she completed the article. reading it over, and correcting it carefully, she decided to copy it; and, while the impulse was upon her, even had the audacity to enclose it in an envelope and send it to a certain magazine having scientific tendencies, which came to the museum regularly. it was an article describing some oolitic formations she had been much interested in when at the old home; and she told of her ramblings, speculations, and discoveries, in a modest, face-to-face way which gave them a certain interest in addition to their scientific value. several days passed, and she had given up her fledgeling for lost, when one morning she saw amid the mail upon the professor's desk an envelope addressed to herself, and opening it found with astonishment that it was an acceptance of her sketch, enclosing a check for what seemed to her a large amount. that, she often said afterwards, was the proudest moment of her life. her whole frame thrilled with keenest satisfaction, her whole soul was uplifted in thanks for this gift that seemed directly from above. the professor, back from his trip, entered just then, saw the glow on her face, and looked the inquiry he would not speak. but sara understood the look. "i have been much pleased," she explained, "by this." and handed him the enclosure. "what! really an article in the _science made popular?_ well, miss olmstead, you are to be congratulated!" holding out his hand with great cordiality. "may i ask what you wrote about?" she told him, and he nodded vigorously. "very good, very good! i shall watch for its appearance; and now i've a proposition to make you. would you like to study latin and french?" "i?" gasped sara. "yes; they are much needed in our work, as well as german and greek; but there must be a beginning. i have all the books you will need, and will hear your latin recitation every morning. it won't take long, and i'm sure madame grandet will help you with the french." "but they're going away soon, are they not?" "he is, but she has half decided to remain. it's so delightfully quiet here in summer, and only a short run to the seashore; besides, she likes her boarding-place." sara's eyes shone. "i think every one is very good to me," she said softly. "heaven not only helps those who help themselves, but earth, too, miss olmstead; which is only another way of saying that real effort always brings appreciation. now we'll take hold of that last case i sent, if you please. i'll bring your books this afternoon--or, no; better stop in and let mrs. macon give them to you; she always enjoys a visit, you know." but pleasure and pain always keep as close together as light and shadow; and while everything seemed going so prosperously with sara in the business of her life, there came a new worry at home. baby was evidently ailing. each morning it became harder to leave that supplicating little face, and she would turn back to reiterate cautions to molly, who, being out of school now, saved the extra expense of the little nurse-girl. even after she had actually torn herself away from the fretful baby voice begging pitifully,-"no go, wawa; 'tay baby!" she would stop below at mrs. hoffstott's door to beg, almost with tears, that she would look after things a little, and not let flighty molly neglect the child; which the good woman was always ready to do. those were anxious days, which even the madame's and mrs. macon's kindness could not wholly relieve. and they were very kind. the latter often took the two children to drive, while the former brought baby dainties and toys to brighten his languid eyes. a doctor was finally called, who said his ill feelings were entirely owing to his teeth, and left some mild powders for him to take. but there came a night when he was so feverish and flighty that sara dared not leave him in the morning, so sent a note by morton to the professor, stating the reason for her absence. the latter read it carefully, said a sympathizing word or two to the boy, who plainly showed his concern, then added kindly,-"tell her not to worry at all about the work till the little one is quite well enough to be left; there is nothing pressing just now; and supposing you stop at the house as you go by, and let mrs. macon read this note. she is fond of the child." "yes, sir," said morton, and was about to start on his return, when the gentleman arrested him. "stay," he said, "what are you doing since school closed? are you working at anything?" "not much, sir; i'm helping mr. hoffstott in the bakery, carrying home orders on his busy days: it doesn't take all my time though." "i suppose you are used to the management of boats; you can row or sail one?" "oh, yes, sir!" his eyes lighting. "very well, i may have a proposition to make you soon, that's all. be sure and stop at mrs. macon's." morton obeyed, but only to find her gone into the neighboring city on a shopping excursion, so hurried on to deliver his kindly message from the professor, wondering all the way what that wise gentleman could have meant by his remark about the boat. but when he reached home all these thoughts fled; for he found molly just descending the stairs, crying bitterly; and when he asked what was the matter she only gave her hands a desperate wring and sobbed,-"oh, the baby! the baby! where does that doctor live, anyhow?" hurrying in he found sara, her eyes wild with trouble, and mrs. hoffstott, fairly purple with consternation, both trying frantically to bring the child out of a spasm. "oh, run, run for the doctor, morton!" cried his sister. "baby's getting worse, i'm sure; and molly doesn't know the way." morton did run, but alas! it was of no avail. the poor little fellow had one moment of consciousness, in which he feebly tried to pat sara's colorless cheek and murmur, "wawa deah!" then the beautiful eyes rolled back, set and glassy, the limp, dimpled hand dropped on his breast, and the sweet baby life was over. sara gave a heart-rending cry, which reached morton and the doctor, now hurrying up the stairs; and when they entered she was calling piteously upon the little one with every loving term her tongue was used to. the doctor drew her gently away. "he is gone," he said with solemn emphasis; "his sufferings are over! madam," to mrs. hoffstott, "pray take her away for a time; her nerves are all unstrung." that good woman led the half-fainting girl below, and at once despatched grisel for madame grandet and the minister of the church the olmsteads attended, who were shortly there, doing their best for the griefstricken little household; while in the evening both professor and mrs. macon came, the latter much grieved that she had been away when morton called. all was done that could be done; and sara, even in her grief, which was for the time almost overwhelming, so deeply had this one of her cares and responsibilities taken a hold upon her nature, was surprised at the number of friends who seemed to have sprung up around them. she did not know that the story of her love and her struggles had passed from mouth to mouth, and that for the moment she was a heroine in their estimation. nor did she know, till days later, that the lovely little blanket of white roses which wrapped the tiny white casket in its soft fragrance, was the gift of some of those very students who had brought the blushes to her cheek by their too pronounced admiration. it softened her grief to find so much genuine friendliness and good-will in the hearts of even the strangers about her; and when she wailed for baby through the lonely nights, so sadly missing the clasp of his warm, soft arms about her neck, there was no bitterness mingled with her sorrow. "he has gone to his mother," she wrote miss prue. "i sometimes think she must have longed for him even in heaven; and i hope she knows that, if i ever neglected him, it was only because i felt compelled." to which the good spinster answered,--"you have never neglected him, sara; to that i am ready to bear witness. if god has seemed to bereave you, it is because he sees it is best; meanwhile, take comfort in this: you have been tenderer than many mothers, and more patient than many sisters, to this dear little brother who loved you so well, so do not let self-reproach add to your sorrow." the words were a comfort, as they were meant to be; for, with the girl's supreme conscientiousness, she had been torturing herself for fear she had not done all that was possible for her dear one; and, as miss prue's word had always been law with her, so now she let it heal this unnecessary smart. chapter xv. morton has a picnic. the professor was almost fatherly kind to her when she took her place again at the familiar desk; and, seeing how fragile and weary she looked, gave her but short, light tasks through those long, hot summer days. nothing was said about renewing the so soon interrupted lessons for several days, then sara herself remarked half timidly,-"i have begun my studies again, sir, it is so lonely, and there is so little to do at home," her voice faltering. he gave her a pleased look. "that is right; the best thing for you! work, my child, is not a curse, but a blessing to sorrowful man. study,--write too. i happen to know they are ready to accept another article from you in _science made popular;_ i am acquainted with its editor. why don't you give him some more of your rambles?" her sad eyes brightened. after all, there was something within her which no grief, no bereavement, could entirely affect. "i will," she said; "i will pick myself up and begin over again." "that's right. and try some walks here, miss olmstead; you'll find much of interest out on the old road leading west, for instance. you need more fresh air and exercise, i'm thinking." sara took his advice, with much benefit to her health, as well as gain to her information and purse; for she found that "knowledge is wealth" in more ways than one. morton had been such a good, helpful boy ever since their arrival in dartmoor, that sara was almost as glad as he when the professor's thought about the boat was finally unfolded, and proved to be a proposition that the lad should accompany him on a geological expedition down a certain river not far away. he wanted morton to help in managing the boat, as well as in foraging for extra game and provisions along the route, and watching the stores, while he studied, sought, and speculated over his stony treasures; for all of which the boy should receive a certain consideration in money, not to mention the fun. "just think, sara, to be paid, actually _paid_, for having the biggest kind of a picnic," he cried rapturously. "now, who cares for the mary jane?" for the next two days all was hurry and confusion, as he and molly ran errands, packed and planned, with sara to advise and help; and the third saw the grand start. as the river was at some distance, the first stage of the journey must be made by land (a great drawback in morton's opinion, but still to be borne with patience because of what was to follow), so the boat was mounted on a cart, and packed full of the camping apparatus, amid which the professor and the boy sat in state, while a grinning hibernian drove the mild animal in front. the professor, with his glasses, his white helmet and tennis-shirt, and a butterfly-net hung over his shoulder, was quite oriental and picturesque; while morton, with a broad straw hat on his cleanly shaven head, and a blue blouse belted with leather, enjoyed the thought that he looked like a cowboy, and perhaps he did: i've seen cowboys who did not look half so well. at any rate, he felt as free and joyous as one, and rode away with a ringing cheer, echoed shrilly by molly, who was wild to go herself, and could only be appeased by the promise of a real picnic with the hoffstotts in the near future. "oh, dear!" she said, on the verge of tears, as the long boat-cart swung out of sight around the corner, and was lost to view, "it's dreadful to think i've always got to be a girl, and i may have to live a hundred years." "well, my dear, console yourself, then," replied sara, "for you won't be a girl even ten years longer." "i won't?" "no." "now, sara olmstead, how do you know that? oh, yes, you're joking me, somehow; i can see by your eyes, for of course nobody knows when i'm going to stop living." "how old are you, molly?" "why, i'll be thirteen in eleven months." "that is," with a laugh," you were twelve last month; now in ten years how old will you be?" "let's see," bringing her fingers into play, "aught's an aught, and two's two," marking that down with her index finger in her left palm, "then one and one is two, why, that's twenty-two, isn't it?" "really, molly, i'm ashamed of you to be so slow in adding." "well, i never did like addition, it's substraction i'm so smart in." "yes, it must be _substraction_, i think," sarcastically. "yes, that's it," with entire oblivion of her sister's accent; "and now i begin to see, when i'm twenty-two i won't be a girl?" "hardly." "yes; but i'll be a woman, and that's worse, isn't it? oh! there's kathie, and she's got some cookies that are too dry to sell; i'm going to help her eat them," with which laudable purpose away she ran, to forget the limitations of her sex in an operation dear to both. about a week later came this letter from morton. dear sara and molly,--as i'm all alone, with nothing to do, and the gnats won't let me sleep, and i've got more than we need to eat, so it's no good to hunt or fish, i thought i'd start a letter, and when i get to a post-office again i'll mail it. to begin at the beginning, we launched the bonny doon about two o'clock, and at once set sail for the south (we really poled the boat along, for there wasn't a breath of wind, and it was hardly deep enough to keep her afloat; but it sounds better to say "set sail," you know), and were making about four knots an hour, when i saw the professor open a long wooden box i had noticed among the outfit, and take out a gun, all in sections, and begin to put it together. that made me feel better, for i was really afraid he had forgotten how useful a gun is out camping; and i was so taken up watching him fit it together that i almost forgot my poling, till he suddenly sung out, for all the world like a regular sailor, "hard a-port, lad! mind your course there, or we'll be swamped," and, sure enough, i had to swing her out into the stream, or we'd have run aground. but that was the end of the marshes, and then we did rig up our sail, and 'twas a fine old fly, i tell you. my, how i enjoyed it! the breeze had come up a little, and sent us cutting through the water as slick as your big knife cuts through a loaf of bread. we didn't stop at all, till it was time to make camp, and then we had a real good time, for the professor is just like a boy here. he cut saplings for tent-poles, and showed me how to make the pins, and fasten down the canvas, then we built a nice little fire, and put our camp-stove over it. it is nothing but a big piece of stove-pipe, i should think, with a griddle on top, but works first-rate; and then we got supper together. you ought to see his camp-chest, sara! it isn't much bigger than that old desk miss prue gave you, but it has everything in it, i should think; and there isn't an inch of waste room. i found everything i needed to set the table with, and we had canned things, and biscuit and cheese and coffee, and lots of nice things to eat. then i washed the dishes (i'm real glad now, that i learned at home, for the professor said i did it as neatly as a girl), and then he went off, poking around with his hammer, and i fished. you don't know much about fishing with a jack-light, do you? it's good fun. i caught enough for breakfast, nice little perch they were, and then we lay down on our blankets, stretched over pine-boughs in the tent, with mosquito-netting over all the openings, and slept like two tops. yesterday we had lots of adventures. first thing, i woke up just in time to save our provisions from some hogs which had smelled us out, and came down on us in a regular drove; and they got us so wide awake we concluded to stay up, though it wasn't really morning yet. but you don't know how good our fried fish did taste! i ate till i was ashamed, and then finished the bits in the spider; and i could have eaten as many more, i guess. then i cleared everything up ready to break camp, while the professor went off again, and then he came back, and we embarked. this was about six bells, i think. we hadn't gone more than two knots when the boat began to slip along so easy and fast i couldn't understand it, till the professor sung out,-"we're coming to a dam! put her about, quick!" then he grabbed the oars and rowed with all his might for shore. it seemed at first as if we would be swept along in spite of ourselves; but he's got more strength in his arms than i'd thought for, and then, luckily, a great tree had fallen clear out into the stream, which i reached for. i threw myself almost out of the boat, just holding by the toes, and caught hold of a little twig, then a stronger one, and pulled the boat an inch at a time till we were safe alongside in a perfect little haven. then the professor dropped the oars, took off his helmet, and wiped his face, for he was dreadfully warm; but he only said,-"that was a little close, morton; now we'll have to make a portage." well, that wasn't so much fun. i hadn't thought, before, we had one thing more than we needed, but now it seemed as if we had a thousand. sara, it took us four hours to make that portage, and my back hasn't got over aching yet! we managed to get two men to help us with the boat, but that was only a small lift, it seemed to me; and i was glad enough when the professor said we'd take a rest before we went on. but the dinner braced us up a good deal; one thing we had was some roasted green corn one of the men told us to pick in his field, and it was awfully good, but not up to the fish. then i stayed to watch camp while the professor went hunting for more stones and things, and then i had the biggest adventure of all. but i'll have to tell you about that in my next letter, if i come across any paper, for this is all i've got. yours truly, morton. it came in due time, fortunately for molly's welfare and sara's comfort, as the child was so consumed with curiosity over the adventure that she gave her no rest from questions and conjectures. here it is:-dear sara and molly,--i think i stopped because i was out of paper, and so didn't tell you about the tramps. there were three of them, and i never saw worse looking men. i was sitting reading one of the books we brought, when i thought i heard something, and looked around just in time to see them come towards me out of the woods. i felt my heart leap right up, for i was all alone, and they did look wicked. the foremost man had a big stick for a cane, and both the others carried long switches they must have cut in the woods. as i jumped to my feet the first fellow said to sit still, sonny, he wasn't going to disturb anybody, and wanted to know where my pard was. i said, as careless as i could, that he was just down below, hoping they'd think i meant down on the shore; but they didn't, for another spoke up and said he was far enough away, "and don't stop to palaver, i want some grub!" i'd kept backing towards the tent all the time we were talking; and when he said that, i was right in the opening, and one look inside showed me the gun almost where i could reach it, and i knew it was loaded! i felt a good deal bolder then, so i told them,-"you'll have to wait till the professor comes back; these are his things;" but the men only laughed in an awful fierce kind of way, and said they "guessed they didn't care about waiting, sonny, they wasn't making formal calls, and they hadn't brought their cards, but they'd leave suthin' to remember 'em by just the same!" the way they talked fairly froze me up, though 'twas a real hot day. so i ducked inside and grabbed the gun, but they thought i was so scared i was trying to hide; so they went around kicking things over a good deal, and swearing like everything, but i didn't care, for there wasn't much outside the tent anyhow, except the cooking things and some mouldy bread that they were welcome to if they wanted it. when they saw how it was, one of them came up towards me, and called to the rest to come on, they'd have to explore the tent to find what they wanted. i let him come to about two feet of the opening, then i stuck my gun in his face real quick, and yelled "halt!" as loud as i could, and he halted. i told him then he'd better get back, for this might go off, and he ripped out a big swear word, and told me to stop fooling with that gun or somebody'd get shot; and i said i was afraid they would! he kept backing all the time, and saying, "oh, put it down, put it down, sonny!" but i kinder thought i wouldn't. then they all stood off, and threw stones at me, and said they'd set fire to the tent, and for me to come out like a man, and they wouldn't hurt me; but i thought as i was just a boy i'd stay where i was. but i told 'em i'd shoot the first man that came near the tent, and their stones didn't amount to much anyhow, for they didn't reach me. but i really did not feel quite so saucy as i talked, for if they hadn't been regular cowards they could have made me lots of trouble, i guess; and when i saw the professor's big white helmet coming through the trees, i tell you i was glad! i called out, "don't mind the men, sir, i've got 'em covered with the gun!" and at that they gave one look at him, and ran for the woods. he stood still and looked after them as surprised as anything; but when i told him all about it, he laughed and laughed in that still, funny way he has, and said he guessed he didn't make any mistake when he chose his companion; and i thought perhaps he meant to praise me, but i'm not sure. this is all about the tramps. good-by, morton. p.s.--i've torn my pants; but the professor says, "never mind, there's more where they came from," and he looked at me kinder winkey when he said it, for you know they were made out of his old ones. this time it is really good-by, morton. sara was so proud of these letters that she could not resist showing them to madame grandet and mrs. macon, both of whom were greatly amused. "he has evidently gotten into henry's good graces, as well as his old clothes!" laughed the latter. "the boy is like you, sara, he doesn't know how brave he is." sara looked up quickly. "brave, i brave?" she asked in surprise. "i never did a really brave thing in my life!" "didn't you?" smiling, with a meaning look. "i thought you had done a good many." but she made no explanation of her words, and sara was too modest to ask what they meant. morton came home so brisk and rosy it was good to see him, and regaled molly for days with the accounts of his wonderful adventures. he seemed to have quite recovered from his longings for a sea-life, and was almost as much interested in certain scientific studies as sara herself. in fact, their autumn rambles together were pleasures whose memory lingered with both for many a year. one morning in november, sara saw, among the letters on the desk, a creamy square with her own name upon it, and nearly had her breath taken away upon opening it, to find it was an invitation to a dinner given by one of the faculty in honor of a distinguished scientist from abroad, who was to deliver a lecture before the students the coming week. she glanced from it to professor macon, who was busy writing, but, seeing no solution of the matter in his face, resolved to consult his wife about it, and stopped in on her way home that noon for the purpose. "oh, you are invited, then!" cried mrs. macon with satisfaction, as sara explained her errand. "i was sure you would be." "but how could you think so? i, a fisherman's daughter." "you, sara olmstead, the writer who is already being noticed in the literary world! why shouldn't you be asked, i'd like to know?" "but, dear mrs. macon, what shall i wear? how shall i act?" "ah! now you are talking sense. 'what shall you wear?' sara, you must have a white dress; something with long, soft folds, and--yes--and trimmed with swan's-down. that will be so becoming." "yes, and cost a small fortune!" "no, not as much as you think. a cashmere will do, and that reminds me, i'm to have a dressmaker here the first of the week; she shall give me an extra day or two, and make your dress, then i can be sure it is all right. and never mind about the swan's-down; for i have some on a dress, i think almost enough, that i have only worn once. she shall rip it off for you to wear on this great occasion." "o mrs. macon, how good you are!" "good? why, this is fun for me. you must go with us, of course. yes, and we'll ask the grandets to go in our carriage too; 'twill make five, but no matter; you're little, and can squeeze in between the two gentlemen for that short distance: and, fortunately, cashmere doesn't show mussing badly." "but, mrs. macon, i'm afraid"-she stopped, coloring daintily. "well, of what?" "won't you be--ashamed of me? i never went to a dinner-party in my life. there are a great many forks and spoons to manage, aren't there?" "simplest thing in the world, that, my dear; begin with whatever is next your plate. if you think you are wrong at any time, dally a little, and watch your hostess. by the way, this invitation is for two weeks ahead, and thanksgiving is next week, thursday; you shall practise here! i was going to see you soon, to invite all three of you to dine with us that day; will you come? we shall ask the grandets also, but no one else." "you are exceedingly kind, mrs. macon; we will be more than happy to come. i had dreaded the day," softly. "yes, my dear, anniversaries are sad things; but we will try and enjoy this one. and don't hesitate to ask about anything that puzzles you at our table. these little fads of etiquette are easily learned, after one has acquired that real politeness which must become a part of the character; and that you have, sara." "thank you for your encouragement, dear mrs. macon; i shall try not to put you to the blush." chapter xvi. the princess holds a "drawing-room." when morton heard of the two invitations, and something of the foregoing conversation, as they sat over their cosey supper that evening, he kept quite still, while molly was running on with questions, suggestions, and comments, till there was a lull; then he looked up at his elder sister with a queer expression. "supposing, sara, i had gone with uncle jabez wanamead, and then should come home a rough fisherman, while you were learning how to be polite; would you have been ashamed of me?" "no, morton; but i shall be much prouder of you if you will have the bravery and honesty of a fisherman, with the education and manners of a gentleman, and the spirit of a christian; that ought to make a man for any sister to be proud of." "well," he said, drawing in his breath, "i'll say it now, sara, i'm glad you stuck out so against my going in the mary jane. while i was off with the professor we were by the sea a day or two, and i went aboard a smack. it was a better one than that, too; but i was glad i hadn't a berth there, for somehow things did look dreadfully rough to me that day. there was a boy about my age, and the men swore at him nearly every word they said, and he swore too, and chewed and smoked and drank his grog; and he seemed real proud to think he could take it down clear without staggering. i was glad to get back to the professor, sara, but i _would_ like to have a yacht of my own, and sail all over the world after specimens for the museum; wouldn't that be fine?" "perhaps you may some day; who knows? stranger things than that have happened." it was a very nice-looking trio which turned into mrs. macon's gate after church thanksgiving day. the checks sara received for her articles were of great assistance in clothing them comfortably for the winter; and she glanced with almost motherly pride from tall morton, in his neat overcoat and derby, to molly, pretty as a pink, with her flying curls and scarlet cheeks, in a dark blue serge trimmed with fur. she forgot herself, but no one else would have done so; for the slender figure in black, with a close-fitting jacket and trig little hat, was so symmetrical, while the face above had such a charm, both of feature and expression, that few could pass her by unnoted. mrs. macon welcomed them with gay cordiality. "dear me! how sweet you do look, sara!" giving her a motherly kiss. "but you'll have to look out for this young lady or she'll eclipse you yet!" pinching molly's dimpled cheek. "how the child is shooting up! i've a surprise for you, sara. i hope it will be a happy one." "i think your surprises are always happy, mrs. macon." "as are your remarks, sara. well, come, madame grandet is below." they descended to the beautiful drawing-room, where, in the softened light, sara was conscious of several figures; the madame, lovely in a frenchy toilet, with a dash of scarlet here and there, rose to greet them, while the little group of black coats just beyond separated and turned, resolving itself into her host, professor grandet, and--robert glendenning! the last named came forward with an eager movement, and sara's heart stood still a minute, then plunged on with rapid beats, as he took her hand and bent over it with an earnest greeting. he looked well, as she quickly observed, having broadened into proportions better suited to his height, and his eyes seemed more brilliant than ever as they met her own. "this is my surprise, sara," laughed mrs. macon; "and you know," mischievously, "they are always happy ones. i think you have remarked it yourself." but sara only answered by a look: her words did not come readily just then. "he have come last night," said the madame, beaming upon her nephew, "so that it was to all of us a surprise, for we have not expect him." "indeed! as if you could think, aunt felicie, that i would eat my thanksgiving turkey in a boarding-house, when"-"ah! but that is what you would then do, if our friends had not so kindly invite us here, robare; are not your uncle and myself also in a boarding-house?" a reply which rather nonplussed the young man for a moment. but, fortunately for his embarrassment, the domestic just then announced dinner, and mrs. macon said,-"henry, will you give your arm to madame? and you, mr. glendenning, to miss olmstead; i will do myself the honor of walking in with professor grandet; and i'm sure morton will be happy to escort his better half, as i suppose a twin sister may be called." as they passed through the hall, sara's escort said in a low tone,-"i have heard of your sorrows and your joys through my good aunt. tell me one thing, is your life any happier, broader, better, amid these new surroundings?" "yes," said sara, "i believe it is; and yet, sometimes my very soul is sick for the sight and sound of the sea, and for the roughest greeting from one of our good old weather-beaten fishermen at home." "i am glad that is so. you are too loyal to forget easily; but still you would not go back, would you?" "no, never;" smiling up into his face. "there is no plan for going back in my life; only for going forward." he smiled in return, but the bustle of taking their seats prevented any answer. when all was quiet again, sara had time to notice that she had been placed where she could observe every motion of her hostess, and even as the thought crossed her mind, she caught that lady's eye and a telegraphic glance passed between them. sara's said, "help me!" mrs. macon's replied, "watch me!" at which both smiled slyly, and turned to the next neighbor with some light remark. morton and molly had been so drilled in their deportment before they came, that each sat now stiff and solemn as martinets awaiting some command; morton, eying hopelessly the tiny bouillon-cup before him, with the healthy appetite of a boy who had not eaten anything since an early breakfast; while molly, after a stony rigidity of perhaps two minutes, suddenly gave a little twist and drew a sigh as long and lugubrious as the wail of an autumn blast. professor macon looked at her with twinkling eyes. "don't be discouraged, miss molly," he whispered leaning towards her, "there is a turkey somewhere, i'm sure, for i had a sniff of it myself some time ago." her eyes brightened, and she whispered back in the same confidential way,-"you see, i don't like beef-tea very well, and i do love turkey. but, of course, if it's the thing"--and she submissively took up her spoon, prepared to attack the decoction. sara's cheeks had grown red at this; but when the professor added,-"between you and me, molly, i think it's only fit for sick folks myself; but i suppose, as the saying is, we must eat by the card;" at which everybody laughed good-naturedly, her worried feeling wore off, and she began to think it would not, perhaps, be an unforgivable offence if one of them did commit a blunder or two. in fact, by the time the bouillon disappeared to make room for the next course, she had quite forgotten her worries, so deeply was she interested in what robert was telling her of the wonderful growth and vigor of his city home, chicago; while the children, unwatched and well occupied, fell into order like well-trained soldiers; molly now and then flinging out some _naive_ remark which sent a ripple of laughter around the table, at which morton would begin trying to frown her down, in his elder-brotherly way, and end by laughing with the rest. when the ladies had returned to the drawing-room and coffee, leaving the gentlemen deep in a political discussion in the professor's snuggery, just off the dining-room, mrs. macon saw the children happily interested in some beautiful photographs of european scenes, viewed through a powerfully mounted lens, then turned to the others. "come," she said, "i want you to go up-stairs with me, and see sara's dress. my dressmaker has done wonders the past week, and it is nearly ready." they followed her to the little sewing-room, which sara so well remembered as the first apartment of this hospitable house into which she had ever been introduced, and there lay the white gown over a chair. after viewing it critically, sara in a quiet rapture, and madame with all a french woman's enthusiasm and epithets, mrs. macon said impulsively,-"do try it on, sara; i'm a little afraid about this skirt; it looks short in front, and you know she has had to go almost entirely by measure, so far; here, let me pin the rest of this swan's-down in place, while you take off your dress." sara obeyed without a murmur, feeling all the delight of any young girl in trying on her first evening gown, while her two tire-women stood by, patting, punching, pulling, and commenting, as women will, pronouncing it a perfect fit, and quite long enough. when it was finally adjusted, they stepped back, and the little madame drew a long breath. "ah! but she is beautiful!" she said in her own language; "she might be one of the old noblesse," while mrs. macon, controlling her delight, remarked,-"it is becoming, my dear: you have one of those peculiar complexions dead white only enhances. you look taller, too, a full inch, in that train. really, the children ought to see you; let's go down-stairs and take them by surprise." sara, believing them still alone, did not object; and mrs. macon, if she had heard a closing door, and steps through the hall below, did not think it necessary to mention the circumstance. so down they went, the two attendants in front, and sara following, with possibly a little intensification of her usual measured and stately tread. thus they entered the drawing-room, the two ladies parting to right and left before her, as might two maids of honor attending some royal personage, the stately white-robed figure advancing, with head slightly bent, as if in modest disclaiming of all this parade over one so young. "oh!" cried molly shrilly, "it's sara, and she looks like a queen!" while the three gentlemen, farther down the room, turned quickly from their talk, and one said, under his breath,-"a princess, indeed!" then they all surrounded her, even dignified professor macon showing his enjoyment of the masquerade, while professor grandet spread out both hands, and cried, "beautifool! beautifool!" in a french rapture. only robert glendenning said nothing more, unless eyes speak; but sara did not seem to miss the lack of words on his part. "it is strange, now," observed the host reflectively, after the first outburst had subsided, "what a transformation dress is! i shall never again quite dare to think of miss sara as a little girl; she has crossed the brook, she has entered into woman's kingdom, and all because of a long white gown!" sara turned to him. "oh, please, sir, i'd rather be the little girl. i"--with a pathetic tremble in her voice, "i'm barely twenty yet, and i've never had much of a girlhood." the little cry, right from her heart, sent a thrill through every one; and there was not a person in the room, even to careless molly, who did not, then and there, resolve that whatever was in their power should be done to bring that brightness into her life, in which it had been so greatly lacking. robert glendenning sought his aunt's eyes, and in his she saw an indomitable resolution, while in hers he read a sudden yielding, which made his heart leap with joy; for he knew no step could be a happy one for him which did not meet with her full approval. the rest of the evening passed swiftly and merrily away, sara once more in her plain black dress, modestly bearing her part in the bright, animated conversation, in which even the children were interested, as well as instructed. when they separated to their homes, robert said,-"miss sara, with your permission, i will walk home with you; i want to see where you live, and besides, there are a good many lawless students on the street to-night." "and won't we see you again, mr. glendenning?" asked his hostess. "i fear not, mrs. macon; i leave to-morrow at nine o'clock." "your stay is short." "yes, very; a business trip mostly, which i managed to bring about to take in thanksgiving day. let me thank you for helping to make it one of the happiest i have ever known." "i think," smiling mischievously, as she gave him her hand, "your thanks are due elsewhere; but as i never refuse anything that is offered me, so i won't these; and allow me to say," with intense meaning, "as far as i am concerned, you are _most welcome!_" "thank you again! miss olmstead, are you ready? i'll be home soon, aunt; good-night, professor macon," and sara was conducted down the steps, her heart beating, and her head whirling with new, strange, unfathomable thoughts. the dinner-party came off in due course of events, and sara went through the ordeal with credit to her quartet of guardians. indeed, she made so favorable an impression upon several that they really longed for a more extended acquaintance, and, for a time, invitations became quite a common affair. but she accepted these most sparingly. "i can never return them," she said to mrs. macon, "and i do not like to be under obligations, except to those i love," with a sweet look into her friend's face. "yes, my dear, that is right, only in these cases the people expect no return, knowing fully your circumstances; your acceptance and enjoyment repay them sufficiently." but sara shook her head. she had her own ideas of these things, and besides, it was no trial for her, the doing without society. here, as in killamet, she preferred books to people; though she was often charmed to find herself deeply interested in some individual, who upon acquaintance developed qualities she had only dreamed of before. but it was simply as individuals that these interested her; taken _en masse_ the world of men and women seemed cold almost to cruelty. after one or two evenings out, she went back to her books with a warm feeling of attachment. "you cannot disappoint me, dear old friends!" she whispered lovingly, and the next invitation was answered by a formal regret. so the winter passed quietly and swiftly away; for busy time is always swift time, and all three of our olmstead household were thoroughly busy: sara with her writing added to the museum work; morton with his studies, in which he was growing deeply interested; and molly in a little of everything. she had no special fondness for books, but a real genius for cookery and housework, most of which now devolved upon her in their modest establishment. but molly was growing very pretty too, not with sara's delicate, _spirituelle_ attractions, but with a saucy, piquant, bewitching charm of her own that the students were not slow to notice, and which molly was not slow to appreciate, and make the most of. still, sara did not for some time take any notice of this; for she could not understand that what to her was a nuisance, and to be gotten rid of at once, was to molly the source of the greatest amusement and delight, --their street admiration and attentions. it came upon her with a shock, one day, to find herself on the sidewalk behind some tall-hatted young sprig, accompanied by her little sister, rattling on to him with smiles, dimples, and tosses, in her own peculiar way, as if she had known him all her life, and she could scarcely wait to get the child indoors, before she began,-"molly, who was that?" "that? why, i've forgotten his name," coolly. "he's a 'fresh' though, i believe." "and you're one, too, i should think!" strongly indignant. "what in the world were you doing?" "oh, just talking and laughing." "when you don't even know who he is? o molly!" "well, what of it? all the girls talk to them, coming home from school, and nobody thinks anything of it but you!" pouting and frowning, in her growing anger. sara looked at her with suddenly-awakened eyes. even in her petulance she was wonderfully pretty, with her great surprised eyes, saucy little nose, and exquisite coloring; and a sudden sense of her helplessness, if this little sister should also prove to be vain, and careless of her good name, came over her with such crushing force that she dropped into a chair, feeling almost faint for the moment. molly, frightened at her sudden pallor, cried out,-"what is it, sara? what have i done? is it such a sin to walk with a student on the street?" sara shook her head helplessly. "if i could only make you understand, molly: you _must_ understand! see here," with intense earnestness, "we are all alone in the world, molly, you and morton and i, all alone, except for a few friends, whose only interest in us depends upon our worthiness. don't you see how careful we must be? we have no home, no money, no anything, except our good name: we must keep that! nothing, nothing, must take it from us. the bible says it is more precious than rubies, and it is, molly, it is; indeed, with us it is everything! if you had a father and mother to back you, possibly you could make such acquaintances without harm, though it seems to me a hazardous thing, even then; but now it is absolutely dangerous! promise me, molly, that this shall end it." "if i promise i shall break it," said the honest girl; "for they _will_ speak to me, and i shall forget when i'm away from you." "then, molly," with sudden resolution, "i shall resign my position, and take you back to killamet. i can make enough with my pen to keep us from starving." molly looked at her, and knowing she was in deadly earnest burst out,-"oh, don't do that, sara; 'twould be too dreadful! i'll try, i really will; but you must remember i'm not like you. i don't care for books, and i do like people; and it's awfully lonesome with nobody but you and morton! other girls have parties and rides, and lots of nice times; and i don't even have girlfriends to come and visit me; it's lonesome, it is!" sara felt the force of this as she had never felt it before. here was a nature as opposite to her own as the two poles. the books, thoughts, and work, which gave her such pleasure were all a weariness to this sunny, companionable creature, longing for life, merriment, and all youthful pleasures. could she greatly blame the child? and her tones softened as she said,-"poor little girl! have i kept you too close? believe me it was for your good." at this molly weakened instantly, and two arms flew about sara's neck, while a penitent voice cried,-"i know i'm just as mean as i can be, and you're the best sister in the world; but oh! i do wish i could ride horse-back, and go to parties and picnics, and have stacks of girls all the time, then those silly students might go to gr--i mean to college, where they belong; for i wouldn't care a cent for the whole lot of them!" sara laughed. after all, there was something in this honest, transparent child, from which evil had always seemed to slide, as dust slips from a polished mirror; and she said with conviction,-"molly, we'll both do differently. i like people too little, you perhaps too much; but after this i'll cultivate a fondness for them. there is no reason why we shouldn't both go out more, in certain ways, and see something of the life about us. if you will give up these wretched street acquaintances you shall have a party next saturday." "a party? o sara!" her eyes dazzling in their delight. "what kind of one?" "a tea-party. let's see, you might have nine girls, besides yourself; that would about fill our table, and i'll wait on you. i presume morton will be off, as usual, on a geological ramble, so we needn't count him." "o sara! and may i have the table trimmed, and flowers all around? and may i make the cake? and oh!" clasping her hands together, "may i have mr. hoffstott freeze some cream?" "yes," laughed sara; "yes, every one, if you'll keep your part of the contract." "sara," with intense solemnity, "if a student speaks to me i'll look right through him, like this," with a stare of gorgonian stoniness; "and if he isn't completely silenced, i'll wither him this way," and she swept her sister with a slow, lofty, contemptuous glance, that would have scathed an agent. "o molly! molly!" was all sara said, as she laughed in spite of herself; but she felt she could trust the child who, with all her faults, had not a grain of slyness or deception in her nature. chapter xvii. molly gives a party. the party came off, "according to contract," as molly observed, and for a few days kept the child in a flutter of delight. sara purposely left the preparations to her, only giving advice as it was requested; and even she, though so well acquainted with molly's housekeeping abilities, was astonished at the result. it gave her real respect for the girl to see the method with which she planned it all, from her list of invited guests to her list of grocer's stores, arranged with the probable cost at the side of each article, that sara might understand just how much money would be needed. then the dishes she compounded, after intense calculations over the cook-book, and frequent racings down-stairs to consult with mrs. hoffstott, were really toothsome and delicate; besides being brought about with precision and forethought, so that all might not crowd together at the end. "now," she said, friday night, consulting a much-worn bit of paper, and drawing a long, house-wifely sigh, "now i'm all ready, except the salad, and laying the table, and the decorating. if i only had a screen to put before the range, so that we needn't have the table in here! it will fill up so." sara looked up. "there is one in our cloak-room at the museum. perhaps the professor would let you take it for this grand occasion, if morton will bring it home for you." "would you, morton? would you?" "oh, i suppose so; anything for peace!" growled the latter, just glancing up from his burroughs. "that's a lovely boy! well, and the flowers--how glad i am they're so cheap, now"-"oh, yes, molly! i forgot to tell you: mrs. macon says she has a quantity of early blossoms in her hot-bed, and you can have a picking from them." "now, sara, if you had forgotten that! how good she is! and i'm to have mrs. hoffstott's pretty old china, with the blue forget-me-nots, and-well, isn't everybody kind, anyhow?" sara put down her book with a laugh. "go on, dear; what's the use in trying to read when there's a party going on? talk to me about it; i want to know all the arrangements;" and happy molly ran on like a thoroughly well-oiled windmill for at least twenty minutes without a stop. when, at the end of that time, there was a pause for breath, sara said,-"and how about the students?" molly gave a merry little laugh. "it's the greatest fun, sara! they can't understand at all; they look at me as if i was a barnum's fat woman, or something, and i sail right by, with my head up, and never see them. i think" (reflectively), "if anything, it's better fun than the other way. that was too much like every girl you see, and this is just me alone: i really enjoy it." "molly, you are incorrigible!" "what's that? i wish you wouldn't use such big words, sara; i never could understand them; but if you mean i don't keep my promise, it isn't so! i do: you can ask maud wheeler if i don't." "is she coming to-morrow?" "yes; and she's your kind, sara,--good, you know. you'll like her, and so do i, when i'm in my right moods, but sometimes i don't. you don't know, sara," with a pathetic shake of her curls, "how hard it is to get along when you have bad streaks through you! why, sometimes i'll go on for at least three days as smooth as can be, getting all my lessons, and being just as good as anybody; and then there comes a day that upsets it all. i can't study, and i see all the funny things, and how i can make 'em funnier with a touch; and i want to giggle at everything, and--well, it's that naughty streak, and i can't help myself, any more than you can help being good." "well, molly," resignedly, "promise me this, that, whatever you do, you'll be out and out about it: no hiding, no shirking, no lies." "i never told a lie in my life, sara olmstead, never!" with a set of her bright head that was like the elder sister in her determined moods. "i'd feel mean forever!" sara smiled, and, with a rush of tenderness, bent forward and kissed her. "no, darling, you won't lie, thank god! now go to bed like a good girl, and be bright and rosy for to-morrow. good-night!" "good-night, you blessed old sweet thing, you!" and with twenty kisses, and a strangling hug, the merry child ran off to dream,--not of students in elevated hats, but of creams and comfits, and pleased guests around a long table; for she was but a large-hearted, hospitable matron in embryo. the party was really a brilliant success. mrs. macon sent a basketful of bright flowers, and some pretty draperies and decorations; while the professor willingly agreed to let the screen go, and insisted on sara's taking the whole day off to assist at the _fete_. the madame came herself, and with deft fingers, and perfect taste, helped the two convert the little flat into a bower. no one would have known the back room, with bright rugs covering its painted floor, and all the kitcheny suggestions hidden behind the ample screen; while the parlor was really charming in its tasteful dressings. when the girls began to arrive, sara watched her little sister with almost a dazed feeling. how rapidly this flower she had so cherished was unfolding before her eyes! and what was its quality to be? no modest daisy or violet certainly, nor yet a gaudy, flaunting tulip, but something bright, sweet, surprising, and enticing, all at once; and she thought of a carnation-pink shooting up from amid its ragged foliage, vivid, brilliant, and of a spicy fragrance. she watched the guests, also, with a critical eye, and was much pleased to note that molly had shown good taste in their selection. they were all ladylike girls, evidently from good, well-guarded homes, and, though merry and carefree, had not a touch of vulgarity. madame grandet had begged the privilege of remaining to help with the supper; and you may be sure every dish was served with a perfection and daintiness of touch only the french can give. yes, it was a great success; and when, after the last guest had departed, molly came and told her sister, almost with tears in her eyes, how happy she had been, sara felt repaid for the sacrifice of quiet and seclusion she had made. but she knew one party would not keep molly. the active, restless, rapidly-unfolding nature must have constant occupations and interests; so for the sister's sake she did what she never would have done for her own. she began to cultivate the social life of her church; went to christian endeavor meetings, socials, and y.m.c.a. addresses. she made morton go with them too, half dragging, half coaxing him; and soon the three, so dissimilar, yet all so intelligent and well-bred, came to be looked upon as most necessary factors in entertainments and social events. when sarah left killamet, though she wore her white cross, she did not change her membership into any new circle of king's daughters, but still remained one of miss prue's "helpful ten," as they called themselves in that little town. now she and molly joined a dartmoor circle, and were soon known as active working members. all this took time, thought, and money; and many times it was a puzzle to find the latter, though she had been drawing a slight advance in salary for several months, and morton, by working in the college laboratory at odd hours, was now earning enough to clothe himself. yet, even with an occasional extra cheque for her published articles, the expenses were so increased that she often had difficulty to meet them; though, to sara's great credit be it said, the girl had never allowed herself a useless debt. she dare not; the very thought frightened her, and providence having blessed her with health, and simple wants, it had been possible to live within her income. summer advanced with her languid days, and the great event of the year in dartmoor--class day--came and passed. last year her only interest in the parade had been that of a stranger seeing for the first time a novel spectacle; but this year things were different. she and molly now knew many of the students; knew them in an orthodox, well-regulated manner, and met them in both private and church parlors. morton sometimes brought them home at evening as well, and occasionally the girls went with one of them to a concert or lecture. mrs. macon often had the sisters to assist at her receptions, and occasional dinners also; and thus, without being society girls at all, in a certain sense they yet did see a good deal of the social life in dartmoor in one way and another. professor and madame grandet meanwhile were far away, the former having joined a governmental party bound for south america, while the latter had gone to chicago to be with her nephew during her husband's absence. she and sara had agreed to keep up an occasional correspondence; and it was impossible that these things could be kept out of the letters, when they occupied so much of her time and attention. one evening the madame and robert returned from a drive to washington park, by way of beautiful michigan avenue and drexel boulevard, and as they were re-entering their private sitting-room in the house where they boarded that lady espied a missive slipped into the edge of her door, and gave a little cry of pleasure as she tore off its end and drew forth the closely-written sheet. robert, too, knew the bold, graceful chirography, and watched her hungrily as she read. "i should think," he said at last in an ill-used tone, "you might read it aloud. it isn't very comforting to try and guess at it second-hand from your face, if it is a speaking one!" she looked up with a laugh. "but thou art cross, then, my poor boy? well, listen and i will read, though blame me not if it is not always so pleasant to hear. "my dear friend,--time slips by so rapidly in our busy life that i can hardly realize whence it has flown, or recall in just what manner the hours have been spent. i told you in my last about the bazar, and that an organ-concert was in progress. i'm sure you'll be interested to know it was a success, and the necessary funds are now nearly raised. molly gave a song, also a recitation, and i was so foolish as to consent to read an original sketch. "you should have heard and seen molly! i was surprised at her myself! her singing is so easy and natural, and her manner so vivacious, that no one seems to notice that she hasn't any voice. at any rate, they recalled her twice, and it was then she gave the recital on, which is half a song, you know, of 'christmas at the quarters.' "they fairly shook the house with applause then, but she would not go back again. "no," she said to me in her frank way, "it's time for the other girls to show off now--i'm done." "(i'm sure molly will never be too highly cultivated to call a spade a spade!) "morton is developing a good voice, and sang in the choruses. i think i have spoken to you of the young man he meets so often in the laboratory, and so greatly admires, mr. preston garth. he also sang that night--he has a magnificent baritone--and it was quite funny to hear his and molly's sparring, when he went home with us afterwards. "he tells her frankly that she has no method, no voice, no tone, etc.,--i am not used to musical terms,--and she saucily replies by telling him that, where one person will enjoy his studied renderings of the old masters, a score will appreciate and be the happier for her little ballads, simply because she discards all methods and sings from the heart; and usually molly talks him into silence, i suppose because he is too much of a gentleman to set her down as she deserves--the pert little miss! "it is useless for me to interfere, however, as both insist on finishing the argument in their own way. mrs. smythe has a party tonight; you remember mrs. smythe's parties--'a little gossip, less lemonade, and no cordiality'--to quote mr. garth"-a sudden exclamation from robert, as he sprang to his feet, interrupted the reading. "what does that insufferable puppy mean? who would ever have thought that sara, little princess sara, would stoop to quote, and run around with, some fool of a singing student, an ill-natured one at that! i can't"-"robert," said his aunt severely, "how can i then read if you do thus make a jack-that-jumps of yourself? can you not sit down once again while i continue?" he sat down, frowning fiercely, and she read on,-"'which is too severe, but made it easier for me to refuse his kind invitation to accompany me there. i often wish i could learn to like society better, if only for molly's sake; but it is still too much in the way of a duty that i take what, to a well-regulated mind, should be a pleasure.'" "humph!" muttered the nephew, with a relieved look; and his aunt read the remaining page in peace. it spoke of the macons, her last article, etc., ending with the modest sentence, "and now, pray remember us all most kindly to your nephew." robert's face lighted up at this, though there was a lurking trouble in his eye. "aunt felicie," he said abruptly, "what am i waiting for?" "how can i that thing tell, my nephew? is it that you have need of me to mend a button, or"-"don't tease, auntie! you know i don't mean any such trivial thing. see here," fiercely, "it's been nearly three years, instead of one, and i've never changed, not for a minute. i've kept myself as pure and true as a man could; i've done everything you told me to; and now how do i know but some fellow, with a voice, has stepped in and spoiled it all! i say, what am i waiting for? i've a good salary." "good enough for four, robert? if you do marry sara, it must be to adopt the twins also." "well, i will! we can scrimp along somehow; and morton will soon look after himself. i wish you were back at dartmoor this minute so i could"-"a thousand thanks, my boy, it is a truly kind and filial wish," said his aunt demurely. "aunt felicie, you're enough to make a man wild! why don't you help me out of this, instead of tormenting me so?" "ah, robare, my too impatient one, could i then help you? no; if she loves you, then what is it to matter if there may be a hundred of fine young men about her now? and if she loves you not, then alas! could i create that love? do not so foolish be, my son." he felt the force of her remarks, but inwardly chafed at the way he seemed to be tied up here for the present, both by business and his aunt's presence. he dared not put his happiness to the test of a letter. that would seem abrupt and strange, with so little to lead up to it. no, he must do as he had been doing all along--just wait. "but not for long!" he muttered, as he bade his aunt a pre-occupied good-night and strode off to his room. "we'll 'bide a wee,' sara, but only a wee, or my name is not robert glendenning!" chapter xviii. a visit from miss prue. it was only a few days after sending this letter that sara received a proposition from mrs. macon which she was not slow to accept; namely, that she should give up her room, store her furniture in the loft of their stable, and keep the macon house for the summer, while its master and mistress took a long western trip. as they wished to retain their excellent cook as well as the gardener, these were to remain, at the macons' expense, and assist in caring for the premises. no need to say the olmsteads were delighted with the plan,--especially as sara had begun to feel that their rooms were far too close and stuffy to be healthy in warm weather,--so beautiful june had not yet begun to turn her back upon the young summer, when the olmstead family found themselves lodged as they had never hoped to be; while the macons, equally content with the arrangement, took their seats in a pullman sleeper, unvexed by visions of tramps and fire, moths and carpet-bugs, or precious books ruined by dampness and mice. the first morning after their arrival sara woke early, wooed from her light slumbers by a charming bird-matinee in the shrubbery without, and gazed contentedly about her. it was such a pretty bower. clean india matting on the floor, and airy cane furniture, dressed up in pink and blue ribbons, scattered about; through the sheer muslin hangings at the windows the early sunshine glinted between the closed shutters, and danced in bars of light upon the delicately-tinted walls. she nestled her head into the soft pillow with a sigh of intense satisfaction. "one whole summer of luxury!" she mused. "is it possible? how wonderfully good our father has been to us! friends, comfort, and a beautiful home," and with these serene thoughts, mingling with the pareppian carols without, she again dropped into her "beauty sleep." nor did this content vanish with her second waking, but seemed to grow with every passing day; for, as once all things seemed going against them, now all were in their favor. morton, who had for some time given desultory help in the college laboratory, was offered a permanent position there at a modest salary for next year, with limited hours, so that he might still keep on with recitations in school; and meanwhile was to act as clerk in a drug-store until the opening in september. as for molly, she was as happy as a bird in these pleasant surroundings, and danced about the house all day long; now concocting some delicate dish in the kitchen, under the supervision of hetty, the cook, who had taken a great fancy to her; now taking an old dress or bonnet of sara's, and, by a dexterous touch here, or a perked-up bow of fresh ribbon there, giving it an altogether new and elegant appearance; or else feeding the birds, or lounging in the hammock, chattering with a group of girls,--always busy, happy, and useful, if her studies were quite forgotten. for molly was as domestic as sara was bookish, and relieved the latter now of so many little cares, that she found much more time to devote to her writing, especially as her duties at the museum were merely nominal during the professor's absence, chiefly attending to the specimens he occasionally sent on, and forwarding such of his correspondence as she was not empowered to dispose of herself. to sara the most attractive room in the house was the library, and she passed some of the happiest hours of her life in its quiet recesses. here, every bit of wall-space, half way to the ceiling upon three sides, was given over to books; while the fourth, that opposite the door, contained a most artistic fireplace, above which, in lieu of the sometime mirror, the chimney had been divided to insert a window, one perfect sheet of plate glass, almost as clear as the ether itself through which was a delightful vista of green mingled with the vivid glow of blossoms. the three other windows formed arched niches, apparently cut through the book-shelves; and in one was a comfortable knee-hole desk, containing all the paraphernalia of a literary worker; while in the others were the most seductive of reading-chairs, with book-rests attached. she had been sitting one day, smiling and crying alternately over "bleak house," when a sudden thought brought her to an upright position,--why not invite miss prue to visit her? when would she ever again be so fortunately situated to entertain her pleasantly? "i'll do it at once!" she said, rising briskly; "molly will be as delighted as i with the idea, for she has often wished miss prue could see how well off we are;" and not giving her resolution time to cool, she seated herself before the desk and wrote the invitation. it was promptly accepted; and a week later morton met at the station, and conveyed home, a rather old little figure, with the traditional band-box and bird-cage in hand. "here we are!" she cried merrily to the waiting girls on the piazza. "both the spinsters, you see, for polly and i are too old to be separated!" and, setting down the cage, she proceeded to embrace each pretty young creature with motherly warmth, polly meanwhile remarking hoarsely,-"how d'ye do? go 'long! come again! oh, you fools!" at which sam, the gardener, appeared wonderingly around the corner of the house. "beg parding, miss," jerking off his ragged straw hat, "but i thought as how you might be havin' trouble with a tramp," glaring savagely at miss prue; "thought i heered a strange voice." "oh, it's nothing, sam, nothing but a bird," laughed molly. "a burrd!" he cried, with an amazed look. "a burrd a-talkin' the likes o' thot? may all the saints defend us!" while the laughing group stood by, molly introduced the fowl, with proper explanations, at which polly, probably thinking it necessary to vindicate her powers, broke out with,-"hold yer jaw! get out! shiver my timbers! what the"-"you disgraceful old thing!" cried miss prue, snatching up the cage and rushing indoors, where she set it down with a thump on the hall-table; and, dragging off her black silk wrap, proceeded to muffle the profane creature in its shiny folds; then, turning to sara with a distressed look, she implored,-"_will_ you tell me what makes her so wicked? i've tried my best to teach her nice little moral axioms from ben franklin and socrates, and bits of poetry from tupper, but whenever she wants to show off, she goes back to that dreadful old sailor-talk she learned on shipboard, nobody knows how many years ago; it's discouraging!" "it is, indeed!" laughed sara, while molly furtively lifted a corner of the wrap, in hopes to start polly off again. "but never mind polly's capers, dear miss prue, we know what a respectable old bird she is, in spite of her lapses. come into the library, where it's nice and cool, and tell me everything you can think of about dear old killamet. oh, how good, how good, it is to see you again, you blessed woman!" throwing an arm about her, and hugging her up rapturously, as they passed into the opposite apartment. "what a paradise!" cried the elder maiden, stopping short on the threshold. "do you tell me that is a window, in the middle of the chimney, or only some wonderful picture? i didn't know a room could be made so beautiful, could express so perfectly the refinement of work"-then breaking loose from sara's embrace, she faced the young girl, and, taking her by the shoulders, held her at arm's length, and gazed at her critically. "let me look at you," she said, sweeping her glance slowly from the proud little head, with its earnest, refined face, down over the lissome figure in its sheer, white gown, even to the daintily-shod feet peeping from beneath it, "let me see whether this is the niche you were intended for. yes," slowly and reverently, "yes, i see. you fit in here; you are content, satisfied. it isn't the luxury, either, sara; that you could do without; it is that better part one can hardly name, only feel; and your maker has been slow in shaping you that you might fit the more perfectly. kiss me, dear, i am glad you are _my_ daughter!" sara kissed her tenderly, her eyes wet with tears of happiness; and molly and morton entering just then, with questions as to where polly should be suspended, turned the talk into lighter channels. the latter soon found herself chained to a perch of sam's contriving, out on the deep veranda, and for the rest of her stay had a string of admirers ranged along the sidewalk at nearly all hours of the day, bandying words with her ladyship. as for sam, he furtively admired her as much as the street-boys, and would be seen to slap his thighs and double over with silent merriment, when she was a little more wicked than usual; not that sam was an encourager of vice; by no means; but as he confided to hetty,-"it do beat all nater to see that pious old gurrl so fond of a haythen creetur that's enough to disgrace a pirate hisself; an' the quareness of it just gets me, it do." as to the "pious old girl," (according to sam's disrespectful characterization of miss prue) she had quite given up in despair. "really, sara," she remarked with deep melancholy, "it must be the city atmosphere" (dartmoor was a town of perhaps fifteen thousand inhabitants), "for, you know, she never was so perverse in killamet. i'm afraid she'll disgrace us all!" upon which sara would comfort her by saying that, as most parrots were trained by rough people, nothing better could be expected, and she was sure nobody would blame them; while molly, the naughty little elf, would shake her curls with a solemn air, and exclaim,-"it's a mercy the students and faculty are mostly away, miss prue; i'm afraid she'd have to be expelled if college was in session, in consideration of the morals of the institution!" but, in spite of polly's harrowing performances, it was a delightful visit; yet, as often happens with delightful things, it brought to sara a new worry and a great temptation. there were several of the young people present one evening; and miss prue, enjoying the moonlighted veranda and the music from the gas-lighted drawing-room, as well as anybody, watched the little by-plays with keen, interested eyes. among the group was mr. preston garth, a tall, shapely young fellow, whose face was redeemed from plainness by a pair of large intelligent gray eyes, and a ready smile, accented by the whitest of teeth. miss prue was attracted by his looks; and, being a close observer, she soon noted that, though he talked about laboratory matters with morton, and was ready to joke or sing with molly and the two older young ladies present, yet every time sara addressed him, he turned to answer with an eagerly respectful air, different from the rather careless manner usual with the others. the next day, as she sat with her favorite in the cool library, molly being away on an errand, she asked, apropos of nothing,-"who is that mr. garth, sara?" the young girl smiled. "just what you see, miss prue; a college student, and seemingly a fine young man." "but where does he live?" "i believe in trenton." "know anything about his family?" "no, except that there are not many of them, i believe. at any rate, he has no parents. he's helping himself through college partly, though i understand he has a small property; that's why he works in the laboratory." "h'm," miss prue bent towards the light to pick up a dropped stitch in her knitting. "he looks like a fine fellow; does he come here often?" "yes, rather," sara answered carelessly, just then engaged in digging about the roots of a palm in the window with one of her hairpins; "he likes to sing with molly." miss prue did not answer, except by an expressive little grunt, and then, apparently, changed the subject. "do you ever hear from cousin jane nowadays?" ("cousin jane" was mrs. norris, jasper's mother.) "i haven't lately. she did write me a few times, and i answered; but the last letter came in cold weather,--i should say, before february." "yes. jasper has a schooner of his own now, did you know it?" "no; has he? that's fine!" "yes; jasper always was forehanded, and he has laid by quite a snug little sum; then of course his father helps him; you never hear from him?" "no; that is, he did write a postscript in one of his mother's letters." "did you answer it?" "not directly. i expressed my thanks, etc., to mrs. norris when i next wrote." sara had resumed her chair and sewing; but at this she laid it in her lap, and looked curiously at her old friend, wondering what categorical fiend possessed her this morning. miss prue knitted two or three rounds in silence, then remarked, with elaborate carelessness,-"you and jasper have always been good friends?" as she ended with the rising inflection, sara answered,-"oh, yes, always," and picked up her sewing. "i've about made up my mind," added miss prue, lowering her voice to a more confidential tone, "to make jasper my heir. his mother has been for years my nearest of kin, and jasper's a fine lad, honest and trustworthy. but i have some notions about woman's rights in property matters; and if i knew just the girl he would marry, i should leave it to both, share and share alike. i know whom he _wants_ to marry," she finished decisively. "is it dolly lee?" asked sara, all interest. "no, it isn't dolly lee," dryly; "it's sara olmstead." the sewing dropped again. "miss prue!" "well, it is, and you needn't speak as if i'd told a falsehood; for i _know!_" sara's cheeks had crimsoned warmly, and her voice faltered a little, as she asked,-"did he tell you himself?" "not in so many words; but i've known it, so has his mother, for a long time. he has cared for you ever since he was a little boy. and sara," earnestly, "where would you find a better husband, a truer heart? i'm an old goose, i suppose, to speak out so plainly; but the fact is, jasper's a bit afraid of you, and doesn't dare to speak, i imagine." "afraid of _me?_" "yes, he thinks you some kind of a goddess probably; most men do till they are married, and then they're too apt to think their wives are kitchen-maids; but i don't think jasper'll be like that!" she added hastily. sara smiled. "i've no doubt, miss prue, that jasper would be all that is good and noble; ah! there is molly coming back; i wonder if she succeeded in matching your yarn," and rising with a relieved air, she hurried out to meet her sister. but the conversation lingered in her memory, and was often brought to mind by trivial events. during all of her visit, miss prue had an air of taking possession of sara, which was, if not new, at least accented greatly, and occasionally would drop such expressions as,-"if you should ever live in killamet again," or "when you come back to us, sara," which gave the girl an uneasy feeling that her future was being settled for her, leaving no alternative. even her very last day, during the packing, there was an instance of this. sara and molly, revelling in the midst of bags and boxes, while pretending to help, came upon a little morocco case of antique appearance. "may i look at this, miss prue?" cried molly, holding it up. "of course, child; just hand me that bundle, sara; it's bandages i brought along in case of accidents; i always carry some in my hand-bag, besides my old indian ointment." "oh, how lovely!" exclaimed molly, as the cover of the case flew back, discovering a set of coral ornaments of exquisite workmanship, outlined against the faded blue satin lining. "coral's all out of style now, but it's wonderfully pretty, just the same; and what an odd design; see sara!" she held them out towards the latter, then by a sudden impulse took the ear-rings and placed them against her sister's shell-like ears. "oh! look miss prue. aren't they becoming?" "exceedingly," said that lady, looking around with a critical air: "coral always becomes such a complexion and hair. i've always intended those for jasper's wife." her accent and tone were so peculiar as she said this that even molly noticed it. "jap's wife?" she cried gayly. "there's your chance, sara. why don't you set your cap for him, and the corals?" "molly!" sara drew back her head sharply, and thrust the jewels from her, but her face crimsoned as she did so; and though molly dared say nothing further, her eyes danced with teasing merriment, while miss prue, pretending not to notice at all, took in every detail. "either she likes him so much she can't bear to have the subject made light of, or else the whole thing is distasteful to her; i wish i knew which it is," was her thought as she bustled about, apparently intent only on getting as many garments as possible into a given space. she ruminated all the way home next day, making up her mind that she would not be quite happy now until this affair was arranged, and resolved that if jasper happened to be at home when she reached there, she would have a word to say to him. meanwhile, sara's tranquillity, having been invaded by this new idea, was effectually destroyed. it had been her life-long habit to reverence and obey miss prue; if she went against her in this matter it would be an unprecedented event. then she could not but realize what a fine match it would be in a worldly point of view, allying her with those families she had, all her life, been taught to consider as first in her little world. it would give her dear ones certain comfort and herself rest from care and anxiety; she knew well what a warm nest jasper's wife would step into, admired, petted, and cousined by relatives innumerable. last of all, it would ally her to a young man she had always liked, and could thoroughly respect as well; one too, who would, she felt certain, be a tender, loyal mate. what was there against it? why--as molly would say-didn't she "jump at the chance"? she felt really indignant at herself for her own perverseness; but, though she would not tell herself the reason why, she felt this thing to be impossible. better struggle along under her burdens as she had been doing, rather than go so reluctantly to that true and tender heart. "oh, i wish she had not spoken!" she whispered to herself passionately one day as these thoughts kept tormenting her. "i never knew miss prue to do so unkind a thing before! but why do i think about it? it's time enough to worry when jasper speaks. perhaps she's mistaken after all!" and she tried to content herself in this belief. when a letter came from her old friend, giving a lively description of her journey home, and of a disgraceful squabble between polly and a tiny pug, in which the former blasphemed, and the latter barked bravely from the arms of his mistress, until the wrathful conductor bundled both off into the baggage-car, but saying nothing of jasper, except a casual remark that his schooner was expected in soon, she felt relieved. "i have been making too much of nothing!" she said, and blushed all to herself at the thought that her vanity alone had caused her all these pangs. chapter xix. bertha gillette. there was a great deal of sickness that summer in dartmoor, and much suffering among the poor. sara, having little or no money to spare, felt she could only give herself, and thus set apart her saturday afternoons (upon which she was now free from museum work) to visit the sick whenever she was needed, the circle to which she belonged having systematized this charity that it might not fall too heavily upon any one. molly sometimes went with her, and the two bright faces brought comfort to many forlorn hearts. it was an intensely warm day, the first week in july, when a card bearing the silver cross reached her. "bad case in third ward. a young girl in the trask tenement-house, cor. g and tenth streets. can you go? get whatever you need at reed's, and ask for bertha gillette, third floor." she turned to molly. "is it to-day you have an engagement with the dressmaker?" "yes, at three; why?" sara read the card, adding,-"i suppose i'll have to go alone, then. if i should be kept till dark, be sure and have morton come after me." "what makes you go, sara? it's fairly scorching outside!" "i know, but i must, you see. 'a young girl.' poor thing! she may have no friends, and be suffering for care. yes, i must go. i'll wear my thinnest muslin, and take the large umbrella." she was soon off, stepping briskly in spite of the heat. the air was scintillating under the almost vertical rays of the sun, whose intensity was merciless, and scarcely a leaf stirred; even the birds were drowsy, and kept in shelter, while every house was closed and barricaded against the heat as against an invading army. for a time sara had the shade of the great trees lining the sidewalks for protection; but as she left these wide avenues for the alleys of poverty, there was nothing but her umbrella between her and the scorching luminary, while mingled with the intensified heat were the dust and odors arising from unsprinkled and garbage-strewn streets. she felt faint before she reached the tenement-house, and only the consciousness that she must not give way to illness in this neighborhood gave her strength to proceed. once inside, she dropped down on the lowest step of the stairway, regardless of dust, until she had recovered somewhat, then wearily climbed the steps. half-way up she met a rough-looking man, who scowled at her, but said nothing; and she hurried by him, glad to see he kept on his way without looking back. reaching the third floor finally, she saw a rather pretty little girl standing in one of the many open doors, and asked which led to miss bertha gillette's room. "she ain't got no room," said the child shrilly; "she's in old mis' pierce's room, down thar," pointing to a closed door; "that's whar they took her when they brung her in. there wan't no room anywheres else." "oh! was she taken ill on the street?" the child nodded. "got a sunstroke, i guess," and sara hurried on to the designated door. she knocked lightly, then opened it and entered. it was a bare little room, with one window, but decently clean, and the sash was entirely removed, being replaced by a mosquito-netting tacked to the frame, so the air was not foul. on the old bed in the corner lay the young girl, white and still, and beside her sat an elderly woman with a kind, weather-beaten visage, who looked up inquiringly. "i am sara olmstead, a king's daughter," touching the cross on her breast; "can i do anything for you?" "i'm glad you've come," said the woman; "i've did what i could, but i've got to go to my work now. i'm meat cook in a restaurant, and i must git there by four; it's 'most that now; can you stay?" "yes," said sara. "please tell me all about her, the symptoms, and so on. was it a sunstroke?" "might be--set down, miss, you look tuckered out yourself," handing the one splint-bottomed rocker. "i don't know much more'n you. they picked her up down on the corner this morning and brought her into the hall,-thought 'twas a fit, i guess. i come in while they was all tearin' around like a passel of geese, and when they didn't seem any place for her lower down, told 'em they might bring her to my room. i'm about the only one that rooms alone, i guess." "and hasn't she spoken at all?" "yes, she come to and told us her name, but that's about all. she grew flighty pretty soon; and now she either lies still and breathes hard, like you see her now, or mutters suthin', i can't make out what. if you need any help, mis' maloney's a good, kind woman, three doors to the left; she'll come in a minute, 'less the old man's drunk and she has to stay to watch the children; and here's her medicines. i got the health doctor right away, dr. browne. was it him sent you?" "i presume he reported the case to our circle, and they sent me word. you said a spoonful every half hour?" "yes; and if she gets so't she really senses things, she might want suthin' to eat. you'll find tea and bread in this cupboard, see? and i bile the water on this oil stove." sarah nodded wearily; she was feeling a strange lassitude from which it was difficult to rouse herself. the woman noticed her pallor. "you don't look strong yourself, miss, and i hate to leave you, but i guess there won't be much to do. if we don't have a big run at the restaurant,--and we won't, it's so hot--i'll git back by seven sure; and don't mind calling on mis' maloney, she's as clever as the day is long. well, good-by to you," and she was gone. sarah looked about her with some curiosity, noting the bare edges of the floor around the faded strip of cheap carpeting in the centre, the little stand with a white towel over the top, upon which was a lamp and a bible,--she was glad to see the bible--the woodcuts from illustrated journals tacked to the walls, and the one straggling geranium in a tin can on the window sill, then examined more closely the girl on the bed. she was extremely pale, and there were blue shadows about her nose and temples; but the brows were delicately pencilled, the lashes lying against the colorless cheek, thick and long, while the hair, of a brown so light as to be almost yellow, curled naturally around her forehead. "she is really pretty," thought sara, "but how thin and blue. and what mere claws her hands are!" looking at the one clutching a corner of the sheet. "poor girl! i don't believe she is much older than i, but she looks as if she had suffered enough for an old woman. ah! she's speaking." the lips were moving, but at first no sound came from them; then she caught one word, "mother," and then a tear rolled from the closed eyes over the white cheeks. sara gently wiped it away, thinking pitifully, "where can her mother be?" and while the thought was impressed upon her face in a look of tenderness and pity, the eyes of the young girl opened wide and gazed into her own. "who are--you?" she asked faintly. "an angel?" sara smiled. "no, only a girl like yourself." "then i am--not dead?" "no, indeed: you have been ill, but are better now. here is something for you to take," placing a spoon to her lips. the invalid swallowed the liquid docilely, never taking her large hazel eyes from sara's face. "who are you? where am i?" she asked again. "i am sara olmstead, a king's daughter, come to stay with you this afternoon; and you are in a good woman's room, who is now gone to her work." the eyes closed again, and an expression of pain or regret passed over the face. "do you suffer?" asked sara gently. the head was shaken slightly. "not in body, but i'm almost sorry it wasn't true." "what, bertha?" "my first thought, that it was all over, and you were the angel appointed to waken me in the other world." the tone, weak almost to whispering, was infinitely sad, and sarah thrilled with sympathy. that one so young should long for death seemed incredible to her hardy nature. but nothing more was said till, bethinking herself, sara asked,-"could you eat anything now?" the eyes opened quickly. "yes," she said eagerly, "yes." sara hurried to light the little stove and make the tea, managing also to brown a slice of bread over the flame. she looked for milk and butter, but found none. "there is only sugar for your tea," she began. "never mind," said the eager voice again, "let me have it. oh, how good it smells!" sara brought the plain little repast to the bedside, and, rising to her elbow, the young girl partook with an eagerness that was pitiful. "poor thing!" thought sara, "i do believe she was starved!" then aloud, "if you can hold the cup, i'll make you some more toast; shall i?" "yes, please!" in a stronger voice, "i never tasted anything so good!" while she was eating the second piece, sara took a pencil and small notebook from her satin bag and scribbling a line, stepped hastily down the hall to the third door. it was opened by the same little girl who had first directed her. "is this mrs. maloney's room?" asked sara. "yes'm." "and you are her little girl?" "yes'm." "could i get you to do an errand for me?" "mebbe." "it's to take this paper to reed's store on g street, and bring home the things the clerk will give you. if you will i'll give you an orange when you come back." the child's eyes brightened. "i'll go," she said. "ma's down-stairs, and i'm minding the baby, but i'll call her." "thank you," said sara, and ran back to her charge. she was glad to see that the pale face on the pillow did not look so deathly now, and the blue shadows had nearly disappeared. she even smiled with some brightness, and her grateful eyes followed sara about the room. a breeze had arisen, and was blowing refreshingly through the window, and the latter gladly seated herself where she could catch it all. "you look better," she remarked, as she returned the sick girl's smile; "tell me, bertha, was it from hunger that you fainted? i am your friend and want to help you." "yes, it was. i haven't eaten since--what day is this?" "saturday; it is now about five o'clock." "then it was yesterday morning. i had a piece of bread about as large as my palm." "and nothing since?" "not a crumb." sara shuddered. "poor, poor girl! how did you come to such want?" tears of pity filling her sweet eyes. bertha gazed at her wonderingly. "how did you know me?" she asked. "what makes you care?" "i know your name because you gave it when you first came out of your faint, and how could i help caring? you are pretty near my own age, i think." "i'm twenty-two." "then you are a little the older. bertha, have you a mother?" she shook her head sadly. "no, i haven't anybody; it would have been better, i say. what can a girl do all alone in this great, wicked world?" "tell me about it, bertha; perhaps i can help you." no one could resist that tone; and bertha, after one long look into the sympathetic face, drew a sigh and began. "we were always poor, but not to real want. father had a small farm, and we lived off from it till he died. then it all went for debts and funeral expenses, and we took what little was left, mother and i, and came here. we managed to live while she was alive. she took in sewing, and i worked in ball's factory, and we were as cosey as could be in our one room; but last winter she died." her eyes filled with tears, and she stopped a moment, then went on. "the factory turned off a third of its hands in may, and i with them. i've tried everything since, but i'm not strong enough for many kinds of work. if i could only stand housework i could find plenty to do, but the heavy part is too much for me; twice i've broken down, lost my place, and had to use all the wages i'd saved up for doctor's bills. a second girl's work i could do, but it's difficult to get into those aristocratic houses, unless you have friends and recommends, especially in summer, when so many are closed while the families are away. "i've done shop-work, and indeed a little of everything; but for a week i haven't had a thing, and i was reduced to my last crumb. i knew, if i couldn't pay for my room to-night, i'd be turned into the street, so for two days i've walked and walked, hunting for work, till i actually dropped, as you see. there's one thing, though," with sudden fire, "i've kept straight! if i had been really dead, as i for a moment thought, i would not have been afraid to meet my mother. but it's been a hard struggle! do you wonder i was sorry when i found you weren't a real angel, and heaven was still far away?" sara, her eyes filled with tears, was about to answer, when nora maloney appeared at the door with her bundles. "i've got 'em, mum!" she cried, and at sight of her bright face both girls smiled again. "that's my good girl!" was sara's approving comment; "and here, didn't i promise you something?" "yes'm," her eyes snapping, "an orange." sara opened a package, and took out two. "what will you do with this, if i'll give it to you?" pointing to the extra one. "i'll hide 'em both till pa gets away, an' then i'll divvy up with nan and jack, and ma and baby," was the ready answer. sara handed over the two yellow globes. "that's right! i'm glad you're such a generous little girl, and i am much obliged to you for doing the errand. good-by." "good-by'm; thankee mum!" was nora's hearty answer, as she hurried home to show her treasures, before it should be necessary to hide them from the father whom drink had transformed into a brute; to be avoided if possible, and if not, to be fed and cajoled, then, if still implacable, fled from in terror as from any other ferocious, untamable beast. sara took from the bundles oranges, grapes, biscuit, and sliced ham, the sick girl watching her, meanwhile, with eyes that grew brighter every moment. "now we'll have supper together," said sara, arranging them neatly on the little stand; "for i'm getting hungry too, and while we're eating, we'll talk things over. that tea and toast will do for first course, try this bunch of grapes and the sandwich i am fixing for the second." bertha took them with a delighted air. "oh, how good! we used to have grapes at home; and father always cured his own hams. i was never really hungry in my life till nowadays. we've always been poor, and sometimes i didn't have any best dress, but there was never any lack of food. do you know"--solemnly--"it's an awful thing to get so hungry? i could have stolen--murdered almost--for food, only i didn't dare touch anything for fear of jail. all my ideas of right and wrong were confused, and for the time i was more of a wild beast than any thing else--oh, it was dreadful!" sara gently touched the thin hand. "poor girl!" she murmured, "i know something of it too!" then aloud, "bertha, how would the place of a companion suit you?" "a companion?" "yes, to an invalid lady. i know of a mrs. searle who needs one. she is rich, and ought to pay well; but she would want somebody who could read intelligibly--and i suspect it would require infinite patience to put up with her whims." "i haven't a bad temper," said bertha simply; "and i used to read aloud to mother while she was sewing--we both of us liked books. how i wish she would try me!" "perhaps she will; at any rate, you shall be looked after in some way. i am poor, myself, but i'm sure our circle will see that you find work. do you know what the 'king's daughters' are?" "i've heard of them, but you're the first i ever met. if they're all like you, the lord must be proud to own them." the sincere, almost childish, tone in which these words were said divested them of any irreverence. sara merely smiled, as she told bertha some of their aims and practices; and when mrs. pierce returned, she was astonished to see her patient sitting up in bed, with almost a flush on her cheeks, and a glad light in her eyes. "lawful suz!" she cried in the doorway, "what have you done to her?" "fed her," laughed sara; "and i have been helping her to take my prescriptions, you see. won't you join us?" "well, i'm beat! thank you--guess i will. was that all't ailded her-jest hunger?" "that's all," answered bertha for herself, "and quite enough too!" then she repeated something of her story, thanking the good woman heartily for her kindness. it was decided she should stay till monday with mrs. pierce, who seemed anxious to befriend the girl, though so poor herself; and sara finally left them, still planning most amicably, in order to reach home before darkness should necessitate morton's coming after her. "how much cooler it seems!" she thought, as she stepped into the street, glancing up at the sky, which was partially overcast with purplish-black clouds; "i wish, now, i had brought a wrap." she hurried on; but the storm moved more rapidly than she, and just as she turned into the avenue she felt the splash of a large raindrop in her face. she attempted to raise her umbrella, but a sudden squall of wind nearly wrenched it from her grasp, and, becoming convinced it would be impossible to hold it against the now shrieking blast, she made no more effort to raise it, but ran on--the rain falling more heavily every moment. by the time she sprang up the steps into the shelter of the veranda, she was thoroughly drenched. morton met her there, just about to go in search of her, with a waterproof and overshoes, and cried,-"why, sara, how wet you are!" "yes," she shivered, "i'm drenched," and hurried on and up to her room without more words. by the time she was disrobed, however, that same sensation, as of utter weariness, came over her, and she concluded to retire for the night, telling molly--who soon came up--that she was tired and thought she had better get some rest. "i've been to supper," she added; "and molly, tell morton when he goes to the store, to-night, that i'd like him to do an errand at mrs. searle's for me, on the way. just hand me a sheet of paper and a pen, dear." "won't it do in the morning, sara? you look so tired!" "no, to-morrow's sunday, you know, and this is something that must be attended to before anything happens." she took the writing materials from molly, and wrote the explanation and request in regard to bertha, then folding it with a listless gesture, handed it to her sister. "don't let him forget--it's important," she said wearily. "molly, i'm _so_ cold, can't i have another blanket?" molly brought it and ran down with the note. "don't stay late, morton," she urged in a worried tone; "if sara ever was sick, i should say she was going to be now." chapter xx. weakness. molly was confirmed in her surmise; for in an hour sara was in a burning fever, and there was little sleep in the house that night. to have _sara_ ill was unprecedented--almost unbearable--and the whole household was visibly affected by it. morton's face settled into a gravity which nothing could move, and molly's dimpled visage had never looked so long and care-full. hetty bustled up and down, important and anxious, while sam stood about in the hall, and asked everybody who passed along "how she wor a-doin' now." the doctor came, looked wise, talked about malaria, exposure to the heat and over-fatigue, left some pills and powders, and went away again-after which the house settled down to that alert silence, so different from the restful quiet of an ordinary night. sara, tossing to and fro in the fiery grasp of fever, moaned and talked, hetty and molly watching alternately beside her, while morton tried to sleep in the next room, only to start from frightful dreams to the more harrowing reality that his beloved sister was actually and painfully ill. it was a sharp illness, but not of long duration. the fever was broken up on the fourteenth day, but it left a very weak and ghostly sara to struggle back to health once more. still, there were no relapses, thanks to good care, for hetty had been faithfulness itself, while molly had settled down to her new duties with a steadiness no one would have expected. as for morton, he would have brought up half the drugstore, if he had been permitted, and was made perfectly content whenever allowed to share the night-watches, which was seldom, as he had to work all day. in these hetty was soon relieved by those members of the circle who had become personal friends of the girls; and as there was little to do, except give the medicines regularly, they thus managed well without calling in a regular nurse. three weeks from the day of her seizure sara began to sit up in bed, looking once more something like the girl of old, though she still talked (to quote molly) as if she had hot pebbles in her mouth, and the veins on her temples were much too clearly defined beneath the white skin. thus sitting, one delightful day, she read a note from bertha, which had been awaiting her some time. it was a rapturous expression of thanks for the good place she had found with mrs. searle, and begged that she might see her as soon as sara was able. molly said, as she handed it, "she has been here two or three times, begging to do anything for you that was needed, and i promised you should see her just as soon as possible." so, a day or two later, bertha came. sara would hardly have known her, and indeed the two seemed to have changed places,--sara was the weakling now, bertha the strong and rosy one. "i have such a good place," she said, in answer to the former's questions; "mrs. searle is very kind to me. of course she is exacting and fretful at times, but that is only because of her illness, and i can get along with it; but she has given me a pretty room, and allows me an hour or two for air and exercise every day. i am happier there than i have been since mother died." "that is good!" said sara. "and only think," continued the pleased girl, "she is talking now of going to the seashore. you don't know how i long for a sight of the ocean! the only trouble is, she can't find a place quiet enough to suit her--she hates to go to a great hotel, or where there is a crowd." sara looked up with a sudden thought. "killamet would be quiet enough--how nice it would be if she'd take my house there!" "your house! have you a house?" "yes, the children and i; it's not much of one--just a cottage, but perfectly comfortable in summer. if mrs. searle would send down some furniture, i think she could really make it cosey." "i'll tell her about it" said bertha, and did, with the result that the lady decided to take it for the next two months, at a fair rental. this little excitement over, sara had only herself and the children to think of, and in her weak physical condition these thoughts were far from pleasant. what was to prevent bertha's experience from becoming her own, or possibly molly's, in case of evil fortune? if she should often be ill, who would care for them? she seemed to herself, just then, such a frail plank between them and want! she raised her white, blue-veined hands and looked at them; they did not seem made for struggling, and a sense of powerlessness, born of bodily weakness, enwrapped her in its hopeless gloom. there is a certain period, after convalescence is well progressed, that is even more trying to many natures than actual illness--that time when we are supposed to be well, and yet have not quite resumed our wonted strength. how the long-dropped burdens of our lives loom up before us now! is it possible we ever bent our backs to such a load? can we ever do it again? yet, even as we hesitate, relentless necessity pushes us on, and bids us hoist the burden. sara felt this often now, and all her former bravery seemed gone with her strength. she had already decided that, next monday, she must return to the museum, and bring up her neglected work; then there was a halfwritten article to be finished and copied, whose motive and central thought she had almost forgotten, while at her side loomed a basketful of stockings to be darned, and garments to be mended before the sabbath dawn. in this reluctant mood, trying to rally her forces for renewed conflict with life's hard duties, she could not help thinking how different it might all be--how she might be cared for, instead of looking out for others; how she might be the centre of a home, enclosed and guarded, rather than, as now, trying vainly to encompass one, making a wall of her feeble self to shelter others--and hot tears of rebellious weakness filled her eyes, and dropped slowly upon the trembling little hands, which were painfully weaving the threads to and fro through a preposterous hole in one of morton's socks. a step in the hall made her hasten to dash away the tell-tale drops, as hetty knocked, before peeping in to say,-"there's a gentleman in the parlor asking to see you, miss olmstead." "a gentleman? one of the professors?" "i don't think it is; i never see him before--it's a young man." sara rose, adjusted her dress a little, and descended to the drawingroom. in its close-shuttered condition she did not at first recognize the figure which rose to meet her, but a second look wrung from her almost a cry. "jasper?" "yes, sairay, it's me. you--you've been sick, i hear." she bowed her head, unable to speak for the second. "and you show it too," with an awed look into her lovely face, spiritualized by illness, as he took her extended hand. "yes," recovering herself, "but i'm nearly well now--how are they all in killamet?" "oh, so-so, i guess; but i haven't been home to stay any since last month--soon after cousin prue was here, it was. i had business in norcross yesterday, and i come over from there by train. mother wrote about your having the fever." she had motioned him to a chair, and dropped into another herself, feeling weak in body, and perplexed in mind. why had he come? was _he_ the answer to her repining thoughts? his voice roused her from the sort of lethargic state into which she had dropped for a moment. "sairay," he said, with a little choke, "i--i couldn't stay away any longer--when i heard about you--and i've come"-he stopped again, but she did not help him out--she could not. with her fingers locked together in her lap, she waited for what was coming, with the feeling that she was drifting down stream, and had neither the strength, nor inclination, to arrest her swift descent. he drew a sigh that was almost a gasp, and plunged on,-"sairay, it's too hard for you--all--all this--and i--oh! you know how i love you--i've always loved you, and what is the use in your working so when i'd give my very eyes to take care of you? don't speak, sairay," raising his hand in protest, "i've got a-going, now, and i want to say it all. i know i'm not good enough for you--who is?--but if love that never tires, and kindness, and--and--being as true as steel, and as tender as a mother, can count for anything, they'll plead for me, sairay; i'm not much on fine speech-making, as you know." he had risen, and stood before her, tall and stalwart, and, for the moment, such strength and tenderness seemed good to her--why not accept them, and be at rest? perhaps he felt her yielding mood; at any rate, he held out both hands with an assured gesture. "say yes, sairay--tell me you"-there was a jarring slam and a flood of light; one of the shutters had blown open. both started, glanced around, then faced each other again; but that noisy interruption had thoroughly aroused sara. she looked at jasper in this brighter light, and a quick revulsion of feeling swept over her. what was she doing? would she lie to him? she did not love him; did she dare to tell him that she did? a thought of another manly figure, bearing a certain refinement and nobility lacking in this, rose before her mind's eye, and when jasper finished his sentence--"tell me you love me!" her answer was ready. "i can't, jasper," she said low, but firmly, "it wouldn't be"-he stopped her again. "don't answer me now; take time to think--take till tomorrow. this is too sudden; nobody can know their minds all in a minute. i'll come again when you've had time to think." she shook her head. "no, jasper, that is not necessary. you have always been one of my best friends--be so still! but--that is all. i can't give you what you ask for, and time will never change me--don't think it. the best way is to have perfect truth between us. now, jasper," trying to speak easily, "put this aside, and stay with us this evening. i want you to see morton and"-"i can't," said jasper, in a voice of intense calmness (she could imagine him giving an order in just that tone, when life or death hung on the proper execution of it), "i--must go. you--you're sure you know your mind?" "yes, sure." he picked up his hat,--she noticed it was a silk tile, and thought vaguely how incongruous it looked upon him, though she was used to little else among the students,--and jammed it absently down on his head, as he was accustomed to fasten on his tarpaulin during a storm. "good-by" he said hoarsely, turning towards the door. she stepped towards him. "jasper, wait!" he obeyed--but reluctantly. "i beg of you, don't let this make you feel hard towards us all. i have depended on your goodness all my life--don't let it fail me now!" she held out her hand with that look which few could resist, a look of winning trustfulness words cannot describe. jasper hesitated, turned, looked into her face--and yielded. "sairay," he said, grasping her hand closely, "it's no use; you always did have your way, and you always will! i'll be anything to you that you want me to be, but--it's bitter hard luck!" and, wringing her hand till it ached, he left her. chapter xxi. the prince cometh. "a letter from mrs. macon, i think," said morton, handing it across the table to sara, with a glance at the western postmark. "i shouldn't wonder if it is to announce their return," she remarked, opening it. "heaven forbid!" groaned molly. "i love the macons, but i adore their home! why don't you praise these muffins, morton? i made 'em." "is that what ails them?" making a wry face. "give me another at once. we must make way with them as fast as possible!" and molly passed him the plate, with a well-pleased laugh. "yes," interrupted sara, looking up, "they will be at home inside of a fortnight, but she kindly says,-"'don't hurry to find rooms. i want to help you decide, and i shall be so glad to come home to a houseful of young people rather than to the usual gloom and stuffiness of long-closed rooms; besides, i have a proposition to make you.'" "what can it be?" cried molly. "she may want me to stay, in place of hetty, for cook." "and me for coachman," added morton, buttering his third muffin. "then, sara, there is nothing left for you but to be lady's maid!" giggled the other twin. "i should rather like the position," smiled sara, "to read aloud to her, answer her notes, do her errands, and"-"button her boots!" put in atrocious molly again, at which morton slapped at her with his napkin, when she fled--pursued by him--to the veranda, where decency demanded a cessation of hostilities. sara soon joined them, and a little later, preston garth,--who was back in town for a day or so, to assist in setting up some new apparatus lately arrived at the laboratory,--strolled up the walk. "you're too late!" exclaimed molly saucily, as he dropped upon the upper step, and began fanning himself vigorously with his hat; "morton's eaten up all the muffins, and i think sara finished the peaches." "and i suppose, as usual, miss molly had nothing," was the ironic reply. "oh, a trifle--not worth mentioning"-"yes, molly has a starved appearance, as you may have observed," put in sara. "but, mr. garth, in spite of her discouraging remarks, i think we could find"-"oh, thank you, miss olmstead--i have been to tea; just left the table, in fact, and am on my way back to the museum, so dropped in here. has anybody noticed the sunset to-night?" all turned to observe it (the house fronted towards the south), and simultaneously exclaimed at its grandeur. the sun was just dropping behind a thunderous bank of clouds, closely resembling a range of mountains capped with snow, now tinged ruddily with the dying light, and between these crowding peaks was an arched opening, as if a vaulted passageway had been blasted through the mass of rock, giving a vista of pale blue sky, from which radiated prismic bars of light, while way above the topmost peak, like some beacon-light suspended high, swung the new moon, a slender crescent, also near its setting. "oh, i saw it over my right shoulder!" cried molly gayly. "don't you long to hear what wish i made?" "not half so much as you long to tell it," replied morton cruelly. "how snubbed i feel!" she sniffed, amid the laughter, making a face at him. "but if you knew it included you--mr. garth, do you believe in omens?" "really, miss molly, i never thought--in fact, i don't know of any, do i? what omens?" "oh, that you're going to quarrel, if you spill the salt, and that it's bad luck to step over a crack in the floor, and you musn't begin things on friday, and"-"molly, what nonsense! i thought we agreed to forget all that kind of thing when the mirror broke," said morton. "yes; when instead of bringing us misfortune it brought us comfort. did we ever tell you about that, mr. garth?" asked sara; then, as he gave a negative sign, she repeated the story. he listened interestedly. "where did you live, then, miss olmstead?" "in killamet--a tiny fishing-village on the coast. we are the children of a fisherman, perhaps you know." "you?" surprisedly. "i would never have thought it! i supposed"--he stopped in some confusion, and colored. "say it out!" urged morton. "yes, relieve your mind," added molly; "it won't stand too much pressure." "molly, be quiet!" interposed sara peremptorily. "well," said the young man at this, giving molly a queer glance, "i had always supposed fishermen to be a rude sort of people--entirely unlike you all, of course." "'with the exception of one,' you would say, if you dared," added molly instantly. "but you needn't blame any of my ancestors for my tongue-sara will tell you our mother was a real lady, in speech and manners, and our father one of nature's noblemen. i was probably changed in the cradle by some wicked fairy." "let us thank the creature for leaving such a unique specimen, at least," laughed mr. garth, completely mollified; (if you will not accuse us of an insane desire to make a pun). "come, fairy changeling, and let's have a song together." "yes, if you won't insist upon classical music more than half the time. do you know what i'd like to sing to-night?" rising to go indoors; "one of those rollicking, rioting old sailor-songs, with no tune, and not many more words, but with a catchiness in the two or three bars that gives you the sensation of a ship rolling and pitching under your feet-but sara won't let me, so"--laughing mischievously--"i suppose i'll have to come down to bach and wagner!" sara left alone outside, for morton now departed for the store, seated herself in one of the piazza-chairs to listen at her leisure. the twilight was deepening into the warm, scented dusk of a mid-summer eve, with nameless soft noises amid the dew and the perfume, as countless tiny creatures settled themselves to repose or came out for their nightly dance beneath the stars. the tender influences of night and silence inwrapped the girl as if in motherly arms, and she felt glad, and hushed, and still. what was the little struggle of a day when all this great, yet minute world lived, slept, woke and worked, subject to one will--a will mighty enough to control the universe, precise enough to make perfect and beautiful the down upon the wing of an insect invisible except under a powerful microscope? why should she fret, or worry, or dread? "i have but one care," she said, "to do right--to abide by my inner heaven-given instinct, which we call conscience, the rest is of the will." she leaned her head back restfully against the small down pillow tied by gay ribbons to her chair; but her resting soul leaned against an arm,-mighty to save, and tender to feel. amid all her musings ran the sweet strains of the old english ballad the others were singing inside, whose refrain only was clear to her,-"trust me, love, only trust!" a figure moving with a springing motion came swiftly up the gravelled walk and mounted the steps. not till then did sara notice it. she turned, rose, and stepped forward; and as the figure advanced to meet her, it stood full in the light streaming through the drawing-room windows. "robert?" she questioned, still in a dream, and not realizing that she had used a name only whispered in her own heart till now. "yes, sara," was the reply, "i have come--were you waiting for me?" still only half herself, so sudden and surprising was all this, she answered in his own tone, quiet, but threaded with deep meaning,-"yes, i--think i was." he drew her to him, whispered three little words--and the new moon, just dipping her last upturned horn beneath the horizon, may have seen their kiss of betrothal; but if so, she modestly withdrew from sight, and never told the sweet secret. i suppose my story should properly end here, but sara felt that hers was just beginning. with arm linked in arm the two went softly down the steps, and strolled through the odorous hush of the garden, trying to tell the emotions of three years in as many minutes, while the unconscious couple within sang, and sparred, and sang again, perfectly certain of their unseen listener outside. after the first few moments, in which they could think of nothing but their own two selves, so strangely and quickly bound into one, sara asked,-"but how did you happen to be here just now, robert?" "because i came! i was like a chained beast all the time you were ill, though molly's letters gave only the most cheering news, but i knew i couldn't see you if i were here, and i mustn't leave aunt; but when word came from uncle that he was down with a malarial attack at omaha, on his way home, and she started at once to nurse him, i made up my mind very shortly as to my next move--which was to pack my grip and come on, to 'put my courage to the test, to win or lose it all.'" "it required a great deal of courage!" laughed sara. "more than you think, sweetheart. i was not at all sure of your feelings towards me--to tell the truth, i have been horribly jealous of that singing-fellow--what's his name--garth, isn't it?" sara laughed merrily, and just then a booming strain rolled out from the drawing-room upon the silent air. "listen!" she said; "isn't that a fine baritone? that's something from offenbach, i think." "magnificent!" returned robert unsuspiciously, thrilling at her light, trustful touch upon his arm. "who is it? some friend of the macons?" "no, of ours. it is--mr. preston garth." he started, looked at her, and even in the dusk caught the amused flash of her eye. "the rascal! must i then run upon him the very first minute of my meeting you?" he queried tragically. "not necessarily--still perhaps, just for politeness' sake, we had better go back and say good-night to him. i think they have finished now, the music seems to have ceased." they turned back towards the house just as molly, who, with mr. garth, had now come out upon the veranda, cried excitedly, "why, she's gone. sara! sara! where are you?" "i am here, molly," advancing with her companion, "here with--mr. glendenning." "oh!" said molly; and mr. garth, feeling a sudden twinge of doubt and dread, waited but a moment longer, going through with the introductions almost mechanically--then, becoming suddenly aware of his neglected engagement at the museum, hastened on his way--leaving robert in full possession of the field. after answering a question of molly's he entered the house with the two girls. they had just stepped into the brightly-lighted drawing-room, when the younger, a trifle in advance, turned with some light remark, and was at once arrested by the beatified expression upon both faces. her remark died on her lips; and her eyes, filled with wonderment, travelled from one countenance to the other, as if determined to drag the secret from them by mesmeric force. "tell her, robert," said sara softly; upon which molly's hands came together sharply, after an old, childish trick of hers. "no need! no need!" she cried with her usual frankness; "i'm not blind-and i never saw a couple so plainly ticketed 'sold' before!" then holding out a hand to each of the somewhat abashed pair, she cried merrily, "it's lovely, though! and remember, mr. glendenning, i always share in all sara's good things, so now you'll have to be my brother, if you have determined to be her--master," pointed by one of her indescribable grimaces. "master, eh?" queried the young man, raising his eyebrows. "do you know, molly, i shall be more than happy to be just her--husband?" "well, what's the difference? 'a rose by any other name,' you know; only look out for sara! i never saw a girl quite like her; while she's seeming to give up she always gets her way"-"as she has now!" put in that maiden with a happy laugh. "don't tell robert all my faults tonight, dear; let him have a surprise now and then." "that means she is convinced that now you think her perfect," interrupted the saucy girl, with a trill of laughter. then growing suddenly as gentle and tender as she had been elfish before, she added sweetly, "and robert, you are right; you have won a real treasure--a perfect darling--as nobody knows better than her naughty, teasing sister." robert stayed a week, which time was to both lovers like a leaf blown back from eden. the weather, as if in chime with their mood, was simply exquisite; and after the more imperative duties at the museum were over, they passed the hours together, walking, riding, or boating on the river, as utterly self-centred, and as foolishly happy as if one were not a thorough-going business man, and the other a studious worker and writer, beginning to make a reputation for herself. just then the world, with its cares, its ambitions, and demands, was quite shut out, while love and happiness reigned supreme. such days, however, soon come to an end in this work-a-day world. an imperative telegram recalled robert to chicago and business; but not till he had won a definite promise from sara that the marriage should take place the following october. "so soon!" she cried, when he made the proposition. "but have you stopped to think? there is molly--yes, and morton, for i could not leave him here alone, though he is almost self-supporting now." "yes, i have thought it all out. my salary is not large for an expensive city, like chicago, but we can all live upon it modestly, even there; and fortunately we none of us have extravagant tastes." sara's eyes filled. "robert, how good you are! would you really burden yourself with my brother and sister? it is too much to ask!" "i shall not look upon it as a burden, dearest. if they are yours they are also mine; and, as you say, morton will soon take care of himself, for i can easily secure him a position there. as for molly, we'll send her to school a while yet; but mark me, sara, she'll be carried off before we know it, such a pretty girl as she." "well, there's one thing, robert, i can write: you won't object to that?" "object! i'm proud of it! write all you like, and be as learned as you please. the world may know you as a sage and a philosopher; but i,--ah! how little they guess what you are to me, my little princess by the sea! and now, if all your objections have been properly overruled, will you give me the answer i desire?" "yes," said sara, "if"-"there! you have said all that is required," laying his finger on her lips, "don't spoil it with conjunctions. a simple affirmative is quite enough; i'll imagine the rest," and sara, only too happy to be thus overmastered, attempted no more objections to demands so sweet. * * * * * from this dream of bliss sara plunged directly into a deep vortex of house-cleaning, for she was determined that the premises should be in perfect order upon the macons' arrival. for four days chaos reigned, with the broom and scrubbing-brush for prime ministers. morton took refuge at the store, but poor sam, not so fortunate, had to face it all; and he felt as if the deluge had come again, with some new and harrowing accompaniments, in which woman's rights and demands were prominent. then, on the fifth, they rested from their labors in the clean, soapcharged atmosphere--walking gingerly over spick and span carpets, laying each book and paper demurely in place, and gazing, at a proper distance, through diamond-bright windows; and on the sixth the macons arrived. they seemed delighted to be at home once more, and both looked unusually well, having gained in flesh and color. the professor was genial and serene, mrs. macon full of life and sparkle. she ran from room to room, like a child; then through the gardens and shrubberies, returning quite out of breath. "o henry!" she cried, "isn't it nice to find everything in such good condition? i remember after our last long trip it was really dreadful for a week or two--everything yellow and musty; mice and cockroaches camping in the library and bedrooms, and spiders everywhere. by the way, sara, have you had to fight moths much?" "yes, occasionally. molly has made a raid on them every week or so, with gasoline, i believe--i don't think they've made much headway." "well, it's perfectly charming; and i should break out into 'home, sweet home,' or something else equally original, if i had an atom of a voice. now tell me all the news,--who's married, and to whom have the storks brought the blessed babies?" "yes, don't forget the babies," laughed her husband. "marian has spent most of her trip acting as nursemaid to poor little sticky-faced souls, whose mothers were utterly discouraged, i'm daily expecting that the society for the prevention of cruelty to children will send her a gold medal, for i am sure she richly deserves it." "well, i shall be far more proud of it than of any old fossilized remnant of antediluvial times, i can assure you," was the quick retort. "and henry needn't say anything, either, for he walked the coach-aisle a good half-hour with a crying baby yesterday--to be sure it had a lovely little mamma, who hadn't an idea how to manage it." "yes, it was all for the mamma," assented the professor demurely, with a twinkle at molly, who was heartily enjoying the scene, and only impatient to put in her oar, as now. "did you have many engaged couples on the train?" she questioned wickedly. "i think they're worse than babies--so uninteresting, you know, besides being oblivious to the point of idiotcy. i've been _so_ tired picking up after--oh! i nearly forgot myself--i mean generally speaking, of course." sara's face was a study, but one easy to decipher; for the cheeks crimsoned with embarrassment, the lips quivering with indignation, and the eyes aglow with a happiness no mortification could conceal, told all her secret in living characters. mrs. macon nearly sprang from her chair. "_who_ is it, sara? mr. garth--mr. steene--that little professor of mathematics with the bald head, or--oh! tell me, _is_ it mr. glendenning?" "what a wonderful guesser you are!" cried molly. "and not born in yankeedom, either!" laughed the professor, really pitying sara's distress. morton came to the rescue, as usual. "if it is mr. glendenning, that's no reason for blazening it around all over the country, as if you were too proud of it to keep still. robert glendenning's a nice fellow, but i never saw anybody quite good enough for sara." "nor i," said molly, entirely unruffled; "but she's like those of royal blood, you see--she makes a man honorable by marrying him." amid the laughter over the cool impudence of this assumption, sara recovered herself somewhat, and received with tranquillity the hearty congratulations which followed. "i'm not a bit surprised--i saw it as long ago as last thanksgiving," observed mrs. macon. "yes," put in her husband placidly, "mrs. macon's foresight is almost up to the irishman's." "well, you may laugh, but i did--and what's more, i gave my consent. i told him he was _most welcome_, and he understood me!" "that was generous," said the professor ironically, beginning to cut the leaves of half a dozen periodicals which awaited him upon the library table; at which the rest--taking the hint--adjourned to the veranda, to talk it over at their leisure. chapter xxii. good-by to killamet. the next day, as mrs. macon and sara found themselves alone in the former's special boudoir, that lady remarked,-"you haven't asked me yet what the proposition is that i mentioned in my letter." "no," answered sara with a smile, remembering their conversation over it; "are you ready to make it now?" "yes, and more hopeful of the answer i desire since i have heard of your approaching marriage. sara, henry and i want to adopt molly." "adopt molly?" repeated the sister, with wide, astonished eyes. "yes; she is just what we both need to give us an interest in life, and to make our home the bright, joyous place we want it to be. my original proposition was to have been that, while we legally adopted her, and gave her our name in addition to her own, so that there need never be any trouble about property matters, you should still keep up all your ties of kindred, and that morton and yourself should find board near by, and make our house your second home. then henry would of course use all his influence to advance you both. your marriage will change the plan a trifle, leaving morton, as it does, somewhat unprovided for, and henry has commissioned me to say that, if you will consent to our adoption of molly, morton shall have a home here, also, till of age, and all the help we can give him--though we will not adopt him as our own. what do you think of it?" "i am so surprised, dazed, i can't think; it is most generous!" "not generous; we expect to receive all that we give; yet we won't be selfish, either. i don't ask you to give molly up at all, in one sense-only to let us share with you in her love, and take from you all expense and care." "dear mrs. macon, you are a mother to us now--have been from the first day i saw you--and molly is a happy girl to have won your approbation! she shall decide this matter for herself; i will consent to whatever she wishes." "then will you tell her, sara? i want her to decide unbiassed by my presence;" to which sara readily agreed. but when told, molly was even more amazed than her sister had been, and at first ran and clung to her, like a child about to be torn from its mother's arms. the almost involuntary action touched sara deeply, and for a moment the sisters remained locked in a close embrace, each sobbing uncontrollably. after a little they grew more quiet, and talked the matter over in all its bearings, and sara could see that the idea pleased the child. "if it was to give you and morton up, i'd never consent," she said decidedly, "but it isn't. mrs. macon is just as fond of you as of me, sara, and all the difference is that now you and robert can marry without worrying over my future." "we have never worried, dear; lay that up to robert's credit, and remember that his offer of a home to you and morton was as hearty and sincere as mrs. macon's own. i should not have been so fond and proud of him otherwise." molly, sitting affectionately on her sister's knee, toyed with her hair a moment, then said diffidently,-"sara." "well, molly?" "don't be provoked, dear, but i've sometimes thought you would marry jasper." "why, child?" trying not to color beneath the searching young eyes. "oh, he always seemed to like you so well; and miss prue too, i think she wanted it anyhow." sara hesitated a moment, then said gently,-"i should consider it a great compliment if miss prue had felt so--and that makes me think--i must not delay longer to write her of these new plans of ours. and now, dear little sister, go to mrs. macon yourself, and tell her your decision. she is waiting in her own room." "but you'll come with me, sara?" "no, child, best go alone." "but what shall i say?" diffidently. "now, molly, as if you were ever at a loss." "but i so often say the wrong thing, and you never do, sara," with a sudden spasm of feeling that brought hot tears to her eyes; "it doesn't seem right! you've been so good, and look at all the hard times you've had, while i'm just _penetrated_ with naughtiness, and yet things always go smoothly with me!" "well, dear, then you have only to be thankful, and as good as possible; nor worry about me, god has blessed me abundantly." a little later, mrs. macon moving restlessly about her pleasant room, heard a timid knock at the door, most unlike molly's usual frank and earnest rapping; and at her invitation to enter, there appeared a much disguised edition of that damsel; for in place of the merry, fearless creature we all know, here stood a timid, blushing girl, apparently afraid to take another step forward. mrs. macon felt inclined to a burst of laughter, which verged closely upon tears, as molly sidled in, and began in a voice as soft as sara's own,-"dear mrs. macon, i've come to be your child, if you want me, and it's easy to say i shall love you well, but"--suddenly breaking out into her usual frankness--"i'll tell you what it is, you're getting much the worst of the bargain!" "we can only leave that for time to tell, molly," drawing the girl to her with a tender kiss; "and now, mary olmstead macon, i formally claim you as my own dear daughter; will it be hard for you to call me mother?" "not hard, but strange, dear mrs.--mother--" blushing vividly; then, throwing her arms about the lady's neck with all the abandon she would have shown to sara, she said heartily, "no, it isn't hard, dear, sweet mother, for i'm going to love you with all my heart!" and mrs. macon held her close, with a new fondness, born of possession, thrilling all her being. after this there was no question but that sara should be married from this new home, as both the professor and his wife insisted upon it; and when she tried to speak of paying board, mrs. macon only laughed at her. "now, sara, do be quiet!" she said. "you may go on helping henry till you get his new assistant broken in, of course--i won't say a word against that--but you must have every cent for your _trousseau_-and we'll show the madame some things that will make her open even her french eyes, i imagine!" this outburst having been called out by the receipt of a letter from the little woman that very morning. though it was one of warm approval and hearty good wishes, mrs. macon fancied she could read, between the lines of charming french-english, a desire to take the direction of affairs as soon as her husband's already improved condition should permit; and this did not suit the energetic manageress of this new family at all. she had never been so much in her element for years. she delighted in life, stir, youth, and business; she liked to direct people--and, fortunately, sara was one who could take even interference sweetly. so she arranged shopping tours, made engagements with dressmakers and milliners, and matched silk and lace with the greatest gusto, sara being occasionally allowed a word in the matter. sometimes the latter attempted a remonstrance. "but, mrs. macon," she whispered once, in alarm, "aren't you ordering more than i need of that silk? i'm afraid"-"now, my dear, i'm not going to have your dress spoiled for the lack of a yard or two. it's all fixed, and the clerk understands--and see here, don't be buying thread and linings, and such things--i've more than enough at home, so don't let's clutter ourselves with useless articles." it was of no use to remonstrate--marian macon always had her way--and, if sara would have honestly preferred a less expensive outfit, entirely of her own purchasing, she felt that it was little enough to do to sacrifice her well-loved independence to the generous whims of so kind and true a friend. miss prue's answer to sara's letter, announcing her engagement, was prompt and characteristic. she wished her every happiness, and was enthusiastic over molly's good-fortune, but she could not help one little outburst. "i did think you loved the sea, and your own people, too well to leave us forever--but i see it is not so--and i must say you've turned all my plans topsy-turvy! but perhaps, if you'll come down, and talk it over with me, i can bring myself to forgive you. do come, sara! if you go so far away, i may never see you again; for polly and i are getting older, and more set in our ways, every day." "i must go," she said to mrs. macon, reading part of the letter aloud, "if only for a few days; perhaps, too, i can then make some definite arrangement in regard to our cottage--how i do wish i could find a purchaser for it!" she had expected to take the stage around the long way from norcross to killamet; but when she descended from the train what was her pleased surprise to be greeted by bertha and--of all people--jasper! they informed her they had rowed across the bay on purpose to take her home. she tried not to feel embarrassed in the latter's presence, and wondered how much he knew of her plans; but bertha was so bright and full of talk that there was little space for confusion or wonderings. "how well you're looking, bertha!" she said, as--now in the boat-jasper pulled out from the sleepy little wharf. "you are as brown and rosy as any fisher-girl of us all." as she spoke, half-idly, her glance taking in both figures before her, she could almost have sworn that a lightning-like eye-signal passed between them, before bertha answered, with a conscious little laugh,-"well, i enjoy the life as if i had been born to it. do you know, i can row--yes, and swim--as well as anybody, and i know all your old nooks, and"-she paused suddenly, and sara cried,-"all mine? why, who told you? some of them you could never have found, i'm sure." bertha blushed, but jasper spoke up bravely,-"oh, i showed her. she's a great climber as you used to be, sairay." "that was nice of you, jasper! so you know the 'mermaid's castle,' and the pine walk, and all?" bertha assented, then turned the subject to mrs. searle, the cottage, etc., while sara began to have a dawning feeling that, possibly, she need not worry over jasper's future happiness, at least to the exclusion of her own. miss prue greeted her warmly; and everything was so exactly the same, from the white, curving beach, and long fish-sheds, the unpainted houses and the plants in the bow-windows, to the red and green carpet, and dragon-china in her little parlor, that sara could hardly believe she had ever been away. hester, seemingly not a day older, and wearing the identical turban she had last seen her in, sara felt certain, greeted her with respectful warmth, and polly grunted,-"come in--shut the door--how d'ye do?--git out!" in her old familiar style. jasper had come with her to the door to carry the large valise, which was the only luggage she had brought; but bertha bade them _au revoir_ at the turn, saying she must hurry back to mrs. searle. "won't you come in and stay to supper, jasper?" asked miss prue, as he set the valise down and prepared to depart. "no, thank you, cousin prue, i've got some marketing to take home to mother that she sent for to norcross." "well, come down this evening, then." "guess i will, thank you. i told bertha i'd call around after her--she'd like to come too." "humph! very well," said his cousin, closing the door after him with more vim than was strictly necessary. "how good it seems to be here once more!" exclaimed sara, looking all about her. "you've had a new set of book-shelves put in, haven't you? that's all the change i see." "yes, and all you'll find in the whole village, likely, except in your own house--that you'd never know." "have you made acquaintance with mrs. searle and bertha?" asked sara, after miss prue had returned from trotting away with her wraps. "oh, yes; she's a nice woman when she isn't under the dominion of her nerves, and she says she hasn't been so well in years as she is here; the air seems to agree with her, and she enjoys the quiet." "i'm glad of that. how do you like bertha?" "oh, she's a nice girl," carelessly; "she thinks the world of you." "does she?" smiling a little; "it's mutual." then her hostess asked after the twins, the macons, etc., after which they went out to supper. in the evening bertha came with jasper. there was an abounding joyousness in her manner, which so tallied with sara's deep happiness that she could not but notice it; and it was evident that there was at least perfect good feeling, if nothing more, between her and jasper. after they had gone, sara turned with a mischievous look to her old friend. "i've an idea, miss prue, that bertha is quite in love with--killamet and its environs; she seems really enthusiastic. but how does it happen that jasper is at home now?" "well, the season is nearly over, and i believe his schooner is undergoing repairs--he's his own master now, and goes and comes as he likes." "yes; that must be pleasant! he seems unusually well; i never saw him looking so handsome." "humph!" said miss prue, and drew the curtain sharply, after which they adjourned for the night. sara found miss prue was right about her own house. two coats of paint outside gave it a decidedly spruce appearance, while, inside, that lady's vision as to its capabilities had been more than realized. the blending of roughness and luxury, of camp and home characteristics, gave the large central apartment a quaintness that had real charm for eyes weary of too great sameness in house-decoration; and when mrs. searle began negotiations for buying the place, sara felt, for a moment, very loath to sell. but she quickly conquered the feeling, knowing its uselessness; and as the purchaser was in real earnest, and no haggler, while the seller had not an idea how to drive a hard bargain, they soon came to terms satisfactory to both. as mrs. searle held out her feeble hand from her invalid chair to bid sara farewell, she retained the young girl's a moment to say,-"you will not mind an old woman's congratulating you upon your future, will you? i knew robert glendenning's father in my youth; and if the son is like him in character, you may well be congratulated." sara blushingly murmured her acknowledgments, and the lady continued,-"i want to thank you for sending me bertha, also; she's a real little treasure." "i'm so glad you like each other, mrs. searle! do you know, that whole affair has always seemed providential to me? i was a passive instrument in wiser hands." "as we all are, more often than we think---well, goodby, and when you long for a sight of the old home, and the sea, you will always be welcome here." it was sara's only visit to the cottage, for her stay in killamet was necessarily short. she spent all the time possible with her dear old friend, who she could plainly see, was losing in vigor daily. but though she frankly referred to her approaching marriage, and discussed her future plans in detail, it was not till the last day that either touched upon the subject as affecting jasper. he had sailed away that morning, bidding her a kind farewell, but reserving his last look and handclasp for bertha; and as the two girls walked back together from the beach, stopping to call on zeba osterhaus and mrs. updyke by the way, she could but notice how quiet her friend seemed, and mentioned it later to miss prue, with the bold comment,--"she will miss jasper greatly, for, as i understand, they have been together almost constantly these last two months." her hostess knitted a round or two before she answered. "well, and i suppose you think that shows conclusively that he never cared anything for you---but it doesn't. jasper's as steady and faithful as the sun, and if you had married him he would have been a loyal husband to his dying day. but you wouldn't. at least that's my explanation of matters; i know he went down to norcross on business, and came home looking as if he had buried all his friends. he acknowledged he had seen you, and it didn't take me long to figure out the matter-and, sara olmstead, i will own i was disappointed in you--dreadfully disappointed! he met bertha right here at my house--happened in one day when she was here on an errand--and she said something pleasant about you. that caught his attention, and i really believe, for a while, he sought that girl out just to hear her praises of you; and if it has grown to be something different with time, you ought to be the last one to blame him." "blame him? my dear miss prue, i think it's the nicest thing in the world--only, i came down here, you know, on purpose to win your forgiveness, and i'm not willing to go back without it." "oh, of course you'll get it--you know that--but i've got to go and plan out a whole new will, for i had determined to leave everything equally divided between you and jasper which i can't do now without splitting everything in two, so"-"i'm to be cut off with a shilling?" gayly; "but i won't complain, if you'll only continue to give me your love--ah! dear miss prue, i am mercenary in one way, only--i do want all the affection i can beg or borrow!" for answer, the elder maiden took the younger in her arms and gave her a most tender kiss--so peace was made, and the ambassador who had failed to bring about the nuptials so ardently desired was at last propitiated. this time it was old adam standish who rowed sara over the bay to norcross,--adam, unchanged in lineament or costume,--while faithful friends, as before, watched from the beach. again she looked back with tear-dimmed eyes; for tender memories of father, mother, baby-brother, and all childhood's associations, tugged at her heart-strings--but there was now no dread and fear to paralyze her. she faced an uncertain future, it is true, but one bounded by tenderness and care, whose horizon-line glowed before her with rosy visions, which stretched away in glad promise to the infinite deeps of heaven! and revised by joseph e. loewenstein, m.d. editorial note: _mary barton_, elizabeth cleghorn gaskell's first novel, was published (anonymously) in 1848 by chapman and hall. mary barton a tale of manchester life by elizabeth gaskell "'how knowest thou,' may the distressed novel-wright exclaim, 'that i, here where i sit, am the foolishest of existing mortals; that this my long-ear of a fictitious biography shall not find one and the other, into whose still longer ears it may be the means, under providence, of instilling somewhat?' we answer, 'none knows, none can certainly know: therefore, write on, worthy brother, even as thou canst, even as it is given thee.'" carlyle. contents preface. i. a mysterious disappearance. ii. a manchester tea-party. iii. john barton's great trouble. iv. old alice's history. v. the mill on fire--jem wilson to the rescue. vi. poverty and death. vii. jem wilson's repulse. viii. margaret's debut as a public singer. ix. barton's london experiences. x. return of the prodigal. xi. mr. carson's intentions revealed. xii. old alice's bairn. xiii. a traveller's tales. xiv. jem's interview with poor esther. xv. a violent meeting between the rivals. xvi. meeting between masters and workmen. xvii. barton's night-errand. xviii. murder. xix. jem wilson arrested on suspicion. xx. mary's dream--and the awakening. xxi. esther's motive in seeking mary. xxii. mary's efforts to prove an alibi. xxiii. the sub-poena. xxiv. with the dying. xxv. mrs. wilson's determination. xxvi. the journey to liverpool. xxvii. in the liverpool docks. xxviii. "john cropper, ahoy!" xxix. a true bill against jem. xxx. job legh's deception. xxxi. how mary passed the night. xxxii. the trial and verdict--"not guilty." xxxiii. requiescat in pace. xxxiv. the return home. xxxv. "forgive us our trespasses." xxxvi. jem's interview with mr. duncombe. xxxvii. details connected with the murder. xxxviii. conclusion. preface. three years ago i became anxious (from circumstances that need not be more fully alluded to) to employ myself in writing a work of fiction. living in manchester, but with a deep relish and fond admiration for the country, my first thought was to find a frame-work for my story in some rural scene; and i had already made a little progress in a tale, the period of which was more than a century ago, and the place on the borders of yorkshire, when i bethought me how deep might be the romance in the lives of some of those who elbowed me daily in the busy streets of the town in which i resided. i had always felt a deep sympathy with the care-worn men, who looked as if doomed to struggle through their lives in strange alternations between work and want; tossed to and fro by circumstances, apparently in even a greater degree than other men. a little manifestation of this sympathy, and a little attention to the expression of feelings on the part of some of the work-people with whom i was acquainted, had laid open to me the hearts of one or two of the more thoughtful among them; i saw that they were sore and irritable against the rich, the even tenor of whose seemingly happy lives appeared to increase the anguish caused by the lottery-like nature of their own. whether the bitter complaints made by them, of the neglect which they experienced from the prosperous--especially from the masters whose fortunes they had helped to build up--were well-founded or no, it is not for me to judge. it is enough to say, that this belief of the injustice and unkindness which they endure from their fellow-creatures, taints what might be resignation to god's will, and turns it to revenge in too many of the poor uneducated factory-workers of manchester. the more i reflected on this unhappy state of things between those so bound to each other by common interests, as the employers and the employed must ever be, the more anxious i became to give some utterance to the agony which, from time to time, convulses this dumb people; the agony of suffering without the sympathy of the happy, or of erroneously believing that such is the case. if it be an error, that the woes, which come with ever-returning tide-like flood to overwhelm the workmen in our manufacturing towns, pass unregarded by all but the sufferers, it is at any rate an error so bitter in its consequences to all parties, that whatever public effort can do in the way of legislation, or private effort in the way of merciful deeds, or helpless love in the way of "widow's mites," should be done, and that speedily, to disabuse the work-people of so miserable a misapprehension. at present they seem to me to be left in a state, wherein lamentations and tears are thrown aside as useless, but in which the lips are compressed for curses, and the hands clenched and ready to smite. i know nothing of political economy, or the theories of trade. i have tried to write truthfully; and if my accounts agree or clash with any system, the agreement or disagreement is unintentional. to myself the idea which i have formed of the state of feeling among too many of the factory-people in manchester, and which i endeavoured to represent in this tale (completed above a year ago), has received some confirmation from the events which have so recently occurred among a similar class on the continent. october, 1848. chapter i. a mysterious disappearance. oh! 'tis hard, 'tis hard to be working the whole of the live-long day, when all the neighbours about one are off to their jaunts and play. there's richard he carries his baby, and mary takes little jane, and lovingly they'll be wandering through field and briery lane. manchester song. there are some fields near manchester, well known to the inhabitants as "green heys fields," through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. in spite of these fields being flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these common-place but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town he left but half-an-hour ago. here and there an old black and white farm-house, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. here in their seasons may be seen the country business of hay-making, ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch; and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milk-maids' call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old farm-yards. you cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or i properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a crowded halting-place. close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. the only place where its banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farm-yard, belonging to one of those old-world, gabled, black and white houses i named above, overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. the porch of this farm-house is covered by a rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling and wild luxuriance--roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and indiscriminate order. this farm-house and garden are within a hundred yards of the stile of which i spoke, leading from the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and black-thorn; and near this stile, on the further side, there runs a tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank. i do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a holiday seized in right of nature and her beautiful spring time by the workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these fields were much thronged. it was an early may evening--the april of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. the softness of the day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that tender gray-green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours. groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. they were most of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which at mid-day or in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, or if the day were chilly, became a sort of spanish mantilla or scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down, or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion. their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below the average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly and classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and irregular features. the only thing to strike a passer-by was an acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been noticed in a manufacturing population. there were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way, assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperous compliments of the lads. here and there came a sober quiet couple, either whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might be; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant, carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious may afternoon together. sometime in the course of that afternoon, two working men met with friendly greeting at the stile so often named. one was a thorough specimen of a manchester man; born of factory workers, and himself bred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. he was below the middle size and slightly made; there was almost a stunted look about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, that in his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequent upon bad times and improvident habits. his features were strongly marked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme earnestness; resolute either for good or evil; a sort of latent, stern enthusiasm. at the time of which i write, the good predominated over the bad in the countenance, and he was one from whom a stranger would have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it would be granted. he was accompanied by his wife, who might, without exaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, although now her face was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. she had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhat of the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise characteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the natives of the manufacturing towns. she was far advanced in pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical nature of her grief. the friend whom they met was more handsome and less sensible-looking than the man i have just described; he seemed hearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there was far more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. he was tenderly carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking woman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little, feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother. the last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "well, john, how goes it with you?" and, in a lower voice, he added, "any news of esther, yet?" meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft and plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth only fresh sobs from mrs. barton. "come, women," said john barton, "you've both walked far enough. my mary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, mrs. wilson, you know you're but a cranky sort of a body at the best of times." this was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken. "sit you down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; and you're neither of you nesh [1] folk about taking cold. stay," he added, with some tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief to spread under you, to save the gowns women always think so much of; and now, mrs. wilson, give me the baby, i may as well carry him, while you talk and comfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadly about esther." [footnote 1: "nesh;" anglo-saxon, nesc, tender.] these arrangements were soon completed: the two women sat down on the blue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter, each carrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but as soon as barton had turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back into an expression of gloom. "then you've heard nothing of esther, poor lass?" asked wilson. "no, nor shan't, as i take it. my mind is, she's gone off with somebody. my wife frets, and thinks she's drowned herself, but i tell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes to drown themselves; and mrs. bradshaw (where she lodged, you know) says the last time she set eyes on her was last tuesday, when she came down stairs, dressed in her sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her bonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of thinking herself." "she was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on." "ay, she was a farrantly [2] lass; more's the pity now," added barton, with a sigh. "you see them buckinghamshire people as comes to work in manchester, has quite a different look with them to us manchester folk. you'll not see among the manchester wenches such fresh rosy cheeks, or such black lashes to gray eyes (making them look like black), as my wife and esther had. i never seed two such pretty women for sisters; never. not but what beauty is a sad snare. here was esther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. her spirit was always up, if i spoke ever so little in the way of advice to her; my wife spoiled her, it is true, for you see she was so much older than esther she was more like a mother to her, doing every thing for her." [footnote 2: "farrantly," comely, pleasant-looking.] "i wonder she ever left you," observed his friend. "that's the worst of factory work, for girls. they can earn so much when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves any how. my mary shall never work in a factory, that i'm determined on. you see esther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face; and got to come home so late at night, that at last i told her my mind: my missis thinks i spoke crossly, but i meant right, for i loved esther, if it was only for mary's sake. says i, 'esther, i see what you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils, and stopping out when honest women are in their beds; you'll be a street-walker, esther, and then, don't you go to think i'll have you darken my door, though my wife is your sister.' so says she, 'don't trouble yourself, john. i'll pack up and be off now, for i'll never stay to hear myself called as you call me.' she flushed up like a turkey-cock, and i thought fire would come out of her eyes; but when she saw mary cry (for mary can't abide words in a house), she went and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as i thought her. so we talked more friendly, for, as i said, i liked the lass well enough, and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. but she said (and at the time i thought there was sense in what she said) we should be much better friends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us now and then." "then you still were friendly. folks said you'd cast her off, and said you'd never speak to her again." "folks always make one a deal worse than one is," said john barton, testily. "she came many a time to our house after she left off living with us. last sunday se'nnight--no! it was this very last sunday, she came to drink a cup of tea with mary; and that was the last time we set eyes on her." "was she any ways different in her manner?" asked wilson. "well, i don't know. i have thought several times since, that she was a bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and more blushing, and not so riotous and noisy. she comes in, toward four o'clock, when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnet up on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us. i remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a low stool by mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor way. she laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and gently, like a child, that i couldn't find in my heart to scold her, especially as mary was fretting already. one thing i do remember i did say, and pretty sharply too. she took our little mary by the waist, and--" "thou must leave off calling her 'little' mary, she's growing up into as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her mother's stock than thine," interrupted wilson. "well, well, i call her 'little,' because her mother's name is mary. but, as i was saying, she takes mary in a coaxing sort of way, and, 'mary,' says she, 'what should you think if i sent for you some day and made a lady of you?' so i could not stand such talk as that to my girl, and i said, 'thou'd best not put that nonsense i' the girl's head i can tell thee; i'd rather see her earning her bread by the sweat of her brow, as the bible tells her she should do, ay, though she never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady, worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny all afternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any one of god's creatures but herself.'" "thou never could abide the gentlefolk," said wilson, half amused at his friend's vehemence. "and what good have they ever done me that i should like them?" asked barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and bursting forth, he continued, "if i am sick, do they come and nurse me? if my child lies dying (as poor tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want of better food than i could give him), does the rich man bring the wine or broth that might save his life? if i am out of work for weeks in the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east wind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion wasn't a humbug? when i lie on my death-bed, and mary (bless her) stands fretting, as i know she will fret," and here his voice faltered a little, "will a rich lady come and take her to her own home if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do? no, i tell you, it's the poor, and the poor only, as does such things for the poor. don't think to come over me with th' old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the poor. i say, if they don't know, they ought to know. we're their slaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows; and yet we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as dives and lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us: but i know who was best off then," and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that had no mirth in it. "well, neighbour," said wilson, "all that may be very true, but what i want to know now is about esther--when did you last hear of her?" "why, she took leave of us that sunday night in a very loving way, kissing both wife mary, and daughter mary (if i must not call her little), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort of manner, so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. but on wednesday night comes mrs. bradshaw's son with esther's box, and presently mrs. bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began to talk, we found esther told her she was coming back to live with us, and would pay her week's money for not giving notice; and on tuesday night she carried off a little bundle (her best clothes were on her back, as i said before), and told mrs. bradshaw not to hurry herself about the big box, but bring it when she had time. so of course she thought she should find esther with us; and when she told her story, my missis set up such a screech, and fell down in a dead swoon. mary ran up with water for her mother, and i thought so much about my wife, i did not seem to care at all for esther. but the next day i asked all the neighbours (both our own and bradshaw's), and they'd none of 'em heard or seen nothing of her. i even went to a policeman, a good enough sort of man, but a fellow i'd never spoke to before because of his livery, and i asks him if his 'cuteness could find any thing out for us. so i believe he asks other policemen; and one on 'em had seen a wench, like our esther, walking very quickly, with a bundle under her arm, on tuesday night, toward eight o'clock, and get into a hackney coach, near hulme church, and we don't know th' number, and can't trace it no further. i'm sorry enough for the girl, for bad's come over her, one way or another, but i'm sorrier for my wife. she loved her next to me and mary, and she's never been the same body since poor tom's death. however, let's go back to them; your old woman may have done her good." as they walked homewards with a brisker pace, wilson expressed a wish that they still were the near neighbours they once had been. "still our alice lives in the cellar under no. 14, in barber street, and if you'd only speak the word she'd be with you in five minutes, to keep your wife company when she's lonesome. though i'm alice's brother, and perhaps ought not to say it, i will say there's none more ready to help with heart or hand than she is. though she may have done a hard day's wash, there's not a child ill within the street but alice goes to offer to sit up, and does sit up too, though may be she's to be at her work by six next morning." "she's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, wilson," was barton's reply; and then he added, "thank you kindly for your offer, and mayhap i may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while i'm at work, and mary's at school, i know she frets above a bit. see, there's mary!" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance, among a group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lassie of thirteen or so, who came bounding along to meet and to greet her father, in a manner which showed that the stern-looking man had a tender nature within. the two men had crossed the last stile while mary loitered behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn, when an over-grown lad came past her, and snatched a kiss, exclaiming, "for old acquaintance sake, mary." "take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the girl, blushing rosy red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. the tones of her voice called back her father and his friend, and the aggressor proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior by eighteen years of his little brothers. "here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling, do ye each take a baby, for if wilson's arms be like mine they are heartily tired." mary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with a girl's fondness for infants, and with some little foresight of the event soon to happen at home; while young wilson seemed to lose his rough, cubbish nature as he crowed and cooed to his little brother. "twins is a great trial to a poor man, bless 'em," said the half-proud, half-weary father, as he bestowed a smacking kiss on the babe ere he parted with it. chapter ii. a manchester tea-party. polly, put the kettle on, and let's have tea! polly, put the kettle on, and we'll all have tea. "here we are, wife; didst thou think thou'd lost us?" quoth hearty-voiced wilson, as the two women rose and shook themselves in preparation for their homeward walk. mrs. barton was evidently soothed, if not cheered, by the unburdening of her fears and thoughts to her friend; and her approving look went far to second her husband's invitation that the whole party should adjourn from green heys fields to tea, at the bartons' house. the only faint opposition was raised by mrs. wilson, on account of the lateness of the hour at which they would probably return, which she feared on her babies' account. "now, hold your tongue, missis, will you," said her husband, good-temperedly. "don't you know them brats never goes to sleep till long past ten? and haven't you a shawl, under which you can tuck one lad's head, as safe as a bird's under its wing? and as for t'other one, i'll put it in my pocket rather than not stay, now we are this far away from ancoats." "or i can lend you another shawl," suggested mrs. barton. "ay, any thing rather than not stay." the matter being decided, the party proceeded home, through many half-finished streets, all so like one another that you might have easily been bewildered and lost your way. not a step, however, did our friends lose; down this entry, cutting off that corner, until they turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a little paved court, having the backs of houses at the end opposite to the opening, and a gutter running through the middle to carry off household slops, washing suds, &c. the women who lived in the court were busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various articles of linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low, that if our friends had been a few minutes sooner, they would have had to stoop very much, or else the half-wet clothes would have flapped in their faces; but although the evening seemed yet early when they were in the open fields--among the pent-up houses, night, with its mists, and its darkness, had already begun to fall. many greetings were given and exchanged between the wilsons and these women, for not long ago they had also dwelt in this court. two rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking house-door, exclaimed, as mary barton (the daughter) passed, "eh, look! polly barton's gotten a sweetheart." of course this referred to young wilson, who stole a look to see how mary took the idea. he saw her assume the air of a young fury, and to his next speech she answered not a word. mrs. barton produced the key of the door from her pocket; and on entering the house-place it seemed as if they were in total darkness, except one bright spot, which might be a cat's eye, or might be, what it was, a red-hot fire, smouldering under a large piece of coal, which john barton immediately applied himself to break up, and the effect instantly produced was warm and glowing light in every corner of the room. to add to this (although the coarse yellow glare seemed lost in the ruddy glow from the fire), mrs. barton lighted a dip by sticking it in the fire, and having placed it satisfactorily in a tin candlestick, began to look further about her, on hospitable thoughts intent. the room was tolerably large, and possessed many conveniences. on the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish window, with a broad ledge. on each side of this, hung blue-and-white check curtains, which were now drawn, to shut in the friends met to enjoy themselves. two geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which stood on the sill, formed a further defence from out-door pryers. in the corner between the window and the fire-side was a cupboard, apparently full of plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some more nondescript articles, for which one would have fancied their possessors could find no use--such as triangular pieces of glass to save carving knives and forks from dirtying table-cloths. however, it was evident mrs. barton was proud of her crockery and glass, for she left her cupboard door open, with a glance round of satisfaction and pleasure. on the opposite side to the door and window was the staircase, and two doors; one of which (the nearest to the fire) led into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty work, such as washing up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served as larder, and pantry, and storeroom, and all. the other door, which was considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole--the slanting closet under the stairs; from which, to the fire-place, there was a gay-coloured piece of oil-cloth laid. the place seemed almost crammed with furniture (sure sign of good times among the mills). beneath the window was a dresser with three deep drawers. opposite the fire-place was a table, which i should call a pembroke, only that it was made of deal, and i cannot tell how far such a name may be applied to such humble material. on it, resting against the wall, was a bright green japanned tea-tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. the fire-light danced merrily on this, and really (setting all taste but that of a child's aside) it gave a richness of colouring to that side of the room. it was in some measure propped up by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan ware. a round table on one branching leg really for use, stood in the corresponding corner to the cupboard; and, if you can picture all this with a washy, but clean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form some idea of john barton's home. the tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry chatter of cups and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their out-of-door things, and sent mary up stairs with them. then came a long whispering, and chinking of money, to which mr. and mrs. wilson were too polite to attend; knowing, as they did full well, that it all related to the preparations for hospitality; hospitality that, in their turn, they should have such pleasure in offering. so they tried to be busily occupied with the children, and not to hear mrs. barton's directions to mary. "run, mary dear, just round the corner, and get some fresh eggs at tipping's (you may get one a-piece, that will be five-pence), and see if he has any nice ham cut, that he would let us have a pound of." "say two pounds, missis, and don't be stingy," chimed in the husband. "well, a pound and a half, mary. and get it cumberland ham, for wilson comes from there-away, and it will have a sort of relish of home with it he'll like,--and mary" (seeing the lassie fain to be off), "you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread--mind you get it fresh and new--and, and--that's all, mary." "no, it's not all," said her husband. "thou must get sixpennyworth of rum, to warm the tea; thou'll get it at the 'grapes.' and thou just go to alice wilson; he says she lives just right round the corner, under 14, barber street" (this was addressed to his wife), "and tell her to come and take her tea with us; she'll like to see her brother, i'll be bound, let alone jane and the twins." "if she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but half-a-dozen, and here's six of us," said mrs. barton. "pooh! pooh! jem and mary can drink out of one, surely." but mary secretly determined to take care that alice brought her tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing any thing with jem. alice wilson had but just come in. she had been out all day in the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for in addition to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly occupation as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of hedge and field simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable occupation offered itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and meadows as far as her legs could carry her. this evening she had returned loaded with nettles, and her first object was to light a candle and see to hang them up in bunches in every available place in her cellar room. it was the perfection of cleanliness: in one corner stood the modest-looking bed, with a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall filling up the place where the corresponding one should have been. the floor was bricked, and scrupulously clean, although so damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never dry up. as the cellar window looked into an area in the street, down which boys might throw stones, it was protected by an outside shelter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedge-row, ditch, and field plants, which we are accustomed to call valueless, but which have a powerful effect either for good or for evil, and are consequently much used among the poor. the room was strewed, hung, and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour in their process of drying. in one corner was a sort of broad hanging shelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards of alice's were kept. her little bit of crockery ware was ranged on the mantelpiece, where also stood her candlestick and box of matches. a small cupboard contained at the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of oatmeal, her frying pan, tea-pot, and a small tin saucepan, which served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes of broth which alice sometimes was able to manufacture for a sick neighbour. after her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to light her fire with the damp coals, and half green sticks, when mary knocked. "come in," said alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the door for the night, and hastening to make it possible for any one to come in. "is that you, mary barton?" exclaimed she, as the light from her candle streamed on the girl's face. "how you are grown since i used to see you at my brother's! come in, lass, come in." "please," said mary, almost breathless, "mother says you're to come to tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for george and jane wilson is with us, and the twins, and jem. and you're to make haste, please." "i'm sure it's very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and i'll come, with many thanks. stay, mary, has your mother got any nettles for spring drink? if she hasn't i'll take her some." "no, i don't think she has." mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen, fond of power, was the more interesting part of her errand--the money-spending part. and well and ably did she perform her business, returning home with a little bottle of rum, and the eggs in one hand, while her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white smoke-flavoured cumberland ham, wrapped up in paper. she was at home, and frying ham, before alice had chosen her nettles, put out her candle, locked her door, and walked in a very foot-sore manner as far as john barton's. what an aspect of comfort did his houseplace present, after her humble cellar. she did not think of comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire, the bright light that revelled in every corner of the room, the savoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, frizzling ham. with a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut the door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and surprised greeting of her brother. and now all preparations being made, the party sat down; mrs. wilson in the post of honour, the rocking chair on the right hand side of the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite arm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in milk. mrs. barton knew manners too well to do any thing but sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. jem stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly to his aunt's speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. barton vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife's face flushed and contracted as if in pain. at length the business actually began. knives and forks, cups and saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings were hungry, and had no time to speak. alice first broke silence; holding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she said, "here's to absent friends. friends may meet, but mountains never." it was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. every one thought of esther, the absent esther; and mrs. barton put down her food, and could not hide the fast dropping tears. alice could have bitten her tongue out. it was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor mrs. barton, and a dislike to talk about any thing else while her tears fell fast and scalding. so george wilson, his wife and children, set off early home, not before (in spite of _mal-ã -propos_ speeches) they had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place, and not before john barton had given his hearty consent; and declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would have just such another evening. "i will take care not to come and spoil it," thought poor alice; and going up to mrs. barton she took her hand almost humbly, and said, "you don't know how sorry i am i said it." to her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her eyes, mary barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the self-reproaching alice. "you didn't mean any harm, and it was me as was so foolish; only this work about esther, and not knowing where she is, lies so heavy on my heart. good night, and never think no more about it. god bless you, alice." many and many a time, as alice reviewed that evening in her after life, did she bless mary barton for these kind and thoughtful words. but just then all she could say was, "good night, mary, and may god bless _you_." chapter iii. john barton's great trouble. but when the morn came dim and sad, and chill with early showers, her quiet eyelids closed--she had another morn than ours! hood. in the middle of that same night a neighbour of the bartons was roused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which had at first made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as she became convinced of its reality, she opened the window, and asked who was there? "me, john barton," answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation. "my missis is in labour, and, for the love of god, step in while i run for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad." while the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still open, she heard cries of agony, which resounded in the little court in the stillness of the night. in less than five minutes she was standing by mrs. barton's bed-side, relieving the terrified mary, who went about, where she was told, like an automaton; her eyes tearless, her face calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound, except when her teeth chattered for very nervousness. the cries grew worse. the doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at his night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made this sudden call upon his services; and then he begged barton just to wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be lost in finding the court and house. barton absolutely stamped with impatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; and walked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times asked him to go slower. "is she so very bad?" asked he. "worse, much worser than ever i saw her before," replied john. no! she was not--she was at peace. the cries were still for ever. john had no time for listening. he opened the latched door, stayed not to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companion up the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes was in the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all the power of his strong heart. the doctor stumbled up stairs by the fire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at once told him the state of things. the room was still, as he, with habitual tip-toe step, approached the poor frail body, whom nothing now could more disturb. her daughter knelt by the bed-side, her face buried in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, to keep down the choking sobs. the husband stood like one stupified. the doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then approaching barton, said, "you must go down stairs. this is a great shock, but bear it like a man. go down." he went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. he had no hope. the look of death was too clear upon her face. still, when he heard one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it might only be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what,--but not death! oh, not death! and he was starting up to go up stairs again, when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard on the stairs. then he knew what it really was in the chamber above. "nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to the system--" and so he went on; but, to unheeding ears, which yet retained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate use in conveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory, for a more convenient season. the doctor seeing the state of the case, grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and accordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, so he let himself out; and barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so rigid, so still. he heard the sounds above too, and knew what they meant. he heard the stiff, unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept her clothes, pulled open. he saw the neighbour come down, and blunder about in search of soap and water. he knew well what she wanted, and _why_ she wanted them, but he did not speak, nor offer to help. at last she went, with some kindly-meant words (a text of comfort, which fell upon a deafened ear), and something about "mary," but which mary, in his bewildered state, he could not tell. he tried to realise it, to think it possible. and then his mind wandered off to other days, to far different times. he thought of their courtship; of his first seeing her, an awkward, beautiful rustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which she was apprenticed; of his first gift to her, a bead necklace, which had long ago been put by, in one of the deep drawers of the dresser, to be kept for mary. he wondered if it was there yet, and with a strange curiosity he got up to feel for it; for the fire by this time was well-nigh out, and candle he had none. his groping hand fell on the piled-up tea things, which at his desire she had left unwashed till morning--they were all so tired. he was reminded of one of the daily little actions, which acquire such power when they have been performed for the last time, by one we love. he began to think over his wife's daily round of duties; and something in the remembrance that these would never more be done by her, touched the source of tears, and he cried aloud. poor mary, meanwhile, had mechanically helped the neighbour in all the last attentions to the dead; and when she was kissed, and spoken to soothingly, tears stole quietly down her cheeks: but she reserved the luxury of a full burst of grief till she should be alone. she shut the chamber-door softly, after the neighbour had gone, and then shook the bed by which she knelt, with her agony of sorrow. she repeated, over and over again, the same words; the same vain, unanswered address to her who was no more. "oh, mother! mother, are you really dead! oh, mother, mother!" at last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that her violence of grief might disturb her father. all was still below. she looked on the face so changed, and yet so strangely like. she bent down to kiss it. the cold, unyielding flesh struck a shudder to her heart, and, hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped the candle, and opened the door. then she heard the sobs of her father's grief; and quickly, quietly, stealing down the steps, she knelt by him, and kissed his hand. he took no notice at first, for his burst of grief would not be controlled. but when her shriller sobs, her terrified cries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checked himself. "child, we must be all to one another, now _she_ is gone," whispered he. "oh, father, what can i do for you? do tell me! i'll do any thing." "i know thou wilt. thou must not fret thyself ill, that's the first thing i ask. thou must leave me, and go to bed now, like a good girl as thou art." "leave you, father! oh, don't say so." "ay, but thou must! thou must go to bed, and try and sleep; thou'lt have enough to do and to bear, poor wench, to-morrow." mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went up stairs to the little closet, where she slept. she thought it was of no use undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself on her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away, the passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep. barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from his stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. he could think on what was to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the necessity of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the past night would leave them short of money, if he long remained away from the mill. he was in a club, so that money was provided for the burial. these things settled in his own mind, he recalled the doctor's words, and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had, in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished sister. his feelings towards esther almost amounted to curses. it was she who had brought on all this sorrow. her giddiness, her lightness of conduct, had wrought this woe. his previous thoughts about her had been tinged with wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart against her for ever. one of the good influences over john barton's life had departed that night. one of the ties which bound him down to the gentle humanities of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours all remarked he was a changed man. his gloom and his sternness became habitual instead of occasional. he was more obstinate. but never to mary. between the father and the daughter there existed in full force that mysterious bond which unites those who have been loved by one who is now dead and gone. while he was harsh and silent to others, he humoured mary with tender love; she had more of her own way than is common in any rank with girls of her age. part of this was the necessity of the case; for, of course, all the money went through her hands, and the household arrangements were guided by her will and pleasure. but part was her father's indulgence, for he left her, with full trust in her unusual sense and spirit, to choose her own associates, and her own times for seeing them. with all this, mary had not her father's confidence in the matters which now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that he had joined clubs, and become an active member of a trades' union, but it was hardly likely that a girl of mary's age (even when two or three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much for the differences between the employers and the employed,--an eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which, however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth again with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a few. among these few was john barton. at all times it is a bewildering thing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house to house, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one more magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern, or sells his mill to buy an estate in the country, while all the time the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers of this wealth, is struggling on for bread for their children, through the vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed, &c. and when he knows trade is bad, and could understand (at least partially) that there are not buyers enough in the market to purchase the goods already made, and consequently that there is no demand for more; when he would bear and endure much without complaining, could he also see that his employers were bearing their share; he is, i say, bewildered and (to use his own word) "aggravated" to see that all goes on just as usual with the mill-owners. large houses are still occupied, while spinners' and weavers' cottages stand empty, because the families that once occupied them are obliged to live in rooms or cellars. carriages still roll along the streets, concerts are still crowded by subscribers, the shops for expensive luxuries still find daily customers, while the workman loiters away his unemployed time in watching these things, and thinking of the pale, uncomplaining wife at home, and the wailing children asking in vain for enough of food, of the sinking health, of the dying life of those near and dear to him. the contrast is too great. why should he alone suffer from bad times? i know that this is not really the case; and i know what is the truth in such matters: but what i wish to impress is what the workman feels and thinks. true, that with child-like improvidence, good times will often dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget all prudence and foresight. but there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured wrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgiving those whom (they believe) have caused all this woe. among these was john barton. his parents had suffered, his mother had died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. he himself was a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady employment. but he spent all he got with the confidence (you may also call it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believed himself able, to supply all his wants by his own exertions. and when his master suddenly failed, and all hands in that mill were turned back, one tuesday morning, with the news that mr. hunter had stopped, barton had only a few shillings to rely on; but he had good heart of being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before returning home, he spent some hours in going from factory to factory, asking for work. but at every mill was some sign of depression of trade; some were working short hours, some were turning off hands, and for weeks barton was out of work, living on credit. it was during this time his little son, the apple of his eye, the cynosure of all his strong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet fever. they dragged him through the crisis, but his life hung on a gossamer thread. every thing, the doctor said, depended on good nourishment, on generous living, to keep up the little fellow's strength, in the prostration in which the fever had left him. mocking words! when the commonest food in the house would not furnish one little meal. barton tried credit; but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which were now suffering in their turn. he thought it would be no sin to steal, and would have stolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the few days the child lingered. hungry himself, almost to an animal pitch of ravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in anxiety for his little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop windows where all edible luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison, stilton cheeses, moulds of jelly--all appetising sights to the common passer by. and out of this shop came mrs. hunter! she crossed to her carriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases for a party. the door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away; and barton returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his heart, to see his only boy a corpse! you can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart against the employers. for there are never wanting those who, either in speech or in print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in the working classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power at their command; and who use their knowledge with unrelenting purpose to either party. so while mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day, and growing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a trades' union meeting; a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a delegate himself; a chartist, and ready to do any thing for his order. but now times were good; and all these feelings were theoretical, not practical. his most practical thought was getting mary apprenticed to a dressmaker; for he had never left off disliking a factory life for a girl, on more accounts than one. mary must do something. the factories being, as i said, out of the question, there were two things open--going out to service, and the dressmaking business; and against the first of these, mary set herself with all the force of her strong will. what that will might have been able to achieve had her father been against her, i cannot tell; but he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was the light of his hearth, the voice of his otherwise silent home. besides, with his ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, he considered domestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pampering of artificial wants on the one side, a giving-up of every right of leisure by day and quiet rest by night on the other. how far his strong exaggerated feelings had any foundation in truth, it is for you to judge. i am afraid that mary's determination not to go to service arose from far less sensible thoughts on the subject than her father's. three years of independence of action (since her mother's death such a time had now elapsed) had little inclined her to submit to rules as to hours and associates, to regulate her dress by a mistress's ideas of propriety, to lose the dear feminine privileges of gossiping with a merry neighbour, and working night and day to help one who was sorrowful. besides all this, the sayings of her absent, her mysterious aunt, esther, had an unacknowledged influence over mary. she knew she was very pretty; the factory people as they poured from the mills, and in their freedom told the truth (whatever it might be) to every passer-by, had early let mary into the secret of her beauty. if their remarks had fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always young men enough, in a different rank from her own, who were willing to compliment the pretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the streets. besides, trust a girl of sixteen for knowing well if she is pretty; concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. so with this consciousness she had early determined that her beauty should make her a lady; the rank she coveted the more for her father's abuse; the rank to which she firmly believed her lost aunt esther had arrived. now, while a servant must often drudge and be dirty, must be known as a servant by all who visited at her master's house, a dressmaker's apprentice must (or so mary thought) be always dressed with a certain regard to appearance; must never soil her hands, and need never redden or dirty her face with hard labour. before my telling you so truly what folly mary felt or thought, injures her without redemption in your opinion, think what are the silly fancies of sixteen years of age in every class, and under all circumstances. the end of all the thoughts of father and daughter was, as i said before, mary was to be a dressmaker; and her ambition prompted her unwilling father to apply at all the first establishments, to know on what terms of painstaking and zeal his daughter might be admitted into ever so humble a workwoman's situation. but high premiums were asked at all; poor man! he might have known that without giving up a day's work to ascertain the fact. he would have been indignant, indeed, had he known that if mary had accompanied him, the case might have been rather different, as her beauty would have made her desirable as a show-woman. then he tried second-rate places; at all the payment of a sum of money was necessary, and money he had none. disheartened and angry he went home at night, declaring it was time lost; that dressmaking was at all events a toilsome business, and not worth learning. mary saw that the grapes were sour, and the next day set out herself, as her father could not afford to lose another day's work; and before night (as yesterday's experience had considerably lowered her ideas) she had engaged herself as apprentice (so called, though there were no deeds or indentures to the bond) to a certain miss simmonds, milliner and dressmaker, in a respectable little street leading off ardwick green, where her business was duly announced in gold letters on a black ground, enclosed in a bird's-eye maple frame, and stuck in the front parlour window; where the workwomen were called "her young ladies;" and where mary was to work for two years without any remuneration, on consideration of being taught the business; and where afterwards she was to dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paid quarterly, because so much more genteel than by the week), a _very_ small one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance. in summer she was to be there by six, bringing her day's meals during the first two years; in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. her time for returning home at night must always depend upon the quantity of work miss simmonds had to do. and mary was satisfied; and seeing this, her father was contented too, although his words were grumbling and morose; but mary knew his ways, and coaxed and planned for the future so cheerily, that both went to bed with easy if not happy hearts. chapter iv. old alice's history. to envy nought beneath the ample sky; to mourn no evil deed, no hour mis-spent; and, like a living violet, silently return in sweets to heaven what goodness lent, then bend beneath the chastening shower content. elliott. another year passed on. the waves of time seemed long since to have swept away all trace of poor mary barton. but her husband still thought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silent watches of the night: and mary would start from her hard-earned sleep, and think in her half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she saw her mother stand by her bed-side, as she used to do "in the days of long-ago;" with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable tenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. but mary rubbed her eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and knowing it was a dream; and still, in all her troubles and perplexities, her heart called on her mother for aid, and she thought, "if mother had but lived, she would have helped me." forgetting that the woman's sorrows are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even by the mighty power of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact, that she was far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she mourned. aunt esther was still mysteriously absent, and people had grown weary of wondering and began to forget. barton still attended his club, and was an active member of a trades' union; indeed, more frequently than ever, since the time of mary's return in the evening was so uncertain; and, as she occasionally, in very busy times, remained all night. his chiefest friend was still george wilson, although he had no great sympathy on the questions that agitated barton's mind. still their hearts were bound by old ties to one another, and the remembrance of former times gave an unspoken charm to their meetings. our old friend, the cub-like lad, jem wilson, had shot up into the powerful, well-made young man, with a sensible face enough; nay, a face that might have been handsome, had it not been here and there marked by the small-pox. he worked with one of the great firms of engineers, who send from out their towns of workshops engines and machinery to the dominions of the czar and the sultan. his father and mother were never weary of praising jem, at all which commendation pretty mary barton would toss her head, seeing clearly enough that they wished her to understand what a good husband he would make, and to favour his love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever eyes and looks revealed. one day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when, accordingly, business was rather slack at miss simmonds', mary met alice wilson, coming home from her half-day's work at some tradesman's house. mary and alice had always liked each other; indeed, alice looked with particular interest on the motherless girl, the daughter of her whose forgiving kiss had so comforted her in many sleepless hours. so there was a warm greeting between the tidy old woman and the blooming young work-girl; and then alice ventured to ask if she would come in and take her tea with her that very evening. "you'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old woman like me, but there's a tidy young lass as lives in the floor above, who does plain work, and now and then a bit in your own line, mary; she's grand-daughter to old job legh, a spinner, and a good girl she is. do come, mary! i've a terrible wish to make you known to each other. she's a genteel-looking lass, too." at the beginning of this speech mary had feared the intended visitor was to be no other than alice's nephew; but alice was too delicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for her dear jem, when one would have been an unwilling party; and mary, relieved from her apprehension by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. how busy alice felt! it was not often she had any one to tea; and now her sense of the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. she made haste home, and lighted the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair of bellows to make it burn the faster. for herself she was always patient; she let the coals take their time. then she put on her pattens, and went to fill her kettle at the pump in the next court, and on the way she borrowed a cup; of odd saucers she had plenty, serving as plates when occasion required. half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a pound of butter went far to absorb her morning's wages; but this was an unusual occasion. in general, she used herb-tea for herself, when at home, unless some thoughtful mistress made her a present of tea-leaves from her more abundant household. the two chairs drawn out for visitors, and duly swept and dusted; an old board arranged with some skill upon two old candle-boxes set on end (rather ricketty to be sure, but she knew the seat of old, and when to sit lightly; indeed the whole affair was more for apparent dignity of position than for any real ease); a little, very little round table put just before the fire, which by this time was blazing merrily; her unlackered, ancient, third-hand tea-tray arranged with a black tea-pot, two cups with a red and white pattern, and one with the old friendly willow pattern, and saucers, not to match (on one of the extra supply, the lump of butter flourished away); all these preparations complete, alice began to look about her with satisfaction, and a sort of wonder what more could be done to add to the comfort of the evening. she took one of the chairs away from its appropriate place by the table, and putting it close to the broad large hanging shelf i told you about when i first described her cellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulled towards her an old deal box, and took thence a quantity of the oat bread of the north, the clap-bread of cumberland and westmoreland, and descending carefully with the thin cakes threatening to break to pieces in her hand, she placed them on the bare table, with the belief that her visitors would have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her childhood. she brought out a good piece of a four-pound loaf of common household bread as well, and then sat down to rest, really to rest, and not to pretend, on one of the rush-bottomed chairs. the candle was ready to be lighted, the kettle boiled, the tea was awaiting its doom in its paper parcel; all was ready. a knock at the door! it was margaret, the young workwoman who lived in the rooms above, who having heard the bustle, and the subsequent quiet, began to think it was time to pay her visit below. she was a sallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a careworn look; her dress was humble and very simple, consisting of some kind of dark stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large handkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front. the old woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit down on the chair she had just left, while she balanced herself on the board seat, in order that margaret might think it was quite her free and independent choice to sit there. "i cannot think what keeps mary barton. she's quite grand with her late hours," said alice, as mary still delayed. the truth was, mary was dressing herself; yes, to come to poor old alice's--she thought it worth while to consider what gown she should put on. it was not for alice, however, you may be pretty sure; no, they knew each other too well. but mary liked making an impression, and in this it must be owned she was pretty often gratified--and there was this strange girl to consider just now. so she put on her pretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat, her little linen collar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress poor gentle margaret. she certainly succeeded. alice, who never thought much about beauty, had never told margaret how pretty mary was; and, as she came in half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, margaret could hardly take her eyes off her, and mary put down her long black lashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken such pains to secure. can you fancy the bustle of alice to make the tea, to pour it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help and help again to clap-bread and bread-and-butter? can you fancy the delight with which she watched her piled-up clap-bread disappear before the hungry girls, and listened to the praises of her home-remembered dainty? "my mother used to send me some clap-bread by any north-country person--bless her! she knew how good such things taste when far away from home. not but what every one likes it. when i was in service my fellow-servants were always glad to share with me. eh, it's a long time ago, yon." "do tell us about it, alice," said margaret. "why, lass, there's nothing to tell. there was more mouths at home than could be fed. tom, that's will's father (you don't know will, but he's a sailor to foreign parts), had come to manchester, and sent word what terrible lots of work was to be had, both for lads and lasses. so father sent george first (you know george, well enough, mary), and then work was scarce out toward burton, where we lived, and father said i maun try and get a place. and george wrote as how wages were far higher in manchester than milnthorpe or lancaster; and, lasses, i was young and thoughtless, and thought it was a fine thing to go so far from home. so, one day, th' butcher he brings us a letter fra george, to say he'd heard on a place--and i was all agog to go, and father was pleased, like; but mother said little, and that little was very quiet. i've often thought she was a bit hurt to see me so ready to go--god forgive me! but she packed up my clothes, and some o' the better end of her own as would fit me, in yon little paper box up there--it's good for nought now, but i would liefer live without fire than break it up to be burnt; and yet it's going on for eighty years old, for she had it when she was a girl, and brought all her clothes in it to father's, when they were married. but, as i was saying, she did not cry, though the tears was often in her eyes; and i seen her looking after me down the lane as long as i were in sight, with her hand shading her eyes--and that were the last look i ever had on her." alice knew that before long she should go to that mother; and, besides, the griefs and bitter woes of youth have worn themselves out before we grow old; but she looked so sorrowful that the girls caught her sadness, and mourned for the poor woman who had been dead and gone so many years ago. "did you never see her again, alice? did you never go home while she was alive?" asked mary. "no, nor since. many a time and oft have i planned to go. i plan it yet, and hope to go home again before it please god to take me. i used to try and save money enough to go for a week when i was in service; but first one thing came, and then another. first, missis's children fell ill of the measles, just when th' week i'd ask'd for came, and i couldn't leave them, for one and all cried for me to nurse them. then missis herself fell sick, and i could go less than ever. for, you see, they kept a little shop, and he drank, and missis and me was all there was to mind children, and shop, and all, and cook and wash besides." mary was glad she had not gone into service, and said so. "eh, lass! thou little knows the pleasure o' helping others; i was as happy there as could be; almost as happy as i was at home. well, but next year i thought i could go at a leisure time, and missis telled me i should have a fortnight then, and i used to sit up all that winter working hard at patchwork, to have a quilt of my own making to take to my mother. but master died, and missis went away fra manchester, and i'd to look out for a place again." "well, but," interrupted mary, "i should have thought that was the best time to go home." "no, i thought not. you see it was a different thing going home for a week on a visit, may be with money in my pocket to give father a lift, to going home to be a burden to him. besides, how could i hear o' a place there? anyways i thought it best to stay, though perhaps it might have been better to ha' gone, for then i should ha' seen mother again;" and the poor old woman looked puzzled. "i'm sure you did what you thought right," said margaret, gently. "ay, lass, that's it," said alice, raising her head and speaking more cheerfully. "that's the thing, and then let the lord send what he sees fit; not but that i grieved sore, oh, sore and sad, when toward spring next year, when my quilt were all done to th' lining, george came in one evening to tell me mother was dead. i cried many a night at after; [3] i'd no time for crying by day, for that missis was terrible strict; she would not hearken to my going to th' funeral; and indeed i would have been too late, for george set off that very night by th' coach, and th' letter had been kept or summut (posts were not like th' posts now-a-days), and he found the burial all over, and father talking o' flitting; for he couldn't abide the cottage after mother was gone." [footnote 3: a common lancashire phrase. "come to me, tyrrel, soon, _at after_ supper." shakspeare, richard iii.] "was it a pretty place?" asked mary. "pretty, lass! i never seed such a bonny bit anywhere. you see there are hills there as seem to go up into th' skies, not near may be, but that makes them all the bonnier. i used to think they were the golden hills of heaven, about which my mother sang when i was a child, 'yon are the golden hills o' heaven, where ye sall never win.' something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover, the ballad was. well, and near our cottage were rocks. eh, lasses! ye don't know what rocks are in manchester! gray pieces o' stone as large as a house, all covered over wi' moss of different colours, some yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath them knee-deep in purple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the low music of the humming-bee for ever sounding among it. mother used to send sally and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was such pleasant work! we used to come home of an evening loaded so as you could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. and then mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree (where we used to make our house among the great roots as stood above th' ground), to pick and tie up the heather. it seems all like yesterday, and yet it's a long long time agone. poor sister sally has been in her grave this forty year and more. but i often wonder if the hawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go to gather heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. i sicken at heart to see the old spot once again. may be next summer i may set off, if god spares me to see next summer." "why have you never been in all these many years?" asked mary. "why, lass! first one wanted me and then another; and i couldn't go without money either, and i got very poor at times. tom was a scapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or another; and his wife (for i think scapegraces are always married long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. she were always ailing, and he were always in trouble; so i had enough to do with my hands and my money too, for that matter. they died within twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but the lord had taken six to himself), will, as i was telling you on; and i took him myself, and left service to make a bit on a home-place for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his father as to looks, only steadier. for he was steady, although nought would serve him but going to sea. i tried all i could to set him again a sailor's life. says i, 'folks is as sick as dogs all the time they're at sea. your own mother telled me (for she came from foreign parts, being a manx woman) that she'd ha thanked any one for throwing her into the water.' nay, i sent him a' the way to runcorn by th' duke's canal, that he might know what th' sea were; and i looked to see him come back as white as a sheet wi' vomiting. but the lad went on to liverpool and saw real ships, and came back more set than ever on being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea pretty well. so i telled him he mun do as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all i was very frabbit [4] with him; and now he's gone to south america, at t'other side of the sun, they tell me." [footnote 4: "frabbit," peevish.] mary stole a glance at margaret to see what she thought of alice's geography; but margaret looked so quiet and demure, that mary was in doubt if she were not really ignorant. not that mary's knowledge was very profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew where to find france and the continents on a map. after this long talking alice seemed lost for a time in reverie; and the girls, respecting her thoughts, which they suspected had wandered to the home and scenes of her childhood, were silent. all at once she recalled her duties as hostess, and by an effort brought back her mind to the present time. "margaret, thou must let mary hear thee sing. i don't know about fine music myself, but folks say margaret is a rare singer, and i know she can make me cry at any time by singing 'th' owdham weaver.' do sing that, margaret, there's a good lass." with a faint smile, as if amused at alice's choice of a song, margaret began. do you know "the oldham weaver?" not unless you are lancashire born and bred, for it is a complete lancashire ditty. i will copy it for you. the oldham weaver. i. oi'm a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas, oi've nowt for t' yeat, an' oi've woorn eawt my clooas, yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on, my clogs are boath brosten, an' stuckins oi've none, yo'd think it wur hard, to be browt into th' warld, to be--clemmed, [5] an' do th' best as yo con. ii. owd dicky o' billy's kept telling me lung, wee s'd ha' better toimes if i'd but howd my tung, oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath, oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath, owd dicky's weel crammed, he never wur clemmed, an' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife. [6] iii. we tow'rt on six week--thinking aitch day wur th' last, we shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast; we lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good, an' waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food, oi'm tellin' yo' true, oi can find folk enow, as wur livin' na better nor me. iv. owd billy o' dans sent th' baileys one day, fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay, but he wur too lat, fur owd billy o' th' bent, had sowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en goods fur th' rent, we'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo', that wur seeats fur two, an' on it ceawred marget an' me. v. then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse, when they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse, says one chap to th' tother, "aws gone, theaw may see;" says oi, "ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me." they made no moor ado but whopped up th' eawd stoo', an' we booath leet, whack--upo' t' flags! vi. then oi said to eawr marget, as we lay upo' t' floor, "we's never be lower i' this warld, oi'm sure, if ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend, for oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend; for meeat we ha' none; nor looms t' weyve on,- edad! they're as good lost as fund." vii. eawr marget declares had hoo cloo'as to put on, hoo'd goo up to lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon; an' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been, hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend; hoo's neawt to say again t' king, but hoo loikes a fair thing, an' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt. [footnote 5: "clem," to starve with hunger. "hard is the choice, when the valiant must eat their arms or _clem_."--_ben jonson._] [footnote 6: to "pick ower," means to throw the shuttle in hand-loom weaving.] the air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative, depending much on expression and feeling. to read it, it may, perhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin to pathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes, it is a powerfully pathetic song. margaret had both witnessed the destitution, and had the heart to feel it; and withal, her voice was of that rich and rare order, which does not require any great compass of notes to make itself appreciated. alice had her quiet enjoyment of tears. but margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest, dreamy look, seemed to become more and more absorbed in realising to herself the woe she had been describing, and which she felt might at that very moment be suffering and hopeless within a short distance of their comparative comfort. suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress, in the grand supplication, "lord, remember david." mary held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so imploring. a far more correct musician than mary might have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge, with which the poor depressed-looking young needle-woman used her superb and flexile voice. deborah travers herself (once an oldham factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as mrs. knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art. she stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, alice thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to mary's wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward appearance. when alice's little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet enough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going over again one or two strains of margaret's song. "that's grandfather!" exclaimed she. "i must be going, for he said he should not be at home till past nine." "well, i'll not say nay, for i've to be up by four for a very heavy wash at mrs. simpson's; but i shall be terrible glad to see you again at any time, lasses; and i hope you'll take to one another." as the girls ran up the cellar steps together, margaret said: "just step in and see grandfather. i should like him to see you." and mary consented. chapter v. the mill on fire--jem wilson to the rescue. learned he was; nor bird, nor insect flew, but he its leafy home and history knew; nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well, but he its name and qualities could tell. elliott. there is a class of men in manchester, unknown even to many of the inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many, who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science recognises. i said "in manchester," but they are scattered all over the manufacturing districts of lancashire. in the neighbourhood of oldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the shuttle with unceasing sound, though newton's "principia" lie open on the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled over in meal times, or at night. mathematical problems are received with interest, and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad-spoken, common-looking, factory-hand. it is perhaps less astonishing that the more popularly interesting branches of natural history have their warm and devoted followers among this class. there are botanists among them, equally familiar with either the linnã¦an or the natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day's walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. there are entomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen with real scientific delight. nor is it the common and more obvious divisions of entomology and botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of whitsun-week so often falling in may or june that the two great, beautiful families of ephemeridã¦ and phryganidã¦ have been so much and so closely studied by manchester workmen, while they have in a great measure escaped general observation. if you will refer to the preface to sir j. e. smith's life (i have it not by me, or i would copy you the exact passage), you will find that he names a little circumstance corroborative of what i have said. sir j. e. smith, being on a visit to roscoe, of liverpool, made some inquiries from him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in lancashire. mr. roscoe knew nothing of the plant; but stated, that if any one could give him the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver in manchester, whom he named. sir j. e. smith proceeded by coach to manchester, and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to so and so. "oh, yes," replied the man. "he does a bit in my way;" and, on further investigation, it turned out, that both the porter, and his friend the weaver, were skilful botanists, and able to give sir j. e. smith the very information which he wanted. such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little understood, working men of manchester. and margaret's grandfather was one of these. he was a little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had indeed lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. the eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen, so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. indeed, the whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. instead of pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little table was covered with cabalistic books; and a case of mysterious instruments lay beside, one of which job legh was using when his grand-daughter entered. on her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway on his forehead, and gave mary a short, kind welcome. but margaret he caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with tenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her. mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look. "is your grandfather a fortune-teller?" whispered she to her new friend. "no," replied margaret, in the same voice; "but you're not the first as has taken him for such. he is only fond of such things as most folks know nothing about." "and do you know aught about them, too?" "i know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just because he's fond on 'em i tried to learn about them." "what things are these?" said mary, struck with the weird looking creatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass cases. but she was not prepared for the technical names which job legh pattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight; and the strange language only bewildered her more than ever. margaret saw the state of the case, and came to the rescue. "look, mary, at this horrid scorpion. he gave me such a fright: i'm all of a twitter yet when i think of it. grandfather went to liverpool one whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing or another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physic-bottle; and says grandfather, 'what have ye gotten there?' so the sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o' scorpion, not common even in the east indies where the man came from; and says he, 'how did ye catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for nothing i'm thinking?' and the man said as how when they were unloading the ship he'd found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured a bit. he did not like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog to put the scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were folks enow who would give him something for him. so grandfather gives him a shilling." "two shilling," interrupted job legh, "and a good bargain it was." "well! grandfather came home as proud as punch, and pulled the bottle out of his pocket. but you see th' scorpion were doubled up, and grandfather thought i couldn't fairly see how big he was. so he shakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was, for i was ironing, i remember. i left off ironing, and stooped down over him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species, how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people who were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. i was listening hard, but as it fell out, i never took my eyes off the creature, though i could not ha' told i was watching it. suddenly it seemed to give a jerk, and before i could speak, it gave another, and in a minute it was as wild as could be, running at me just like a mad dog." "what did you do?" asked mary. "me! why, i jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things i'd been ironing on the dresser, and i screamed for grandfather to come up by me, but he did not hearken to me." "why, if i'd come up by thee, who'd ha' caught the creature, i should like to know?" "well, i begged grandfather to crush it, and i had the iron right over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it in that way. so i couldn't think what he'd have, for he hopped round the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to injure it. at last he goes to th' kettle, and lifts up the lid, and peeps in. what on earth is he doing that for, thinks i; he'll never drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room. then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose, and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th' leg, and dropped him into the boiling water." "and did that kill him?" said mary. "ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked though. but i was so afeard of his coming round again. i ran to the public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and then we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and dropped him into the bottle, and he were there above a twelvemonth." "what brought him to life at first?" asked mary. "why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid--that is, dead asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round." "i'm glad father does not care for such things," said mary. "are you! well, i'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond of his books, and his creatures, and his plants. it does my heart good to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search of more, whenever he's a spare day. look at him now! he's gone back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working away till i make him go to bed. it keeps him silent, to be sure; but so long as i see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter? then, when he has his talking bouts, you can't think how much he has to say. dear grandfather! you don't know how happy we are!" mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for margaret did not speak in an under tone; but no! he was far too deep and eager in solving a problem. he did not even notice mary's leave-taking, and she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life. margaret, so quiet, so common place, until her singing powers were called forth; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home; and her grandfather so very different to any one mary had ever seen. margaret had said he was not a fortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her. to resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and judge for himself. opportunities are not often wanting where inclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter mary looked upon margaret almost as an old friend. the latter would bring her work when mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with her; and job legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and just step round the corner to fetch his grand-child, ready for a talk if he found barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls wanted him to wait, and john was still at his club. in short, ready to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling margaret. i do not know what points of resemblance (or dissimilitude, for the one joins people as often as the other) attracted the two girls to each other. margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong common sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is valued? it is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power of setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment can tell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is "wisest, best," that in consideration of the end, all difficulties in the way diminish. people admire talent, and talk about their admiration. but they value common sense without talking about it, and often without knowing it. so mary and margaret grew in love one toward the other; and mary told many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one. most of her foibles also were made known to margaret, but not all. there was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. it concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. a gallant, handsome young man; but--not beloved. yet mary hoped to meet him every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried to think of him as her future husband, and above all, tried to think of herself as his future wife. alas! poor mary! bitter woe did thy weakness work thee. she had other lovers. one or two would gladly have kept her company, but she held herself too high, they said. jem wilson said nothing, but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up thought of mary. he did not dare to look to any end of all this; the present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was enough. surely, in time, such deep love would beget love. he would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was enough to daunt any man; and it made jem more despairing than he would acknowledge for a long time even to himself. but one evening he came round by barton's house, a willing messenger for his father, and opening the door saw margaret sitting asleep before the fire. she had come in to speak to mary; and worn out by a long working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth. an old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into jem's mind, and stepping gently up he kissed margaret with a friendly kiss. she awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, "for shame of yourself, jem! what would mary say?" lightly said, lightly answered. "she'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect." and they both laughed. but the words margaret had said rankled in jem's mind. would mary care? would she care in the very least? they seemed to call for an answer by night, and by day; and jem felt that his heart told him mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. still he loved on, and on, ever more fondly. mary's father was well aware of the nature of jem wilson's feelings for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling, too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however distant. but he welcomed jem at his house, as he would have done his father's son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and then admitted the thought, that mary might do worse when her time came, than marry jem wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap--at least when mary was not by: for when she was present he watched her too closely, and too anxiously, to have much of what john barton called "spunk" in him. it was towards the end of february, in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. the keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though on a gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold force with which it blew against them. houses, sky, people, and every thing looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with a dark shade of indian ink. there was some reason for this grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying to procure a little by breaking the thick gray ice that coated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. people prophesied a long continuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing purchased for a short uncertain summer. indeed there was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind. mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from miss simmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. so she did not perceive margaret till, she was close upon her at the very turning into the court. "bless me, margaret! is that you? where are you bound to?" "to nowhere but your own house (that is, if you'll take me in). i've a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and will not be home till late." "oh, how charming it will be. i'll help you if you're backward. have you much to do?" "yes, i only got the order yesterday at noon; and there's three girls beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff (for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), i'm above a bit behindhand. i've the skirts all to make. i kept that work till candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the bodies; for the missis is very particular, and i could scarce keep from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly i'm sure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up to notice the sit of her gown. they weren't to be misfits i promise you, though they were in such trouble." "well, margaret, you're right welcome as you know, and i'll sit down and help you with pleasure, though i was tired enough of sewing to-night at miss simmonds'." by this time mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her candle; and margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the table, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. the things were then lifted _en masse_ to the dresser; and dusting her side of the table with the apron she always wore at home, mary took up some breadths and began to run them together. "who's it all for, for if you told me i've forgotten?" "why for mrs. ogden as keeps the greengrocer's shop in oxford road. her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for him now he's dead." "has he left her much to go upon?" asked mary, examining the texture of the dress. "this is beautifully fine soft bombazine." "no, i'm much afeared there's but little, and there's several young children, besides the three miss ogdens." "i should have thought girls like them would ha' made their own gowns," observed mary. "so i dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy getting ready for the funeral; for it's to be quite a grand affair, well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told me; the little thing seemed to like the fuss, and i do believe it comforted poor mrs. ogden to make all the piece o' work. such a smell of ham boiling and fowls roasting while i waited in the kitchen; it seemed more like a wedding nor [7] a funeral. they said she'd spend a matter o' sixty pound on th' burial." [footnote 7: "nor," generally used in lancashire for "than." "they had lever sleep _nor_ be in laundery."--_dunbar_.] "i thought you said she was but badly off," said mary. "ay, i know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. but th' undertakers urge her on you see, and tell her this thing's usual, and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that every body has t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her own. i dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a person's gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him, who's stiff and cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have to pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all." "this mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said mary. "i often wonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and it costs a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if what the bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a friend, who's been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man, one's glad enough to get shut [8] on him. i cannot see what good comes out o' wearing mourning." [footnote 8: "shut," quit.] "i'll tell you what i think th' fancy was sent for (old alice calls every thing 'sent for,' and i believe she's right). it does do good, though not as much as it costs, that i do believe, in setting people (as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to any thing but crying) something to do. why now i told you how they were grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in his thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. but they cheered up wonderful while i was there, and i asked 'em for more directions than usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and i left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a purpose." "i don't think every one would grieve a that way. old alice wouldn't." "old alice is one in a thousand. i doubt, too, if she would fret much, however sorry she might be. she would say it were sent, and fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. every sorrow in her mind is sent for good. did i ever tell you, mary, what she said one day when she found me taking on about something?" "no; do tell me. what were you fretting about, first place?" "i can't tell you just now; perhaps i may sometime." "when?" "perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never. it's a fear that sometimes i can't abide to think about, and sometimes i don't like to think on any thing else. well, i was fretting about this fear, and alice comes in for something, and finds me crying. i would not tell her no more than i would you, mary; so she says, 'well, dear, you must mind this, when you're going to fret and be low about any thing, "an anxious mind is never a holy mind."' oh, mary, i have so often checked my grumbling sin' [9] she said that." [footnote 9: "sin'," since. "_sin_ that his lord was twenty yere of age." _prologue to canterbury tales._] the weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little while, till mary inquired, "do you expect to get paid for this mourning?" "why i do not much think i shall. i've thought it over once or twice, and i mean to bring myself to think i shan't, and to like to do it as my bit towards comforting them. i don't think they can pay, and yet they're just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing mourning. there's only one thing i dislike making black for, it does so hurt the eyes." margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. then she assumed a cheerful tone, and said, "you'll not have to wait long, mary, for my secret's on the tip of my tongue. mary! do you know i sometimes think i'm growing a little blind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? oh, god help me, lord help me!" she fell into an agony of tears, while mary knelt by her, striving to soothe and to comfort her; but, like an inexperienced person, striving rather to deny the correctness of margaret's fear, than helping her to meet and overcome the evil. "no," said margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on mary; "i know i'm not mistaken. i have felt one going some time, long before i ever thought what it would lead to; and last autumn i went to a doctor; and he did not mince the matter, but said unless i sat in a darkened room, with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many years longer. but how could i do that, mary? for one thing, grandfather would have known there was somewhat the matter; and, oh! it will grieve him sore whenever he's told, so the later the better; and besides, mary, we've sometimes little enough to go upon, and what i earn is a great help. for grandfather takes a day here, and a day there, for botanising or going after insects, and he'll think little enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather! and i'm so loath to think he should be stinted of what gives him such pleasure. so i went to another doctor to try and get him to say something different, and he said, 'oh, it was only weakness,' and gived me a bottle of lotion; but i've used three bottles (and each of 'em cost two shillings), and my eye is so much worse, not hurting so much, but i can't see a bit with it. there now, mary," continued she, shutting one eye, "now you only look like a great black shadow, with the edges dancing and sparkling." "and can you see pretty well with th' other?" "yes, pretty near as well as ever. th' only difference is, that if i sew a long time together, a bright spot like th' sun comes right where i'm looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where i want to see. i've been to both doctors again, and now they're both o' the same story; and i suppose i'm going dark as fast as may be. plain work pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful this winter, i were tempted to take in any black work i could; and now i'm suffering from it." "and yet, margaret, you're going on taking it in; that's what you'd call foolish in another." "it is, mary! and yet what can i do? folk mun live; and i think i should go blind any way, and i darn't tell grandfather, else i would leave it off, but he will so fret." margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion. "oh mary!" she said, "i try to get his face off by heart, and i stare at him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if i can remember his dear face. there's one thing, mary, that serves a bit to comfort me. you'll have heard of old jacob butterworth, the singing weaver? well, i know'd him a bit, so i went to him, and said how i wished he'd teach me the right way o' singing; and he says i've a rare fine voice, and i go once a week, and take a lesson fra' him. he's been a grand singer in his day. he's led th' chorusses at the festivals, and got thanked many a time by london folk; and one foreign singer, madame catalani, turned round and shook him by th' hand before the oud church [10] full o' people. he says i may gain ever so much money by singing; but i don't know. any rate it's sad work, being blind." [footnote 10: "old church;" now the cathedral of manchester.] she took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for some time they sewed on in silence. suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court; person after person ran past the curtained window. "something's up," said mary. she went to the door and stopping the first person she saw, inquired the cause of the commotion. "eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? carsons' mill is blazing away like fun;" and away her informant ran. "come, margaret, on wi' your bonnet, and let's go to see carsons' mill; it's afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight. i never saw one." "well, i think it's a fearful sight. besides i've all this work to do." but mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses, promising to help with the gowns all night long if necessary, nay, saying she should quite enjoy it. the truth was, margaret's secret weighed heavily and painfully on her mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted to change the current of margaret's thoughts; and in addition to these unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of seeing a factory on fire. so in two minutes they were ready. at the threshold of the house they met john barton, to whom they told their errand. "carsons' mill! ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough, by the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there's not a drop o' water to be got. and much carsons will care, for they're well insured, and the machines are a' th' oud-fashioned kind. see if they don't think it a fine thing for themselves. they'll not thank them as tries to put it out." he gave way for the impatient girls to pass. guided by the ruddy light more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to the mill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible east wind as best they might. carsons' mill ran lengthways from east to west. along it went one of the oldest thoroughfares in manchester. indeed all that part of the town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton mills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the neighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. the staircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end, which faced into a wide dingy-looking street, consisting principally of public-houses, pawn-brokers' shops, rag and bone warehouses, and dirty provision shops. the other, the east end of the factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet wide, and miserably lighted and paved. right against this end of the factory were the gable ends of the last house in the principal street--a house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and the attempt at ornament in the front, had probably been once a gentleman's house; but now the light which streamed from its enlarged front windows made clear the interior of the splendidly fitted up room, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses, its gilded and gorgeous fittings up, its miserable, squalid inmates. it was a gin palace. mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as margaret had said) was the sight when they joined the crowd assembled to witness the fire. there was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the flames ceased for an instant. it was easy to perceive the mass were deeply interested. "what do they say?" asked margaret, of a neighbour in the crowd, as she caught a few words, clear and distinct, from the general murmur. "there never is anyone in the mill, surely!" exclaimed mary, as the sea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end, looking into dunham street, the narrow back lane already mentioned. the western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven by the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. it sent forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black walls with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the mighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar yet more wildly. this part of the roof fell in with an astounding crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into dunham street, for what were magnificent terrible flames, what were falling timbers or tottering walls, in comparison with human life? there, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet more powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every aperture, there, at one of the windows on the fourth story, or rather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might occasionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared partially away for an instant, the imploring figures of two men. they had remained after the rest of the workmen for some reason or other, and, owing to the wind having driven the fire in the opposite direction, had perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long after (if any thing could be called long in that throng of terrors which passed by in less time than half an hour) the fire had consumed the old wooden staircase at the other end of the building. i am not sure whether it was not the first sound of the rushing crowd below that made them fully aware of their awful position. "where are the engines?" asked margaret of her neighbour. "they're coming, no doubt; but, bless you, i think it's bare ten minutes since we first found out th' fire; it rages so wi' this wind, and all so dry-like." "is no one gone for a ladder?" gasped mary, as the men were perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude below for help. "ay, wilson's son and another man were off like a shot, well nigh five minute agone. but th' masons, and slaters, and such like, have left their work, and locked up the yards." wilson! then, was that man whose figure loomed out against the ever increasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear,--was that george wilson? mary sickened with terror. she knew he worked for carsons; but at first she had had no idea any lives were in danger; and since she had become aware of this, the heated air, the roaring flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated and murmuring crowd, had bewildered her thoughts. "oh! let us go home, margaret; i cannot stay." "we cannot go! see how we are wedged in by folks. poor mary! ye won't hanker after a fire again. hark! listen!" for through the hushed crowd, pressing round the angle of the mill, and filling up dunham street, might be heard the rattle of the engine, the heavy, quick tread of loaded horses. "thank god!" said margaret's neighbour, "the engine's come." another pause; the plugs were stiff, and water could not be got. then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearing back on those behind, till the girls were sick with the close ramming confinement. then a relaxation, and a breathing freely once more. "'twas young wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder," said margaret's neighbour, a tall man who could overlook the crowd. "oh, tell us what you see?" begged mary. "they've gotten it fixed again the gin-shop wall. one o' the men i' th' factory has fell back; dazed wi' the smoke, i'll warrant. the floor's not given way there. god!" said he, bringing his eye lower down, "th' ladder's too short! it's a' over wi' them, poor chaps. th' fire's coming slow and sure to that end, and afore they've either gotten water, or another ladder, they'll be dead out and out. lord have mercy on them!" a sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of the crowd. another pressure like the former! mary clung to margaret's arm with a pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape from the oppressing misery of her sensations. a minute or two. "they've taken th' ladder into th' temple of apollor. can't press back with it to the yard it came from." a mighty shout arose; a sound to wake the dead. up on high, quivering in the air, was seen the end of the ladder, protruding out of a garret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to the doorway where the men had been seen. those in the crowd nearest the factory, and consequently best able to see up to the garret window, said that several men were holding one end, and guiding by their weight its passage to the door-way. the garret window-frame had been taken out before the crowd below were aware of the attempt. at length--for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though scarce two minutes had elapsed--the ladder was fixed, an aerial bridge at a dizzy height, across the narrow street. every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people's very breathing seemed stilled in suspense. the men were nowhere to be seen, but the wind appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, and drove back the invading flames to the other end. mary and margaret could see now; right above them danced the ladder in the wind. the crowd pressed back from under; firemen's helmets appeared at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, with quick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to the other. the multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the perilous bridge, which quivered under him; but when he was across, safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant, checked, however, almost immediately, by the uncertainty of the result, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of the brave fellow who had cast his life on such a die. "there he is again!" sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him at the doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful of the fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. on his shoulders he bore an insensible body. "it's jem wilson and his father," whispered margaret; but mary knew it before. the people were sick with anxious terror. he could no longer balance himself with his arms; every thing must depend on nerve and eye. they saw the latter was fixed, by the position of the head, which never wavered; the ladder shook under the double weight; but still he never moved his head--he dared not look below. it seemed an age before the crossing was accomplished. at last the window was gained; the bearer relieved from his burden; both had disappeared. then the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louder than the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of applause at the success of the daring enterprise. then a shrill cry was heard, asking "is the oud man alive, and likely to do?" "ay," answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. "he's coming round finely, now he's had a dash of cowd water." he drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the sea-like murmurs of the moving rolling mass began again to be heard--but for an instant though. in far less time than even that in which i have endeavoured briefly to describe the pause of events, the same bold hero stepped again upon the ladder, with evident purpose to rescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill. he went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and the people below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success, were talking to each other, shouting out intelligence of the progress of the fire at the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavours of the firemen at that part to obtain water, while the closely packed body of men heaved and rolled from side to side. it was different from the former silent breathless hush. i do not know if it were from this cause, or from the recollection of peril past, or that he looked below, in the breathing moment before returning with the remaining person (a slight little man) slung across his shoulders, but jem wilson's step was less steady, his tread more uncertain; he seemed to feel with his foot for the next round of the ladder, to waver, and finally to stop half-way. by this time the crowd was still enough; in the awful instant that intervened no one durst speak, even to encourage. many turned sick with terror, and shut their eyes to avoid seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. it came. the brave man swayed from side to side, at first as slightly as if only balancing himself; but he was evidently losing nerve, and even sense: it was only wonderful how the animal instinct of self-preservation did not overcome every generous feeling, and impel him at once to drop the helpless, inanimate body he carried; perhaps the same instinct told him, that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself be a great and imminent danger. "help me! she's fainted," cried margaret. but no one heeded. all eyes were directed upwards. at this point of time a rope, with a running noose, was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, after the manner of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the two men. true, it was with rude and slight adjustment: but, slight as it was, it served as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinking heart, the dizzy head. once more jem stepped onwards. he was not hurried by any jerk or pull. slowly and gradually the rope was hauled in, slowly and gradually did he make the four or five paces between him and safety. the window was gained, and all were saved. the multitude in the street absolutely danced with triumph, and huzzaed and yelled till you would have fancied their very throats would crack; and then with all the fickleness of interest characteristic of a large body of people, pressed and stumbled, and cursed and swore in the hurry to get out of dunham street, and back to the immediate scene of the fire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring flames formed an awful accompaniment to the screams, and yells, and imprecations, of the struggling crowd. as they pressed away, margaret was left, pale and almost sinking under the weight of mary's body, which she had preserved in an upright position by keeping her arms tight round mary's waist, dreading, with reason, the trampling of unheeding feet. now, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean pavement; and the change of posture, and the difference in temperature, now that the people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood, speedily restored her to consciousness. her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. she had forgotten where she was. her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare in the sky affrighted her. she shut her eyes to think, to recollect. her next look was upwards. the fearful bridge had been withdrawn; the window was unoccupied. "they are safe," said margaret. "all? are all safe, margaret?" asked mary. "ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than i can. but i know they're all safe." the fireman hastily corroborated margaret's words. "why did you let jem wilson go twice?" asked margaret. "let!--why we could not hinder him. as soon as ever he'd heard his father speak (which he was na long a doing), jem were off like a shot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t'other man. we'd all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can say as manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger." so saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or discussion, turned homewards. they were overtaken by the elder wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently as strong and well as ever. he loitered a minute or two alongside of them, giving an account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wished good-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all safe and well: but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back, came on mary's side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which margaret could not avoid hearing, he said, "mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word or two for my sake. do! bless you, there's a good wench." mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was gone. when they arrived at home, they found john barton smoking his pipe, unwilling to question, yet very willing to hear all the details they could give him. margaret went over the whole story, and it was amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement. first, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. then the pipe was fairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. then he rose, and at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator. when it was ended, he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if jem wilson wanted mary he should have her to-morrow, if he had not a penny to keep her. margaret laughed, but mary, who was now recovered from her agitation, pouted, and looked angry. the work which they had left was resumed: but with full hearts, fingers never go very quickly; and i am sorry to say, that owing to the fire, the two younger miss ogdens were in such grief for the loss of their excellent father, that they were unable to appear before the little circle of sympathising friends gathered together to comfort the widow, and see the funeral set off. chapter vi. poverty and death. "how little can the rich man know of what the poor man feels, when want, like some dark dã¦mon foe, nearer and nearer steals! _he_ never tramp'd the weary round, a stroke of work to gain, and sicken'd at the dreaded sound telling him 'twas in vain. foot-sore, heart-sore, _he_ never came back through the winter's wind, to a dark cellar, there no flame, no light, no food, to find. _he_ never saw his darlings lie shivering, the flags their bed; _he_ never heard that maddening cry, 'daddy, a bit of bread!'" manchester song. john barton was not far wrong in his idea that the messrs. carson would not be over much grieved for the consequences of the fire in their mill. they were well insured; the machinery lacked the improvements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison with that which might now be procured. above all, trade was very slack; cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many a warehouse. the mills were merely worked to keep the machinery, human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better times. so this was an excellent opportunity, messrs. carson thought, for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements, for which the insurance money would amply pay. they were in no hurry about the business, however. the weekly drain of wages given for labour, useless in the present state of the market, was stopped. the partners had more leisure than they had known for years; and promised wives and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the weather should become more genial. it was a pleasant thing to be able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand; to have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters' talents. there were happy family evenings, now that the men of business had time for domestic enjoyments. there is another side to the picture. there were homes over which carsons' fire threw a deep, terrible gloom; the homes of those who would fain work, and no man gave unto them--the homes of those to whom leisure was a curse. there, the family music was hungry wails, when week after week passed by, and there was no work to be had, and consequently no wages to pay for the bread the children cried aloud for in their young impatience of suffering. there was no breakfast to lounge over; their lounge was taken in bed, to try and keep warmth in them that bitter march weather, and, by being quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within. many a penny that would have gone little way enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought opium to still the hungry little ones, and make them forget their uneasiness in heavy troubled sleep. it was mother's mercy. the evil and the good of our nature came out strongly then. there were desperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued mothers (o god! what wonder!); there were reckless children; the very closest bonds of nature were snapt in that time of trial and distress. there was faith such as the rich can never imagine on earth; there was "love strong as death;" and self-denial, among rude, coarse men, akin to that of sir philip sidney's most glorious deed. the vices of the poor sometimes astound us _here_; but when the secrets of all hearts shall be made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater degree. of this i am certain. as the cold bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), and consequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours, turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether. barton worked short hours; wilson, of course, being a hand in carsons' factory, had no work at all. but his son, working at an engineer's, and a steady man, obtained wages enough to maintain all the family in a careful way. still it preyed on wilson's mind to be so long indebted to his son. he was out of spirits and depressed. barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the rich in particular. one evening, when the clear light at six o'clock contrasted strangely with the christmas cold, and when the bitter wind piped down every entry, and through every cranny, barton sat brooding over his stinted fire, and listening for mary's step, in unacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him. the door was opened, and wilson came breathless in. "you've not got a bit o' money by you, barton?" asked he. "not i; who has now, i'd like to know. whatten you want it for?" "i donnot [11] want it for mysel, tho' we've none to spare. but don ye know ben davenport as worked at carsons'? he's down wi' the fever, and ne'er a stick o' fire, nor a cowd [12] potato in the house." [footnote 11: "don" is constantly used in lancashire for "do;" as it was by our older writers. "and that may non hors _don_."--_sir j. mondeville._ "but for th' entent to _don_ this sinne."--_chaucer._] [footnote 12: "cowd," cold. teut., _kaud_. dutch, _koud_.] "i han got no money, i tell ye," said barton. wilson looked disappointed. barton tried not to be interested, but he could not help it in spite of his gruffness. he rose, and went to the cupboard (his wife's pride long ago). there lay the remains of his dinner, hastily put by ready for supper. bread, and a slice of cold fat boiled bacon. he wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in the crown of his hat, and said--"come, let's be going." "going--art thou going to work this time o' day?" "no, stupid, to be sure not. going to see the fellow thou spoke on." so they put on their hats and set out. on the way wilson said davenport was a good fellow, though too much of the methodee; that his children were too young to work, but not too young to be cold and hungry; that they had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thing after thing, and that now they lived in a cellar in berry street, off store street. barton growled inarticulate words of no benevolent import to a large class of mankind, and so they went along till they arrived in berry street. it was unpaved; and down the middle a gutter forced its way, every now and then forming pools in the holes with which the street abounded. never was the old edinburgh cry of "gardez l'eau" more necessary than in this street. as they passed, women from their doors tossed household slops of _every_ description into the gutter; they ran into the next pool, which overflowed and stagnated. heaps of ashes were the stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in the least for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. our friends were not dainty, but even they picked their way till they got to some steps leading down into a small area, where a person standing would have his head about one foot below the level of the street, and might at the same time, without the least motion of his body, touch the window of the cellar and the damp muddy wall right opposite. you went down one step even from the foul area into the cellar in which a family of human beings lived. it was very dark inside. the window-panes were, many of them, broken and stuffed with rags, which was reason enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at mid-day. after the account i have given of the state of the street, no one can be surprised that on going into the cellar inhabited by davenport, the smell was so foetid as almost to knock the two men down. quickly recovering themselves, as those inured to such things do, they began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and to see three or four little children rolling on the damp, nay wet, brick floor, through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street oozed up; the fire-place was empty and black; the wife sat on her husband's lair, and cried in the dank loneliness. "see, missis, i'm back again.--hold your noise, children, and don't mither [13] your mammy for bread; here's a chap as has got some for you." [footnote 13: "mither," to trouble and perplex. "i'm welly mithered"--i'm well nigh crazed.] in that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they clustered round barton, and tore from him the food he had brought with him. it was a large hunch of bread, but it vanished in an instant. "we mun do summut for 'em," said he to wilson. "yo stop here, and i'll be back in half-an-hour." so he strode, and ran, and hurried home. he emptied into the ever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in the mug. mary would have her tea at miss simmonds'; her food for the day was safe. then he went up-stairs for his better coat, and his one, gay, red-and-yellow silk pocket-handkerchief--his jewels, his plate, his valuables, these were. he went to the pawn-shop; he pawned them for five shillings; he stopped not, nor stayed, till he was once more in london road, within five minutes' walk of berry street--then he loitered in his gait, in order to discover the shops he wanted. he bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of coals. some money yet remained--all destined for them, but he did not yet know how best to spend it. food, light, and warmth, he had instantly seen were necessary; for luxuries he would wait. wilson's eyes filled with tears when he saw barton enter with his purchases. he understood it all, and longed to be once more in work, that he might help in some of these material ways, without feeling that he was using his son's money. but though "silver and gold he had none," he gave heart-service and love works of far more value. nor was john barton behind in these. "the fever" was (as it usually is in manchester) of a low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on by miserable living, filthy neighbourhood, and great depression of mind and body. it is virulent, malignant, and highly infectious. but the poor are fatalists with regard to infection; and well for them it is so, for in their crowded dwellings no invalid can be isolated. wilson asked barton if he thought he should catch it, and was laughed at for his idea. the two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted the fire, which smoked and puffed into the room as if it did not know the way up the damp, unused chimney. the very smoke seemed purifying and healthy in the thick clammy air. the children clamoured again for bread; but this time barton took a piece first to the poor, helpless, hopeless woman, who still sat by the side of her husband, listening to his anxious miserable mutterings. she took the bread, when it was put into her hand, and broke a bit, but could not eat. she was past hunger. she fell down on the floor with a heavy unresisting bang. the men looked puzzled. "she's well-nigh clemmed," said barton. "folk do say one mustn't give clemmed people much to eat; but, bless us, she'll eat nought." "i'll tell yo what i'll do," said wilson. "i'll take these two big lads, as does nought but fight, home to my missis's for to-night, and i'll get a jug o' tea. them women always does best with tea and such-like slop." so barton was now left alone with a little child, crying (when it had done eating) for mammy; with a fainting, dead-like woman; and with the sick man, whose mutterings were rising up to screams and shrieks of agonised anxiety. he carried the woman to the fire, and chafed her hands. he looked around for something to raise her head. there was literally nothing but some loose bricks. however, those he got; and taking off his coat he covered them with it as well as he could. he pulled her feet to the fire, which now began to emit some faint heat. he looked round for water, but the poor woman had been too weak to drag herself out to the distant pump, and water there was none. he snatched the child, and ran up the area-steps to the room above, and borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. then he began, with the useful skill of a working-man, to make some gruel; and when it was hastily made he seized a battered iron table-spoon (kept when many other little things had been sold in a lot), in order to feed baby, and with it he forced one or two drops between her clenched teeth. the mouth opened mechanically to receive more, and gradually she revived. she sat up and looked round; and recollecting all, fell down again in weak and passive despair. her little child crawled to her, and wiped with its fingers the thick-coming tears which she now had strength to weep. it was now high time to attend to the man. he lay on straw, so damp and mouldy no dog would have chosen it in preference to flags; over it was a piece of sacking, coming next to his worn skeleton of a body; above him was mustered every article of clothing that could be spared by mother or children this bitter weather; and in addition to his own, these might have given as much warmth as one blanket, could they have been kept on him; but as he restlessly tossed to and fro, they fell off and left him shivering in spite of the burning heat of his skin. every now and then he started up in his naked madness, looking like the prophet of woe in the fearful plague-picture; but he soon fell again in exhaustion, and barton found he must be closely watched, lest in these falls he should injure himself against the hard brick floor. he was thankful when wilson re-appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming tea, intended for the poor wife; but when the delirious husband saw drink, he snatched at it with animal instinct, with a selfishness he had never shown in health. then the two men consulted together. it seemed decided, without a word being spoken on the subject, that both should spend the night with the forlorn couple; that was settled. but could no doctor be had? in all probability, no; the next day an infirmary order might be begged, but meanwhile the only medical advice they could have must be from a druggist's. so barton (being the moneyed man) set out to find a shop in london road. it is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted shops; the gas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much more vividly shown than by day, and of all shops a druggist's looks the most like the tales of our childhood, from aladdin's garden of enchanted fruits to the charming rosamond with her purple jar. no such associations had barton; yet he felt the contrast between the well-filled, well-lighted shops and the dim gloomy cellar, and it made him moody that such contrasts should exist. they are the mysterious problem of life to more than him. he wondered if any in all the hurrying crowd had come from such a house of mourning. he thought they all looked joyous, and he was angry with them. but he could not, you cannot, read the lot of those who daily pass you by in the street. how do you know the wild romances of their lives; the trials, the temptations they are even now enduring, resisting, sinking under? you may be elbowed one instant by the girl desperate in her abandonment, laughing in mad merriment with her outward gesture, while her soul is longing for the rest of the dead, and bringing itself to think of the cold-flowing river as the only mercy of god remaining to her here. you may pass the criminal, meditating crimes at which you will to-morrow shudder with horror as you read them. you may push against one, humble and unnoticed, the last upon earth, who in heaven will for ever be in the immediate light of god's countenance. errands of mercy--errands of sin--did you ever think where all the thousands of people you daily meet are bound? barton's was an errand of mercy; but the thoughts of his heart were touched by sin, by bitter hatred of the happy, whom he, for the time, confounded with the selfish. he reached a druggist's shop, and entered. the druggist (whose smooth manners seemed to have been salved over with his own spermaceti) listened attentively to barton's description of davenport's illness; concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent in that neighbourhood; and proceeded to make up a bottle of medicine, sweet spirits of nitre, or some such innocent potion, very good for slight colds, but utterly powerless to stop, for an instant, the raging fever of the poor man it was intended to relieve. he recommended the same course they had previously determined to adopt, applying the next morning for an infirmary order; and barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the physic given him; for men of his class, if they believe in physic at all, believe that every description is equally efficacious. meanwhile, wilson had done what he could at davenport's home. he had soothed, and covered the man many a time; he had fed and hushed the little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still in her weakness and her weariness. he had opened a door, but only for an instant; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead of a window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, and worse abominations. it was not paved; the floor was one mass of bad smelling mud. it had never been used, for there was not an article of furniture in it; nor could a human being, much less a pig, have lived there many days. yet the "back apartment" made a difference in the rent. the davenports paid threepence more for having two rooms. when he turned round again, he saw the woman suckling the child from her dry, withered breast. "surely the lad is weaned!" exclaimed he, in surprise. "why, how old is he?" "going on two year," she faintly answered. "but, oh! it keeps him quiet when i've nought else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit of sleep lying there, if he's getten [14] nought beside. we han done our best to gi' the childer [15] food, howe'er we pinched ourselves." [footnote 14: "for he had _geten_ him yet no benefice."--_prologue to canterbury tales._] [footnote 15: wicklife uses "_childre_" in his apology, page 26.] "han [16] ye had no money fra th' town?" [footnote 16: "what concord _han_ light and dark."--_spenser._] "no; my master is buckinghamshire born; and he's feared the town would send him back to his parish, if he went to th' board; so we've just borne on in hope o' better times. but i think they'll never come in my day;" and the poor woman began her weak high-pitched cry again. "here, sup [17] this drop o' gruel, and then try and get a bit o' sleep. john and i'll watch by your master to-night." [footnote 17: "and thay _soupe_ the brothe thereof."--_sir j. mandeville._] "god's blessing be on you!" she finished the gruel, and fell into a deep sleep. wilson covered her with his coat as well as he could, and tried to move lightly for fear of disturbing her; but there need have been no such dread, for her sleep was profound and heavy with exhaustion. once only she roused to pull the coat round her little child. and now all wilson's care, and barton's to boot, was wanted to restrain the wild mad agony of the fevered man. he started up, he yelled, he seemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety. he cursed and swore, which surprised wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who did not know the unbridled tongue of delirium. at length he seemed exhausted, and fell asleep; and barton and wilson drew near the fire, and talked together in whispers. they sat on the floor, for chairs there were none; the sole table was an old tub turned upside-down. they put out the candle and conversed by the flickering fire-light. "han yo known this chap long?" asked barton. "better nor three year. he's worked wi' carsons that long, and were alway a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as i said afore, somewhat of a methodee. i wish i'd gotten a letter he sent his missis, a week or two agone, when he were on tramp for work. it did my heart good to read it; for, yo see, i were a bit grumbling mysel; it seemed hard to be spunging on jem, and taking a' his flesh-meat money to buy bread for me and them as i ought to be keeping. but, yo know, though i can earn nought, i mun eat summut. well, as i telled ye, i were grumbling, when she (indicating the sleeping woman by a nod) brought me ben's letter, for she could na read hersel. it were as good as bible-words; ne'er a word o' repining; a' about god being our father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er he sends." "don ye think he's th' masters' father, too? i'd be loath to have 'em for brothers." "eh, john! donna talk so; sure there's many and many a master as good or better nor us." "if you think so, tell me this. how comes it they're rich, and we're poor? i'd like to know that. han they done as they'd be done by for us?" but wilson was no arguer; no speechifier as he would have called it. so barton, seeing he was likely to have it his own way, went on. "you'll say (at least many a one does), they'n [18] getten capital an' we'n getten none. i say, our labour's our capital and we ought to draw interest on that. they get interest on their capital somehow a' this time, while ourn is lying idle, else how could they all live as they do? besides, there's many on 'em as had nought to begin wi'; there's carsons, and duncombes, and mengies, and many another, as comed into manchester with clothes to their back, and that were all, and now they're worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out of our labour; why the very land as fetched but sixty pound twenty year agone is now worth six hundred, and that, too, is owing to our labour: but look at yo, and see me, and poor davenport yonder; whatten better are we? they'n screwed us down to th' lowest peg, in order to make their great big fortunes, and build their great big houses, and we, why we're just clemming, many and many of us. can you say there's nought wrong in this?" [footnote 18: "they'n," contraction of "they han," they have.] "well, barton, i'll not gainsay ye. but mr. carson spoke to me after th' fire, and says he, 'i shall ha' to retrench, and be very careful in my expenditure during these bad times, i assure ye;' so yo see th' masters suffer too." "han they ever seen a child o' their'n die for want o' food?" asked barton, in a low, deep voice. "i donnot mean," continued he, "to say as i'm so badly off. i'd scorn to speak for mysel; but when i see such men as davenport there dying away, for very clemming, i cannot stand it. i've but gotten mary, and she keeps hersel pretty much. i think we'll ha' to give up house-keeping; but that i donnot mind." and in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night of watching, wore away. as far as they could judge, davenport continued in the same state, although the symptoms varied occasionally. the wife slept on, only roused by a cry of her child now and then, which seemed to have power over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her. the watchers agreed, that as soon as it was likely mr. carson would be up and visible, wilson should go to his house, and beg for an infirmary order. at length the gray dawn penetrated even into the dark cellar. davenport slept, and barton was to remain there until wilson's return; so stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and reviving, even in that street of abominations, wilson took his way to mr. carson's. wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached mr. carson's house, which was almost in the country. the streets were not yet bustling and busy. the shopmen were lazily taking down the shutters, although it was near eight o'clock; for the day was long enough for the purchases people made in that quarter of the town, while trade was so flat. one or two miserable-looking women were setting off on their day's begging expedition. but there were few people abroad. mr. carson's was a good house, and furnished with disregard to expense. but in addition to lavish expenditure, there was much taste shown, and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned his rooms. as wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop and look; but then he thought it would not be respectful. so he hastened on to the kitchen door. the servants seemed very busy with preparations for breakfast; but good-naturedly, though hastily, told him to step in, and they could soon let mr. carson know he was there. so he was ushered into a kitchen hung round with glittering tins, where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of utensils hung round, at whose nature and use wilson amused himself by guessing. meanwhile, the servants bustled to and fro; an out-door man-servant came in for orders, and sat down near wilson; the cook broiled steaks, and the kitchen-maid toasted bread, and boiled eggs. the coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were so mixed and appetising, that wilson began to yearn for food to break his fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. if the servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. so wilson's craving turned to sickness, while they chattered on, making the kitchen's free and keen remarks upon the parlour. "how late you were last night, thomas!" "yes, i was right weary of waiting; they told me to be at the rooms by twelve; and there i was. but it was two o'clock before they called me." "and did you wait all that time in the street?" asked the housemaid, who had done her work for the present, and come into the kitchen for a bit of gossip. "my eye as like! you don't think i'm such a fool as to catch my death of cold, and let the horses catch their death too, as we should ha' done if we'd stopped there. no! i put th' horses up in th' stables at th' spread eagle, and went mysel, and got a glass or two by th' fire. they're driving a good custom, them, wi' coachmen. there were five on us, and we'd many a quart o' ale, and gin wi' it, to keep out cold." "mercy on us, thomas; you'll get a drunkard at last!" "if i do, i know whose blame it will be. it will be missis's, and not mine. flesh and blood can't sit to be starved to death on a coach-box, waiting for folks as don't know their own mind." a servant, semi-upper-housemaid, semi-lady's-maid, now came down with orders from her mistress. "thomas, you must ride to the fishmonger's, and say missis can't give above half-a-crown a pound for salmon for tuesday; she's grumbling because trade's so bad. and she'll want the carriage at three to go to the lecture, thomas; at the royal execution, you know." "ay, ay, i know." "and you'd better all of you mind your p's and q's, for she's very black this morning. she's got a bad headache." "it's a pity miss jenkins is not here to match her. lord! how she and missis did quarrel which had got the worst headaches; it was that miss jenkins left for; she would not give up having bad headaches, and missis could not abide any one to have 'em but herself." "missis will have her breakfast up-stairs, cook, and the cold partridge as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream in her coffee, and she thinks there's a roll left, and she would like it well buttered." so saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend to the young ladies' bell when they chose to ring, after their late assembly the night before. in the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast-table, sat the two mr. carsons, father and son. both were reading; the father a newspaper, the son a review, while they lazily enjoyed their nicely prepared food. the father was a prepossessing-looking old man; perhaps self-indulgent you might guess. the son was strikingly handsome, and knew it. his dress was neat and well appointed, and his manners far more gentlemanly than his father's. he was the only son, and his sisters were proud of him; his father and mother were proud of him: he could not set up his judgment against theirs; he was proud of himself. the door opened and in bounded amy, the sweet youngest daughter of the house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and glowing, and bright as a rosebud. she was too young to go to assemblies, at which her father rejoiced, for he had little amy with her pretty jokes, and her bird-like songs, and her playful caresses all the evening to amuse him in his loneliness; and she was not too much tired, like sophy and helen, to give him her sweet company at breakfast the next morning. he submitted willingly while she blinded him with her hands, and kissed his rough red face all over. she took his newspaper away after a little pretended resistance, and would not allow her brother harry to go on with his review. "i'm the only lady this morning, papa, so you know you must make a great deal of me." "my darling, i think you have your own way always, whether you're the only lady or not." "yes, papa, you're pretty good and obedient, i must say that; but i'm sorry to say harry is very naughty, and does not do what i tell him; do you, harry?" "i'm sure i don't know what you mean to accuse me of, amy; i expected praise and not blame; for did not i get you that eau de portugal from town, that you could not meet with at hughes', you little ungrateful puss?" "did you! oh, sweet harry; you're as sweet as eau de portugal yourself; you're almost as good as papa; but still you know you did go and forget to ask bigland for that rose, that new rose they say he has got." "no, amy, i did not forget. i asked him, and he has got the rose, _sans reproche_; but do you know, little miss extravagance, a very small one is half-a-guinea?" "oh, i don't mind. papa will give it me, won't you, dear father? he knows his little daughter can't live without flowers and scents." mr. carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed him into acquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one of her necessaries. life was not worth having without flowers. "then, amy," said her brother, "try and be content with peonies and dandelions." "oh, you wretch! i don't call them flowers. besides, you're every bit as extravagant. who gave half-a-crown for a bunch of lilies of the valley at yates', a month ago, and then would not let his poor little sister have them, though she went on her knees to beg them? answer me that, master hal." "not on compulsion," replied her brother, smiling with his mouth, while his eyes had an irritated expression, and he went first red, then pale, with vexed embarrassment. "if you please, sir," said a servant, entering the room, "here's one of the mill people wanting to see you; his name is wilson, he says." "i'll come to him directly; stay, tell him to come in here." amy danced off into the conservatory which opened out of the room, before the gaunt, pale, unwashed, unshaven weaver was ushered in. there he stood at the door, sleeking his hair with old country habit, and every now and then stealing a glance round at the splendour of the apartment. "well, wilson, and what do you want to-day, man?" "please, sir, davenport's ill of the fever, and i'm come to know if you've got an infirmary order for him?" "davenport--davenport; who is the fellow? i don't know the name." "he's worked in your factory better nor three year, sir." "very likely; i don't pretend to know the names of the men i employ; that i leave to the overlooker. so he's ill, eh?" "ay, sir, he's very bad; we want to get him in at the fever wards. "i doubt if i have an in-patient's order to spare; they're always wanted for accidents, you know. but i'll give you an out-patient's, and welcome." so saying, he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a minute, and then gave wilson an out-patient's order to be presented the following monday. monday! how many days there were before monday! meanwhile, the younger mr. carson had ended his review, and began to listen to what was going on. he finished his breakfast, got up, and pulled five shillings out of his pocket, which he gave to wilson as he passed him, for the "poor fellow." he went past quickly, and calling for his horse, mounted gaily, and rode away. he was anxious to be in time to have a look and a smile from lovely mary barton, as she went to miss simmonds'. but to-day he was to be disappointed. wilson left the house, not knowing whether to be pleased or grieved. it was long to monday, but they had all spoken kindly to him, and who could tell if they might not remember this, and do something before monday. besides, the cook, who, when she had had time to think, after breakfast was sent in, had noticed his paleness, had had meat and bread ready to put in his hand when he came out of the parlour; and a full stomach makes every one of us more hopeful. when he reached berry street, he had persuaded himself he bore good news, and felt almost elated in his heart. but it fell when he opened the cellar-door, and saw barton and the wife both bending over the sick man's couch with awe-struck, saddened look. "come here," said barton. "there's a change comed over him sin' yo left, is there not?" wilson looked. the flesh was sunk, the features prominent, bony, and rigid. the fearful clay-colour of death was over all. but the eyes were open and sensible, though the films of the grave were settling upon them. "he wakened fra his sleep, as yo left him in, and began to mutter and moan; but he soon went off again, and we never knew he were awake till he called his wife, but now she's here he's gotten nought to say to her." most probably, as they all felt, he could not speak, for his strength was fast ebbing. they stood round him still and silent; even the wife checked her sobs, though her heart was like to break. she held her child to her breast, to try and keep him quiet. their eyes were all fixed on the yet living one, whose moments of life were passing so rapidly away. at length he brought (with jerking, convulsive effort) his two hands into the attitude of prayer. they saw his lips move, and bent to catch the words, which came in gasps, and not in tones. "oh lord god! i thank thee, that the hard struggle of living is over." "oh, ben! ben!" wailed forth his wife, "have you no thought for me? oh, ben! ben! do say one word to help me through life." he could not speak again. the trump of the archangel would set his tongue free; but not a word more would it utter till then. yet he heard, he understood, and though sight failed, he moved his hand gropingly over the covering. they knew what he meant, and guided it to her head, bowed and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in her woe. it rested there, with a feeble pressure of endearment. the face grew beautiful, as the soul neared god. a peace beyond understanding came over it. the hand was a heavy, stiff weight on the wife's head. no more grief or sorrow for him. they reverently laid out the corpse--wilson fetching his only spare shirt to array it in. the wife still lay hidden in the clothes, in a stupor of agony. there was a knock at the door, and barton went to open it. it was mary, who had received a message from her father, through a neighbour, telling her where he was; and she had set out early to come and have a word with him before her day's work; but some errands she had to do for miss simmonds had detained her until now. "come in, wench!" said her father. "try if thou canst comfort yon poor, poor woman, kneeling down there. god help her." mary did not know what to say, or how to comfort; but she knelt down by her, and put her arm round her neck, and in a little while fell to crying herself so bitterly, that the source of tears was opened by sympathy in the widow, and her full heart was, for a time, relieved. and mary forgot all purposed meeting with her gay lover, harry carson; forgot miss simmonds' errands, and her anger, in the anxious desire to comfort the poor lone woman. never had her sweet face looked more angelic, never had her gentle voice seemed so musical as when she murmured her broken sentences of comfort. "oh, don't cry so, dear mrs. davenport, pray don't take on so. sure he's gone where he'll never know care again. yes, i know how lonesome you must feel; but think of your children. oh! we'll all help to earn food for 'em. think how sorry _he'd_ be, if he sees you fretting so. don't cry so, please don't." and she ended by crying herself, as passionately as the poor widow. it was agreed that the town must bury him; he had paid to a burial club as long as he could; but by a few weeks' omission, he had forfeited his claim to a sum of money now. would mrs. davenport and the little child go home with mary? the latter brightened up as she urged this plan; but no! where the poor, fondly loved remains were, there would the mourner be; and all that they could do was to make her as comfortable as their funds would allow, and to beg a neighbour to look in and say a word at times. so she was left alone with her dead, and they went to work that had work, and he who had none, took upon him the arrangements for the funeral. mary had many a scolding from miss simmonds that day for her absence of mind. to be sure miss simmonds was much put out by mary's non-appearance in the morning with certain bits of muslin, and shades of silk which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn that night; but it was true enough that mary did not mind what she was about; she was too busy planning how her old black gown (her best when her mother died) might be spunged, and turned, and lengthened into something like decent mourning for the widow. and when she went home at night (though it was very late, as a sort of retribution for her morning's negligence), she set to work at once, and was so busy, and so glad over her task, that she had, every now and then, to check herself in singing merry ditties, that she felt little accorded with the sewing on which she was engaged. so when the funeral day came, mrs. davenport was neatly arrayed in black, a satisfaction to her poor heart in the midst of her sorrow. barton and wilson both accompanied her, as she led her two elder boys, and followed the coffin. it was a simple walking funeral, with nothing to grate on the feelings of any; far more in accordance with its purpose, to my mind, than the gorgeous hearses, and nodding plumes, which form the grotesque funeral pomp of respectable people. there was no "rattling the bones over the stones," of the pauper's funeral. decently and quietly was he followed to the grave by one determined to endure her woe meekly for his sake. the only mark of pauperism attendant on the burial concerned the living and joyous, far more than the dead, or the sorrowful. when they arrived in the churchyard, they halted before a raised and handsome tombstone; in reality a wooden mockery of stone respectabilities which adorned the burial-ground. it was easily raised in a very few minutes, and below was the grave in which pauper bodies were piled until within a foot or two of the surface; when the soil was shovelled over, and stamped down, and the wooden cover went to do temporary duty over another hole. [19] but little they recked of this who now gave up their dead. [footnote 19: the case, to my certain knowledge, in one churchyard in manchester. there may be more.] chapter vii. jem wilson's repulse. "how infinite the wealth of love and hope garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses! and oh! what bankrupts in the world we feel, when death, like some remorseless creditor, seizes on all we fondly thought our own!" "the twins." the ghoul-like fever was not to be braved with impunity, and baulked of its prey. the widow had reclaimed her children; her neighbours, in the good samaritan sense of the word, had paid her little arrears of rent, and made her a few shillings beforehand with the world. she determined to flit from that cellar to another less full of painful associations, less haunted by mournful memories. the board, not so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case; and, instead of sending her to stoke claypole, her husband's buckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed to pay her rent. so food for four mouths was all she was now required to find; only for three she would have said; for herself and the unweaned child were but reckoned as one in her calculation. she had a strong heart, now her bodily strength had been recruited by a week or two of food, and she would not despair. so she took in some little children to nurse, who brought their daily food with them, which she cooked for them, without wronging their helplessness of a crumb; and when she had restored them to their mothers at night, she set to work at plain sewing, "seam, and gusset, and band," and sat thinking how she might best cheat the factory inspector, and persuade him that her strong, big, hungry ben was above thirteen. her plan of living was so far arranged, when she heard, with keen sorrow, that wilson's twin lads were ill of the fever. they had never been strong. they were like many a pair of twins, and seemed to have but one life divided between them. one life, one strength, and in this instance, i might almost say, one brain; for they were helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear to their parents and to their strong, active, manly, elder brother. they were late on their feet, late in talking, late every way; had to be nursed and cared for when other lads of their age were tumbling about in the street, and losing themselves, and being taken to the police-office miles away from home. still want had never yet come in at the door to make love for these innocents fly out at the window. nor was this the case even now, when jem wilson's earnings, and his mother's occasional charrings were barely sufficient to give all the family their fill of food. but when the twins, after ailing many days, and caring little for their meat, fell sick on the same afternoon, with the same heavy stupor of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so, each felt, though none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance for life. it was nearly a week before the tale of their illness spread as far as the court where the wilsons had once dwelt, and the bartons yet lived. alice had heard of the illness of her little nephews several days before, and had locked her cellar door, and gone off straight to her brother's house, in ancoats; but she was often absent for days, sent for, as her neighbours knew, to help in some sudden emergency of illness or distress, so that occasioned no surprise. margaret met jem wilson several days after his brothers were seriously ill, and heard from him the state of things at his home. she told mary of it as she entered the court late that evening; and mary listened with saddened heart to the strange contrast which such woeful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she had been hearing on her walk home. she blamed herself for being so much taken up with visions of the golden future, that she had lately gone but seldom on sunday afternoons, or other leisure time, to see mrs. wilson, her mother's friend; and with hasty purpose of amendment she only stayed to leave a message for her father with the next-door neighbour, and then went off at a brisk pace on her way to the house of mourning. she stopped with her hand on the latch of the wilsons' door, to still her beating heart, and listened to the hushed quiet within. she opened the door softly: there sat mrs. wilson in the old rocking-chair, with one sick, death-like boy lying on her knee, crying without let or pause, but softly, gently, as fearing to disturb the troubled, gasping child; while behind her, old alice let her fast-dropping tears fall down on the dead body of the other twin, which she was laying out on a board, placed on a sort of sofa-settee in a corner of the room. over the child, which yet breathed, the father bent, watching anxiously for some ground of hope, where hope there was none. mary stepped slowly and lightly across to alice. "ay, poor lad! god has taken him early, mary." mary could not speak; she did not know what to say; it was so much worse than she expected. at last she ventured to whisper, "is there any chance for the other one, think you?" alice shook her head, and told with a look that she believed there was none. she next endeavoured to lift the little body, and carry it to its old accustomed bed in its parents' room. but earnest as the father was in watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for all that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead son on his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried him upstairs as if afraid of wakening him. the other child gasped longer, louder, with more of effort. "we mun get him away from his mother. he cannot die while she's wishing him." "wishing him?" said mary, in a tone of inquiry. "ay; donno ye know what wishing means? there's none can die in the arms of those who are wishing them sore to stay on earth. the soul o' them as holds them won't let the dying soul go free; so it has a hard struggle for the quiet of death. we mun get him away fra' his mother, or he'll have a hard death, poor lile [20] fellow." [footnote 20: "lile," a north-country word for "little." "wit _leil_ labour to live."--_piers ploughman._] so without circumlocution she went and offered to take the sinking child. but the mother would not let him go, and looking in alice's face with brimming and imploring eyes, declared in earnest whispers, that she was not wishing him, that she would fain have him released from his suffering. alice and mary stood by with eyes fixed on the poor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till at last his mother said with a choking voice, "may happen [21] yo'd better take him, alice; i believe my heart's wishing him a' this while, for i cannot, no, i cannot bring mysel to let my two childer go in one day; i cannot help longing to keep him, and yet he sha'not suffer longer for me." [footnote 21: "may happen," perhaps.] she bent down, and fondly, oh! with what passionate fondness, kissed her child, and then gave him up to alice, who took him with tender care. nature's struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed his little life away in peace. then the mother lifted up her voice and wept. her cries brought her husband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers. again alice laid out the dead, mary helping with reverent fear. the father and mother carried him up-stairs to the bed, where his little brother lay in calm repose. mary and alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet sorrow for some time. then alice broke the silence by saying, "it will be bad news for jem, poor fellow, when he comes home." "where is he?" asked mary. "working over-hours at th' shop. they'n getten a large order fra' forrin parts; and yo' know, jem mun work, though his heart's well-nigh breaking for these poor laddies." again they were silent in thought, and again alice spoke first. "i sometimes think the lord is against planning. whene'er i plan over-much, he is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if he would ha' me put the future into his hands. afore christmas-time i was as full as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo' han heard how i've wished it this terrible long time. and a young lass from behind burton came into place in manchester last martinmas; so after awhile, she had a sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some cousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be to ha' me to bide wi' 'em, and look after th' childer, for they'n getten a big farm, and she's a deal to do among th' cows. so many a winter's night did i lie awake and think, that please god, come summer, i'd bid george and his wife good bye, and go home at last. little did i think how god almighty would baulk me, for not leaving my days in his hands, who had led me through the wilderness hitherto. here's george out o' work, and more cast down than ever i seed him; wanting every chip o' comfort he can get, e'en afore this last heavy stroke; and now i'm thinking the lord's finger points very clear to my fit abiding place; and i'm sure if george and jane can say 'his will be done,' it's no more than what i'm beholden to do." so saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as she could every vestige of sickness; making up the fire, and setting on the kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moans and sobs were occasionally heard in the room below. mary helped her in all these little offices. they were busy in this way when the door was softly opened, and jem came in, all grimed and dirty from his night-work, his soiled apron wrapped round his middle, in guise and apparel in which he would have been sorry at another time to have been seen by mary. but just now he hardly saw her; he went straight up to alice, and asked how the little chaps were. they had been a shade better at dinner-time, and he had been working away through the long afternoon, and far into the night, in the belief that they had taken the turn. he had stolen out during the half-hour allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now puffed out his jacket-pocket. he would make his aunt speak; he would not understand her shakes of the head and fast coursing tears. "they're both gone," said she. "dead!" "ay! poor fellows. they took worse about two o'clock. joe went first, as easy as a lamb, and will died harder like." "both!" "ay, lad! both. the lord has ta'en them from some evil to come, or he would na ha' made choice o' them. ye may rest sure o' that." jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his pocket the oranges he had bought. but he stayed long there, and at last his sturdy frame shook with his strong agony. the two women were frightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpowering grief. they cried afresh in company. mary's heart melted within her as she witnessed jem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her hand softly on his arm, said, "oh, jem, don't give way so; i cannot bear to see you." jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she had of comforting him. he did not speak, as though fearing to destroy by sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when her soft hand's touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice was whispering tenderness in his ear. yes! it might be very wrong; he could almost hate himself for it; with death and woe so surrounding him, it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by mary. "don't, jem, please don't," whispered she again, believing that his silence was only another form of grief. he could not contain himself. he took her hand in his firm yet trembling grasp, and said, in tones that instantly produced a revulsion in her mood, "mary, i almost loathe myself when i feel i would not give up this minute, when my brothers lie dead, and father and mother are in such trouble, for all my life that's past and gone. and, mary (as she tried to release her hand), you know what makes me feel so blessed." she did know--he was right there. but as he turned to catch a look at her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost amounting to vexation; a dread of him, that he thought was almost repugnance. he let her hand go, and she quickly went away to alice's side. "fool that i was--nay, wretch that i was--to let myself take this time of trouble to tell her how i loved her; no wonder that she turns away from such a selfish beast." partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural desire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the utmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went up-stairs to the chamber of death. mary mechanically helped alice in all the duties she performed through the remainder of that long night, but she did not see jem again. he remained up-stairs until after the early dawn showed mary that she need have no fear of going home through the deserted and quiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work hour. so leaving kind messages to george and jane wilson, and hesitating whether she might dare to send a few kind words to jem, and deciding that she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had been. "they had another morn than ours." mary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, or the broad daylight that poured in through the sky-window, or whether it was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink of sleep. her thoughts ran on jem's manner and words; not but what she had known the tale they told for many a day; but still she wished he had not put it so plainly. "oh dear," said she to herself, "i wish he would not mistake me so; i never dare to speak a common word o' kindness, but his eye brightens and his cheek flushes. it's very hard on me; for father and george wilson are old friends; and jem and i ha' known each other since we were quite children. i cannot think what possesses me, that i must always be wanting to comfort him when he's downcast, and that i must go meddling wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt's place to speak to him. i don't care for him, and yet, unless i'm always watching myself, i'm speaking to him in a loving voice. i think i cannot go right, for i either check myself till i'm downright cross to him, or else i speak just natural, and that's too kind and tender by half. and i'm as good as engaged to be married to another; and another far handsomer than jem; only i think i like jem's face best for all that; liking's liking, and there's no help for it. well, when i'm mrs. harry carson, may happen i can put some good fortune in jem's way. but will he thank me for it? he's rather savage at times, that i can see, and perhaps kindness from me, when i'm another's, will only go against the grain. i'll not plague myself wi' thinking any more about him, that i won't." so she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt of what was often in her waking thoughts; of the day when she should ride from church in her carriage, with wedding-bells ringing, and take up her astonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day court for ever, to live in a grand house, where her father should have newspapers, and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat dinners every day,--and all day long if he liked. such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the handsome young mr. carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day pass without contriving a meeting with the beautiful little milliner he had first seen while lounging in a shop where his sisters were making some purchases, and afterwards never rested till he had freely, though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily walks. he was, to use his own expression to himself, quite infatuated by her, and was restless each day till the time came when he had a chance, and, of late, more than a chance of meeting her. there was something of keen practical shrewdness about her, which contrasted very bewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldly ideas she had picked up from the romances which miss simmonds' young ladies were in the habit of recommending to each other. yes! mary was ambitious, and did not favour mr. carson the less because he was rich and a gentleman. the old leaven, infused years ago by her aunt esther, fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps all the more, for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle. such is the contrariness of the human heart, from eve downwards, that we all, in our old-adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest. so mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady, and doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood. it was a comfort to her, when scolded by miss simmonds, to think of the day when she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to order her gowns from the hasty tempered yet kind dressmaker. it was a pleasure to her to hear the general admiration of the two elder miss carsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horseback and on foot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk with them in loving sisterhood. but the best of her plans, the holiest, that which in some measure redeemed the vanity of the rest, were those relating to her father; her dear father, now oppressed with care, and always a disheartened, gloomy person. how she would surround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was to live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be very pleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter! every one who had shown her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a hundred-fold. such were the castles in air, the alnaschar-visions in which mary indulged, and which she was doomed in after days to expiate with many tears. meanwhile, her words--or, even more, her tones--would maintain their hold on jem wilson's memory. a thrill would yet come over him when he remembered how her hand had rested on his arm. the thought of her mingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss of his brothers. chapter viii. margaret's debut as a public singer. "deal gently with them, they have much endured. scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans, though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies. perchance, in the rough school of stern experience, they've something learned which theory does not teach; or if they greatly err, deal gently still, and let their error but the stronger plead 'give us the light and guidance that we need!'" love thoughts. one sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night, jem wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on john barton. he was dressed in his best, his sunday suit of course; while his face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. his dark black hair had been arranged and re-arranged before the household looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet nancy is its pretty lancashire name), hoping it would attract mary's notice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her. it was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that mary saw him some minutes before he came into her father's house. she was sitting at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind drawn on one side, in order that she might see the passers-by, in the intervals of reading her bible, which lay open before her. so she watched all the greeting a friend gave jem; she saw the face of condolence, the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange her own face and manner before jem came in, which he did, as if he had eyes for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire, while he read an old "northern star," borrowed from a neighbouring public-house. then he turned to mary, who, he felt by the sure instinct of love, by which almost his body thought, was present. her hands were busy adjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement jem could not help thinking. her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave; she felt that she reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or love. she was very cunning, i am afraid. she pretended to read diligently, and not to listen to a word that was said, while, in fact, she heard all sounds, even to jem's long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. at last she took up her bible, and as if their conversation disturbed her, went up-stairs to her little room. and she had scarcely spoken a word to jem; scarcely looked at him; never noticed his beautiful sweet nancy, which only awaited her least word of praise to be hers! he did not know--that pang was spared--that in her little dingy bed-room, stood a white jug, filled with a luxuriant bunch of early spring roses, making the whole room fragrant and bright. they were the gift of her richer lover. so jem had to go on sitting with john barton, fairly caught in his own trap, and had to listen to his talk, and answer him as best he might. "there's the right stuff in this here 'star,' and no mistake. such a right-down piece for short hours." "at the same rate of wages as now?" asked jem. "ay, ay! else where's the use? it's only taking out o' the masters' pocket what they can well afford. did i ever tell yo what th' infirmary chap let me into, many a year agone?" "no," said jem, listlessly. "well! yo must know i were in th' infirmary for a fever, and times were rare and bad; and there be good chaps there to a man, while he's wick, [22] whate'er they may be about cutting him up at after. [23] so when i were better o' th' fever, but weak as water, they says to me, says they, 'if yo can write, yo may stay in a week longer, and help our surgeon wi' sorting his papers; and we'll take care yo've your belly full o' meat and drink. yo'll be twice as strong in a week.' so there wanted but one word to that bargain. so i were set to writing and copying; th' writing i could do well enough, but they'd such queer ways o' spelling that i'd ne'er been used to, that i'd to look first at th' copy and then at my letters, for all the world like a cock picking up grains o' corn. but one thing startled me e'en then, and i thought i'd make bold to ask the surgeon the meaning o't. i've gotten no head for numbers, but this i know, that by _far th' greater part o' th' accidents as comed in, happened in th' last two hours o' work_, when folk getten tired and careless. th' surgeon said it were all true, and that he were going to bring that fact to light." [footnote 22: "wick," alive. anglo-saxon, cwic. "the _quick_ and the dead."--_book of common prayer._] [footnote 23: "at after." "_at after souper goth this noble king._" _chaucer; the squire's tale._] jem was pondering mary's conduct; but the pause made him aware he ought to utter some civil listening noise; so he said "very true." "ay, it's true enough, my lad, that we're sadly over-borne, and worse will come of it afore long. block-printers is going to strike; they'n getten a bang-up union, as won't let 'em be put upon. but there's many a thing will happen afore long, as folk don't expect. yo may take my word for that, jem." jem was very willing to take it, but did not express the curiosity he should have done. so john barton thought he'd try another hint or two. "working folk won't be ground to the dust much longer. we'n a' had as much to bear as human nature can bear. so, if th' masters can't do us no good, and they say they can't, we mun try higher folk." still jem was not curious. he gave up hope of seeing mary again by her own good free will; and the next best thing would be, to be alone to think of her. so, muttering something which he meant to serve as an excuse for his sudden departure, he hastily wished john good afternoon, and left him to resume his pipe and his politics. for three years past, trade had been getting worse and worse, and the price of provisions higher and higher. this disparity between the amount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of their food, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, disease and death. whole families went through a gradual starvation. they only wanted a dante to record their sufferings. and yet even his words would fall short of the awful truth; they could only present an outline of the tremendous facts of the destitution that surrounded thousands upon thousands in the terrible years 1839, 1840, and 1841. even philanthropists who had studied the subject, were forced to own themselves perplexed in their endeavour to ascertain the real causes of the misery; the whole matter was of so complicated a nature, that it became next to impossible to understand it thoroughly. it need excite no surprise then to learn that a bad feeling between working-men and the upper classes became very strong in this season of privation. the indigence and sufferings of the operatives induced a suspicion in the minds of many of them, that their legislators, their magistrates, their employers, and even the ministers of religion, were, in general, their oppressors and enemies; and were in league for their prostration and enthralment. the most deplorable and enduring evil that arose out of the period of commercial depression to which i refer, was this feeling of alienation between the different classes of society. it is so impossible to describe, or even faintly to picture, the state of distress which prevailed in the town at that time, that i will not attempt it; and yet i think again that surely, in a christian land, it was not known even so feebly as words could tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have thronged with their sympathy and their aid. in many instances the sufferers wept first, and then they cursed. their vindictive feelings exhibited themselves in rabid politics. and when i hear, as i have heard, of the sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision shops where ha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were sold to accommodate the indigent,--of parents sitting in their clothes by the fire-side during the whole night for seven weeks together, in order that their only bed and bedding might be reserved for the use of their large family,--of others sleeping upon the cold hearth-stone for weeks in succession, without adequate means of providing themselves with food or fuel (and this in the depth of winter),--of others being compelled to fast for days together, uncheered by any hope of better fortune, living, moreover, or rather starving, in a crowded garret, or damp cellar, and gradually sinking under the pressure of want and despair into a premature grave; and when this has been confirmed by the evidence of their care-worn looks, their excited feelings, and their desolate homes,--can i wonder that many of them, in such times of misery and destitution, spoke and acted with ferocious precipitation? an idea was now springing up among the operatives, that originated with the chartists, but which came at last to be cherished as a darling child by many and many a one. they could not believe that government knew of their misery; they rather chose to think it possible that men could voluntarily assume the office of legislators for a nation, ignorant of its real state; as who should make domestic rules for the pretty behaviour of children, without caring to know that those children had been kept for days without food. besides, the starving multitudes had heard, that the very existence of their distress had been denied in parliament; and though they felt this strange and inexplicable, yet the idea that their misery had still to be revealed in all its depths, and that then some remedy would be found, soothed their aching hearts, and kept down their rising fury. so a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the bright spring days of 1839, imploring parliament to hear witnesses who could testify to the unparalleled destitution of the manufacturing districts. nottingham, sheffield, glasgow, manchester, and many other towns, were busy appointing delegates to convey this petition, who might speak, not merely of what they had seen, and had heard, but from what they had borne and suffered. life-worn, gaunt, anxious, hunger-stamped men, were those delegates. one of them was john barton. he would have been ashamed to own the flutter of spirits his appointment gave him. there was the childish delight of seeing london--that went a little way, and but a little way. there was the vain idea of speaking out his notions before so many grand folk--that went a little further; and last, there was the really pure gladness of heart, arising from the idea that he was one of those chosen to be instruments in making known the distresses of the people, and consequently in procuring them some grand relief, by means of which they should never suffer want or care any more. he hoped largely, but vaguely, of the results of his expedition. an argosy of the precious hopes of many otherwise despairing creatures, was that petition to be heard concerning their sufferings. the night before the morning on which the manchester delegates were to leave for london, barton might be said to hold a levã©e, so many neighbours came dropping in. job legh had early established himself and his pipe by john barton's fire, not saying much, but puffing away, and imagining himself of use in adjusting the smoothing-irons that hung before the fire, ready for mary when she should want them. as for mary, her employment was the same as that of beau tibbs' wife, "just washing her father's two shirts," in the pantry back-kitchen; for she was anxious about his appearance in london. (the coat had been redeemed, though the silk handkerchief was forfeited.) the door stood open, as usual, between the houseplace and back-kitchen, so she gave her greeting to their friends as they entered. "so, john, yo're bound for london, are yo?" said one. "ay, i suppose i mun go," answered john, yielding to necessity as it were. "well, there's many a thing i'd like yo to speak on to the parliament people. thou'lt not spare 'em, john, i hope. tell 'em our minds; how we're thinking we've been clemmed long enough, and we donnot see whatten good they'n been doing, if they can't give us what we're all crying for sin' the day we were born." "ay, ay! i'll tell 'em that, and much more to it, when it gets to my turn; but thou knows there's many will have their word afore me." "well, thou'lt speak at last. bless thee, lad, do ask 'em to make th' masters break th' machines. there's never been good times sin' spinning-jennies came up." "machines is th' ruin of poor folk," chimed in several voices. "for my part," said a shivering, half-clad man, who crept near the fire, as if ague-stricken, "i would like thee to tell 'em to pass th' short-hours bill. flesh and blood gets wearied wi' so much work; why should factory hands work so much longer nor other trades? just ask 'em that, barton, will ye?" barton was saved the necessity of answering, by the entrance of mrs. davenport, the poor widow he had been so kind to; she looked half-fed, and eager, but was decently clad. in her hand she brought a little newspaper parcel, which she took to mary, who opened it, and then called out, dangling a shirt collar from her soapy fingers: "see, father, what a dandy you'll be in london! mrs. davenport has brought you this; made new cut, all after the fashion.--thank you for thinking on him." "eh, mary!" said mrs. davenport, in a low voice. "whatten's all i can do, to what he's done for me and mine? but, mary, sure i can help ye, for you'll be busy wi' this journey." "just help me wring these out, and then i'll take 'em to th' mangle." so mrs. davenport became a listener to the conversation; and after a while joined in. "i'm sure, john barton, if yo are taking messages to the parliament folk, yo'll not object to telling 'em what a sore trial it is, this law o' theirs, keeping childer fra' factory work, whether they be weakly or strong. there's our ben; why, porridge seems to go no way wi' him, he eats so much; and i han gotten no money to send him t' school, as i would like; and there he is, rampaging about th' streets a' day, getting hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a' manner o' bad ways; and th' inspector won't let him in to work in th' factory, because he's not right age; though he's twice as strong as sankey's little ritling [24] of a lad, as works till he cries for his legs aching so, though he is right age, and better." [footnote 24: "ritling," probably a corruption of "ricketling," a child that suffers from the rickets--a weakling.] "i've one plan i wish to tell john barton," said a pompous, careful-speaking man, "and i should like him for to lay it afore the honourable house. my mother comed out o' oxfordshire, and were under-laundry-maid in sir francis dashwood's family; and when we were little ones, she'd tell us stories of their grandeur; and one thing she named were, that sir francis wore two shirts a day. now he were all as one as a parliament man; and many on 'em, i han no doubt, are like extravagant. just tell 'em, john, do, that they'd be doing th' lancashire weavers a great kindness, if they'd ha' their shirts a' made o' calico; 'twould make trade brisk, that would, wi' the power o' shirts they wear." job legh now put in his word. taking the pipe out of his mouth, and addressing the last speaker, he said: "i'll tell ye what, bill, and no offence, mind ye; there's but hundreds of them parliament folk as wear so many shirts to their back; but there's thousands and thousands o' poor weavers as han only gotten one shirt i' th' world; ay, and don't know where t' get another when that rag's done, though they're turning out miles o' calico every day; and many a mile o't is lying in warehouses, stopping up trade for want o' purchasers. yo take my advice, john barton, and ask parliament to set trade free, so as workmen can earn a decent wage, and buy their two, ay and three, shirts a-year; that would make weaving brisk." he put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his puffing to make up for lost time. "i'm afeard, neighbours," said john barton, "i've not much chance o' telling 'em all yo say; what i think on, is just speaking out about the distress that they say is nought. when they hear o' children born on wet flags, without a rag t' cover 'em, or a bit o' food for th' mother; when they hear of folk lying down to die i' th' streets, or hiding their want i' some hole o' a cellar till death come to set 'em free; and when they hear o' all this plague, pestilence, and famine, they'll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess at now. howe'er, i han no objection, if so be there's an opening, to speak up for what yo say; anyhow, i'll do my best, and yo see now, if better times don't come after parliament knows all." some shook their heads, but more looked cheery; and then one by one dropped off, leaving john and his daughter alone. "didst thou mark how poorly jane wilson looked?" asked he, as they wound up their hard day's work by a supper eaten over the fire, which glowed and glimmered through the room, and formed their only light. "no, i can't say as i did. but she's never rightly held up her head since the twins died; and all along she has never been a strong woman." "never sin' her accident. afore that i mind her looking as fresh and likely a girl as e'er a one in manchester." "what accident, father?" "she cotched [25] her side again a wheel. it were afore wheels were boxed up. it were just when she were to have been married, and many a one thought george would ha' been off his bargain; but i knew he wern't the chap for that trick. pretty near the first place she went to when she were able to go about again, was th' oud church; poor wench, all pale and limping she went up the aisle, george holding her up as tender as a mother, and walking as slow as e'er he could, not to hurry her, though there were plenty enow of rude lads to cast their jests at him and her. her face were white like a sheet when she came in church, but afore she got to th' altar she were all one flush. but for a' that it's been a happy marriage, and george has stuck by me through life like a brother. he'll never hold up his head again if he loses jane. i didn't like her looks to-night." [footnote 25: "cotched," caught.] and so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sorrow to his friend mingling with his thoughts of to-morrow, and his hopes for the future. mary watched him set off, with her hands over her eyes to shade them from the bright slanting rays of the morning sun, and then she turned into the house to arrange its disorder before going to her work. she wondered if she should like or dislike the evening and morning solitude; for several hours when the clock struck she thought of her father, and wondered where he was; she made good resolutions according to her lights; and by-and-bye came the distractions and events of the broad full day to occupy her with the present, and to deaden the memory of the absent. one of mary's resolutions was, that she would not be persuaded or induced to see mr. harry carson during her father's absence. there was something crooked in her conscience after all; for this very resolution seemed an acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him at any time; and yet she had brought herself to think her conduct quite innocent and proper, for although unknown to her father, and certain, even did he know it, to fail of obtaining his sanction, she esteemed her love-meetings with mr. carson as sure to end in her father's good and happiness. but now that he was away, she would do nothing that he would disapprove of; no, not even though it was for his own good in the end. now, amongst miss simmonds' young ladies was one who had been from the beginning a confidant in mary's love affair, made so by mr. carson himself. he had felt the necessity of some third person to carry letters and messages, and to plead his cause when he was absent. in a girl named sally leadbitter he had found a willing advocate. she would have been willing to have embarked in a love-affair herself (especially a clandestine one), for the mere excitement of the thing; but her willingness was strengthened by sundry half-sovereigns, which from time to time mr. carson bestowed upon her. sally leadbitter was vulgar-minded to the last degree; never easy unless her talk was of love and lovers; in her eyes it was an honour to have had a long list of wooers. so constituted, it was a pity that sally herself was but a plain, red-haired, freckled girl; never likely, one would have thought, to become a heroine on her own account. but what she lacked in beauty she tried to make up for by a kind of witty boldness, which gave her what her betters would have called piquancy. considerations of modesty or propriety never checked her utterance of a good thing. she had just talent enough to corrupt others. her very good-nature was an evil influence. they could not hate one who was so kind; they could not avoid one who was so willing to shield them from scrapes by any exertion of her own; whose ready fingers would at any time make up for their deficiencies, and whose still more convenient tongue would at any time invent for them. the jews, or mohammedans (i forget which), believe that there is one little bone of our body, one of the vertebrã¦, if i remember rightly, which will never decay and turn to dust, but will lie incorrupt and indestructible in the ground until the last day: this is the seed of the soul. the most depraved have also their seed of the holiness that shall one day overcome their evil, their one good quality, lurking hidden, but safe, among all the corrupt and bad. sally's seed of the future soul was her love for her mother, an aged bedridden woman. for her she had self-denial; for her, her good-nature rose into tenderness; to cheer her lonely bed, her spirits, in the evenings when her body was often woefully tired, never flagged, but were ready to recount the events of the day, to turn them into ridicule, and to mimic, with admirable fidelity, any person gifted with an absurdity who had fallen under her keen eye. but the mother was lightly principled like sally herself; nor was there need to conceal from her the reason why mr. carson gave her so much money. she chuckled with pleasure, and only hoped that the wooing would be long a-doing. still neither she, nor her daughter, nor harry carson liked this resolution of mary, not to see him during her father's absence. one evening (and the early summer evenings were long and bright now), sally met mr. carson by appointment, to be charged with a letter for mary, imploring her to see him, which sally was to back with all her powers of persuasion. after parting from him she determined, as it was not so very late, to go at once to mary's, and deliver the message and letter. she found mary in great sorrow. she had just heard of george wilson's sudden death: her old friend, her father's friend, jem's father--all his claims came rushing upon her. though not guarded from unnecessary sight or sound of death, as the children of the rich are, yet it had so often been brought home to her this last three or four months. it was so terrible thus to see friend after friend depart. her father, too, who had dreaded jane wilson's death the evening before he set off. and she, the weakly, was left behind while the strong man was taken. at any rate the sorrow her father had so feared for him was spared. such were the thoughts which came over her. she could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were in her power to give; for she had resolved to avoid jem; and she felt that this of all others was not the occasion on which she could keep up a studiously cold manner. and in this shock of grief, sally leadbitter was the last person she wished to see. however, she rose to welcome her, betraying her tear-swollen face. "well, i shall tell mr. carson to-morrow how you're fretting for him; it's no more nor he's doing for you, i can tell you." "for him, indeed!" said mary, with a toss of her pretty head. "ay, miss, for him! you've been sighing as if your heart would break now for several days, over your work; now arn't you a little goose not to go and see one who i am sure loves you as his life, and whom you love; 'how much, mary?' 'this much,' as the children say" (opening her arms very wide). "nonsense," said mary, pouting; "i often think i don't love him at all." "and i'm to tell him that, am i, next time i see him?" asked sally. "if you like," replied mary. "i'm sure i don't care for that or any thing else now;" weeping afresh. but sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. she saw she had gone on the wrong tack, and that mary's heart was too full to value either message or letter as she ought. so she wisely paused in their delivery, and said in a more sympathetic tone than she had heretofore used, "do tell me, mary, what's fretting you so? you know i never could abide to see you cry." "george wilson's dropped down dead this afternoon," said mary, fixing her eyes for one minute on sally, and the next hiding her face in her apron as she sobbed anew. "dear, dear! all flesh is grass; here to-day and gone to-morrow, as the bible says. still he was an old man, and not good for much; there's better folk than him left behind. is th' canting old maid as was his sister alive yet?" "i don't know who you mean," said mary, sharply; for she did know, and did not like to have her dear, simple alice so spoken of. "come, mary, don't be so innocent. is miss alice wilson alive, then; will that please you? i haven't seen her hereabouts lately." "no, she's left living here. when the twins died she thought she could, may be, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and alice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen to her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar and went to live with them." "well, good go with her. i'd no fancy for her, and i'd no fancy for her making my pretty mary into a methodee." "she wasn't a methodee, she was church o' england." "well, well, mary, you're very particular. you know what i meant. look, who is this letter from?" holding up henry carson's letter. "i don't know, and don't care," said mary, turning very red. "my eye! as if i didn't know you did know and did care." "well, give it me," said mary, impatiently, and anxious in her present mood for her visitor's departure. sally relinquished it unwillingly. she had, however, the pleasure of seeing mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed to say the writer was not indifferent to her. "you must tell him i can't come," said mary, raising her eyes at last. "i have said i won't meet him while father is away, and i won't." "but, mary, he does so look for you. you'd be quite sorry for him, he's so put out about not seeing you. besides you go when your father's at home, without letting on [26] to him, and what harm would there be in going now?" [footnote 26: "letting on," informing. in anglo-saxon, one meaning of "lã¦tan" was "to admit;" and we say, to _let_ out a secret.] "well, sally! you know my answer, i won't; and i won't." "i'll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, instead o' sending me; he'd may be find you not so hard to deal with." mary flashed up. "if he dares to come here while father's away, i'll call the neighbours in to turn him out, so don't be putting him up to that." "mercy on us! one would think you were the first girl that ever had a lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shame of?" "hush, sally! that's margaret jennings at the door." and in an instant margaret was in the room. mary had begged job legh to let her come and sleep with her. in the uncertain fire-light you could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind person. "well, i must go, mary," said sally. "and that's your last word?" "yes, yes; good-night." she shut the door gladly on her unwelcome visitor--unwelcome at that time at least. "oh margaret, have ye heard this sad news about george wilson?" "yes, that i have. poor creatures, they've been sore tried lately. not that i think sudden death so bad a thing; it's easy, and there's no terrors for him as dies. for them as survives it's very hard. poor george! he were such a hearty looking man." "margaret," said mary, who had been closely observing her friend, "thou'rt very blind to-night, arn't thou? is it wi' crying? your eyes are so swollen and red." "yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. han ye heard where i was last night?" "no; where?" "look here." she held up a bright golden sovereign. mary opened her large gray eyes with astonishment. "i'll tell you all how and about it. you see there's a gentleman lecturing on music at th' mechanics', and he wants folk to sing his songs. well, last night th' counter got a sore throat and couldn't make a note. so they sent for me. jacob butterworth had said a good word for me, and they asked me would i sing? you may think i was frightened, but i thought now or never, and said i'd do my best. so i tried o'er the songs wi' th' lecturer, and then th' managers told me i were to make myself decent and be there by seven." "and what did you put on?" asked mary. "oh, why didn't you come in for my pretty pink gingham?" "i did think on't; but you had na come home then. no! i put on my merino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did my hair pretty tidy; it did well enough. well, but as i was saying, i went at seven. i couldn't see to read my music, but i took th' paper in wi' me, to ha' somewhat to do wi' my fingers. th' folks' heads danced, as i stood as right afore 'em all as if i'd been going to play at ball wi' 'em. you may guess i felt squeamish, but mine weren't the first song, and th' music sounded like a friend's voice, telling me to take courage. so to make a long story short, when it were all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th' managers said as how there never was a new singer so applauded (for they'd clapped and stamped after i'd done, till i began to wonder how many pair o' shoes they'd get through a week at that rate, let alone their hands). so i'm to sing again o' thursday; and i got a sovereign last night, and am to have half-a-sovereign every night th' lecturer is at th' mechanics'." "well, margaret, i'm right glad to hear it." "and i don't think you've heard the best bit yet. now that a way seemed opened to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it did please god to make me blind, i thought i'd tell grandfather. i only telled him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for i thought i'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart; but this morning i telled him all." "and how did he take it?" "he's not a man of many words; and it took him by surprise like." "i wonder at that; i've noticed it in your ways ever since you telled me." "ay, that's it! if i'd not telled you, and you'd seen me every day, you'd not ha' noticed the little mite o' difference fra' day to day." "well, but what did your grandfather say?" "why, mary," said margaret, half smiling, "i'm a bit loath to tell yo, for unless yo knew grandfather's ways like me, yo'd think it strange. he were taken by surprise, and he said: 'damn yo!' then he began looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, while i telled him all about it; how i'd feared, and how downcast i'd been; and how i were now reconciled to it, if it were th' lord's will; and how i hoped to earn money by singing; and while i were talking, i saw great big tears come dropping on th' book; but in course i never let on that i saw 'em. dear grandfather! and all day long he's been quietly moving things out o' my way, as he thought might trip me up, and putting things in my way, as he thought i might want; never knowing i saw and felt what he were doing; for, yo see, he thinks i'm out and out blind, i guess--as i shall be soon." margaret sighed, in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone. though mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better to let it pass without notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarely fails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting her friend's musical debut, which tended to bring out more distinctly how successful it had been. "why, margaret," at length she exclaimed, "thou'lt become as famous, may be, as that grand lady fra' london, as we seed one night driving up to th' concert room door in her carriage." "it looks very like it," said margaret, with a smile. "and be sure, mary, i'll not forget to give thee a lift now an' then when that comes about. nay, who knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but mayhappen i may make thee my lady's maid! wouldn't that be nice? so i'll e'en sing to mysel' th' beginning o' one o' my songs, 'an' ye shall walk in silk attire, an' siller hae to spare.'" "nay, don't stop; or else give me something a bit more new, for somehow i never quite liked that part about thinking o' donald mair." "well, though i'm a bit tir'd, i don't care if i do. before i come, i were practising well nigh upon two hours this one which i'm to sing o' thursday. th' lecturer said he were sure it would just suit me, and i should do justice to it; and i should be right sorry to disappoint him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me. eh! mary, what a pity there isn't more o' that way, and less scolding and rating i' th' world! it would go a vast deal further. beside, some o' th' singers said they were a'most certain it were a song o' his own, because he were so fidgetty and particular about it, and so anxious i should give it th' proper expression. and that makes me care still more. th' first verse, he said, were to be sung 'tenderly, but joyously!' i'm afraid i don't quite hit that, but i'll try. 'what a single word can do! thrilling all the heart-strings through, calling forth fond memories, raining round hope's melodies, steeping all in one bright hue- what a single word can do!' now it falls into th' minor key, and must be very sad like. i feel as if i could do that better than t'other. 'what a single word can do! making life seem all untrue, driving joy and hope away, leaving not one cheering ray blighting every flower that grew- what a single word can do!'" margaret certainly made the most of this little song. as a factory worker, listening outside, observed, "she spun it reet [27] fine!" and if she only sang it at the mechanics' with half the feeling she put into it that night, the lecturer must have been hard to please, if he did not admit that his expectations were more than fulfilled. [footnote 27: "reet," right; often used for "very."] when it was ended, mary's looks told more than words could have done what she thought of it; and partly to keep in a tear which would fain have rolled out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, "for certain, th' carriage is coming. so let us go and dream on it." chapter ix. barton's london experiences. "a life of self-indulgence is for us, a life of self-denial is for them; for us the streets, broad-built and populous, for them unhealthy corners, garrets dim, and cellars where the water-rat may swim! for us green paths refreshed by frequent rain, for them dark alleys where the dust lies grim! not doomed by us to this appointed pain- god made us rich and poor--of what do these complain?" mrs. norton's "child of the islands." the next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant rain, just the rain to waken up the flowers. but in manchester, where, alas! there are no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect; the streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses were wet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty. indeed, most kept within-doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the little paved courts. mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardly settled herself before she heard some one fumbling at the door. the noise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open it. there stood--could it be? yes it was, her father! drenched and way-worn, there he stood! he came in with no word to mary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting. he sat down by the fire in his wet things, unheeding. but mary would not let him so rest. she ran up and brought down his working-day clothes, and went into the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provision while he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as she could, though her father's depression hung like lead on her heart. for mary, in her seclusion at miss simmonds',--where the chief talk was of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which such and such gowns would be wanted, varied with a slight whispered interlude occasionally about love and lovers,--had not heard the political news of the day: that parliament had refused to listen to the working-men, when they petitioned with all the force of their rough, untutored words to be heard concerning the distress which was riding, like the conqueror on his pale horse, among the people; which was crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marks over the land. when he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat in silence for some time; for mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yet durst not ask. in this she was wise; for when we are heavy laden in our hearts, it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in our own way, and our own time. mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise, and stole her hand into his, while his sadness infected her, and she "caught the trick of grief, and sighed," she knew not why. "mary, we mun speak to our god to hear us, for man will not hearken; no, not now, when we weep tears o' blood." in an instant mary understood the fact, if not the details, that so weighed down her father's heart. she pressed his hand with silent sympathy. she did not know what to say, and was so afraid of speaking wrongly, that she was silent. but when his attitude had remained unchanged for more than half-an-hour, his eyes gazing vacantly and fixedly at the fire, no sound but now and then a deep drawn sigh to break the weary ticking of the clock, and the drip-drop from the roof without, mary could bear it no longer. any thing to rouse her father. even bad news. "father, do you know george wilson's dead?" (her hand was suddenly and almost violently compressed.) "he dropped down dead in oxford road yester morning. it's very sad, isn't it, father?" her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her father's face for sympathy. still the same fixed look of despair, not varied by grief for the dead. "best for him to die," he said, in a low voice. this was unbearable. mary got up under pretence of going to tell margaret that she need not come to sleep with her to-night, but really to ask job legh to come and cheer her father. she stopped outside their door. margaret was practising her singing, and through the still night air her voice rang out like that of an angel. "comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your god." the old hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on mary's heart. she could not interrupt. she stood listening and "comforted," till the little buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and told her errand. both grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly to fulfil her request. "he's just tired out, mary," said old job. "he'll be a different man to-morrow." there is no describing the looks and tones that have power over an aching, heavy laden heart; but in an hour or so john barton was talking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as was natural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope of many. "ay, london's a fine place," said he, "and finer folk live in it than i ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th' story-books. they are having their good things now, that afterwards they may be tormented." still at the old parable of dives and lazarus! does it haunt the minds of the rich as it does those of the poor? "do tell us all about london, dear father," asked mary, who was sitting at her old post by her father's knee. "how can i tell yo a' about it, when i never seed one-tenth of it. it's as big as six manchesters, they telled me. one-sixth may be made up o' grand palaces, and three-sixths o' middling kind, and th' rest o' holes o' iniquity and filth, such as manchester knows nought on, i'm glad to say." "well, father, but did you see th' queen?" "i believe i didn't, though one day i thought i'd seen her many a time. you see," said he, turning to job legh, "there were a day appointed for us to go to parliament house. we were most on us biding at a public-house in holborn, where they did very well for us. th' morning of taking our petition we'd such a spread for breakfast as th' queen hersel might ha' sitten down to. i suppose they thought we wanted putting in heart. there were mutton kidneys, and sausages, and broiled ham, and fried beef and onions; more like a dinner nor a breakfast. many on our chaps though, i could see, could eat but little. th' food stuck in their throats when they thought o' them at home, wives and little ones, as had, may be at that very time, nought to eat. well, after breakfast, we were all set to walk in procession, and a time it took to put us in order, two and two, and the petition as was yards long, carried by th' foremost pairs. the men looked grave enough, yo may be sure; and such a set of thin, wan, wretched-looking chaps as they were!" "yourself is none to boast on." "ay, but i were fat and rosy to many a one. well, we walked on and on through many a street, much the same as deansgate. we had to walk slowly, slowly, for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged th' streets. i thought by-and-bye we should may be get clear on 'em, but as th' streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were fairly blocked up at oxford street. we getten across at last though, and my eyes! the grand streets we were in then! they're sadly puzzled how to build houses though in london; there'd be an opening for a good steady master-builder there, as know'd his business. for yo see the houses are many on 'em built without any proper shape for a body to live in; some on 'em they've after thought would fall down, so they've stuck great ugly pillars out before 'em. and some on 'em (we thought they must be th' tailor's sign) had getten stone men and women as wanted clothes stuck on 'em. i were like a child, i forgot a' my errand in looking about me. by this it were dinner-time, or better, as we could tell by th' sun, right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, going a step now and a step then. well, at last we getten into a street grander nor all, leading to th' queen's palace, and there it were i thought i saw th' queen. yo've seen th' hearses wi' white plumes, job?" job assented. "well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in london. wellnigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o' them plumes for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. it were th' queen's drawing-room, they said, and th' carriages went bowling along toward her house, some wi' dressed up gentlemen like circus folk in 'em, and rucks [28] o' ladies in others. carriages themselves were great shakes too. some o' th' gentlemen as couldn't get inside hung on behind, wi' nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off folk as might splash their silk stockings. i wondered why they didn't hire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but i suppose they wished to keep wi' their wives, darby and joan like. coachmen were little squat men, wi' wigs like th' oud fashioned parsons. well, we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited and waited. th' horses were too fat to move quick; they'n never known want o' food, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushed us back when we tried to cross. one or two on 'em struck wi' their sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put their spy-glasses in their eye, and left 'em sticking there like mountebanks. one o' th' police struck me. 'whatten business have yo to do that?' said i. [footnote 28: "rucks," a great quantity.] "'you're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing way (for londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's and i's properly), 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting the ladies and gentlemen going to her majesty's drawing-room.' "'and why are we to be molested?' asked i, 'going decently about our business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one clemming at home in lancashire? which business is of most consequence i' the sight o' god, think yo, our'n or them gran ladies and gentlemen as yo think so much on?' "but i might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed." john ceased. after waiting a little to see if he would go on of himself, job said, "well, but that's not a' your story, man. tell us what happened when yo got to th' parliament house." after a little pause john answered, "if yo please, neighbour, i'd rather say nought about that. it's not to be forgotten or forgiven either by me or many another; but i canna tell of our down-casting just as a piece of london news. as long as i live, our rejection that day will bide in my heart; and as long as i live i shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but i'll not speak of it no [29] more." [footnote 29: a similar use of a double negative is not unfrequent in chaucer; as in the "miller's tale": "that of no wife toke he non offering for curtesie, he sayd, he n'old non."] so, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes. old job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good they had done in dispelling john barton's gloom was lost. so after awhile he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from the last to jar on the full heart, nor too much the same to cherish the continuance of the gloomy train of thought. "did you ever hear tell," said he to mary, "that i were in london once?" "no!" said she, with surprise, and looking at job with increased respect. "ay, but i were though, and peg there too, though she minds nought about it, poor wench! you must know i had but one child, and she were margaret's mother. i loved her above a bit, and one day when she came (standing behind me for that i should not see her blushes, and stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and frank jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy if they were married, i could not find in my heart t' say her nay, though i went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home. howe'er, she were my only child, and i never said nought of what i felt, for fear o' grieving her young heart. but i tried to think o' the time when i'd been young mysel, and had loved her blessed mother, and how we'd left father and mother and gone out into th' world together, and i'm now right thankful i held my peace, and didna fret her wi' telling her how sore i was at parting wi' her that were the light o' my eyes." "but," said mary, "you said the young man were a neighbour." "ay, so he were; and his father afore him. but work were rather slack in manchester, and frank's uncle sent him word o' london work and london wages, so he were to go there; and it were there margaret was to follow him. well, my heart aches yet at thought of those days. she so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted sadly behind their backs. they were married, and stayed some days wi' me afore setting off; and i've often thought sin' margaret's heart failed her many a time those few days, and she would fain ha' spoken; but i knew fra' mysel it were better to keep it pent up, and i never let on what i were feeling. i knew what she meant when she came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o' loving me. well, they went at last. you know them two letters, margaret?" "yes, sure," replied his grand-daughter. "well, them two were the only letters i ever had fra' her, poor lass. she said in them she were very happy, and i believe she were. and frank's family heard he were in good work. in one o' her letters, poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'farewell, grandad!' wi' a line drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints i knew she were in th' family way; and i said nought, but i screwed up a little money, thinking come whitsuntide i'd take a holiday and go and see her an' th' little one. but one day towards whitsuntide comed jennings wi' a grave face, and says he, 'i hear our frank and your margaret's both getten the fever.' you might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw, for it seemed as if god told me what th' upshot would be. old jennings had gotten a letter, yo see, fra' the landlady they lodged wi'; a well-penned letter, asking if they'd no friends to come and nurse them. she'd caught it first, and frank, who was as tender o' her as her own mother could ha' been, had nursed her till he'd caught it himsel; and she expecting her down-lying [30] every day. well, t' make a long story short, old jennings and i went up by that night's coach. so you see, mary, that was the way i got to london." [footnote 30: "down-lying," lying-in.] "but how was your daughter when you got there?" asked mary, anxiously. "she were at rest, poor wench, and so were frank. i guessed as much when i see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when she opened th' door to us. we said, 'where are they?' and i knew they were dead, fra' her look; but jennings didn't, as i take it; for when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and underneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out as if he'd been a woman. "yet he'd other childer and i'd none. there lay my darling, my only one. she were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, not one. i disremember [31] rightly what i did; but i know i were very quiet, while my heart were crushed within me. [footnote 31: "disremember," forget.] "jennings could na' stand being in th' room at all, so th' landlady took him down, and i were glad to be alone. it grew dark while i sat there; and at last th' landlady come up again, and said, 'come here.' so i got up and walked into th' light, but i had to hold by th' stair-rails, i were so weak and dizzy. she led me into a room, where jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket handkercher over his head for a night-cap. she said he'd cried himself fairly off to sleep. there were tea on th' table all ready; for she were a kind-hearted body. but she still said, 'come here,' and took hold o' my arm. so i went round the table, and there were a clothes-basket by th' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it. 'lift that up,' says she, and i did; and there lay a little wee babby fast asleep. my heart gave a leap, and th' tears comed rushing into my eyes first time that day. 'is it hers?' said i, though i knew it were. 'yes,' said she. 'she were getting a bit better o' the fever, and th' babby were born; and then the poor young man took worse and died, and she were not many hours behind.' "little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her angel come back to comfort me. i were quite jealous o' jennings whenever he went near the babby. i thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n, and yet i were afeared he would claim it. however, that were far enough fra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and as i found out at after he'd all along been wishing me to take it. well, we buried margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyard in london. i were loath to leave them there, as i thought, when they rose again, they'd feel so strange at first away fra manchester, and all old friends; but it couldna be helped. well, god watches o'er their grave there as well as here. that funeral cost a mint o' money, but jennings and i wished to do th' thing decent. then we'd the stout little babby to bring home. we'd not overmuch money left; but it were fine weather, and we thought we'd take th' coach to brummagem, and walk on. it were a bright may morning when last i saw london town, looking back from a big hill a mile or two off. and in that big mass o' a place i were leaving my blessed child asleep--in her last sleep. well, god's will be done! she's gotten to heaven afore me; but i shall get there at last, please god, though it's a long while first. "the babby had been fed afore we set out, and th' coach moving kept it asleep, bless its little heart. but when th' coach stopped for dinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies. [32] so we asked for some bread and milk, and jennings took it first for to feed it; but it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o' th' four corners. 'shake it, jennings,' says i; 'that's the way they make water run through a funnel, when it's o'er full; and a child's mouth is broad end o' th' funnel, and th' gullet the narrow one.' so he shook it, but it only cried th' more. 'let me have it,' says i, thinking he were an awkward oud chap. but it were just as bad wi' me. by shaking th' babby we got better nor a gill into its mouth, but more nor that came up again, wetting a' th' nice dry clothes landlady had put on. well, just as we'd gotten to th' dinner-table, and helped oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came in th' guard, and a fine chap wi' a sample o' calico flourishing in his hand. 'coach is ready!' says one; 'half-a-crown your dinner!' says th' other. well, we thought it a deal for both our dinners, when we'd hardly tasted 'em; but, bless your life, it were half-a-crown apiece, and a shilling for th' bread and milk as were possetted all over babby's clothes. we spoke up again [33] it; but every body said it were the rule, so what could two poor oud chaps like us do again it? well, poor babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra' that time till we got to brummagem for the night. my heart ached for th' little thing. it caught wi' its wee mouth at our coat sleeves and at our mouths, when we tried t' comfort it by talking to it. poor little wench! it wanted its mammy, as were lying cold in th' grave. 'well,' says i, 'it'll be clemmed to death, if it lets out its supper as it did its dinner. let's get some woman to feed it; it comes natural to women to do for babbies.' so we asked th' chamber-maid at the inn, and she took quite kindly to it; and we got a good supper, and grew rare and sleepy, what wi' th' warmth, and wi' our long ride i' th' open air. th' chamber-maid said she would like t' have it t' sleep wi' her, only missis would scold so; but it looked so quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that we thought 'twould be no trouble to have it wi' us. i says: 'see, jennings, how women-folk do quieten babbies; it's just as i said.' he looked grave; he were always thoughtful-looking, though i never heard him say any thing very deep. at last says he- [footnote 32: "pobbies," or "pobs," child's porridge.] [footnote 33: "again," for against. "he that is not with me, he is ageyn me."--_wickliffe's version._] "'young woman! have you gotten a spare night-cap?' "'missis always keeps night-caps for gentlemen as does not like to unpack,' says she, rather quick. "'ay, but young woman, it's one of your night-caps i want. th' babby seems to have taken a mind to yo; and may be in th' dark it might take me for yo if i'd getten your night-cap on.' "the chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but i laughed outright at th' oud bearded chap thinking he'd make hissel like a woman just by putting on a woman's cap. howe'er he'd not be laughed out on't, so i held th' babby till he were in bed. such a night as we had on it! babby began to scream o' th' oud fashion, and we took it turn and turn about to sit up and rock it. my heart were very sore for th' little one, as it groped about wi' its mouth; but for a' that i could scarce keep fra' smiling at th' thought o' us two oud chaps, th' one wi' a woman's night-cap on, sitting on our hinder ends for half th' night, hushabying a babby as wouldn't be hushabied. toward morning, poor little wench! it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi' crying, but even in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra' the very bottom of its little heart, that once or twice i almost wished it lay on its mother's breast, at peace for ever. jennings fell asleep too; but i began for to reckon up our money. it were little enough we had left, our dinner the day afore had ta'en so much. i didn't know what our reckoning would be for that night lodging, and supper, and breakfast. doing a sum alway sent me asleep ever sin' i were a lad; so i fell sound in a short time, and were only wakened by chambermaid tapping at th' door, to say she'd dress the babby afore her missis were up if we liked. but bless yo', we'd never thought o' undressing it th' night afore, and now it were sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o' the peace and quietness, that we thought it were no good to waken it up to screech again. "well! (there's mary asleep for a good listener!) i suppose you're getting weary of my tale, so i'll not be long over ending it. th' reckoning left us very bare, and we thought we'd best walk home, for it were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for nought, save victuals. so we left brummagem, (which is as black a place as manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a' that day, carrying babby turn and turn about. it were well fed by chambermaid afore we left, and th' day were fine, and folk began to have some knowledge o' th' proper way o' speaking, and we were more cheery at thoughts o' home (though mine, god knows, were lonesome enough). we stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time [34] we getten a good meal at a public-house, an' fed th' babby as well as we could, but that were but poorly. we got a crust too, for it to suck--chambermaid put us up to that. that night, whether we were tired or whatten, i don't know, but it were dree [35] work, and poor wench had slept out her sleep, and began th' cry as wore my heart out again. says jennings, says he, [footnote 34: "baggin-time," time of the evening meal.] [footnote 35: "dree," long and tedious. anglo-saxon, "dreogan," to suffer, to endure.] "'we should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top o' the coach yesterday.' "'nay, lad! we should ha' had more to walk, if we had na ridden, and i'm sure both you and i'se [36] weary o' tramping.' [footnote 36: "i have not been, nor _is_, nor never schal."--_wickliffe's "apology," p. 1._] "so he were quiet a bit. but he were one o' them as were sure to find out somewhat had been done amiss, when there were no going back to undo it. so presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak, and i says to mysel, 'at it again, my lad.' says he, "'i ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha' been better for my son if he had never begun to keep company wi' your daughter.' "well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that i were carrying _her_ babby, i think i should ha' struck him. at last i could hold in no longer, and says i, "'better say at once it would ha' been better for god never to ha' made th' world, for then we'd never ha' been in it, to have had th' heavy hearts we have now.' "well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but i thought his way of casting up again th' events god had pleased to send, were worse blasphemy. howe'er, i said nought more angry, for th' little babby's sake, as were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' my dead daughter. "th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end at last; and we were foot-sore and tired enough, and to my mind th' babby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear its little wail; i'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday's hearty cries. we were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too, motherless babby! we could see no public-house, so about six o'clock (only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage where a woman were moving about near th' open door. says i, 'good woman, may we rest us a bit?' 'come in,' says she, wiping a chair, as looked bright enough afore, wi' her apron. it were a cheery, clean room; and we were glad to sit down again, though i thought my legs would never bend at th' knees. in a minute she fell a noticing th' babby, and took it in her arms, and kissed it again and again. 'missis,' says i, 'we're not without money, and if yo'd give us somewhat for breakfast, we'd pay yo honest, and if yo would wash and dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies down its throat, for it's well-nigh clemmed, i'd pray for yo' till my dying day.' so she said nought, but gived me th' babby back, and afore yo' could say jack robinson, she'd a pan on th' fire, and bread and cheese on th' table. when she turned round, her face looked red, and her lips were tight pressed together. well! we were right down glad on our breakfast, and god bless and reward that woman for her kindness that day; she fed th' poor babby as gently and softly, and spoke to it as tenderly as its own poor mother could ha' done. it seemed as if that stranger and it had known each other afore, maybe in heaven, where folk's spirits come from they say; th' babby looked up so lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more like a dove than aught else. then she undressed it (poor darling! it were time), touching it so softly; and washed it from head to foot, and as many on its things were dirty; and what bits o' things its mother had gotten ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra london, she put 'em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her apron, she pulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and hung down her breast, and unlocked a drawer in th' dresser. i were sorry to be prying, but i could na' help seeing in that drawer some little child's clothes, all strewed wi' lavendar, and lying by 'em a little whip an' a broken rattle. i began to have an insight into that woman's heart then. she took out a thing or two; and locked the drawer, and went on dressing babby. just about then come her husband down, a great big fellow as didn't look half awake, though it were getting late; but he'd heard all as had been said down-stairs, as were plain to be seen; but he were a gruff chap. we'd finished our breakfast, and jennings were looking hard at th' woman as she were getting the babby to sleep wi' a sort of rocking way. at length says he, 'i ha learnt th' way now; it's two jiggits and a shake, two jiggits and a shake. i can get that babby asleep now mysel.' "the man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone to th' door, and stood there whistling wi' his hands in his breeches-pockets, looking abroad. but at last he turns and says, quite sharp, "'i say, missis, i'm to have no breakfast to-day, i s'pose.' "so wi' that she kissed th' child, a long, soft kiss; and looking in my face to see if i could take her meaning, gave me th' babby without a word. i were loath to stir, but i saw it were better to go. so giving jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), i says, 'missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a jingle that she might na guess we were at all bare o' cash. so she looks at her husband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening wi' all his ears nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said, hesitating, as if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'should you think sixpence over much?' it were so different to public-house reckoning, for we'd eaten a main deal afore the chap came down. so says i, 'and, missis, what should we gie you for the babby's bread and milk?' (i had it once in my mind to say 'and for a' your trouble with it,' but my heart would na let me say it, for i could read in her ways how it had been a work o' love.) so says she, quite quick, and stealing a look at her husband's back, as looked all ear, if ever a back did, 'oh, we could take nought for the little babby's food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.' wi' that he looked at her; such a scowling look! she knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her hand on his arm. he seem'd as though he'd shake it off by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, 'for poor little johnnie's sake, richard.' he did not move or speak again, and after looking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat. she kissed th' sleeping babby as she passed, when i paid her. to quieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, i could na help slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we set off again. last look i had o' that woman she were quietly wiping her eyes wi' the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband's breakfast. but i shall know her in heaven." he stopped to think of that long-ago may morning, when he had carried his grand-daughter under the distant hedge-rows and beneath the flowering sycamores. "there's nought more to say, wench," said he to margaret, as she begged him to go on. "that night we reached manchester, and i'd found out that jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me, so i took her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me." they were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the current of their thoughts. then, almost simultaneously, their attention fell upon mary. sitting on her little stool, her head resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant, her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a bird steals to her leafy nest. her half-open mouth was as scarlet as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness of her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at each motion. her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed to form a nest-like pillow for her as she lay. her father in fond pride straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display its length and silkiness. the little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their fullest extent, "i'm not asleep. i've been awake all the time." even her father could not keep from smiling, and job legh and margaret laughed outright. "come, wench," said job, "don't look so gloppened [37] because thou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times. it were like enough to send thee to sleep. try if thou canst keep thine eyes open while i read thy father a bit on a poem as is written by a weaver like oursel. a rare chap i'll be bound is he who could weave verse like this." [footnote 37: "gloppened," amazed, frightened.] so adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem of samuel bamford's [38] he had picked up somewhere. [footnote 38: the fine-spirited author of "passages in the life of a radical"--a man who illustrates his order, and shows what nobility may be in a cottage.] god help the poor, who, on this wintry morn, come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure. god help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn, and meekly her affliction doth endure; god help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands, all wan her lips, and frozen red her hands; her sunken eyes are modestly down-cast, her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast; her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed, and oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed; her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn, god help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn! god help the poor! god help the poor! an infant's feeble wail comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold! a female crouching there, so deathly pale, huddling her child, to screen it from the cold; her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn; a thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold: and so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn, which almost to her heart hath sent its cold. and now she, sudden, darts a ravening look, as one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook; and, as the tempting load is onward borne, she weeps. god help thee, helpless one, forlorn! god help the poor! god help the poor! behold yon famished lad, no shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect; with limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad, he wanders onward, stopping to inspect each window, stored with articles of food. he yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal; oh! to the hungry palate, viands rude, would yield a zest the famished only feel! he now devours a crust of mouldy bread; with teeth and hands the precious boon is torn; unmindful of the storm that round his head impetuous sweeps. god help thee, child forlorn! god help the poor! god help the poor! another have i found- a bowed and venerable man is he; his slouched hat with faded crape is bound; his coat is gray, and threadbare too, i see. "the rude winds" seem "to mock his hoary hair;" his shirtless bosom to the blast is bare. anon he turns and casts a wistful eye, and with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray; and looks around, as if he fain would spy friends he had feasted in his better day: ah! some are dead; and some have long forborne to know the poor; and he is left forlorn! god help the poor! god help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell, or by far hills, where whin and heather grow; theirs is a story sad indeed to tell, yet little cares the world, and less 't would know about the toil and want men undergo. the wearying loom doth call them up at morn, they work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep, they taste, but are not fed. the snow drifts deep around the fireless cot, and blocks the door; the night-storm howls a dirge across the moor; and shall they perish thus--oppressed and lorn? shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne? no! god will yet arise, and help the poor. "amen!" said barton, solemnly, and sorrowfully. "mary! wench, couldst thou copy me them lines, dost think?--that's to say, if job there has no objection." "not i. more they're heard and read and the better, say i." so mary took the paper. and the next day, on the blank half sheet of a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she had once suspected to come from jem wilson--she copied bamford's beautiful little poem. chapter x. return of the prodigal. "my heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled with gloating on the ills i cannot cure." elliott. "then guard and shield her innocence, let her not fall like me; 'twere better, oh! a thousand times, she in her grave should be." "the outcast." despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds, foretelling the end of these dark prognostics. in times of sorrowful or fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mere repetition of old proverbs which tell the experience of our forefathers; but now, "it's a long lane that has no turning," "the weariest day draws to an end," &c., seemed false and vain sayings, so long and so weary was the pressure of the terrible times. deeper and deeper still sank the poor; it showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill men, that so few (in comparison) died during those times. but remember! we only miss those who do men's work in their humble sphere; the aged, the feeble, the children, when they die, are hardly noted by the world; and yet to many hearts, their deaths make a blank which long years will never fill up. remember, too, that though it may take much suffering to kill the able-bodied and effective members of society, it does _not_ take much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased creatures, who thenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and pain-stricken bodies. the people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard to bear, and had found its yoke heavy; but this year added sorely to its weight. former times had chastised them with whips, but this chastised them with scorpions. of course, barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. before he had gone up to london on his vain errand, he had been working short time. but in the hopes of speedy redress by means of the interference of parliament, he had thrown up his place; and now, when he asked leave to resume work, he was told they were diminishing their number of hands every week, and he was made aware by the remarks of fellow workmen, that a chartist delegate, and a leading member of a trades' union, was not likely to be favoured in his search after employment. still he tried to keep up a brave heart concerning himself. he knew he could bear hunger; for that power of endurance had been called forth when he was a little child, and had seen his mother hide her daily morsel to share it among her children, and when he, being the eldest, had told the noble lie, that "he was not hungry, could not eat a bit more," in order to imitate his mother's bravery, and still the sharp wail of the younger infants. mary, too, was secure of two meals a day at miss simmonds'; though, by the way, the dress-maker, too, feeling the effect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her apprentices, setting them the example of long abstinence by putting off her own meal until work was done for the night, however late that might be. but the rent! it was half-a-crown a week--nearly all mary's earnings--and much less room might do for them, only two.--(now came the time to be thankful that the early dead were saved from the evil to come.)--the agricultural labourer generally has strong local attachments; but they are far less common, almost obliterated, among the inhabitants of a town. still there are exceptions, and barton formed one. he had removed to his present house just after the last bad times, when little tom had sickened and died. he had then thought the bustle of a removal would give his poor stunned wife something to do, and he had taken more interest in the details of the proceeding than he otherwise would have done, in the hope of calling her forth to action again. so he seemed to know every brass-headed nail driven up for her convenience. one only had been displaced. it was esther's bonnet nail, which, in his deep revengeful anger against her, after his wife's death, he had torn out of the wall, and cast into the street. it would be hard work to leave that house, which yet seemed hallowed by his wife's presence in the happy days of old. but he was a law unto himself, though sometimes a bad, fierce law; and he resolved to give the rent-collector notice, and look out for a cheaper abode, and tell mary they must flit. poor mary! she loved the house, too. it was wrenching up her natural feelings of home, for it would be long before the fibres of her heart would gather themselves about another place. this trial was spared. the collector (of himself), on the very monday when barton planned to give him notice of his intention to leave, lowered the rent threepence a week, just enough to make barton compromise and agree to stay on a little longer. but by degrees the house was stripped of its little ornaments. some were broken; and the odd twopences and threepences wanted to pay for their repairs, were required for the far sterner necessity of food. and by-and-bye mary began to part with other superfluities at the pawn-shop. the smart tea-tray and tea-caddy, long and carefully kept, went for bread for her father. he did not ask for it, or complain, but she saw hunger in his shrunk, fierce, animal look. then the blankets went, for it was summer time, and they could spare them; and their sale made a fund, which mary fancied would last till better times came. but it was soon all gone; and then she looked around the room to crib it of its few remaining ornaments. to all these proceedings her father said never a word. if he fasted, or feasted (after the sale of some article), on an unusual meal of bread and cheese, he took all with a sullen indifference, which depressed mary's heart. she often wished he would apply for relief from the guardian's relieving office; often wondered the trades' union did nothing for him. once when she asked him as he sat, grimed, unshaven, and gaunt, after a day's fasting over the fire, why he did not get relief from the town, he turned round, with grim wrath, and said, "i don't want money, child! d----n their charity and their money! i want work, and it is my right. i want work." he would bear it all, he said to himself. and he did bear it, but not meekly; that was too much to expect. real meekness of character is called out by experience of kindness. and few had been kind to him. yet through it all, with stern determination he refused the assistance his trades' union would have given him. it had not much to give, but with worldly wisdom, thought it better to propitiate an active, useful member, than to help those who were unenergetic, though they had large families to provide for. not so thought john barton. with him need was right. "give it to tom darbyshire," he said. "he's more claim on it than me, for he's more need of it, with his seven children." now tom darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling way, a backbiting enemy of john barton's. and he knew it; but he was not to be influenced by that in a matter like this. mary went early to her work; but her cheery laugh over it was now missed by the other girls. her mind wandered over the present distress, and then settled, as she stitched, on the visions of the future, where yet her thoughts dwelt more on the circumstances of ease, and the pomps and vanities awaiting her, than on the lover with whom she was to share them. still she was not insensible to the pride of having attracted one so far above herself in station; not insensible to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom so many admired, had often said he would give any thing for one of her sweet smiles. her love for him was a bubble, blown out of vanity; but it looked very real and very bright. sally leadbitter, meanwhile, keenly observed the signs of the times; she found out that mary had begun to affix a stern value to money as the "purchaser of life," and many girls had been dazzled and lured by gold, even without the betraying love which she believed to exist in mary's heart. so she urged young mr. carson, by representations of the want she was sure surrounded mary, to bring matters more to a point. but he had a kind of instinctive dread of hurting mary's pride of spirit, and durst not hint his knowledge in any way of the distress that many must be enduring. he felt that for the present he must still be content with stolen meetings and summer evening strolls, and the delight of pouring sweet honeyed words into her ear, while she listened with a blush and a smile that made her look radiant with beauty. no, he would be cautious in order to be certain; for mary, one way or another, he must make his. he had no doubt of the effect of his own personal charms in the long run; for he knew he was handsome, and believed himself fascinating. if he had known what mary's home was, he would not have been so much convinced of his increasing influence over her, by her being more and more ready to linger with him in the sweet summer air. for when she returned for the night her father was often out, and the house wanted the cheerful look it had had in the days when money was never wanted to purchase soap and brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay. it was dingy and comfortless; for, of course, there was not even the dumb familiar home-friend, a fire. and margaret, too, was now so often from home, singing at some of those grand places. and alice; oh, mary wished she had never left her cellar to go and live at ancoats with her sister-in-law. for in that matter mary felt very guilty; she had put off and put off going to see the widow after george wilson's death from dread of meeting jem, or giving him reason to think she wished to be as intimate with him as formerly; and now she was so much ashamed of her delay that she was likely never to go at all. if her father was at home it was no better; indeed it was worse. he seldom spoke, less than ever; and often when he did speak they were sharp angry words, such as he had never given her formerly. her temper was high, too, and her answers not over-mild; and once in his passion he had even beaten her. if sally leadbitter or mr. carson had been at hand at that moment, mary would have been ready to leave home for ever. she sat alone, after her father had flung out of the house, bitterly thinking on the days that were gone; angry with her own hastiness, and believing that her father did not love her; striving to heap up one painful thought on another. who cared for her? mr. carson might, but in this grief that seemed no comfort. mother dead! father so often angry, so lately cruel (for it was a hard blow, and blistered and reddened mary's soft white skin with pain): and then her heart turned round, and she remembered with self-reproach how provokingly she had looked and spoken, and how much her father had to bear; and oh, what a kind and loving parent he had been, till these days of trial. the remembrance of one little instance of his fatherly love thronged after another into her mind, and she began to wonder how she could have behaved to him as she had done. then he came home; and but for very shame she would have confessed her penitence in words. but she looked sullen, from her effort to keep down emotion; and for some time her father did not know how to begin to speak. at length he gulped down pride, and said: "mary, i'm not above saying i'm very sorry i beat thee. thou wert a bit aggravating, and i'm not the man i was. but it were wrong, and i'll try never to lay hands on thee again." so he held out his arms, and in many tears she told him her repentance for her fault. he never struck her again. still, he often was angry. but that was almost better than being silent. then he sat near the fire-place (from habit), smoking, or chewing opium. oh, how mary loathed that smell! and in the dusk, just before it merged into the short summer night, she had learned to look with dread towards the window, which now her father would have kept uncurtained; for there were not seldom seen sights which haunted her in her dreams. strange faces of pale men, with dark glaring eyes, peered into the inner darkness, and seemed desirous to ascertain if her father were at home. or a hand and arm (the body hidden) was put within the door, and beckoned him away. he always went. and once or twice, when mary was in bed, she heard men's voices below, in earnest, whispered talk. they were all desperate members of trades' unions, ready for any thing; made ready by want. while all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and heavy on mary's heart, her father startled her out of a reverie one evening, by asking her when she had been to see jane wilson. from his manner of speaking, she was made aware that he had been; but at the time of his visit he had never mentioned any thing about it. now, however, he gruffly told her to go next day without fail, and added some abuse of her for not having been before. the little outward impulse of her father's speech gave mary the push which she, in this instance, required; and, accordingly, timing her visit so as to avoid jem's hours at home, she went the following afternoon to ancoats. the outside of the well-known house struck her as different; for the door was closed, instead of open, as it once had always stood. the window-plants, george wilson's pride and especial care, looked withering and drooping. they had been without water for a long time, and now, when the widow had reproached herself severely for neglect, in her ignorant anxiety, she gave them too much. on opening the door, alice was seen, not stirring about in her habitual way, but knitting by the fire-side. the room felt hot, although the fire burnt gray and dim, under the bright rays of the afternoon sun. mrs. wilson was "siding" [39] the dinner things, and talking all the time, in a kind of whining, shouting voice, which mary did not at first understand. she understood at once, however, that her absence had been noted, and talked over; she saw a constrained look on mrs. wilson's sorrow-stricken face, which told her a scolding was to come. [footnote 39: to "side," to put aside, or in order.] "dear mary, is that you?" she began. "why, who would ha' dreamt of seeing you! we thought you'd clean forgotten us; and jem has often wondered if he should know you, if he met you in the street." now, poor jane wilson had been sorely tried; and at present her trials had had no outward effect, but that of increased acerbity of temper. she wished to show mary how much she was offended, and meant to strengthen her cause, by putting some of her own sharp speeches into jem's mouth. mary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as an apology; so for a minute she stood silent, looking very much ashamed, and then turned to speak to aunt alice, who, in her surprised, hearty greeting to mary, had dropped her ball of worsted, and was busy trying to set the thread to rights, before the kitten had entangled it past redemption, once round every chair, and twice round the table. "you mun speak louder than that, if you mean her to hear; she become as deaf as a post this last few weeks. i'd ha' told you, if i'd remembered how long it were sin' you'd seen her." "yes, my dear, i'm getting very hard o' hearing of late," said alice, catching the state of the case, with her quick-glancing eyes. "i suppose it's the beginning of th' end." "don't talk o' that way," screamed her sister-in-law. "we've had enow of ends and deaths without forecasting more." she covered her face with her apron, and sat down to cry. "he was such a good husband," said she, in a less excited tone, to mary, as she looked up with tear-streaming eyes from behind her apron. "no one can tell what i've lost in him, for no one knew his worth like me." mary's listening sympathy softened her, and she went on to unburden her heavy laden heart. "eh, dear, dear! no one knows what i've lost. when my poor boys went, i thought th' almighty had crushed me to th' ground, but i never thought o' losing george; i did na think i could ha' borne to ha' lived without him. and yet i'm here, and he's--" a fresh burst of crying interrupted her speech. "mary,"--beginning to speak again,--"did you ever hear what a poor creature i were when he married me? and he such a handsome fellow! jem's nothing to what his father were at his age." yes! mary had heard, and so she said. but the poor woman's thoughts had gone back to those days, and her little recollections came out, with many interruptions of sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head. "there were nought about me for him to choose me. i were just well enough afore that accident, but at after i were downright plain. and there was bessy witter as would ha' given her eyes for him; she as is mrs. carson now, for she were a handsome lass, although i never could see her beauty then; and carson warn't so much above her, as they're both above us all now." mary went very red, and wished she could help doing so, and wished also that mrs. wilson would tell her more about the father and mother of her lover; but she durst not ask, and mrs. wilson's thoughts soon returned to her husband, and their early married days. "if you'll believe me, mary, there never was such a born goose at house-keeping as i were; and yet he married me! i had been in a factory sin' five years old a'most, and i knew nought about cleaning, or cooking, let alone washing and such-like work. the day after we were married he goes to his work at after breakfast, and says he, 'jenny, we'll ha' th' cold beef, and potatoes, and that's a dinner fit for a prince.' i were anxious to make him comfortable, god knows how anxious. and yet i'd no notion how to cook a potato. i know'd they were boiled, and i know'd their skins were taken off, and that were all. so i tidyed my house in a rough kind o' way, and then i looked at that very clock up yonder," pointing at one that hung against the wall, "and i seed it were nine o'clock, so, thinks i, th' potatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and i gets 'em on th' fire in a jiffy (that's to say, as soon as i could peel 'em, which were a tough job at first), and then i fell to unpacking my boxes! and at twenty minutes past twelve he comes home, and i had th' beef ready on th' table, and i went to take the potatoes out o' th' pot; but oh! mary, th' water had boiled away, and they were all a nasty brown mass, as smelt through all the house. he said nought, and were very gentle; but, oh, mary, i cried so that afternoon. i shall ne'er forget it; no, never. i made many a blunder at after, but none that fretted me like that." "father does not like girls to work in factories," said mary. "no, i know he doesn't; and reason good. they oughtn't to go at after they're married, that i'm very clear about. i could reckon up" (counting with her fingers) "ay, nine men i know, as has been driven to th' public-house by having wives as worked in factories; good folk, too, as thought there was no harm in putting their little ones out at nurse, and letting their house go all dirty, and their fires all out; and that was a place as was tempting for a husband to stay in, was it? he soon finds out gin-shops, where all is clean and bright, and where th' fire blazes cheerily, and gives a man a welcome as it were." alice, who was standing near for the convenience of hearing, had caught much of this speech, and it was evident the subject had previously been discussed by the women, for she chimed in. "i wish our jem could speak a word to th' queen about factory work for married women. eh! but he comes it strong, when once yo get him to speak about it. wife o' his'n will never work away fra' home." "i say it's prince albert as ought to be asked how he'd like his missis to be from home when he comes in, tired and worn, and wanting some one to cheer him; and may be, her to come in by-and-bye, just as tired and down in th' mouth; and how he'd like for her never to be at home to see to th' cleaning of his house, or to keep a bright fire in his grate. let alone his meals being all hugger-mugger and comfortless. i'd be bound, prince as he is, if his missis served him so, he'd be off to a gin-palace, or summut o' that kind. so why can't he make a law again poor folks' wives working in factories?" mary ventured to say that she thought the queen and prince albert could not make laws, but the answer was, "pooh! don't tell me it's not the queen as makes laws; and isn't she bound to obey prince albert? and if he said they mustn't, why she'd say they mustn't, and then all folk would say, oh no, we never shall do any such thing no more." "jem's getten on rarely," said alice, who had not heard her sister's last burst of eloquence, and whose thoughts were still running on her nephew, and his various talents. "he's found out summut about a crank or a tank, i forget rightly which it is, but th' master's made him foreman, and he all the while turning off hands; but he said he could na part wi' jem, nohow. he's good wage now: i tell him he'll be thinking of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down good wife, that he does." mary went very red, and looked annoyed, although there was a secret spring of joy deep down in her heart, at hearing jem so spoken of. but his mother only saw the annoyed look, and was piqued accordingly. she was not over and above desirous that her son should marry. his presence in the house seemed a relic of happier times, and she had some little jealousy of his future wife, whoever she might be. still she could not bear any one not to feel gratified and flattered by jem's preference, and full well she knew how above all others he preferred mary. now she had never thought mary good enough for jem, and her late neglect in coming to see her still rankled a little in her breast. so she determined to invent a little, in order to do away with any idea mary might have that jem would choose her for "his right down good wife," as aunt alice called it. "ay, he'll be for taking a wife soon," and then, in a lower voice, as if confidentially, but really to prevent any contradiction or explanation from her simple sister-in-law, she added, "it'll not be long afore molly gibson (that's her at th' provision-shop round the corner) will hear a secret as will not displease her, i'm thinking. she's been casting sheep's eyes at our jem this many a day, but he thought her father would not give her to a common working man; but now he's as good as her, every bit. i thought once he'd a fancy for thee, mary, but i donnot think yo'd ever ha' suited, so it's best as it is." by an effort mary managed to keep down her vexation, and to say, "she hoped he'd be happy with molly gibson. she was very handsome, for certain." "ay, and a notable body, too. i'll just step up stairs and show you the patchwork quilt she gave me but last saturday." mary was glad she was going out of the room. her words irritated her; perhaps not the less because she did not fully believe them. besides she wanted to speak to alice, and mrs. wilson seemed to think that she, as the widow, ought to absorb all the attention. "dear alice," began mary, "i'm so grieved to find you so deaf; it must have come on very rapid." "yes, dear, it's a trial; i'll not deny it. pray god give me strength to find out its teaching. i felt it sore one fine day when i thought i'd go gather some meadow-sweet to make tea for jane's cough; and the fields seemed so dree and still, and at first i could na make out what was wanting; and then it struck me it were th' song o' the birds, and that i never should hear their sweet music no more, and i could na help crying a bit. but i've much to be thankful for. i think i'm a comfort to jane, if i'm only some one to scold now and then; poor body! it takes off her thoughts from her sore losses when she can scold a bit. if my eyes are left i can do well enough; i can guess at what folk are saying." the splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made its appearance, and jane wilson would not be satisfied unless mary praised it all over, border, centre, and ground-work, right side and wrong; and mary did her duty, saying all the more, because she could not work herself up to any very hearty admiration of her rival's present. she made haste, however, with her commendations, in order to avoid encountering jem. as soon as she was fairly away from the house and street, she slackened her pace, and began to think. did jem really care for molly gibson? well, if he did, let him. people seemed all to think he was much too good for her (mary's own self). perhaps some one else, far more handsome, and far more grand, would show him one day that she was good enough to be mrs. henry carson. so temper, or what mary called "spirit," led her to encourage mr. carson more than ever she had done before. some weeks after this, there was a meeting of the trades' union to which john barton belonged. the morning of the day on which it was to take place he had lain late in bed, for what was the use of getting up? he had hesitated between the purchase of meal or opium, and had chosen the latter, for its use had become a necessity with him. he wanted it to relieve him from the terrible depression its absence occasioned. a large lump seemed only to bring him into a natural state, or what had been his natural state formerly. eight o'clock was the hour fixed for the meeting; and at it were read letters, filled with details of woe, from all parts of the country. fierce, heavy gloom brooded over the assembly; and fiercely and heavily did the men separate, towards eleven o'clock, some irritated by the opposition of others to their desperate plans. it was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the glare of the gas-lighted room, and came out into the street. unceasing, soaking rain was falling; the very lamps seemed obscured by the damp upon the glass, and their light reached but to a little distance from the posts. the streets were cleared of passers-by; not a creature seemed stirring, except here and there a drenched policeman in his oil-skin cape. barton wished the others good night, and set off home. he had gone through a street or two, when he heard a step behind him; but he did not care to look and see who it was. a little further, and the person quickened step, and touched his arm very lightly. he turned, and saw, even by the darkness visible of that badly-lighted street, that the woman who stood by him was of no doubtful profession. it was told by her faded finery, all unfit to meet the pelting of that pitiless storm; the gauze bonnet, once pink, now dirty white; the muslin gown, all draggled, and soaking wet up to the very knees; the gay-coloured barã¨ge shawl, closely wrapped round the form, which yet shivered and shook, as the woman whispered: "i want to speak to you." he swore an oath, and bade her begone. "i really do. don't send me away. i'm so out of breath, i cannot say what i would all at once." she put her hand to her side, and caught her breath with evident pain. "i tell thee i'm not the man for thee," adding an opprobrious name. "stay," said he, as a thought suggested by her voice flashed across him. he gripped her arm--the arm he had just before shaken off, and dragged her, faintly resisting, to the nearest lamp-post. he pushed her bonnet back, and roughly held the face she would fain have averted, to the light, and in her large, unnaturally bright gray eyes, her lovely mouth, half open, as if imploring the forbearance she could not ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost esther; she who had caused his wife's death. much was like the gay creature of former years; but the glaring paint, the sharp features, the changed expression of the whole! but most of all, he loathed the dress; and yet the poor thing, out of her little choice of attire, had put on the plainest she had, to come on that night's errand. "so it's thee, is it! it's thee!" exclaimed john, as he ground his teeth, and shook her with passion. "i've looked for thee long at corners o' streets, and such like places. i knew i should find thee at last. thee'll may be bethink thee o' some words i spoke, which put thee up at th' time; summut about street-walkers; but oh no! thou art none o' them naughts; no one thinks thou art, who sees thy fine draggle-tailed dress, and thy pretty pink cheeks!" stopping for very want of breath. "oh, mercy! john, mercy! listen to me for mary's sake!" she meant his daughter, but the name only fell on his ear as belonging to his wife; and it was adding fuel to the fire. in vain did her face grow deadly pale round the vivid circle of paint, in vain did she gasp for mercy,--he burst forth again. "and thou names that name to me! and thou thinks the thought of her will bring thee mercy! dost thou know it was thee who killed her, as sure as ever cain killed abel. she'd loved thee as her own, and she trusted thee as her own, and when thou wert gone she never held up head again, but died in less than a three week; and at the judgment day she'll rise, and point to thee as her murderer; or if she don't, i will." he flung her, trembling, sickening, fainting, from him, and strode away. she fell with a feeble scream against the lamp-post, and lay there in her weakness, unable to rise. a policeman came up in time to see the close of these occurrences, and concluding from esther's unsteady, reeling fall, that she was tipsy, he took her in her half-unconscious state to the lock-ups for the night. the superintendent of that abode of vice and misery was roused from his dozing watch through the dark hours, by half-delirious wails and moanings, which he reported as arising from intoxication. if he had listened, he would have heard these words, repeated in various forms, but always in the same anxious, muttering way. "he would not listen to me; what can i do? he would not listen to me, and i wanted to warn him! oh, what shall i do to save mary's child? what shall i do? how can i keep her from being such a one as i am; such a wretched, loathsome creature! she was listening just as i listened, and loving just as i loved, and the end will be just like my end. how shall i save her? she won't hearken to warning, or heed it more than i did; and who loves her well enough to watch over her as she should be watched? god keep her from harm! and yet i won't pray for her; sinner that i am! can my prayers be heard? no! they'll only do harm. how shall i save her? he would not listen to me." so the night wore away. the next morning she was taken up to the new bailey. it was a clear case of disorderly vagrancy, and she was committed to prison for a month. how much might happen in that time! chapter xi. mr. carson's intentions revealed. "o mary, canst thou wreck his peace, wha for thy sake wad gladly die? or canst thou break that heart of his, whase only faut is loving thee?" burns. "i can like of the wealth, i must confess, yet more i prize the man, though moneyless; i am not of their humour yet that can for title or estate affect a man; or of myself one body deign to make with him i loathe, for his possessions' sake." wither's "fidelia." barton returned home after his encounter with esther, uneasy and dissatisfied. he had said no more than he had been planning to say for years, in case she was ever thrown in his way, in the character in which he felt certain he should meet her. he believed she deserved it all, and yet he now wished he had not said it. her look, as she asked for mercy, haunted him through his broken and disordered sleep; her form, as he last saw her, lying prostrate in helplessness, would not be banished from his dreams. he sat up in bed to try and dispel the vision. now, too late, his conscience smote him for his harshness. it would have been all very well, he thought, to have said what he did, if he had added some kind words, at last. he wondered if his dead wife was conscious of that night's occurrence; and he hoped not, for with her love for esther he believed it would embitter heaven to have seen her so degraded and repulsed. for he now recalled her humility, her tacit acknowledgment of her lost character; and he began to marvel if there was power in the religion he had often heard of, to turn her from her ways. he felt that no earthly power that he knew of could do it, but there glimmered on his darkness the idea that religion might save her. still, where to find her again? in the wilderness of a large town, where to meet with an individual of so little value or note to any? and evening after evening he paced those streets in which he had heard her footsteps following him, peering under every fantastic, discreditable bonnet, in the hopes of once more meeting esther, and addressing her in a far different manner from what he had done before. but he returned, night after night, disappointed in his search, and at last gave it up in despair, and tried to recall his angry feelings towards her, in order to find relief from his present self-reproach. he often looked at mary, and wished she were not so like her aunt, for the very bodily likeness seemed to suggest the possibility of a similar likeness in their fate; and then this idea enraged his irritable mind, and he became suspicious and anxious about mary's conduct. now hitherto she had been so remarkably free from all control, and almost from all inquiry concerning her actions, that she did not brook this change in her father's behaviour very well. just when she was yielding more than ever to mr. carson's desire of frequent meetings, it was hard to be so questioned concerning her hours of leaving off work, whether she had come straight home, &c. she could not tell lies; though she could conceal much if she were not questioned. so she took refuge in obstinate silence, alleging as a reason for it her indignation at being so cross-examined. this did not add to the good feeling between father and daughter, and yet they dearly loved each other; and in the minds of each, one principal reason for maintaining such behaviour as displeased the other, was the believing that this conduct would insure that person's happiness. her father now began to wish mary were married. then this terrible superstitious fear suggested by her likeness to esther would be done away with. he felt that he could not resume the reins he had once slackened. but with a husband it would be different. if jem wilson would but marry her! with his character for steadiness and talent! but he was afraid mary had slighted him, he came so seldom now to the house. he would ask her. "mary, what's come o'er thee and jem wilson? yo were great friends at one time." "oh, folk say he's going to be married to molly gibson, and of course courting takes up a deal o' time," answered mary, as indifferently as she could. "thou'st played thy cards badly, then," replied her father, in a surly tone. "at one time he were desperate fond o' thee, or i'm much mistaken. much fonder of thee than thou deservedst." "that's as people think," said mary, pertly, for she remembered that the very morning before she had met mr. carson, who had sighed, and swore, and protested all manner of tender vows that she was the loveliest, sweetest, best, &c. and when she had seen him afterwards riding with one of his beautiful sisters, had he not evidently pointed her out as in some way or other an object worthy of attention and interest, and then lingered behind his sister's horse for a moment to kiss his hand repeatedly. so, as for jem wilson, she could whistle him down the wind. but her father was not in the mood to put up with pertness, and he upbraided her with the loss of jem wilson till she had to bite her lips till the blood came, in order to keep down the angry words that would rise in her heart. at last her father left the house, and then she might give way to her passionate tears. it so happened that jem, after much anxious thought, had determined that day to "put his fate to the touch, to win or lose it all." he was in a condition to maintain a wife in comfort. it was true his mother and aunt must form part of the household; but such is not an uncommon case among the poor, and if there were the advantage of previous friendship between the parties, it was not, he thought, an obstacle to matrimony. both mother and aunt he believed would welcome mary. and oh! what a certainty of happiness the idea of that welcome implied. he had been absent and abstracted all day long with the thought of the coming event of the evening. he almost smiled at himself for his care in washing and dressing in preparation for his visit to mary. as if one waistcoat or another could decide his fate in so passionately momentous a thing. he believed he only delayed before his little looking-glass for cowardice, for absolute fear of a girl. he would try not to think so much about the affair, and he thought the more. poor jem! it is not an auspicious moment for thee! "come in," said mary, as some one knocked at the door, while she sat sadly at her sewing, trying to earn a few pence by working over hours at some mourning. jem entered, looking more awkward and abashed than he had ever done before. yet here was mary all alone, just as he had hoped to find her. she did not ask him to take a chair, but after standing a minute or two he sat down near her. "is your father at home, mary?" said he, by way of making an opening, for she seemed determined to keep silence, and went on stitching away. "no, he's gone to his union, i suppose." another silence. it was no use waiting, thought jem. the subject would never be led to by any talk he could think of in his anxious fluttered state. he had better begin at once. "mary!" said he, and the unusual tone of his voice made her look up for an instant, but in that time she understood from his countenance what was coming, and her heart beat so suddenly and violently she could hardly sit still. yet one thing she was sure of; nothing he could say should make her have him. she would show them all _who_ would be glad to have her. she was not yet calm after her father's irritating speeches. yet her eyes fell veiled before that passionate look fixed upon her. "dear mary! (for how dear you are, i cannot rightly tell you in words). it's no new story i'm going to speak about. you must ha' seen and known it long; for since we were boy and girl, i ha' loved you above father and mother and all; and all i've thought on by day and dreamt on by night, has been something in which you've had a share. i'd no way of keeping you for long, and i scorned to try and tie you down; and i lived in terror lest some one else should take you to himself. but now, mary, i'm foreman in th' works, and, dear mary! listen," as she, in her unbearable agitation, stood up and turned away from him. he rose, too, and came nearer, trying to take hold of her hand; but this she would not allow. she was bracing herself up to refuse him, for once and for all. "and now, mary, i've a home to offer you, and a heart as true as ever man had to love you and cherish you; we shall never be rich folk, i dare say; but if a loving heart and a strong right arm can shield you from sorrow, or from want, mine shall do it. i cannot speak as i would like; my love won't let itself be put in words. but oh! darling, say you believe me, and that you'll be mine." she could not speak at once; her words would not come. "mary, they say silence gives consent; is it so?" he whispered. now or never the effort must be made. "no! it does not with me." her voice was calm, although she trembled from head to foot. "i will always be your friend, jem, but i can never be your wife." "not my wife!" said he, mournfully. "oh mary, think awhile! you cannot be my friend if you will not be my wife. at least i can never be content to be only your friend. do think awhile! if you say no you will make me hopeless, desperate. it's no love of yesterday. it has made the very groundwork of all that people call good in me. i don't know what i shall be if you won't have me. and, mary! think how glad your father would be! it may sound vain, but he's told me more than once how much he should like to see us two married!" jem intended this for a powerful argument, but in mary's present mood it told against him more than any thing; for it suggested the false and foolish idea, that her father, in his evident anxiety to promote her marriage with jem, had been speaking to him on the subject with some degree of solicitation. "i tell you, jem, it cannot be. once for all, i will never marry you." "and is this the end of all my hopes and fears? the end of my life, i may say, for it is the end of all worth living for!" his agitation rose and carried him into passion. "mary! you'll hear, may be, of me as a drunkard, and may be as a thief, and may be as a murderer. remember! when all are speaking ill of me, you will have no right to blame me, for it's your cruelty that will have made me what i feel i shall become. you won't even say you'll try and like me; will you, mary?" said he, suddenly changing his tone from threatening despair to fond passionate entreaty, as he took her hand and held it forcibly between both of his, while he tried to catch a glimpse of her averted face. she was silent, but it was from deep and violent emotion. he could not bear to wait; he would not hope, to be dashed away again; he rather in his bitterness of heart chose the certainty of despair, and before she could resolve what to answer, he flung away her hand and rushed out of the house. "jem! jem!" cried she, with faint and choking voice. it was too late; he left street after street behind him with his almost winged speed, as he sought the fields, where he might give way unobserved to all the deep despair he felt. it was scarcely ten minutes since he had entered the house, and found mary at comparative peace, and now she lay half across the dresser, her head hidden in her hands, and every part of her body shaking with the violence of her sobs. she could not have told at first (if you had asked her, and she could have commanded voice enough to answer) why she was in such agonised grief. it was too sudden for her to analyse, or think upon it. she only felt that by her own doing her life would be hereafter dreary and blank. by-and-bye her sorrow exhausted her body by its power, and she seemed to have no strength left for crying. she sat down; and now thoughts crowded on her mind. one little hour ago, and all was still unsaid, and she had her fate in her own power. and yet, how long ago had she determined to say pretty much what she did, if the occasion ever offered. it was as if two people were arguing the matter; that mournful, desponding communion between her former self and her present self. herself, a day, an hour ago; and herself now. for we have every one of us felt how a very few minutes of the months and years called life, will sometimes suffice to place all time past and future in an entirely new light; will make us see the vanity or the criminality of the bye-gone, and so change the aspect of the coming time, that we look with loathing on the very thing we have most desired. a few moments may change our character for life, by giving a totally different direction to our aims and energies. to return to mary. her plan had been, as we well know, to marry mr. carson, and the occurrence an hour ago was only a preliminary step. true; but it had unveiled her heart to her; it had convinced her she loved jem above all persons or things. but jem was a poor mechanic, with a mother and aunt to keep; a mother, too, who had shown her pretty clearly she did not desire her for a daughter-in-law: while mr. carson was rich, and prosperous, and gay, and (she believed) would place her in all circumstances of ease and luxury, where want could never come. what were these hollow vanities to her, now she had discovered the passionate secret of her soul? she felt as if she almost hated mr. carson, who had decoyed her with his baubles. she now saw how vain, how nothing to her, would be all gaieties and pomps, all joys and pleasures, unless she might share them with jem; yes, with him she harshly rejected so short a time ago. if he were poor, she loved him all the better. if his mother did think her unworthy of him, what was it but the truth, as she now owned with bitter penitence. she had hitherto been walking in grope-light towards a precipice; but in the clear revelation of that past hour, she saw her danger, and turned away resolutely and for ever. that was some comfort: i mean her clear perception of what she ought not to do; of what no luring temptation should ever again induce her to hearken to. how she could best undo the wrong she had done to jem and herself by refusing his love, was another anxious question. she wearied herself with proposing plans, and rejecting them. she was roused to a consciousness of time by hearing the neighbouring church clock strike twelve. her father she knew might be expected home any minute, and she was in no mood for a meeting with him. so she hastily gathered up her work, and went to her own little bed-room, leaving him to let himself in. she put out her candle, that her father might not see its light under the door; and sat down on her bed to think. but after turning things over in her mind again and again, she could only determine at once to put an end to all further communication with mr. carson, in the most decided way she could. maidenly modesty (and true love is ever modest) seemed to oppose every plan she could think of, for showing jem how much she repented her decision against him, and how dearly she had now discovered that she loved him. she came to the unusual wisdom of resolving to do nothing, but try and be patient, and improve circumstances as they might turn up. surely, if jem knew of her remaining unmarried, he would try his fortune again. he would never be content with one rejection; she believed she could not in his place. she had been very wrong, but now she would try and do right, and have womanly patience, until he saw her changed and repentant mind in her natural actions. even if she had to wait for years, it was no more than now it was easy to look forward to, as a penance for her giddy flirting on the one hand, and her cruel mistake concerning her feelings on the other. so anticipating a happy ending to the course of her love, however distant it might be, she fell asleep just as the earliest factory bells were ringing. she had sunk down in her clothes, and her sleep was unrefreshing. she wakened up shivery and chill in body, and sorrow-stricken in mind, though she could not at first rightly tell the cause of her depression. she recalled the events of the night before, and still resolved to adhere to those determinations she had then formed. but patience seemed a far more difficult virtue this morning. she hastened down-stairs, and in her earnest sad desire to do right, now took much pains to secure a comfortable though scanty breakfast for her father; and when he dawdled into the room, in an evidently irritable temper, she bore all with the gentleness of penitence, till at last her mild answers turned away wrath. she loathed the idea of meeting sally leadbitter at her daily work; yet it must be done, and she tried to nerve herself for the encounter, and to make it at once understood, that having determined to give up having any thing further to do with mr. carson, she considered the bond of intimacy broken between them. but sally was not the person to let these resolutions be carried into effect too easily. she soon became aware of the present state of mary's feelings, but she thought they merely arose from the changeableness of girlhood, and that the time would come when mary would thank her for almost forcing her to keep up her meetings and communications with her rich lover. so, when two days had passed over in rather too marked avoidance of sally on mary's part, and when the former was made aware by mr. carson's complaints that mary was not keeping her appointments with him, and that unless he detained her by force, he had no chance of obtaining a word as she passed him in the street on her rapid walk home, she resolved to compel mary to what she called her own good. she took no notice during the third day of mary's avoidance as they sat at work; she rather seemed to acquiesce in the coolness of their intercourse. she put away her sewing early, and went home to her mother, who, she said, was more ailing than usual. the other girls soon followed her example, and mary, casting a rapid glance up and down the street, as she stood last on miss simmonds' door-step, darted homewards, in hopes of avoiding the person whom she was fast learning to dread. that night she was safe from any encounter on her road, and she arrived at home, which she found as she expected, empty; for she knew it was a club night, which her father would not miss. she sat down to recover breath, and to still her heart, which panted more from nervousness than from over-exertion, although she had walked so quickly. then she rose, and taking off her bonnet, her eye caught the form of sally leadbitter passing the window with a lingering step, and looking into the darkness with all her might, as if to ascertain if mary were returned. in an instant she re-passed and knocked at the house-door, but without awaiting an answer, she entered. "well, mary, dear" (knowing well how little "dear" mary considered her just then); "i's so difficult to get any comfortable talk at miss simmonds', i thought i'd just step up and see you at home." "i understood from what you said your mother was ailing, and that you wanted to be with her," replied mary, in no welcoming tone. "ay, but mother's better now," said the unabashed sally. "your father's out i suppose?" looking round as well as she could; for mary made no haste to perform the hospitable offices of striking a match, and lighting a candle. "yes, he's out," said mary, shortly, and busying herself at last about the candle, without ever asking her visitor to sit down. "so much the better," answered sally, "for to tell you the truth, mary, i've a friend at th' end of the street, as is anxious to come and see you at home, since you're grown so particular as not to like to speak to him in the street. he'll be here directly." "oh, sally, don't let him," said mary, speaking at last heartily; and running to the door she would have fastened it, but sally held her hands, laughing meanwhile at her distress. "oh, please, sally," struggling, "dear sally! don't let him come here, the neighbours will so talk, and father'll go mad if he hears; he'll kill me, sally, he will. besides, i don't love him--i never did. oh, let me go," as footsteps approached; and then, as they passed the house, and seemed to give her a respite, she continued, "do, sally, dear sally, go and tell him i don't love him, and that i don't want to have any thing more to do with him. it was very wrong, i dare say, keeping company with him at all, but i'm very sorry, if i've led him to think too much of me; and i don't want him to think any more. will you tell him this, sally? and i'll do any thing for you if you will." "i'll tell you what i'll do," said sally, in a more relenting mood, "i'll go back with you to where he's waiting for us; or rather, i should say, where i told him to wait for a quarter of an hour, till i seed if your father was at home; and if i didn't come back in that time, he said he'd come here, and break the door open but he'd see you." "oh, let us go, let us go," said mary, feeling that the interview must be, and had better be anywhere than at home, where her father might return at any minute. she snatched up her bonnet, and was at the end of the court in an instant; but then, not knowing whether to turn to the right or to the left, she was obliged to wait for sally, who came leisurely up, and put her arm through mary's, with a kind of decided hold, intended to prevent the possibility of her changing her mind, and turning back. but this, under the circumstances, was quite different to mary's plan. she had wondered more than once if she must not have another interview with mr. carson; and had then determined, while she expressed her resolution that it should be the final one, to tell him how sorry she was if she had thoughtlessly given him false hopes. for be it remembered, she had the innocence, or the ignorance, to believe his intentions honourable; and he, feeling that at any price he must have her, only that he would obtain her as cheaply as he could, had never undeceived her; while sally leadbitter laughed in her sleeve at them both, and wondered how it would all end,--whether mary would gain her point of marriage, with her sly affectation of believing such to be mr. carson's intention in courting her. not very far from the end of the street, into which the court where mary lived opened, they met mr. carson, his hat a good deal slouched over his face as if afraid of being recognised. he turned when he saw them coming, and led the way without uttering a word (although they were close behind) to a street of half-finished houses. the length of the walk gave mary time to recoil from the interview which was to follow; but even if her own resolve to go through with it had failed, there was the steady grasp of sally leadbitter, which she could not evade without an absolute struggle. at last he stopped in the shelter and concealment of a wooden fence, put up to keep the building rubbish from intruding on the foot-pavement. inside this fence, a minute afterwards, the girls were standing by him; mary now returning sally's detaining grasp with interest, for she had determined on the way to make her a witness, willing or unwilling, to the ensuing conversation. but sally's curiosity led her to be a very passive prisoner in mary's hold. with more freedom than he had ever used before, mr. carson put his arm firmly round mary's waist, in spite of her indignant resistance. "nay, nay! you little witch! now i have caught you, i shall keep you prisoner. tell me now what has made you run away from me so fast these few days--tell me, you sweet little coquette!" mary ceased struggling, but turned so as to be almost opposite to him, while she spoke out calmly and boldly, "mr. carson! i want to speak to you for once and for all. since i met you last monday evening, i have made up my mind to have nothing more to do with you. i know i've been wrong in leading you to think i liked you; but i believe i didn't rightly know my own mind; and i humbly beg your pardon, sir, if i've led you to think too much of me." for an instant he was surprised; the next, vanity came to his aid, and convinced him that she could only be joking. he, young, agreeable, rich, handsome! no! she was only showing a little womanly fondness for coquetting. "you're a darling little rascal to go on in this way! 'humbly begging my pardon if you've made me think too much of you.' as if you didn't know i think of you from morning to night. but you want to be told it again and again, do you?" "no, indeed, sir, i don't. i would far liefer [40] that you should say you will never think of me again, than that you should speak of me in this way. for indeed, sir, i never was more in earnest than i am, when i say to-night is the last night i will ever speak to you." [footnote 40: "liefer," rather. "yet had i _levre_ unwist for sorrow die." _chaucer; "troilus and creseide."_] "last night, you sweet little equivocator, but not last day. ha, mary! i've caught you, have i?" as she, puzzled by his perseverance in thinking her joking, hesitated in what form she could now put her meaning. "i mean, sir," she said, sharply, "that i will never speak to you again at any time, after to-night." "and what's made this change, mary?" said he, seriously enough now. "have i done any thing to offend you?" added he, earnestly. "no, sir," she answered gently, but yet firmly. "i cannot tell you exactly why i've changed my mind; but i shall not alter it again; and as i said before, i beg your pardon if i've done wrong by you. and now, sir, if you please, good night." "but i do not please. you shall not go. what have i done, mary? tell me. you must not go without telling me how i have vexed you. what would you have me do?" "nothing, sir! but (in an agitated tone) oh! let me go! you cannot change my mind; it's quite made up. oh, sir! why do you hold me so tight? if you _will_ know why i won't have any thing more to do with you, it is that i cannot love you. i have tried, and i really cannot." this naive and candid avowal served her but little. he could not understand how it could be true. some reason lurked behind. he was passionately in love. what should he do to tempt her? a thought struck him. "listen! mary. nay, i cannot let you go till you have heard me. i do love you dearly; and i won't believe but what you love me a very little, just a very little. well, if you don't like to own it, never mind! i only want now to tell you how much i love you, by what i am ready to give up for you. you know (or perhaps you are not fully aware) how little my father and mother would like me to marry you. so angry would they be, and so much ridicule should i have to brave, that of course i have never thought of it till now. i thought we could be happy enough without marriage." (deep sank those words into mary's heart.) "but now, if you like, i'll get a licence to-morrow morning--nay, to-night, and i'll marry you in defiance of all the world, rather than give you up. in a year or two my father will forgive me, and meanwhile you shall have every luxury money can purchase, and every charm that love can devise to make your life happy. after all, my mother was but a factory girl." (this was said half to himself, as if to reconcile himself to this bold step.) "now, mary, you see how willing i am to--to sacrifice a good deal for you; i even offer you marriage, to satisfy your little ambitious heart; so, now, won't you say you can love me a little, little bit?" he pulled her towards him. to his surprise, she still resisted. yes! though all she had pictured to herself for so many months in being the wife of mr. carson was now within her grasp, she resisted. his speech had given her but one feeling, that of exceeding great relief. for she had dreaded, now she knew what true love was, to think of the attachment she might have created; the deep feeling her flirting conduct might have called out. she had loaded herself with reproaches for the misery she might have caused. it was a relief to gather that the attachment was of that low, despicable kind, which can plan to seduce the object of its affection; that the feeling she had caused was shallow enough, for it only pretended to embrace self, at the expense of the misery, the ruin, of one falsely termed beloved. she need not be penitent to such a plotter! that was the relief. "i am obliged to you, sir, for telling me what you have. you may think i am a fool; but i did think you meant to marry me all along; and yet, thinking so, i felt i could not love you. still i felt sorry i had gone so far in keeping company with you. now, sir, i tell you, if i had loved you before, i don't think i should have loved you now you have told me you meant to ruin me; for that's the plain english of not meaning to marry me till just this minute. i said i was sorry, and humbly begged your pardon; that was before i knew what you were. now i scorn you, sir, for plotting to ruin a poor girl. good night." and with a wrench, for which she had reserved all her strength, she was off like a bolt. they heard her flying footsteps echo down the quiet street. the next sound was sally's laugh, which grated on mr. carson's ears, and keenly irritated him. "and what do you find so amusing, sally?" asked he. "oh, sir, i beg your pardon. i humbly beg your pardon, as mary says, but i can't help laughing, to think how she's outwitted us." (she was going to have said, "outwitted you," but changed the pronoun.) "why, sally, had you any idea she was going to fly out in this style?" "no, i hadn't, to be sure. but if you did think of marrying her, why (if i may be so bold as to ask) did you go and tell her you had no thought of doing otherwise by her? that was what put her up at last!" "why i had repeatedly before led her to infer that marriage was not my object. i never dreamed she could have been so foolish as to have mistaken me, little provoking romancer though she be! so i naturally wished her to know what a sacrifice of prejudice, of--of myself, in short, i was willing to make for her sake; yet i don't think she was aware of it after all. i believe i might have any lady in manchester if i liked, and yet i was willing and ready to marry a poor dress-maker. don't you understand me now? and don't you see what a sacrifice i was making to humour her? and all to no avail." sally was silent, so he went on: "my father would have forgiven any temporary connexion, far sooner than my marrying one so far beneath me in rank." "i thought you said, sir, your mother was a factory girl," reminded sally, rather maliciously. "yes, yes!--but then my father was in much such a station; at any rate, there was not the disparity there is between mary and me." another pause. "then you mean to give her up, sir? she made no bones of saying she gave you up." "no, i do not mean to give her up, whatever you and she may please to think. i am more in love with her than ever; even for this charming capricious ebullition of hers. she'll come round, you may depend upon it. women always do. they always have second thoughts, and find out that they are best in casting off a lover. mind! i don't say i shall offer her the same terms again." with a few more words of no importance, the allies parted. chapter xii. old alice's bairn. "i lov'd him not; and yet, now he is gone, i feel i am alone. i check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, alas! i would not check. for reasons not to love him once i sought, and wearied all my thought." w. s. landor. and now mary had, as she thought, dismissed both her lovers. but they looked on their dismissals with very different eyes. he who loved her with all his heart and with all his soul, considered his rejection final. he did not comfort himself with the idea, which would have proved so well founded in his case, that women have second thoughts about casting off their lovers. he had too much respect for his own heartiness of love to believe himself unworthy of mary; that mock humble conceit did not enter his head. he thought he did not "hit mary's fancy;" and though that may sound a trivial every-day expression, yet the reality of it cut him to the heart. wild visions of enlistment, of drinking himself into forgetfulness, of becoming desperate in some way or another, entered his mind; but then the thought of his mother stood like an angel with a drawn sword in the way to sin. for, you know, "he was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow;" dependent on him for daily bread. so he could not squander away health and time, which were to him money wherewith to support her failing years. he went to his work, accordingly, to all outward semblance just as usual; but with a heavy, heavy heart within. mr. carson, as we have seen, persevered in considering mary's rejection of him as merely a "charming caprice." if she were at work, sally leadbitter was sure to slip a passionately loving note into her hand, and then so skilfully move away from her side, that mary could not all at once return it, without making some sensation among the work-women. she was even forced to take several home with her. but after reading one, she determined on her plan. she made no great resistance to receiving them from sally, but kept them unopened, and occasionally returned them in a blank half-sheet of paper. but far worse than this, was the being so constantly waylaid as she went home by her persevering lover; who had been so long acquainted with all her habits, that she found it difficult to evade him. late or early, she was never certain of being free from him. go this way or that, he might come up some cross street when she had just congratulated herself on evading him for that day. he could not have taken a surer mode of making himself odious to her. and all this time jem wilson never came! not to see her--that she did not expect--but to see her father; to--she did not know what, but she had hoped he would have come on some excuse, just to see if she hadn't changed her mind. he never came. then she grew weary and impatient, and her spirits sank. the persecution of the one lover, and the neglect of the other, oppressed her sorely. she could not now sit quietly through the evening at her work; or, if she kept, by a strong effort, from pacing up and down the room, she felt as if she must sing to keep off thought while she sewed. and her songs were the maddest, merriest, she could think of. "barbara allen," and such sorrowful ditties, did well enough for happy times; but now she required all the aid that could be derived from external excitement to keep down the impulse of grief. and her father, too--he was a great anxiety to her, he looked so changed and so ill. yet he would not acknowledge to any ailment. she knew, that be it as late as it would, she never left off work until (if the poor servants paid her pretty regularly for the odd jobs of mending she did for them) she had earned a few pence, enough for one good meal for her father on the next day. but very frequently all she could do in the morning, after her late sitting up at night, was to run with the work home, and receive the money from the person for whom it was done. she could not stay often to make purchases of food, but gave up the money at once to her father's eager clutch; sometimes prompted by savage hunger it is true, but more frequently by a craving for opium. on the whole he was not so hungry as his daughter. for it was a long fast from the one o'clock dinner-hour at miss simmonds' to the close of mary's vigil, which was often extended to midnight. she was young, and had not yet learned to bear "clemming." one evening, as she sang a merry song over her work, stopping occasionally to sigh, the blind margaret came groping in. it had been one of mary's additional sorrows that her friend had been absent from home, accompanying the lecturer on music in his round among the manufacturing towns of yorkshire and lancashire. her grandfather, too, had seen this a good time for going his expeditions in search of specimens; so that the house had been shut up for several weeks. "oh! margaret, margaret! how glad i am to see you. take care. there, now, you're all right, that's father's chair. sit down."--she kissed her over and over again. "it seems like the beginning o' brighter times, to see you again, margaret. bless you! and how well you look!" "doctors always send ailing folk for change of air! and you know i've had plenty o' that same lately." "you've been quite a traveller for sure! tell us all about it, do, margaret. where have you been to, first place?" "eh, lass, that would take a long time to tell. half o'er the world i sometimes think. bolton, and bury, and owdham, and halifax, and--but mary, guess who i saw there! may be you know though, so it's not fair guessing." "no, i donnot. tell me, margaret, for i cannot abide waiting and guessing." "well, one night as i were going fra' my lodgings wi' the help on a lad as belonged to th' landlady, to find the room where i were to sing, i heard a cough before me, walking along. thinks i, that's jem wilson's cough, or i'm much mistaken. next time came a sneeze and a cough, and then i were certain. first i hesitated whether i should speak, thinking if it were a stranger he'd may be think me forrard. [41] but i knew blind folks must not be nesh about using their tongues, so says i, 'jem wilson, is that you?' and sure enough it was, and nobody else. did you know he were in halifax, mary?" [footnote 41: "forrard," forward.] "no;" she answered, faintly and sadly; for halifax was all the same to her heart as the antipodes; equally inaccessible by humble penitent looks and maidenly tokens of love. "well, he's there, however; he's putting up an engine for some folks there, for his master. he's doing well, for he's getten four or five men under him; we'd two or three meetings, and he telled me all about his invention for doing away wi' the crank, or somewhat. his master's bought it from him, and ta'en out a patent, and jem's a gentleman for life wi' the money his master gied him. but you'll ha' heard all this, mary?" no! she had not. "well, i thought it all happened afore he left manchester, and then in course you'd ha' known. but may be it were all settled after he got to halifax; however, he's gotten two or three hunder pounds for his invention. but what's up with you, mary? you're sadly out o' sorts. you've never been quarrelling wi' jem, surely?" now mary cried outright; she was weak in body, and unhappy in mind, and the time was come when she might have the relief of telling her grief. she could not bring herself to confess how much of her sorrow was caused by her having been vain and foolish; she hoped that need never be known, and she could not bear to think of it. "oh, margaret; do you know jem came here one night when i were put out, and cross. oh, dear! dear! i could bite my tongue out when i think on it. and he told me how he loved me, and i thought i did not love him, and i told him i didn't; and, margaret,--he believed me, and went away so sad, and so angry; and now i'd do any thing,--i would, indeed," her sobs choked the end of her sentence. margaret looked at her with sorrow, but with hope; for she had no doubt in her own mind, that it was only a temporary estrangement. "tell me, margaret," said mary, taking her apron down from her eyes, and looking at margaret with eager anxiety, "what can i do to bring him back to me? should i write to him?" "no," replied her friend, "that would not do. men are so queer, they like to have a' the courting to themselves." "but i did not mean to write him a courting letter," said mary, somewhat indignantly. "if you wrote at all, it would be to give him a hint you'd taken the rue, and would be very glad to have him now. i believe now he'd rather find that out himself." "but he won't try," said mary, sighing. "how can he find it out when he's at halifax?" "if he's a will he's a way, depend upon it. and you would not have him if he's not a will to you, mary! no, dear!" changing her tone from the somewhat hard way in which sensible people too often speak, to the soft accents of tenderness which come with such peculiar grace from them; "you must just wait and be patient. you may depend upon it, all will end well, and better than if you meddled in it now." "but it's so hard to be patient," pleaded mary. "ay, dear; being patient is the hardest work we, any on us, have to do through life, i take it. waiting is far more difficult than doing. i've known that about my sight, and many a one has known it in watching the sick; but it's one of god's lessons we all must learn, one way or another." after a pause. "have ye been to see his mother of late?" "no; not for some weeks. when last i went she was so frabbit [42] with me, that i really thought she wished i'd keep away." [footnote 42: "frabbit," ill-tempered.] "well! if i were you i'd go. jem will hear on't, and it will do you far more good in his mind than writing a letter, which, after all, you would find a tough piece of work when you came to settle to it. 'twould be hard to say neither too much nor too little. but i must be going, grandfather is at home, and it's our first night together, and he must not be sitting wanting me any longer." she rose up from her seat, but still delayed going. "mary! i've somewhat else i want to say to you, and i don't rightly know how to begin. you see, grandfather and i know what bad times is, and we know your father is out o' work, and i'm getting more money than i can well manage; and, dear, would you just take this bit o' gold, and pay me back in good times?" the tears stood in margaret's eyes as she spoke. "dear margaret, we're not so bad pressed as that." (the thought of her father, and his ill looks, and his one meal a day, rushed upon mary.) "and yet, dear, if it would not put you out o' your way,--i would work hard to make it up to you;--but would not your grandfather be vexed?" "not he, wench! it were more his thought than mine, and we have gotten ever so many more at home, so don't hurry yoursel about paying. it's hard to be blind, to be sure, else money comes in so easily now to what it used to do; and it's downright pleasure to earn it, for i do so like singing." "i wish i could sing," said mary, looking at the sovereign. "some has one kind o' gifts, and some another. many's the time when i could see, that i longed for your beauty, mary! we're like childer, ever wanting what we han not got. but now i must say just one more word. remember, if you're sore pressed for money, we shall take it very unkind if you donnot let us know. good bye to ye." in spite of her blindness she hurried away, anxious to rejoin her grandfather, and desirous also to escape from mary's expressions of gratitude. her visit had done mary good in many ways. it had strengthened her patience and her hope. it had given her confidence in margaret's sympathy; and last, and really least in comforting power (of so little value are silver and gold in comparison to love, that gift in every one's power to bestow), came the consciousness of the money-value of the sovereign she held in her hand. the many things it might purchase! first of all came the thought of a comfortable supper for her father that very night; and acting instantly upon the idea, she set off in hopes that all the provision-shops might not yet be closed, although it was so late. that night the cottage shone with unusual light, and fire-gleam; and the father and daughter sat down to a meal they thought almost extravagant. it was so long since they had had enough to eat. "food gives heart," say the lancashire people; and the next day mary made time to go and call on mrs. wilson, according to margaret's advice. she found her quite alone, and more gracious than she had been the last time mary had visited her. alice was gone out, she said. "she would just step to the post-office, all for no earthly use. for it were to ask if they hadn't a letter lying there for her from her foster-son will wilson, the sailor-lad." "what made her think there were a letter?" asked mary. "why, yo see, a neighbour as has been in liverpool, telled us will's ship were come in. now he said last time he were in liverpool he'd ha' come to ha' seen alice, but his ship had but a week holiday, and hard work for the men in that time too. so alice makes sure he'll come this, and has had her hand behind her ear at every noise in th' street, thinking it were him. and to-day she were neither to have nor to hold, but off she would go to th' post, and see if he had na sent her a line to th' old house near yo. i tried to get her to give up going, for let alone her deafness she's getten so dark, she cannot see five yards afore her; but no, she would go, poor old body." "i did not know her sight had failed her; she used to have good eyes enough when she lived near us." "ay, but it's gone lately a good deal. but you never ask after jem--" anxious to get in a word on the subject nearest her heart. "no," replied mary, blushing scarlet. "how is he?" "i cannot justly say how he is, seeing he's at halifax; but he were very well when he wrote last tuesday. han ye heard o' his good luck?" rather to her disappointment, mary owned she had heard of the sum his master had paid him for his invention. "well! and did not margaret tell yo what he'd done wi' it? it's just like him though, ne'er to say a word about it. why, when it were paid what does he do, but get his master to help him to buy an income for me and alice. he had her name put down for her life; but, poor thing, she'll not be long to the fore, i'm thinking. she's sadly failed of late. and so, mary, yo see, we're two ladies o' property. it's a matter o' twenty pound a year they tell me. i wish the twins had lived, bless 'em," said she, dropping a few tears. "they should ha' had the best o' schooling, and their belly-fulls o' food. i suppose they're better off in heaven, only i should so like to see 'em." mary's heart filled with love at this new proof of jem's goodness; but she could not talk about it. she took jane wilson's hand, and pressed it with affection; and then turned the subject to will, her sailor nephew. jane was a little bit sorry, but her prosperity had made her gentler, and she did not resent what she felt as mary's indifference to jem and his merits. "he's been in africa and that neighbourhood, i believe. he's a fine chap, but he's not gotten jem's hair. his has too much o' the red in it. he sent alice (but, maybe, she telled you) a matter o' five pound when he were over before; but that were nought to an income, yo know." "it's not every one that can get a hundred or two at a time," said mary. "no! no! that's true enough. there's not many a one like jem. that's alice's step," said she, hastening to open the door to her sister-in-law. alice looked weary, and sad, and dusty. the weariness and the dust would not have been noticed either by her, or the others, if it had not been for the sadness. "no letters!" said mrs. wilson. "no, none! i must just wait another day to hear fra my lad. it's very dree work, waiting!" said alice. margaret's words came into mary's mind. every one has their time and kind of waiting. "if i but knew he were safe, and not drowned!" spoke alice. "if i but knew he _were_ drowned, i would ask grace to say, thy will be done. it's the waiting." "it's hard work to be patient to all of us," said mary; "i know i find it so, but i did not know one so good as you did, alice; i shall not think so badly of myself for being a bit impatient, now i've heard you say you find it difficult." the idea of reproach to alice was the last in mary's mind; and alice knew it was. nevertheless, she said, "then, my dear, i ask your pardon, and god's pardon, too, if i've weakened your faith, by showing you how feeble mine was. half our life's spent in waiting, and it ill becomes one like me, wi' so many mercies, to grumble. i'll try and put a bridle o'er my tongue, and my thoughts too." she spoke in a humble and gentle voice, like one asking forgiveness. "come, alice," interposed mrs. wilson, "don't fret yoursel for e'er a trifle wrong said here or there. see! i've put th' kettle on, and you and mary shall ha' a dish o' tea in no time." so she bustled about, and brought out a comfortable-looking substantial loaf, and set mary to cut bread and butter, while she rattled out the tea-cups--always a cheerful sound. just as they were sitting down, there was a knock heard at the door, and without waiting for it to be opened from the inside, some one lifted the latch, and in a man's voice asked, if one george wilson lived there? mrs. wilson was entering on a long and sorrowful explanation of his having once lived there, but of his having dropped down dead; when alice, with the instinct of love (for in all usual and common instances, sight and hearing failed to convey impressions to her until long after other people had received them), arose, and tottered to the door. "my bairn!--my own dear bairn!" she exclaimed, falling on will wilson's neck. you may fancy the hospitable and welcoming commotion that ensued; how mrs. wilson laughed, and talked, and cried, altogether, if such a thing can be done; and how mary gazed with wondering pleasure at her old playmate; now a dashing, bronzed-looking, ringletted sailor, frank, and hearty, and affectionate. but it was something different from common to see alice's joy at once more having her foster-child with her. she did not speak, for she really could not; but the tears came coursing down her old withered cheeks, and dimmed the horn spectacles she had put on, in order to pry lovingly into his face. so what with her failing sight, and her tear-blinded eyes, she gave up the attempt of learning his face by heart through the medium of that sense, and tried another. she passed her sodden, shrivelled hands, all trembling with eagerness, over his manly face, bent meekly down in order that she might more easily make her strange inspection. at last, her soul was satisfied. after tea, mary, feeling sure there was much to be said on both sides, at which it would be better no one should be present, not even an intimate friend like herself, got up to go away. this seemed to arouse alice from her dreamy consciousness of exceeding happiness, and she hastily followed mary to the door. there, standing outside, with the latch in her hand, she took hold of mary's arm, and spoke nearly the first words she had uttered since her nephew's return. "my dear! i shall never forgive mysel, if my wicked words to-night are any stumbling-block in your path. see how the lord has put coals of fire on my head! oh! mary, don't let my being an unbelieving thomas weaken your faith. wait patiently on the lord, whatever your trouble may be." chapter xiii. a traveller's tales. "the mermaid sat upon the rocks all day long, admiring her beauty and combing her locks, and singing a mermaid song. "and hear the mermaid's song you may, as sure as sure can be, if you will but follow the sun all day, and souse with him into the sea." w. s. landor. it was perhaps four or five days after the events mentioned in the last chapter, that one evening, as mary stood lost in reverie at the window, she saw will wilson enter the court, and come quickly up to her door. she was glad to see him, for he had always been a friend of hers, perhaps too much like her in character ever to become any thing nearer or dearer. she opened the door in readiness to receive his frank greeting, which she as frankly returned. "come, mary! on with bonnet and shawl, or whatever rigging you women require before leaving the house. i'm sent to fetch you, and i can't lose time when i'm under orders." "where am i to go to?" asked mary, as her heart leaped up at the thought of who might be waiting for her. "not very far," replied he. "only to old job legh's round the corner here. aunt would have me come and see these new friends of hers, and then we meant to ha' come on here to see you and your father, but the old gentleman seems inclined to make a night of it, and have you all there. where's your father? i want to see him. he must come too." "he's out, but i'll leave word next door for him to follow me; that's to say, if he comes home afore long." she added, hesitatingly, "is any one else at job's?" "no! my aunt jane would not come for some maggot or other; and as for jem! i don't know what you've all been doing to him, but he's as down-hearted a chap as i'd wish to see. he's had his sorrows sure enough, poor lad! but it's time for him to be shaking off his dull looks, and not go moping like a girl." "then he's come fra halifax, is he?" asked mary. "yes! his body's come, but i think he's left his heart behind him. his tongue i'm sure he has, as we used to say to childer, when they would not speak. i try to rouse him up a bit, and i think he likes having me with him, but still he's as gloomy and as dull as can be. 'twas only yesterday he took me to the works, and you'd ha' thought us two quakers as the spirit hadn't moved, all the way down we were so mum. it's a place to craze a man, certainly; such a noisy black hole! there were one or two things worth looking at, the bellows for instance, or the gale they called a bellows. i could ha' stood near it a whole day; and if i'd a berth in that place, i should like to be bellows-man, if there is such a one. but jem weren't diverted even with that; he stood as grave as a judge while it blew my hat out o' my hand. he's lost all relish for his food, too, which frets my aunt sadly. come! mary, ar'n't you ready?" she had not been able to gather if she were to see jem at job legh's; but when the door was opened, she at once saw and felt he was not there. the evening then would be a blank; at least so she thought for the first five minutes; but she soon forgot her disappointment in the cheerful meeting of old friends, all, except herself, with some cause for rejoicing at that very time. margaret, who could not be idle, was knitting away, with her face looking full into the room, away from her work. alice sat meek and patient with her dimmed eyes and gentle look, trying to see and to hear, but never complaining; indeed, in her inner self she was blessing god for her happiness; for the joy of having her nephew, her child, near her, was far more present to her mind, than her deprivations of sight and hearing. job was in the full glory of host and hostess too, for by a tacit agreement he had roused himself from his habitual abstraction, and had assumed many of margaret's little household duties. while he moved about he was deep in conversation with the young sailor, trying to extract from him any circumstances connected with the natural history of the different countries he had visited. "oh! if you are fond of grubs, and flies, and beetles, there's no place for 'em like sierra leone. i wish you'd had some of ours; we had rather too much of a good thing; we drank them with our drink, and could scarcely keep from eating them with our food. i never thought any folk could care for such fat green beasts as those, or i would ha' brought you them by the thousand. a plate full o' peas-soup would ha' been full enough for you, i dare say; it were often too full for us." "i would ha' given a good deal for some on 'em," said job. "well, i knew folk at home liked some o' the queer things one meets with abroad; but i never thought they'd care for them nasty slimy things. i were always on the look-out for a mermaid, for that i knew were a curiosity." "you might ha' looked long enough," said job, in an under-tone of contempt, which, however, the quick ears of the sailor caught. "not so long, master, in some latitudes, as you think. it stands to reason th' sea hereabouts is too cold for mermaids; for women here don't go half-naked on account o' climate. but i've been in lands where muslin were too hot to wear on land, and where the sea were more than milk-warm; and though i'd never the good luck to see a mermaid in that latitude, i know them that has." "do tell us about it," cried mary. "pooh, pooh!" said job the naturalist. both speeches determined will to go on with his story. what could a fellow who had never been many miles from home know about the wonders of the deep, that he should put him down in that way? "well, it were jack harris, our third mate last voyage, as many and many a time telled us all about it. you see he were becalmed off chatham island (that's in the great pacific, and a warm enough latitude for mermaids, and sharks, and such like perils). so some of the men took the long boat, and pulled for the island to see what it were like; and when they got near, they heard a puffing, like a creature come up to take breath; you've never heard a diver? no! well! you've heard folks in th' asthma, and it were for all the world like that. so they looked around, and what should they see but a mermaid, sitting on a rock, and sunning herself. the water is always warmer when it's rough, you know, so i suppose in the calm she felt it rather chilly, and had come up to warm herself." "what was she like?" asked mary, breathlessly. job took his pipe off the chimney-piece and began to smoke with very audible puffs, as if the story were not worth listening to. "oh! jack used to say she was for all the world as beautiful as any of the wax ladies in the barbers' shops; only, mary, there were one little difference: her hair was bright grass green." "i should not think that was pretty," said mary, hesitatingly; as if not liking to doubt the perfection of any thing belonging to such an acknowledged beauty. "oh! but it is when you're used to it. i always think when first we get sight of land, there's no colour so lovely as grass green. however, she had green hair sure enough; and were proud enough of it, too; for she were combing it out full-length when first they saw her. they all thought she were a fair prize, and may be as good as a whale in ready money (they were whale-fishers you know). for some folk think a deal of mermaids, whatever other folk do." this was a hit at job, who retaliated in a series of sonorous spittings and puffs. "so, as i were saying, they pulled towards her, thinking to catch her. she were all the while combing her beautiful hair, and beckoning to them, while with the other hand she held a looking-glass." "how many hands had she?" asked job. "two, to be sure, just like any other woman," answered will, indignantly. "oh! i thought you said she beckoned with one hand, and combed her hair with another, and held a looking-glass with a third," said job, with provoking quietness. "no! i didn't! at least if i did, i meant she did one thing after another, as any one but" (here he mumbled a word or two) "could understand. well, mary," turning very decidedly towards her, "when she saw them coming near, whether it were she grew frightened at their fowling-pieces, as they had on board, for a bit o' shooting on the island, or whether it were she were just a fickle jade as did not rightly know her own mind (which, seeing one half of her was woman, i think myself was most probable), but when they were only about two oars' length from the rock where she sat, down she plopped into the water, leaving nothing but her hinder end of a fish tail sticking up for a minute, and then that disappeared too." "and did they never see her again?" asked mary. "never so plain; the man who had the second watch one night declared he saw her swimming round the ship, and holding up her glass for him to look in; and then he saw the little cottage near aber in wales (where his wife lived) as plain as ever he saw it in life, and his wife standing outside, shading her eyes as if she were looking for him. but jack harris gave him no credit, for he said he were always a bit of a romancer, and beside that, were a home-sick, down-hearted chap." "i wish they had caught her," said mary, musing. "they got one thing as belonged to her," replied will, "and that i've often seen with my own eyes, and i reckon it's a sure proof of the truth of their story; for them that wants proof." "what was it?" asked margaret, almost anxious her grandfather should be convinced. "why, in her hurry she left her comb on the rock, and one o' the men spied it; so they thought that were better than nothing, and they rowed there and took it, and jack harris had it on board the _john cropper_, and i saw him comb his hair with it every sunday morning." "what was it like?" asked mary, eagerly; her imagination running on coral combs, studded with pearls. "why, if it had not had such a strange yarn belonging to it, you'd never ha' noticed it from any other small-tooth comb." "i should rather think not," sneered job legh. the sailor bit his lips to keep down his anger against an old man. margaret felt very uneasy, knowing her grandfather so well, and not daring to guess what caustic remark might come next to irritate the young sailor guest. mary, however, was too much interested by the wonders of the deep to perceive the incredulity with which job legh received wilson's account of the mermaid; and when he left off, half offended, and very much inclined not to open his lips again through the evening, she eagerly said, "oh do tell us something more of what you hear and see on board ship. do, will!" "what's the use, mary, if folk won't believe one. there are things i saw with my own eyes, that some people would pish and pshaw at, as if i were a baby to be put down by cross noises. but i'll tell you, mary," with an emphasis on _you_, "some more of the wonders of the sea, sin' you're not too wise to believe me. i have seen a fish fly." this did stagger mary. she had heard of mermaids as signs of inns, and as sea-wonders, but never of flying fish. not so job. he put down his pipe, and nodding his head as a token of approbation, he said "ay, ay! young man. now you're speaking truth." "well now! you'll swallow that, old gentleman. you'll credit me when i say i've seen a crittur half fish, half bird, and you won't credit me when i say there be such beasts as mermaids, half fish, half woman. to me, one's just as strange as t'other." "you never saw the mermaid yoursel," interposed margaret, gently. but "love me, love my dog," was will wilson's motto, only his version was "believe me, believe jack harris;" and the remark was not so soothing to him as it was intended to have been. "it's the exocetus; one of the malacopterygii abdominales," said job, much interested. "ay, there you go! you're one o' them folks as never knows beasts unless they're called out o' their names. put 'em in sunday clothes and you know 'em, but in their work-a-day english you never know nought about 'em. i've met wi' many o' your kidney; and if i'd ha' known it, i'd ha' christened poor jack's mermaid wi' some grand gibberish of a name. mermaidicus jack harrisensis; that's just like their new-fangled words. d'ye believe there's such a thing as the mermaidicus, master?" asked will, enjoying his own joke uncommonly, as most people do. "not i! tell me about the--" "well!" said will, pleased at having excited the old gentleman's faith and credit at last. "it were on this last voyage, about a day's sail from madeira, that one of our men--" "not jack harris, i hope," murmured job. "called me," continued will, not noticing the interruption, "to see the what d'ye call it--flying fish i say it is. it were twenty feet out o' water, and it flew near on to a hundred yards. but i say, old gentleman, i ha' gotten one dried, and if you'll take it, why, i'll give it you; only," he added, in a lower tone, "i wish you'd just gie me credit for the mermaidicus." i really believe if the assuming faith in the story of the mermaid had been made the condition of receiving the flying fish, job legh, sincere man as he was, would have pretended belief; he was so much delighted at the idea of possessing this specimen. he won the sailor's heart by getting up to shake both his hands in his vehement gratitude, puzzling poor old alice, who yet smiled through her wonder; for she understood the action to indicate some kindly feeling towards her nephew. job wanted to prove his gratitude, and was puzzled how to do it. he feared the young man would not appreciate any of his duplicate araneides; not even the great american mygale, one of his most precious treasures; or else he would gladly have bestowed any duplicate on the donor of a real dried exocetus. what could he do for him? he could ask margaret to sing. other folks beside her old doating grandfather thought a deal of her songs. so margaret began some of her noble old-fashioned songs. she knew no modern music (for which her auditors might have been thankful), but she poured her rich voice out in some of the old canzonets she had lately learnt while accompanying the musical lecturer on his tour. mary was amused to see how the young sailor sat entranced; mouth, eyes, all open, in order to catch every breath of sound. his very lids refused to wink, as if afraid in that brief proverbial interval to lose a particle of the rich music that floated through the room. for the first time the idea crossed mary's mind that it was possible the plain little sensible margaret, so prim and demure, might have power over the heart of the handsome, dashing, spirited will wilson. job, too, was rapidly changing his opinion of his new guest. the flying fish went a great way, and his undisguised admiration for margaret's singing carried him still further. it was amusing enough to see these two, within the hour so barely civil to each other, endeavouring now to be ultra-agreeable. will, as soon as he had taken breath (a long, deep gasp of admiration) after margaret's song, sidled up to job, and asked him in a sort of doubting tone, "you wouldn't like a live manx cat, would ye, master?" "a what?" exclaimed job. "i don't know its best name," said will, humbly. "but we call 'em just manx cats. they're cats without tails." now job, in all his natural history, had never heard of such animals; so will continued, "because i'm going, afore joining my ship, to see mother's friends in the island, and would gladly bring you one, if so be you'd like to have it. they look as queer and out o' nature as flying fish, or"--he gulped the words down that should have followed. "especially when you see 'em walking a roof-top, right again the sky, when a cat, as is a proper cat, is sure to stick her tail stiff out behind, like a slack-rope dancer a-balancing; but these cats having no tail, cannot stick it out, which captivates some people uncommonly. if yo'll allow me, i'll bring one for miss there," jerking his head at margaret. job assented with grateful curiosity, wishing much to see the tail-less phenomenon. "when are you going to sail?" asked mary. "i cannot justly say; our ship's bound for america next voyage, they tell me. a mess-mate will let me know when her sailing-day is fixed; but i've got to go to th' isle o' man first. i promised uncle last time i were in england to go this next time. i may have to hoist the blue peter any day; so, make much of me while you have me, mary." job asked him if he had ever been in america. "haven't i? north and south both! this time we're bound to north. yankee-land, as we call it, where uncle sam lives." "uncle who?" said mary. "oh, it's a way sailors have of speaking. i only mean i'm going to boston, u. s., that's uncle sam." mary did not understand, so she left him and went to sit by alice, who could not hear conversation unless expressly addressed to her. she had sat patiently silent the greater part of the night, and now greeted mary with a quiet smile. "where's yo'r father?" asked she. "i guess he's at his union; he's there most evenings." alice shook her head; but whether it were that she did not hear, or that she did not quite approve of what she heard, mary could not make out. she sat silently watching alice, and regretting over her dimmed and veiled eyes, formerly so bright and speaking; as if alice understood by some other sense what was passing in mary's mind, she turned suddenly round, and answered mary's thought. "yo're mourning for me, my dear; and there's no need, mary. i'm as happy as a child. i sometimes think i am a child, whom the lord is hushabying to my long sleep. for when i were a nurse-girl, my missis alway telled me to speak very soft and low, and to darken the room that her little one might go to sleep; and now all noises are hushed and still to me, and the bonny earth seems dim and dark, and i know it's my father lulling me away to my long sleep. i'm very well content, and yo mustn't fret for me. i've had well nigh every blessing in life i could desire." mary thought of alice's long-cherished, fond wish to revisit the home of her childhood, so often and often deferred, and now probably never to take place. or if it did, how changed from the fond anticipation of what it was to have been! it would be a mockery to the blind and deaf alice. the evening came quickly to an end. there was the humble cheerful meal, and then the bustling merry farewell, and mary was once more in the quietness and solitude of her own dingy, dreary-looking home; her father still out, the fire extinguished, and her evening's task of work lying all undone upon the dresser. but it had been a pleasant little interlude to think upon. it had distracted her attention for a few hours from the pressure of many uneasy thoughts, of the dark, heavy, oppressive times, when sorrow and want seemed to surround her on every side; of her father, his changed and altered looks, telling so plainly of broken health, and an embittered heart; of the morrow, and the morrow beyond that, to be spent in that close monotonous work-room, with sally leadbitter's odious whispers hissing in her ear; and of the hunted look, so full of dread, from miss simmonds' door-step up and down the street, lest her persecuting lover should be near: for he lay in wait for her with wonderful perseverance, and of late had made himself almost hateful, by the unmanly force which he had used to detain her to listen to him, and the indifference with which he exposed her to the remarks of the passers-by, any one of whom might circulate reports which it would be terrible for her father to hear--and worse than death should they reach jem wilson. and all this she had drawn upon herself by her giddy flirting. oh! how she loathed the recollection of the hot summer evening, when, worn out by stitching and sewing, she had loitered homewards with weary languor, and first listened to the voice of the tempter. and jem wilson! oh, jem, jem, why did you not come to receive some of the modest looks and words of love which mary longed to give you, to try and make up for the hasty rejection which you as hastily took to be final, though both mourned over it with many tears. but day after day passed away, and patience seemed of no avail; and mary's cry was ever the old moan of the moated grange, "why comes he not," she said, "i am aweary, aweary, i would that i were dead." chapter xiv. jem's interview with poor esther. "know the temptation ere you judge the crime! look on this tree--'twas green, and fair, and graceful; yet now, save these few shoots, how dry and rotten! thou canst not tell the cause. not long ago, a neighbour oak, with which its roots were twined, in falling wrenched them with such cruel force, that though we covered them again with care, its beauty withered, and it pined away. so, could we look into the human breast, how oft the fatal blight that meets our view, should we trace down to the torn, bleeding fibres of a too trusting heart--where it were shame, for pitying tears, to give contempt or blame." "street walks." the month was over;--the honeymoon to the newly-married; the exquisite convalescence to the "living mother of a living child;" the "first dark days of nothingness" to the widow and the child bereaved; the term of penance, of hard labour, and solitary confinement, to the shrinking, shivering, hopeless prisoner. "sick, and in prison, and ye visited me." shall you, or i, receive such blessing? i know one who will. an overseer of a foundry, an aged man, with hoary hair, has spent his sabbaths, for many years, in visiting the prisoners and the afflicted in manchester new bailey; not merely advising and comforting, but putting means into their power of regaining the virtue and the peace they had lost; becoming himself their guarantee in obtaining employment, and never deserting those who have once asked help from him. [43] [footnote 43: vide _manchester guardian_, of wednesday, march 18, 1846; and also the reports of captain williams, prison inspector.] esther's term of imprisonment was ended. she received a good character in the governor's books; she had picked her daily quantity of oakum, had never deserved the extra punishment of the tread-mill, and had been civil and decorous in her language. and once more she was out of prison. the door closed behind her with a ponderous clang, and in her desolation she felt as if shut out of home--from the only shelter she could meet with, houseless and pennyless as she was, on that dreary day. but it was but for an instant that she stood there doubting. one thought had haunted her both by night and by day, with monomaniacal incessancy; and that thought was how to save mary (her dead sister's only child, her own little pet in the days of her innocence) from following in the same downward path to vice. to whom could she speak and ask for aid? she shrank from the idea of addressing john barton again; her heart sank within her, at the remembrance of his fierce repulsing action, and far fiercer words. it seemed worse than death to reveal her condition to mary, else she sometimes thought that this course would be the most terrible, the most efficient warning. she must speak; to that she was soul-compelled; but to whom? she dreaded addressing any of her former female acquaintance, even supposing they had sense, or spirit, or interest enough to undertake her mission. to whom shall the outcast prostitute tell her tale? who will give her help in her day of need? hers is the leper-sin, and all stand aloof dreading to be counted unclean. in her wild night wanderings, she had noted the haunts and habits of many a one who little thought of a watcher in the poor forsaken woman. you may easily imagine that a double interest was attached by her to the ways and companionships of those with whom she had been acquainted in the days which, when present, she had considered hardly-worked and monotonous, but which now in retrospection seemed so happy and unclouded. accordingly, she had, as we have seen, known where to meet with john barton on that unfortunate night, which had only produced irritation in him, and a month's imprisonment to her. she had also observed that he was still intimate with the wilsons. she had seen him walking and talking with both father and son; her old friends too; and she had shed unregarded, unvalued tears, when some one had casually told her of george wilson's sudden death. it now flashed across her mind, that to the son, to mary's play-fellow, her elder brother in the days of childhood, her tale might be told, and listened to with interest, and some mode of action suggested by him by which mary might be guarded and saved. all these thoughts had passed through her mind while yet she was in prison; so when she was turned out, her purpose was clear, and she did not feel her desolation of freedom as she would otherwise have done. that night she stationed herself early near the foundry where she knew jem worked; he stayed later than usual, being detained by some arrangements for the morrow. she grew tired and impatient; many workmen had come out of the door in the long, dead, brick wall, and eagerly had she peered into their faces, deaf to all insult or curse. he must have gone home early; one more turn in the street, and she would go. during that turn he came out, and in the quiet of that street of workshops and warehouses, she directly heard his steps. now her heart failed her for an instant; but still she was not daunted from her purpose, painful as its fulfilment was sure to be. she laid her hand on his arm. as she expected, after a momentary glance at the person who thus endeavoured to detain him, he made an effort to shake it off, and pass on. but trembling as she was, she had provided against this by a firm and unusual grasp. "you must listen to me, jem wilson," she said, with almost an accent of command. "go away, missis; i've nought to do with you, either in hearkening, or talking." he made another struggle. "you must listen," she said again, authoritatively, "for mary barton's sake." the spell of her name was as potent as that of the mariner's glittering eye. "he listened like a three-year child." "i know you care enough for her to wish to save her from harm." he interrupted his earnest gaze into her face, with the exclamation-"and who can yo be to know mary barton, or to know that she's ought to me?" there was a little strife in esther's mind for an instant, between the shame of acknowledging herself, and the additional weight to her revelation which such acknowledgment would give. then she spoke. "do you remember esther, the sister of john barton's wife? the aunt to mary? and the valentine i sent you last february ten years?" "yes, i mind her well! but yo are not esther, are you?" he looked again into her face, and seeing that indeed it was his boyhood's friend, he took her hand, and shook it with a cordiality that forgot the present in the past. "why, esther! where han ye been this many a year? where han ye been wandering that we none of us could find you out?" the question was asked thoughtlessly, but answered with fierce earnestness. "where have i been? what have i been doing? why do you torment me with questions like these? can you not guess? but the story of my life is wanted to give force to my speech, afterwards i will tell it you. nay! don't change your fickle mind now, and say you don't want to hear it. you must hear it, and i must tell it; and then see after mary, and take care she does not become like me. as she is loving now, so did i love once; one above me far." she remarked not, in her own absorption, the change in jem's breathing, the sudden clutch at the wall which told the fearfully vivid interest he took in what she said. "he was so handsome, so kind! well, the regiment was ordered to chester (did i tell you he was an officer?), and he could not bear to part from me, nor i from him, so he took me with him. i never thought poor mary would have taken it so to heart! i always meant to send for her to pay me a visit when i was married; for, mark you! he promised me marriage. they all do. then came three years of happiness. i suppose i ought not to have been happy, but i was. i had a little girl, too. oh! the sweetest darling that ever was seen! but i must not think of her," putting her hand wildly up to her forehead, "or i shall go mad; i shall." "don't tell me any more about yoursel," said jem, soothingly. "what! you're tired already, are you? but i'll tell you; as you've asked for it, you shall hear it. i won't recall the agony of the past for nothing. i will have the relief of telling it. oh, how happy i was!"--sinking her voice into a plaintive child-like manner. "it came like a shot on me when one day he came to me and told me he was ordered to ireland, and must leave me behind; at bristol we then were." jem muttered some words; she caught their meaning, and in a pleading voice continued, "oh, don't abuse him; don't speak a word against him! you don't know how i love him yet; yet, when i am sunk so low. you don't guess how kind he was. he gave me fifty pound before we parted, and i knew he could ill spare it. don't, jem, please," as his muttered indignation rose again. for her sake he ceased. "i might have done better with the money; i see now. but i did not know the value of money. formerly i had earned it easily enough at the factory, and as i had no more sensible wants, i spent it on dress and on eating. while i lived with him, i had it for asking; and fifty pounds would, i thought, go a long way. so i went back to chester, where i'd been so happy, and set up a small-ware shop, and hired a room near. we should have done well, but alas! alas! my little girl fell ill, and i could not mind my shop and her too; and things grew worse and worse. i sold my goods any how to get money to buy her food and medicine; i wrote over and over again to her father for help, but he must have changed his quarters, for i never got an answer. the landlord seized the few bobbins and tapes i had left, for shop-rent; and the person to whom the mean little room, to which we had been forced to remove, belonged, threatened to turn us out unless his rent was paid; it had run on many weeks, and it was winter, cold bleak winter; and my child was so ill, so ill, and i was starving. and i could not bear to see her suffer, and forgot how much better it would be for us to die together;--oh her moans, her moans, which money would give me the means of relieving! so i went out into the street, one january night--do you think god will punish me for that?" she asked with wild vehemence, almost amounting to insanity, and shaking jem's arm in order to force an answer from him. but before he could shape his heart's sympathy into words, her voice had lost its wildness, and she spoke with the quiet of despair. "but it's no matter! i've done that since, which separates us as far asunder as heaven and hell can be." her voice rose again to the sharp pitch of agony. "my darling! my darling! even after death i may not see thee, my own sweet one! she was so good--like a little angel. what is that text, i don't remember,--that text mother used to teach me when i sat on her knee long ago; it begins, 'blessed are the pure'"-"blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see god." "ay, that's it! it would break mother's heart if she knew what i am now--it did break mary's heart, you see. and now i recollect it was about her child i wanted so to see you, jem. you know mary barton, don't you?" said she, trying to collect her thoughts. yes, jem knew her. how well, his beating heart could testify! "well, there's something to do for her; i forget what; wait a minute! she is so like my little girl;" said she, raising her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, in search of the sympathy of jem's countenance. he deeply pitied her; but oh! how he longed to recall her mind to the subject of mary, and the lover above her in rank, and the service to be done for her sake. but he controlled himself to silence. after awhile, she spoke again, and in a calmer voice. "when i came to manchester (for i could not stay in chester after her death), i found you all out very soon. and yet i never thought my poor sister was dead. i suppose i would not think so. i used to watch about the court where john lived, for many and many a night, and gather all i could about them from the neighbours' talk; for i never asked a question. i put this and that together, and followed one, and listened to the other; many's the time i've watched the policeman off his beat, and peeped through the chink of the window-shutter to see the old room, and sometimes mary or her father sitting up late for some reason or another. i found out mary went to learn dress-making, and i began to be frightened for her; for it's a bad life for a girl to be out late at night in the streets, and after many an hour of weary work, they're ready to follow after any novelty that makes a little change. but i made up my mind, that bad as i was, i could watch over mary and perhaps keep her from harm. so i used to wait for her at nights, and follow her home, often when she little knew any one was near her. there was one of her companions i never could abide, and i'm sure that girl is at the bottom of some mischief. by-and-bye, mary's walks homewards were not alone. she was joined soon after she came out, by a man; a gentleman. i began to fear for her, for i saw she was light-hearted, and pleased with his attentions; and i thought worse of him for having such long talks with that bold girl i told you of. but i was laid up for a long time with spitting of blood; and could do nothing. i'm sure it made me worse, thinking about what might be happening to mary. and when i came out, all was going on as before, only she seemed fonder of him than ever; and oh jem! her father won't listen to me, and it's you must save mary! you're like a brother to her, and maybe could give her advice and watch over her, and at any rate john will hearken to you; only he's so stern and so cruel." she began to cry a little at the remembrance of his harsh words; but jem cut her short by his hoarse, stern inquiry, "who is this spark that mary loves? tell me his name!" "it's young carson, old carson's son, that your father worked for." there was a pause. she broke the silence. "oh! jem, i charge you with the care of her! i suppose it would be murder to kill her, but it would be better for her to die than to live to lead such a life as i do. do you hear me, jem?" "yes! i hear you. it would be better. better we were all dead." this was said as if thinking aloud; but he immediately changed his tone, and continued, "esther, you may trust to my doing all i can for mary. that i have determined on. and now listen to me! you loathe the life you lead, else you would not speak of it as you do. come home with me. come to my mother. she and my aunt alice live together. i will see that they give you a welcome. and to-morrow i will see if some honest way of living cannot be found for you. come home with me." she was silent for a minute, and he hoped he had gained his point. then she said, "god bless you, jem, for the words you have just spoken. some years ago you might have saved me, as i hope and trust you will yet save mary. but it is too late now;--too late," she added, with accents of deep despair. still he did not relax his hold. "come home," he said. "i tell you, i cannot. i could not lead a virtuous life if i would. i should only disgrace you. if you will know all," said she, as he still seemed inclined to urge her, "i must have drink. such as live like me could not bear life if they did not drink. it's the only thing to keep us from suicide. if we did not drink, we could not stand the memory of what we have been, and the thought of what we are, for a day. if i go without food, and without shelter, i must have my dram. oh! you don't know the awful nights i have had in prison for want of it!" said she, shuddering, and glaring round with terrified eyes, as if dreading to see some spiritual creature, with dim form, near her. "it is so frightful to see them," whispering in tones of wildness, although so low spoken. "there they go round and round my bed the whole night through. my mother, carrying little annie (i wonder how they got together) and mary--and all looking at me with their sad, stony eyes; oh jem! it is so terrible! they don't turn back either, but pass behind the head of the bed, and i feel their eyes on me everywhere. if i creep under the clothes i still see them; and what is worse," hissing out her words with fright, "they see me. don't speak to me of leading a better life--i must have drink. i cannot pass to-night without a dram; i dare not." jem was silent from deep sympathy. oh! could he, then, do nothing for her! she spoke again, but in a less excited tone, although it was thrillingly earnest. "you are grieved for me! i know it better than if you told me in words. but you can do nothing for me. i am past hope. you can yet save mary. you must. she is innocent, except for the great error of loving one above her in station. jem! you _will_ save her?" with heart and soul, though in few words, jem promised that if aught earthly could keep her from falling, he would do it. then she blessed him, and bade him good-night. "stay a minute," said he, as she was on the point of departure. "i may want to speak to you again. i mun know where to find you--where do you live?" she laughed strangely. "and do you think one sunk so low as i am has a home? decent, good people have homes. we have none. no, if you want me, come at night, and look at the corners of the streets about here. the colder, the bleaker, the more stormy the night, the more certain you will be to find me. for then," she added, with a plaintive fall in her voice, "it is so cold sleeping in entries, and on door-steps, and i want a dram more than ever." again she rapidly turned off, and jem also went on his way. but before he reached the end of the street, even in the midst of the jealous anguish that filled his heart, his conscience smote him. he had not done enough to save her. one more effort, and she might have come. nay, twenty efforts would have been well rewarded by her yielding. he turned back, but she was gone. in the tumult of his other feelings, his self-reproach was deadened for the time. but many and many a day afterwards he bitterly regretted his omission of duty; his weariness of well-doing. now, the great thing was to reach home, and solitude. mary loved another! oh! how should he bear it? he had thought her rejection of him a hard trial, but that was nothing now. he only remembered it, to be thankful he had not yielded to the temptation of trying his fate again, not in actual words, but in a meeting, where her manner should tell far more than words, that her sweeter smiles, her dainty movements, her pretty household ways, were all to be reserved to gladden another's eyes and heart. and he must live on; that seemed the strangest. that a long life (and he knew men did live long, even with deep, biting sorrow corroding at their hearts) must be spent without mary; nay, with the consciousness she was another's! that hell of thought he would reserve for the quiet of his own room, the dead stillness of night. he was on the threshold of home now. he entered. there were the usual faces, the usual sights. he loathed them, and then he cursed himself because he loathed them. his mother's love had taken a cross turn, because he had kept the tempting supper she had prepared for him waiting until it was nearly spoilt. alice, her dulled senses deadening day by day, sat mutely near the fire; her happiness, bounded by the circle of the consciousness of the presence of her foster child, knowing that his voice repeated what was passing to her deafened ear, that his arm removed each little obstacle to her tottering steps. and will, out of the very kindness of his heart, talked more and more merrily than ever. he saw jem was downcast, and fancied his rattling might cheer him; at any rate, it drowned his aunt's muttered grumblings, and in some measure concealed the blank of the evening. at last, bed-time came; and will withdrew to his neighbouring lodging; and jane and alice wilson had raked the fire, and fastened doors and shutters, and pattered up stairs, with their tottering foot-steps, and shrill voices. jem, too, went to the closet termed his bed-room. there was no bolt to the door; but by one strong effort of his right arm, a heavy chest was moved against it, and he could sit down on the side of his bed, and think. mary loved another! that idea would rise uppermost in his mind, and had to be combated in all its forms of pain. it was, perhaps, no great wonder that she should prefer one so much above jem in the external things of life. but the gentleman; why did he, with his range of choice among the ladies of the land, why did he stoop down to carry off the poor man's darling? with all the glories of the garden at his hand, why did he prefer to cull the wild-rose,--jem's own fragrant wild-rose? his _own!_ oh! never now his own!--gone for evermore! then uprose the guilty longing for blood!--the frenzy of jealousy!--some one should die. he would rather mary were dead, cold in her grave, than that she were another's. a vision of her pale, sweet face, with her bright hair all bedabbled with gore, seemed to float constantly before his aching eyes. but hers were ever open, and contained, in their soft, deathly look, such mute reproach! what had she done to deserve such cruel treatment from him? she had been wooed by one whom jem knew to be handsome, gay, and bright, and she had given him her love. that was all! it was the wooer who should die. yes, die, knowing the cause of his death. jem pictured him (and gloated on the picture), lying smitten, yet conscious; and listening to the upbraiding accusation of his murderer. how he had left his own rank, and dared to love a maiden of low degree; and--oh! stinging agony of all--how she, in return, had loved him! then the other nature spoke up, and bade him remember the anguish he should so prepare for mary! at first he refused to listen to that better voice; or listened only to pervert. he would glory in her wailing grief! he would take pleasure in her desolation of heart! no! he could not, said the still small voice. it would be worse, far worse, to have caused such woe, than it was now to bear his present heavy burden. but it was too heavy, too grievous to be borne, and live. he would slay himself, and the lovers should love on, and the sun shine bright, and he with his burning, woeful heart would be at rest. "rest that is reserved for the people of god." had he not promised with such earnest purpose of soul, as makes words more solemn than oaths, to save mary from becoming such as esther? should he shrink from the duties of life, into the cowardliness of death? who would then guard mary, with her love and her innocence? would it not be a goodly thing to serve her, although she loved him not; to be her preserving angel, through the perils of life; and she, unconscious all the while? he braced up his soul, and said to himself, that with god's help he would be that earthly keeper. and now the mists and the storms seemed clearing away from his path, though it still was full of stinging thorns. having done the duty nearest to him (of reducing the tumult of his own heart to something like order), the second became more plain before him. poor esther's experience had led her, perhaps, too hastily to the conclusion, that mr. carson's intentions were evil towards mary; at least she had given no just ground for the fears she entertained that such was the case. it was possible, nay, to jem's heart, very probable, that he might only be too happy to marry her. she was a lady by right of nature, jem thought; in movement, grace, and spirit. what was birth to a manchester manufacturer, many of whom glory, and justly too, in being the architects of their own fortunes? and, as far as wealth was concerned, judging another by himself, jem could only imagine it a great privilege to lay it at the feet of the loved one. harry carson's mother had been a factory girl; so, after all, what was the great reason for doubting his intentions towards mary? there might probably be some little awkwardness about the affair at first: mary's father having such strong prejudices on the one hand; and something of the same kind being likely to exist on the part of mr. carson's family. but jem knew he had power over john barton's mind; and it would be something to exert that power in promoting mary's happiness, and to relinquish all thought of self in so doing. oh! why had esther chosen him for this office? it was beyond his strength to act rightly! why had she singled him out? the answer came when he was calm enough to listen for it. because mary had no other friend capable of the duty required of him; the duty of a brother, as esther imagined him to be in feeling, from his long friendship. he would be unto her as a brother. as such, he ought to ascertain harry carson's intentions towards her in winning her affections. he would ask him, straightforwardly, as became man speaking to man, not concealing, if need were, the interest he felt in mary. then, with the resolve to do his duty to the best of his power, peace came into his soul; he had left the windy storm and tempest behind. two hours before day-dawn he fell asleep. chapter xv. a violent meeting between the rivals. "what thoughtful heart can look into this gulf that darkly yawns 'twixt rich and poor, and not find food for saddest meditation! can see, without a pang of keenest grief, them fiercely battling (like some natural foes) whom god had made, with help and sympathy, to stand as brothers, side by side, united! where is the wisdom that shall bridge this gulf, and bind them once again in trust and love?" "love-truths." we must return to john barton. poor john! he never got over his disappointing journey to london. the deep mortification he then experienced (with, perhaps, as little selfishness for its cause as mortification ever had) was of no temporary nature; indeed, few of his feelings were. then came a long period of bodily privation; of daily hunger after food; and though he tried to persuade himself he could bear want himself with stoical indifference, and did care about it as little as most men, yet the body took its revenge for its uneasy feelings. the mind became soured and morose, and lost much of its equipoise. it was no longer elastic, as in the days of youth, or in times of comparative happiness; it ceased to hope. and it is hard to live on when one can no longer hope. the same state of feeling which john barton entertained, if belonging to one who had had leisure to think of such things, and physicians to give names to them, would have been called monomania; so haunting, so incessant, were the thoughts that pressed upon him. i have somewhere read a forcibly described punishment among the italians, worthy of a borgia. the supposed or real criminal was shut up in a room, supplied with every convenience and luxury; and at first mourned little over his imprisonment. but day by day he became aware that the space between the walls of his apartment was narrowing, and then he understood the end. those painted walls would come into hideous nearness, and at last crush the life out of him. and so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the diseased thoughts of john barton. they excluded the light of heaven, the cheering sounds of earth. they were preparing his death. it is true, much of their morbid power might be ascribed to the use of opium. but before you blame too harshly this use, or rather abuse, try a hopeless life, with daily cravings of the body for food. try, not alone being without hope yourself, but seeing all around you reduced to the same despair, arising from the same circumstances; all around you telling (though they use no words or language), by their looks and feeble actions, that they are suffering and sinking under the pressure of want. would you not be glad to forget life, and its burdens? and opium gives forgetfulness for a time. it is true they who thus purchase it pay dearly for their oblivion; but can you expect the uneducated to count the cost of their whistle? poor wretches! they pay a heavy price. days of oppressive weariness and languor, whose realities have the feeble sickliness of dreams; nights, whose dreams are fierce realities of agony; sinking health, tottering frames, incipient madness, and worse, the _consciousness_ of incipient madness; this is the price of their whistle. but have you taught them the science of consequences? john barton's overpowering thought, which was to work out his fate on earth, was rich and poor; why are they so separate, so distinct, when god has made them all? it is not his will, that their interests are so far apart. whose doing is it? and so on into the problems and mysteries of life, until, bewildered and lost, unhappy and suffering, the only feeling that remained clear and undisturbed in the tumult of his heart, was hatred to the one class and keen sympathy with the other. but what availed his sympathy? no education had given him wisdom; and without wisdom, even love, with all its effects, too often works but harm. he acted to the best of his judgment, but it was a widely-erring judgment. the actions of the uneducated seem to me typified in those of frankenstein, that monster of many human qualities, ungifted with a soul, a knowledge of the difference between good and evil. the people rise up to life; they irritate us, they terrify us, and we become their enemies. then, in the sorrowful moment of our triumphant power, their eyes gaze on us with a mute reproach. why have we made them what they are; a powerful monster, yet without the inner means for peace and happiness? john barton became a chartist, a communist, all that is commonly called wild and visionary. ay! but being visionary is something. it shows a soul, a being not altogether sensual; a creature who looks forward for others, if not for himself. and with all his weakness he had a sort of practical power, which made him useful to the bodies of men to whom he belonged. he had a ready kind of rough lancashire eloquence, arising out of the fulness of his heart, which was very stirring to men similarly circumstanced, who liked to hear their feelings put into words. he had a pretty clear head at times, for method and arrangement; a necessary talent to large combinations of men. and what perhaps more than all made him relied upon and valued, was the consciousness which every one who came in contact with him felt, that he was actuated by no selfish motives; that his class, his order, was what he stood by, not the rights of his own paltry self. for even in great and noble men, as soon as self comes into prominent existence, it becomes a mean and paltry thing. a little time before this, there had come one of those occasions for deliberation among the employed, which deeply interested john barton; and the discussions concerning which had caused his frequent absence from home of late. i am not sure if i can express myself in the technical terms of either masters or workmen, but i will try simply to state the case on which the latter deliberated. an order for coarse goods came in from a new foreign market. it was a large order, giving employment to all the mills engaged in that species of manufacture: but it was necessary to execute it speedily, and at as low prices as possible, as the masters had reason to believe a duplicate order had been sent to one of the continental manufacturing towns, where there were no restrictions on food, no taxes on building or machinery, and where consequently they dreaded that the goods could be made at a much lower price than they could afford them for; and that, by so acting and charging, the rival manufacturers would obtain undivided possession of the market. it was clearly their interest to buy cotton as cheaply, and to beat down wages as low as possible. and in the long run the interests of the workmen would have been thereby benefited. distrust each other as they may, the employers and the employed must rise or fall together. there may be some difference as to chronology, none as to fact. but the masters did not choose to make all these facts known. they stood upon being the masters, and that they had a right to order work at their own prices, and they believed that in the present depression of trade, and unemployment of hands, there would be no great difficulty in getting it done. now let us turn to the workmen's view of the question. the masters (of the tottering foundation of whose prosperity they were ignorant) seemed doing well, and like gentlemen, "lived at home in ease," while they were starving, gasping on from day to day; and there was a foreign order to be executed, the extent of which, large as it was, was greatly exaggerated; and it was to be done speedily. why were the masters offering such low wages under these circumstances? shame upon them! it was taking advantage of their work-people being almost starved; but they would starve entirely rather than come into such terms. it was bad enough to be poor, while by the labour of their thin hands, the sweat of their brows, the masters were made rich; but they would not be utterly ground down to dust. no! they would fold their hands, and sit idle, and smile at the masters, whom even in death they could baffle. with spartan endurance they determined to let the employers know their power, by refusing to work. so class distrusted class, and their want of mutual confidence wrought sorrow to both. the masters would not be bullied, and compelled to reveal why they felt it wisest and best to offer only such low wages; they would not be made to tell that they were even sacrificing capital to obtain a decisive victory over the continental manufacturers. and the workmen sat silent and stern with folded hands, refusing to work for such pay. there was a strike in manchester. of course it was succeeded by the usual consequences. many other trades' unions, connected with different branches of business, supported with money, countenance, and encouragement of every kind, the stand which the manchester power-loom weavers were making against their masters. delegates from glasgow, from nottingham, and other towns, were sent to manchester, to keep up the spirit of resistance; a committee was formed, and all the requisite officers elected; chairman, treasurer, honorary secretary:--among them was john barton. the masters, meanwhile, took their measures. they placarded the walls with advertisements for power-loom weavers. the workmen replied by a placard in still larger letters, stating their grievances. the masters met daily in town, to mourn over the time (so fast slipping away) for the fulfilment of the foreign orders; and to strengthen each other in their resolution not to yield. if they gave up now, they might give up always. it would never do. and amongst the most energetic of the masters, the carsons, father and son, took their places. it is well known, that there is no religionist so zealous as a convert; no masters so stern, and regardless of the interests of their work-people, as those who have risen from such a station themselves. this would account for the elder mr. carson's determination not to be bullied into yielding; not even to be bullied into giving reasons for acting as the masters did. it was the employer's will, and that should be enough for the employed. harry carson did not trouble himself much about the grounds for his conduct. he liked the excitement of the affair. he liked the attitude of resistance. he was brave, and he liked the idea of personal danger, with which some of the more cautious tried to intimidate the violent among the masters. meanwhile, the power-loom weavers living in the more remote parts of lancashire, and the neighbouring counties, heard of the masters' advertisements for workmen; and in their solitary dwellings grew weary of starvation, and resolved to come to manchester. foot-sore, way-worn, half-starved looking men they were, as they tried to steal into town in the early dawn, before people were astir, or late in the dusk of evening. and now began the real wrong-doing of the trades' unions. as to their decision to work, or not, at such a particular rate of wages, that was either wise or unwise; all error of judgment at the worst. but they had no right to tyrannise over others, and tie them down to their own procrustean bed. abhorring what they considered oppression in the masters, why did they oppress others? because, when men get excited, they know not what they do. judge, then, with something of the mercy of the holy one, whom we all love. in spite of policemen set to watch over the safety of the poor country weavers,--in spite of magistrates, and prisons, and severe punishments,--the poor depressed men tramping in from burnley, padiham, and other places, to work at the condemned "starvation prices," were waylaid, and beaten, and left almost for dead by the road-side. the police broke up every lounging knot of men:--they separated quietly, to reunite half-a-mile further out of town. of course the feeling between the masters and workmen did not improve under these circumstances. combination is an awful power. it is like the equally mighty agency of steam; capable of almost unlimited good or evil. but to obtain a blessing on its labours, it must work under the direction of a high and intelligent will; incapable of being misled by passion, or excitement. the will of the operatives had not been guided to the calmness of wisdom. so much for generalities. let us now return to individuals. a note, respectfully worded, although its tone of determination was strong, had been sent from the power-loom weavers, requesting that a "deputation" of them might have a meeting with the masters, to state the conditions they must have fulfilled before they would end the turn-out. they thought they had attained a sufficiently commanding position to dictate. john barton was appointed one of the deputation. the masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to end the strife, although undetermined among themselves how far they should yield, or whether they should yield at all. some of the old, whose experience had taught them sympathy, were for concession. others, white-headed men too, had only learnt hardness and obstinacy from the days of the years of their lives, and sneered at the more gentle and yielding. the younger men were one and all for an unflinching resistance to claims urged with so much violence. of this party harry carson was the leader. but like all energetic people, the more he had to do the more time he seemed to find. with all his letter-writing, his calling, his being present at the new bailey, when investigations of any case of violence against knob-sticks [44] were going on, he beset mary more than ever. she was weary of her life for him. from blandishments he had even gone to threats--threats that whether she would or not she should be his; he showed an indifference that was almost insulting to every thing that might attract attention and injure her character. [footnote 44: "knob-sticks," those who consent to work at lower wages.] and still she never saw jem. she knew he had returned home. she heard of him occasionally through his cousin, who roved gaily from house to house, finding and making friends everywhere. but she never saw him. what was she to think? had he given her up? were a few hasty words, spoken in a moment of irritation, to stamp her lot through life? at times she thought that she could bear this meekly, happy in her own constant power of loving. for of change or of forgetfulness she did not dream. then at other times her state of impatience was such, that it required all her self-restraint to prevent her from going and seeking him out, and (as man would do to man, or woman to woman) begging him to forgive her hasty words, and allow her to retract them, and bidding him accept of the love that was filling her whole heart. she wished margaret had not advised her against such a manner of proceeding; she believed it was her friend's words that seemed to make such a simple action impossible, in spite of all the internal urgings. but a friend's advice is only thus powerful, when it puts into language the secret oracle of our souls. it was the whisperings of her womanly nature that caused her to shrink from any unmaidenly action, not margaret's counsel. all this time, this ten days or so, of will's visit to manchester, there was something going on which interested mary even now, and which, in former times, would have exceedingly amused and excited her. she saw as clearly as if told in words, that the merry, random, boisterous sailor had fallen deeply in love with the quiet, prim, somewhat plain margaret: she doubted if margaret was aware of it, and yet, as she watched more closely, she began to think some instinct made the blind girl feel whose eyes were so often fixed upon her pale face; that some inner feeling made the delicate and becoming rose-flush steal over her countenance. she did not speak so decidedly as before; there was a hesitation in her manner, that seemed to make her very attractive; as if something softer, more loveable than excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech; her eyes had always been soft, and were in no ways disfigured by her blindness, and now seemed to have a new charm, as they quivered under their white down-cast lids. she must be conscious, thought mary,--heart answering heart. will's love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no weighing of words; it was as open and undisguised as his nature; yet he seemed afraid of the answer its acknowledgment might meet with. it was margaret's angelic voice that had entranced him, and which made him think of her as a being of some other sphere, that he feared to woo. so he tried to propitiate job in all manner of ways. he went over to liverpool to rummage in his great sea-chest for the flying-fish (no very odorous present by the way). he hesitated over a child's caul for some time, which was, in his eyes, a far greater treasure than any exocetus. what use could it be of to a landsman? then margaret's voice rang in his ears; and he determined to sacrifice it, his most precious possession, to one whom she loved, as she did her grandfather. it was rather a relief to him, when, having put it and the flying-fish together in a brown paper parcel, and sat upon them for security all the way in the railroad, he found that job was so indifferent to the precious caul, that he might easily claim it again. he hung about margaret, till he had received many warnings and reproaches from his conscience in behalf of his dear aunt alice's claims upon his time. he went away, and then he bethought him of some other little word with job. and he turned back, and stood talking once more in margaret's presence, door in hand, only waiting for some little speech of encouragement to come in and sit down again. but as the invitation was not given, he was forced to leave at last, and go and do his duty. four days had jem wilson watched for mr. harry carson without success; his hours of going and returning to his home were so irregular, owing to the meetings and consultations among the masters, which were rendered necessary by the turn-out. on the fifth, without any purpose on jem's part, they met. it was the workmen's dinner-hour, the interval between twelve and one; when the streets of manchester are comparatively quiet, for a few shopping ladies and lounging gentlemen count for nothing in that busy, bustling, living place. jem had been on an errand for his master, instead of returning to his dinner; and in passing along a lane, a road (called, in compliment to the intentions of some future builder, a street), he encountered harry carson, the only person, as far as he saw beside himself, treading the unfrequented path. along one side ran a high broad fence, blackened over by coal-tar, and spiked and stuck with pointed nails at the top, to prevent any one from climbing over into the garden beyond. by this fence was the foot-path. the carriage road was such as no carriage, no, not even a cart, could possibly have passed along, without hercules to assist in lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. on the other side of the way was a dead brick wall; and a field after that, where there was a sawpit, and joiner's shed. jem's heart beat violently when he saw the gay, handsome young man approaching, with a light, buoyant step. this, then, was he whom mary loved. it was, perhaps, no wonder; for he seemed to the poor smith so elegant, so well-appointed, that he felt his superiority in externals, strangely and painfully, for an instant. then something uprose within him, and told him, that "a man's a man for a' that, for a' that, and twice as much as a' that." and he no longer felt troubled by the outward appearance of his rival. harry carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty places with almost a lad's buoyancy. to his surprise the dark, sturdy-looking artisan stopped him by saying respectfully, "may i speak a word wi' you, sir?" "certainly, my good man," looking his astonishment; then finding that the promised speech did not come very quickly, he added, "but make haste, for i'm in a hurry." jem had cast about for some less abrupt way of broaching the subject uppermost in his mind than he now found himself obliged to use. with a husky voice that trembled as he spoke, he said, "i think, sir, yo're keeping company wi' a young woman called mary barton?" a light broke in upon harry carson's mind, and he paused before he gave the answer for which the other waited. could this man be a lover of mary's? and (strange, stinging thought) could he be beloved by her, and so have caused her obstinate rejection of himself? he looked at jem from head to foot, a black, grimy mechanic, in dirty fustian clothes, strongly built, and awkward (according to the dancing-master); then he glanced at himself, and recalled the reflection he had so lately quitted in his bed-room. it was impossible. no woman with eyes could choose the one when the other wooed. it was hyperion to a satyr. that quotation came aptly; he forgot "that a man's a man for a' that." and yet here was a clue, which he had often wanted, to her changed conduct towards him. if she loved this man. if-he hated the fellow, and longed to strike him. he would know all. "mary barton! let me see. ay, that is the name of the girl. an arrant flirt, the little hussy is; but very pretty. ay, mary barton is her name." jem bit his lips. was it then so; that mary was a flirt, the giddy creature of whom he spoke? he would not believe it, and yet how he wished the suggestive words unspoken. that thought must keep now, though. even if she were, the more reason for there being some one to protect her; poor, faulty darling. "she's a good girl, sir, though may be a bit set up with her beauty; but she's her father's only child, sir, and--" he stopped; he did not like to express suspicion, and yet he was determined he would be certain there was ground for none. what should he say? "well, my fine fellow, and what have i to do with that? it's but loss of my time, and yours, too, if you've only stopped me to tell me mary barton is very pretty; i know that well enough." he seemed as though he would have gone on, but jem put his black, working, right hand upon his arm to detain him. the haughty young man shook it off, and with his glove pretended to brush away the sooty contamination that might be left upon his light great-coat sleeve. the little action aroused jem. "i will tell you in plain words what i have got to say to you, young man. it's been telled me by one as knows, and has seen, that you walk with this same mary barton, and are known to be courting her; and her as spoke to me about it, thinks as how mary loves you. that may be, or may not. but i'm an old friend of hers, and her father's; and i just wished to know if you mean to marry the girl. spite of what you said of her lightness, i ha' known her long enough to be sure she'll make a noble wife for any one, let him be what he may; and i mean to stand by her like a brother; and if you mean rightly, you'll not think the worse on me for what i've now said; and if--but no, i'll not say what i'll do to the man who wrongs a hair of her head. he shall rue it the longest day he lives, that's all. now, sir, what i ask of you is this. if you mean fair and honourable by her, well and good; but if not, for your own sake as well as hers, leave her alone, and never speak to her more." jem's voice quivered with the earnestness with which he spoke, and he eagerly waited for some answer. harry carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very particularly to the purpose the man had in addressing him, was trying to gather from his speech what was the real state of the case. he succeeded so far as to comprehend that jem inclined to believe that mary loved his rival; and consequently, that if the speaker were attached to her himself, he was not a favoured admirer. the idea came into mr. carson's mind, that perhaps, after all, mary loved him in spite of her frequent and obstinate rejections; and that she had employed this person (whoever he was) to bully him into marrying her. he resolved to try and ascertain more correctly the man's relation to her. either he was a lover, and if so, not a favoured one (in which case mr. carson could not at all understand the man's motives for interesting himself in securing her marriage); or he was a friend, an accomplice, whom she had employed to bully him. so little faith in goodness have the mean and selfish! "before i make you into my confidant, my good man," said mr. carson, in a contemptuous tone, "i think it might be as well to inquire your right to meddle with our affairs. neither mary nor i, as i conceive, called you in as a mediator." he paused; he wanted a distinct answer to this last supposition. none came; so he began to imagine he was to be threatened into some engagement, and his angry spirit rose. "and so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness to leave us to ourselves, and not meddle with what does not concern you. if you were a brother, or father of hers, the case might have been different. as it is, i can only consider you an impertinent meddler." again he would have passed on, but jem stood in a determined way before him, saying, "you say if i had been her brother, or her father, you'd have answered me what i ask. now, neither father nor brother could love her as i have loved her, ay, and as i love her still; if love gives a right to satisfaction, it's next to impossible any one breathing can come up to my right. now, sir, tell me! do you mean fair by mary or not? i've proved my claim to know, and, by g----, i will know." "come, come, no impudence," replied mr. carson, who, having discovered what he wanted to know (namely, that jem was a lover of mary's, and that she was not encouraging his suit), wished to pass on. "father, brother, or rejected lover" (with an emphasis on the word rejected), "no one has a right to interfere between my little girl and me. no one shall. confound you, man! get out of my way, or i'll make you," as jem still obstructed his path with dogged determination. "i won't, then, till you've given me your word about mary," replied the mechanic, grinding his words out between his teeth, and the livid paleness of the anger he could no longer keep down covering his face till he looked ghastly. "won't you?" (with a taunting laugh), "then i'll make you." the young man raised his slight cane, and smote the artisan across the face with a stinging stroke. an instant afterwards he lay stretched in the muddy road, jem standing over him, panting with rage. what he would have done next in his moment of ungovernable passion, no one knows; but a policeman from the main street, into which this road led, had been sauntering about for some time, unobserved by either of the parties, and expecting some kind of conclusion like the present to the violent discussion going on between the two young men. in a minute he had pinioned jem, who sullenly yielded to the surprise. mr. carson was on his feet directly, his face glowing with rage or shame. "shall i take him to the lock-ups for assault, sir?" said the policeman. "no, no," exclaimed mr. carson; "i struck him first. it was no assault on his side; though," he continued, hissing out his words to jem, who even hated freedom procured for him, however justly, at the intervention of his rival, "i will never forgive or forget your insult. trust me," he gasped the words in excess of passion, "mary shall fare no better for your insolent interference." he laughed, as if with the consciousness of power. jem replied with equal excitement--"and if you dare to injure her in the least, i will await you where no policeman can step in between. and god shall judge between us two." the policeman now interfered with persuasions and warnings. he locked his arm in jem's to lead him away in an opposite direction to that in which he saw mr. carson was going. jem submitted gloomily, for a few steps, then wrenched himself free. the policeman shouted after him, "take care, my man! there's no girl on earth worth what you'll be bringing on yourself if you don't mind." but jem was out of hearing. chapter xvi. meeting between masters and workmen. "not for a moment take the scorner's chair; while seated there, thou know'st not how a word, a tone, a look, may gall thy brother's heart, and make him turn in bitterness against thee." "love-truths." the day arrived on which the masters were to have an interview with a deputation of the work-people. the meeting was to take place in a public room, at an hotel; and there, about eleven o'clock, the mill-owners, who had received the foreign orders, began to collect. of course, the first subject, however full their minds might be of another, was the weather. having done their duty by all the showers and sunshine which had occurred during the past week, they fell to talking about the business which brought them together. there might be about twenty gentlemen in the room, including some by courtesy, who were not immediately concerned in the settlement of the present question; but who, nevertheless, were sufficiently interested to attend. these were divided into little groups, who did not seem unanimous by any means. some were for a slight concession, just a sugar-plum to quieten the naughty child, a sacrifice to peace and quietness. some were steadily and vehemently opposed to the dangerous precedent of yielding one jot or one tittle to the outward force of a turn-out. it was teaching the work-people how to become masters, said they. did they want the wildest thing heareafter, they would know that the way to obtain their wishes would be to strike work. besides, one or two of those present had only just returned from the new bailey, where one of the turn-outs had been tried for a cruel assault on a poor north-country weaver, who had attempted to work at the low price. they were indignant, and justly so, at the merciless manner in which the poor fellow had been treated; and their indignation at wrong, took (as it so often does) the extreme form of revenge. they felt as if, rather than yield to the body of men who were resorting to such cruel measures towards their fellow-workmen, they, the masters, would sooner relinquish all the benefits to be derived from the fulfilment of the commission, in order that the workmen might suffer keenly. they forgot that the strike was in this instance the consequence of want and need, suffered unjustly, as the endurers believed; for, however insane, and without ground of reason, such was their belief, and such was the cause of their violence. it is a great truth, that you cannot extinguish violence by violence. you may put it down for a time; but while you are crowing over your imaginary success, see if it does not return with seven devils worse than its former self! no one thought of treating the workmen as brethren and friends, and openly, clearly, as appealing to reasonable men, stating the exact and full circumstances which led the masters to think it was the wise policy of the time to make sacrifices themselves, and to hope for them from the operatives. in going from group to group in the room, you caught such a medley of sentences as the following: "poor devils! they're near enough to starving, i'm afraid. mrs. aldred makes two cows' heads into soup every week, and people come several miles to fetch it; and if these times last we must try and do more. but we must not be bullied into any thing!" "a rise of a shilling or so won't make much difference, and they will go away thinking they've gained their point." "that's the very thing i object to. they'll think so, and whenever they've a point to gain, no matter how unreasonable, they'll strike work." "it really injures them more than us." "i don't see how our interests can be separated." "the d----d brute had thrown vitriol on the poor fellow's ankles, and you know what a bad part that is to heal. he had to stand still with the pain, and that left him at the mercy of the cruel wretch, who beat him about the head till you'd hardly have known he was a man. they doubt if he'll live." "if it were only for that, i'll stand out against them, even if it were the cause of my ruin." "ay, i for one won't yield one farthing to the cruel brutes; they're more like wild beasts than human beings." (well! who might have made them different?) "i say, carson, just go and tell duncombe of this fresh instance of their abominable conduct. he's wavering, but i think this will decide him." the door was now opened, and a waiter announced that the men were below, and asked if it were the pleasure of the gentlemen that they should be shown up. they assented, and rapidly took their places round the official table; looking, as like as they could, to the roman senators who awaited the irruption of brennus and his gauls. tramp, tramp, came the heavy clogged feet up the stairs; and in a minute five wild, earnest-looking men stood in the room. john barton, from some mistake as to time, was not among them. had they been larger boned men, you would have called them gaunt; as it was, they were little of stature, and their fustian clothes hung loosely upon their shrunk limbs. in choosing their delegates, too, the operatives had had more regard to their brains, and power of speech, than to their wardrobes; they might have read the opinions of that worthy professor teufelsdruch, in sartor resartus, to judge from the dilapidated coats and trousers, which yet clothed men of parts and of power. it was long since many of them had known the luxury of a new article of dress; and air-gaps were to be seen in their garments. some of the masters were rather affronted at such a ragged detachment coming between the wind and their nobility; but what cared they? at the request of a gentleman hastily chosen to officiate as chairman, the leader of the delegates read, in a high-pitched, psalm-singing voice, a paper, containing the operatives' statement of the case at issue, their complaints, and their demands, which last were not remarkable for moderation. he was then desired to withdraw for a few minutes, with his fellow delegates, to another room, while the masters considered what should be their definitive answer. when the men had left the room, a whispered earnest consultation took place, every one re-urging his former arguments. the conceders carried the day, but only by a majority of one. the minority haughtily and audibly expressed their dissent from the measures to be adopted, even after the delegates re-entered the room; their words and looks did not pass unheeded by the quick-eyed operatives; their names were registered in bitter hearts. the masters could not consent to the advance demanded by the workmen. they would agree to give one shilling per week more than they had previously offered. were the delegates empowered to accept such offer? they were empowered to accept or decline any offer made that day by the masters. then it might be as well for them to consult among themselves as to what should be their decision. they again withdrew. it was not for long. they came back, and positively declined any compromise of their demands. then up sprang mr. henry carson, the head and voice of the violent party among the masters, and addressing the chairman, even before the scowling operatives, he proposed some resolutions, which he, and those who agreed with him, had been concocting during this last absence of the deputation. they were, firstly, withdrawing the proposal just made, and declaring all communication between the masters and that particular trades' union at an end; secondly, declaring that no master would employ any workman in future, unless he signed a declaration that he did not belong to any trades' union, and pledged himself not to assist or subscribe to any society, having for its object interference with the masters' powers; and, thirdly, that the masters should pledge themselves to protect and encourage all workmen willing to accept employment on those conditions, and at the rate of wages first offered. considering that the men who now stood listening with lowering brows of defiance were all of them leading members of the union, such resolutions were in themselves sufficiently provocative of animosity: but not content with simply stating them, harry carson went on to characterise the conduct of the workmen in no measured terms; every word he spoke rendering their looks more livid, their glaring eyes more fierce. one among them would have spoken, but checked himself in obedience to the stern glance and pressure on his arm, received from the leader. mr. carson sat down, and a friend instantly got up to second the motion. it was carried, but far from unanimously. the chairman announced it to the delegates (who had been once more turned out of the room for a division). they received it with deep brooding silence, but spake never a word, and left the room without even a bow. now there had been some by-play at this meeting, not recorded in the manchester newspapers, which gave an account of the more regular part of the transaction. while the men had stood grouped near the door, on their first entrance, mr. harry carson had taken out his silver pencil, and had drawn an admirable caricature of them--lank, ragged, dispirited, and famine-stricken. underneath he wrote a hasty quotation from the fat knight's well-known speech in henry iv. he passed it to one of his neighbours, who acknowledged the likeness instantly, and by him it was sent round to others, who all smiled and nodded their heads. when it came back to its owner he tore the back of the letter on which it was drawn, in two; twisted them up, and flung them into the fire-place; but, careless whether they reached their aim or not, he did not look to see that they fell just short of any consuming cinders. this proceeding was closely observed by one of the men. he watched the masters as they left the hotel (laughing, some of them were, at passing jokes), and when all had gone, he re-entered. he went to the waiter, who recognised him. "there's a bit on a picture up yonder, as one o' the gentlemen threw away; i've a little lad at home as dearly loves a picture; by your leave i'll go up for it." the waiter, good-natured and sympathetic, accompanied him up-stairs; saw the paper picked up and untwisted, and then being convinced, by a hasty glance at its contents, that it was only what the man had called it, "a bit of a picture," he allowed him to bear away his prize. towards seven o'clock that evening many operatives began to assemble in a room in the weavers' arms public-house, a room appropriated for "festive occasions," as the landlord, in his circular, on opening the premises, had described it. but, alas! it was on no festive occasion that they met there on this night. starved, irritated, despairing men, they were assembling to hear the answer that morning given by the masters to their delegates; after which, as was stated in the notice, a gentleman from london would have the honour of addressing the meeting on the present state of affairs between the employers and the employed, or (as he chose to term them) the idle and the industrious classes. the room was not large, but its bareness of furniture made it appear so. unshaded gas flared down upon the lean and unwashed artisans as they entered, their eyes blinking at the excess of light. they took their seats on benches, and awaited the deputation. the latter, gloomily and ferociously, delivered the masters' ultimatum, adding thereunto not one word of their own; and it sank all the deeper into the sore hearts of the listeners for their forbearance. then the "gentleman from london" (who had been previously informed of the masters' decision) entered. you would have been puzzled to define his exact position, or what was the state of his mind as regarded education. he looked so self-conscious, so far from earnest, among the group of eager, fierce, absorbed men, among whom he now stood. he might have been a disgraced medical student of the bob sawyer class, or an unsuccessful actor, or a flashy shopman. the impression he would have given you would have been unfavourable, and yet there was much about him that could only be characterised as doubtful. he smirked in acknowledgment of their uncouth greetings, and sat down; then glancing round, he inquired whether it would not be agreeable to the gentlemen present to have pipes and liquor handed round; adding, that he would stand treat. as the man who has had his taste educated to love reading, falls devouringly upon books after a long abstinence, so these poor fellows, whose tastes had been left to educate themselves into a liking for tobacco, beer, and similar gratifications, gleamed up at the proposal of the london delegate. tobacco and drink deaden the pangs of hunger, and make one forget the miserable home, the desolate future. they were now ready to listen to him with approbation. he felt it; and rising like a great orator, with his right arm outstretched, his left in the breast of his waistcoat, he began to declaim, with a forced theatrical voice. after a burst of eloquence, in which he blended the deeds of the elder and the younger brutus, and magnified the resistless might of the "millions of manchester," the londoner descended to matter-of-fact business, and in his capacity this way he did not belie the good judgment of those who had sent him as delegate. masses of people, when left to their own free choice, seem to have discretion in distinguishing men of natural talent; it is a pity they so little regard temper and principles. he rapidly dictated resolutions, and suggested measures. he wrote out a stirring placard for the walls. he proposed sending delegates to entreat the assistance of other trades' unions in other towns. he headed the list of subscribing unions, by a liberal donation from that with which he was especially connected in london; and what was more, and more uncommon, he paid down the money in real, clinking, blinking, golden sovereigns! the money, alas, was cravingly required; but before alleviating any private necessities on the morrow, small sums were handed to each of the delegates, who were in a day or two to set out on their expeditions to glasgow, newcastle, nottingham, &c. these men were most of them members of the deputation who had that morning waited upon the masters. after he had drawn up some letters, and spoken a few more stirring words, the gentleman from london withdrew, previously shaking hands all round; and many speedily followed him out of the room, and out of the house. the newly-appointed delegates, and one or two others, remained behind to talk over their respective missions, and to give and exchange opinions in more homely and natural language than they dared to use before the london orator. "he's a rare chap, yon," began one, indicating the departed delegate by a jerk of his thumb towards the door. "he's gotten the gift of the gab, anyhow!" "ay! ay! he knows what he's about. see how he poured it into us about that there brutus. he were pretty hard, too, to kill his own son!" "i could kill mine if he took part wi' the masters; to be sure, he's but a step-son, but that makes no odds," said another. but now tongues were hushed, and all eyes were directed towards the member of the deputation who had that morning returned to the hotel to obtain possession of harry carson's clever caricature of the operatives. the heads clustered together, to gaze at and detect the likenesses. "that's john slater! i'd ha' known him anywhere, by his big nose. lord! how like; that's me, by g----, it's the very way i'm obligated to pin my waistcoat up, to hide that i've gotten no shirt. that _is_ a shame, and i'll not stand it." "well!" said john slater, after having acknowledged his nose and his likeness; "i could laugh at a jest as well as e'er the best on 'em, though it did tell again mysel, if i were not clemming" (his eyes filled with tears; he was a poor, pinched, sharp-featured man, with a gentle and melancholy expression of countenance), "and if i could keep from thinking of them at home, as is clemming; but with their cries for food ringing in my ears, and making me afeard of going home, and wonder if i should hear 'em wailing out, if i lay cold and drowned at th' bottom o' th' canal, there,--why, man, i cannot laugh at ought. it seems to make me sad that there is any as can make game on what they've never knowed; as can make such laughable pictures on men, whose very hearts within 'em are so raw and sore as ours were and are, god help us." john barton began to speak; they turned to him with great attention. "it makes me more than sad, it makes my heart burn within me, to see that folk can make a jest of earnest men; of chaps who comed to ask for a bit o' fire for th' old granny, as shivers in th' cold; for a bit o' bedding, and some warm clothing to the poor wife as lies in labour on th' damp flags; and for victuals for the childer, whose little voices are getting too faint and weak to cry aloud wi' hunger. for, brothers, is not them the things we ask for when we ask for more wage? we donnot want dainties, we want bellyfuls; we donnot want gimcrack coats and waistcoats, we want warm clothes, and so that we get 'em we'd not quarrel wi' what they're made on. we donnot want their grand houses, we want a roof to cover us from the rain, and the snow, and the storm; ay, and not alone to cover us, but the helpless ones that cling to us in the keen wind, and ask us with their eyes why we brought 'em into th' world to suffer?" he lowered his deep voice almost to a whisper. "i've seen a father who had killed his child rather than let it clem before his eyes; and he were a tender-hearted man." he began again in his usual tone. "we come to th' masters wi' full hearts, to ask for them things i named afore. we know that they've gotten money, as we've earned for 'em; we know trade is mending, and that they've large orders, for which they'll be well paid; we ask for our share o' th' payment; for, say we, if th' masters get our share of payment it will only go to keep servants and horses, to more dress and pomp. well and good, if yo choose to be fools we'll not hinder you, so long as you're just; but our share we must and will have; we'll not be cheated. _we_ want it for daily bread, for life itself; and not for our own lives neither (for there's many a one here, i know by mysel, as would be glad and thankful to lie down and die out o' this weary world), but for the lives of them little ones, who don't yet know what life is, and are afeard of death. well, we come before th' masters to state what we want, and what we must have, afore we'll set shoulder to their work; and they say, 'no.' one would think that would be enough of hard-heartedness, but it isn't. they go and make jesting pictures of us! i could laugh at mysel, as well as poor john slater there; but then i must be easy in my mind to laugh. now i only know that i would give the last drop o' my blood to avenge us on yon chap, who had so little feeling in him as to make game on earnest, suffering men!" a low angry murmur was heard among the men, but it did not yet take form or words. john continued-"you'll wonder, chaps, how i came to miss the time this morning; i'll just tell you what i was a-doing. th' chaplain at the new bailey sent and gived me an order to see jonas higginbotham; him as was taken up last week for throwing vitriol in a knob-stick's face. well, i couldn't help but go; and i didn't reckon it would ha' kept me so late. jonas were like one crazy when i got to him; he said he could na get rest night or day for th' face of the poor fellow he had damaged; then he thought on his weak, clemmed look, as he tramped, foot-sore, into town; and jonas thought, may be, he had left them at home as would look for news, and hope and get none, but, haply, tidings of his death. well, jonas had thought on these things till he could not rest, but walked up and down continually like a wild beast in his cage. at last he bethought him on a way to help a bit, and he got th' chaplain to send for me; and he telled me this; and that th' man were lying in th' infirmary, and he bade me go (to-day's the day as folk may be admitted into th' infirmary) and get his silver watch, as was his mother's, and sell it as well as i could, and take the money, and bid the poor knob-stick send it to his friends beyond burnley; and i were to take him jonas's kind regards, and he humbly axed him to forgive him. so i did what jonas wished. but bless your life, none on us would ever throw vitriol again (at least at a knob-stick) if they could see the sight i saw to-day. the man lay, his face all wrapped in cloths, so i didn't see _that_; but not a limb, nor a bit of a limb, could keep from quivering with pain. he would ha' bitten his hand to keep down his moans, but couldn't, his face hurt him so if he moved it e'er so little. he could scarce mind me when i telled him about jonas; he did squeeze my hand when i jingled the money, but when i axed his wife's name he shrieked out, 'mary, mary, shall i never see you again? mary, my darling, they've made me blind because i wanted to work for you and our own baby; oh, mary, mary!' then the nurse came, and said he were raving, and that i had made him worse. and i'm afeard it was true; yet i were loth to go without knowing where to send the money. . . . so that kept me beyond my time, chaps." "did yo hear where the wife lived at last?" asked many anxious voices. "no! he went on talking to her, till his words cut my heart like a knife. i axed th' nurse to find out who she was, and where she lived. but what i'm more especial naming it now for is this,--for one thing i wanted yo all to know why i weren't at my post this morning; for another, i wish to say, that i, for one, ha' seen enough of what comes of attacking knob-sticks, and i'll ha nought to do with it no more." there were some expressions of disapprobation, but john did not mind them. "nay! i'm no coward," he replied, "and i'm true to th' backbone. what i would like, and what i would do, would be to fight the masters. there's one among yo called me a coward. well! every man has a right to his opinion; but since i've thought on th' matter to-day, i've thought we han all on us been more like cowards in attacking the poor like ourselves; them as has none to help, but mun choose between vitriol and starvation. i say we're more cowardly in doing that than in leaving them alone. no! what i would do is this. have at the masters!" again he shouted, "have at the masters!" he spoke lower; all listened with hushed breath. "it's the masters as has wrought this woe; it's the masters as should pay for it. him as called me coward just now, may try if i am one or not. set me to serve out the masters, and see if there's ought i'll stick at." "it would give th' masters a bit on a fright if one on them were beaten within an inch of his life," said one. "ay! or beaten till no life were left in him," growled another. and so with words, or looks that told more than words, they built up a deadly plan. deeper and darker grew the import of their speeches, as they stood hoarsely muttering their meaning out, and glaring, with eyes that told the terror their own thoughts were to them, upon their neighbours. their clenched fists, their set teeth, their livid looks, all told the suffering their minds were voluntarily undergoing in the contemplation of crime, and in familiarising themselves with its details. then came one of those fierce terrible oaths which bind members of trades' unions to any given purpose. then, under the flaring gaslight, they met together to consult further. with the distrust of guilt, each was suspicious of his neighbour; each dreaded the treachery of another. a number of pieces of paper (the identical letter on which the caricature had been drawn that very morning) were torn up, and _one was marked_. then all were folded up again, looking exactly alike. they were shuffled together in a hat. the gas was extinguished; each drew out a paper. the gas was re-lighted. then each went as far as he could from his fellows, and examined the paper he had drawn without saying a word, and with a countenance as stony and immovable as he could make it. then, still rigidly silent, they each took up their hats and went every one his own way. he who had drawn the marked paper had drawn the lot of the assassin! and he had sworn to act according to his drawing! but no one save god and his own conscience knew who was the appointed murderer! chapter xvii. barton's night-errand. "mournful is't to say farewell, though for few brief hours we part; in that absence, who can tell what may come to wring the heart!" anonymous. the events recorded in the last chapter took place on a tuesday. on thursday afternoon mary was surprised, in the midst of some little bustle in which she was engaged, by the entrance of will wilson. he looked strange, at least it was strange to see any different expression on his face to his usual joyous beaming appearance. he had a paper parcel in his hand. he came in, and sat down, more quietly than usual. "why, will! what's the matter with you? you seem quite cut up about something!" "and i am, mary! i'm come to say good-bye; and few folk like to say good-bye to them they love." "good-bye! bless me, will, that's sudden, isn't it?" mary left off ironing, and came and stood near the fire-place. she had always liked will; but now it seemed as if a sudden spring of sisterly love had gushed up in her heart, so sorry did she feel to hear of his approaching departure. "it's very sudden, isn't it?" said she, repeating her question. "yes! it's very sudden," said he, dreamily. "no, it isn't;" rousing himself, to think of what he was saying. "the captain told me in a fortnight he would be ready to sail again; but it comes very sudden on me, i had got so fond of you all." mary understood the particular fondness that was thus generalised. she spoke again. "but it's not a fortnight since you came. not a fortnight since you knocked at jane wilson's door, and i was there, you remember. nothing like a fortnight!" "no; i know it's not. but, you see, i got a letter this afternoon from jack harris, to tell me our ship sails on tuesday next; and it's long since i promised my uncle (my mother's brother, him that lives at kirk-christ, beyond ramsay, in the isle of man) that i'd go and see him and his, this time of coming ashore. i must go. i'm sorry enough; but i mustn't slight poor mother's friends. i must go. don't try to keep me," said he, evidently fearing the strength of his own resolution, if hard pressed by entreaty. "i'm not a-going, will. i dare say you're right; only i can't help feeling sorry you're going away. it seems so flat to be left behind. when do you go?" "to-night. i shan't see you again." "to-night! and you go to liverpool! may be you and father will go together. he's going to glasgow, by way of liverpool." "no! i'm walking; and i don't think your father will be up to walking." "well! and why on earth are you walking? you can get by railway for three-and-sixpence." "ay, but mary! (thou mustn't let out what i'm going to tell thee) i haven't got three shillings, no, nor even a sixpence left, at least not here; before i came here i gave my landlady enough to carry me to the island and back, and may be a trifle for presents, and i brought all the rest here; and it's all gone but this," jingling a few coppers in his hand. "nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty mile," added he, as he saw she looked grave and sorry. "it's a fine clear night, and i shall set off betimes, and get in afore the manx packet sails. where's your father going? to glasgow, did you say? perhaps he and i may have a bit of a trip together then, for, if the manx boat has sailed when i get into liverpool, i shall go by a scotch packet. what's he going to do in glasgow?--seek for work? trade is as bad there as here, folk say." "no; he knows that," answered mary, sadly. "i sometimes think he'll never get work again, and that trade will never mend. it's very hard to keep up one's heart. i wish i were a boy, i'd go to sea with you. it would be getting away from bad news at any rate; and now, there's hardly a creature that crosses the door-step, but has something sad and unhappy to tell one. father is going as a delegate from his union, to ask help from the glasgow folk. he's starting this evening." mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her that it was very flat to be left alone. "you say no one crosses the threshold but has something sad to say; you don't mean that margaret jennings has any trouble?" asked the young sailor, anxiously. "no!" replied mary, smiling a little, "she's the only one i know, i believe, who seems free from care. her blindness almost appears a blessing sometimes; she was so downhearted when she dreaded it, and now she seems so calm and happy when it's downright come. no! margaret's happy, i do think." "i could almost wish it had been otherwise," said will, thoughtfully. "i could have been so glad to comfort her, and cherish her, if she had been in trouble." "and why can't you cherish her, even though she is happy?" asked mary. "oh! i don't know. she seems so much better than i am! and her voice! when i hear it, and think of the wishes that are in my heart, it seems as much out of place to ask her to be my wife, as it would be to ask an angel from heaven." mary could not help laughing outright, in spite of her depression, at the idea of margaret as an angel; it was so difficult (even to her dress-making imagination) to fancy where, and how, the wings would be fastened to the brown stuff gown, or the blue and yellow print. will laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with mary's pretty merry laugh. then he said-"ay, you may laugh, mary; it only shows you've never been in love." in an instant mary was carnation colour, and the tears sprang to her soft gray eyes; she was suffering so much from the doubts arising from love! it was unkind of him. he did not notice her change of look and of complexion. he only noticed that she was silent, so he continued: "i thought--i think, that when i come back from this voyage, i will speak. it's my fourth voyage in the same ship, and with the same captain, and he's promised he'll make me second mate after this trip; then i shall have something to offer margaret; and her grandfather, and aunt alice, shall live with her, to keep her from being lonesome while i'm at sea. i'm speaking as if she cared for me, and would marry me; d'ye think she does care at all for me, mary?" asked he, anxiously. mary had a very decided opinion of her own on the subject, but she did not feel as if she had any right to give it. so she said-"you must ask margaret, not me, will; she's never named your name to me." his countenance fell. "but i should say that was a good sign from a girl like her. i've no right to say what i think; but, if i was you, i would not leave her now without speaking." "no! i cannot speak! i have tried. i've been in to wish them good-bye, and my voice stuck in my throat. i could say nought of what i'd planned to say; and i never thought of being so bold as to offer her marriage till i'd been my next trip, and been made mate. i could not even offer her this box," said he, undoing his paper parcel and displaying a gaudily ornamented accordion; "i longed to buy her something, and i thought, if it were something in the music line, she would may-be fancy it more. so, will you give it to her, mary, when i'm gone? and, if you can slip in something tender,--something, you know, of what i feel,--may-be she would listen to you, mary." mary promised that she would do all that he asked. "i shall be thinking on her many and many a night, when i'm keeping my watch in mid-sea; i wonder if she will ever think on me when the wind is whistling, and the gale rising. you'll often speak of me to her, mary? and if i should meet with any mischance, tell her how dear, how very dear, she was to me, and bid her, for the sake of one who loved her well, try and comfort my poor aunt alice. dear old aunt! you and margaret will often go and see her, won't you? she's sadly failed since i was last ashore. and so good as she has been! when i lived with her, a little wee chap, i used to be wakened by the neighbours knocking her up; this one was ill, or that body's child was restless; and, for as tired as ever she might be, she would be up and dressed in a twinkling, never thinking of the hard day's wash afore her next morning. them were happy times! how pleased i used to be when she would take me into the fields with her to gather herbs! i've tasted tea in china since then, but it wasn't half so good as the herb tea she used to make for me o' sunday nights. and she knew such a deal about plants and birds, and their ways! she used to tell me long stories about her childhood, and we used to plan how we would go sometime, please god (that was always her word), and live near her old home beyond lancaster; in the very cottage where she was born if we could get it. dear! and how different it is! here is she still in a back street o' manchester, never likely to see her own home again; and i, a sailor, off for america next week. i wish she had been able to go to burton once afore she died." "she would may be have found all sadly changed," said mary, though her heart echoed will's feeling. "ay! ay! i dare say it's best. one thing i do wish though, and i have often wished it when out alone on the deep sea, when even the most thoughtless can't choose but think on th' past and th' future; and that is, that i'd never grieved her. oh mary! many a hasty word comes sorely back on the heart, when one thinks one shall never see the person whom one has grieved again!" they both stood thinking. suddenly mary started. "that's father's step. and his shirt's not ready!" she hurried to her irons, and tried to make up for lost time. john barton came in. such a haggard and wildly anxious looking man, will thought he had never seen. he looked at will, but spoke no word of greeting or welcome. "i'm come to bid you good bye," said the sailor, and would in his sociable friendly humour have gone on speaking. but john answered abruptly, "good bye to ye, then." there was that in his manner which left no doubt of his desire to get rid of the visitor, and will accordingly shook hands with mary, and looked at john, as if doubting how far to offer to shake hands with him. but he met with no answering glance or gesture, so he went his way, stopping for an instant at the door to say, "you'll think on me on tuesday, mary. that's the day we shall hoist our blue peter, jack harris says." mary was heartily sorry when the door closed; it seemed like shutting out a friendly sunbeam. and her father! what could be the matter with him? he was so restless; not speaking (she wished he would), but starting up and then sitting down, and meddling with her irons; he seemed so fierce, too, to judge from his face. she wondered if he disliked will being there; or if he were vexed to find that she had not got further on with her work. at last she could bear his nervous way no longer, it made her equally nervous and fidgetty. she would speak. "when are you going, father? i don't know the time o' the trains." "and why shouldst thou know?" replied he, gruffly. "meddle with thy ironing, but donnot be asking questions about what doesn't concern thee." "i wanted to get you something to eat first," answered she, gently. "thou dost not know that i'm larning to do without food," said he. mary looked at him to see if he spoke jestingly. no! he looked savagely grave. she finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing the food she was sure her father needed; for by this time her experience in the degrees of hunger had taught her that his present irritability was increased, if not caused, by want of food. he had had a sovereign given him to pay his expenses as delegate to glasgow, and out of this he had given mary a few shillings in the morning; so she had been able to buy a sufficient meal, and now her care was to cook it so as most to tempt him. "if thou'rt doing that for me, mary, thou may'st spare thy labour. i telled thee i were not for eating." "just a little bit, father, before starting," coaxed mary, perseveringly. at that instant, who should come in but job legh. it was not often he came, but when he did pay visits, mary knew from past experience they were any thing but short. her father's countenance fell back into the deep gloom from which it was but just emerging at the sound of mary's sweet voice, and pretty pleading. he became again restless and fidgetty, scarcely giving job legh the greeting necessary for a host in his own house. job, however, did not stand upon ceremony. he had come to pay a visit, and was not to be daunted from his purpose. he was interested in john barton's mission to glasgow, and wanted to hear all about it; so he sat down, and made himself comfortable, in a manner that mary saw was meant to be stationary. "so thou'rt off to glasgow, art thou?" he began his catechism. "ay." "when art starting?" "to-night." "that i knowed. but by what train?" that was just what mary wanted to know; but what apparently her father was in no mood to tell. he got up without speaking, and went up-stairs. mary knew from his step, and his way, how much he was put out, and feared job would see it, too. but no! job seemed imperturbable. so much the better, and perhaps she could cover her father's rudeness by her own civility to so kind a friend. so half listening to her father's movements up-stairs, (passionate, violent, restless motions they were) and half attending to job legh, she tried to pay him all due regard. "when does thy father start, mary?" that plaguing question again. "oh! very soon. i'm just getting him a bit of supper. is margaret very well?" "yes, she's well enough. she's meaning to go and keep alice wilson company for an hour or so this evening; as soon as she thinks her nephew will have started for liverpool; for she fancies the old woman will feel a bit lonesome. th' union is paying for your father, i suppose?" "yes, they've given him a sovereign. you're one of th' union, job?" "ay! i'm one, sure enough; but i'm but a sleeping partner in the concern. i were obliged to become a member for peace, else i don't go along with 'em. yo see they think themselves wise, and me silly, for differing with them; well! there's no harm in that. but then they won't let me be silly in peace and quietness, but will force me to be as wise as they are; now that's not british liberty, i say. i'm forced to be wise according to their notions, else they parsecute me, and sarve me out." what could her father be doing up-stairs? tramping and banging about. why did he not come down? or why did not job go? the supper would be spoilt. but job had no notion of going. "you see my folly is this, mary. i would take what i could get; i think half a loaf is better than no bread. i would work for low wages rather than sit idle and starve. but, comes the trades' union, and says, 'well, if you take the half-loaf, we'll worry you out of your life. will you be clemmed, or will you be worried?' now clemming is a quiet death, and worrying isn't, so i choose clemming, and come into th' union. but i wish they'd leave me free, if i am a fool." creak, creak, went the stairs. her father was coming down at last. yes, he came down, but more doggedly fierce than before, and made up for his journey, too; with his little bundle on his arm. he went up to job, and, more civilly than mary expected, wished him good-bye. he then turned to her, and in a short cold manner, bade her farewell. "oh! father, don't go yet. your supper is all ready. stay one moment!" but he pushed her away, and was gone. she followed him to the door, her eyes blinded by sudden tears; she stood there looking after him. he was so strange, so cold, so hard. suddenly, at the end of the court, he turned, and saw her standing there; he came back quickly, and took her in his arms. "god bless thee, mary!--god in heaven bless thee, poor child!" she threw her arms round his neck. "don't go yet, father; i can't bear you to go yet. come in, and eat some supper; you look so ghastly; dear father, do!" "no," he said, faintly and mournfully. "it's best as it is. i couldn't eat, and it's best to be off. i cannot be still at home. i must be moving." so saying, he unlaced her soft twining arms, and kissing her once more, set off on his fierce errand. and he was out of sight! she did not know why, but she had never before felt so depressed, so desolate. she turned in to job, who sat there still. her father, as soon as he was out of sight, slackened his pace, and fell into that heavy listless step, which told as well as words could do, of hopelessness and weakness. it was getting dark, but he loitered on, returning no greeting to any one. a child's cry caught his ear. his thoughts were running on little tom; on the dead and buried child of happier years. he followed the sound of the wail, that might have been _his_, and found a poor little mortal, who had lost his way, and whose grief had choked up his thoughts to the single want, "mammy, mammy." with tender address, john barton soothed the little laddie, and with beautiful patience he gathered fragments of meaning from the half spoken words which came mingled with sobs from the terrified little heart. so, aided by inquiries here and there from a passer-by, he led and carried the little fellow home, where his mother had been too busy to miss him, but now received him with thankfulness, and with an eloquent irish blessing. when john heard the words of blessing, he shook his head mournfully, and turned away to retrace his steps. let us leave him. mary took her sewing after he had gone, and sat on, and sat on, trying to listen to job, who was more inclined to talk than usual. she had conquered her feeling of impatience towards him so far as to be able to offer him her father's rejected supper; and she even tried to eat herself. but her heart failed her. a leaden weight seemed to hang over her; a sort of presentiment of evil, or perhaps only an excess of low-spirited feeling in consequence of the two departures which had taken place that afternoon. she wondered how long job legh would sit. she did not like putting down her work, and crying before him, and yet she had never in her life longed so much to be alone in order to indulge in a good hearty burst of tears. "well, mary," she suddenly caught him saying, "i thought you'd be a bit lonely to-night; and as margaret were going to cheer th' old woman, i said i'd go and keep th' young un company; and a very pleasant, chatty evening we've had; very. only i wonder as margaret is not come back." "but perhaps she is," suggested mary. "no, no, i took care o' that. look ye here!" and he pulled out the great house-key. "she'll have to stand waiting i' th' street, and that i'm sure she wouldn't do, when she knew where to find me." "will she come back by hersel?" asked mary. "ay. at first i were afraid o' trusting her, and i used to follow her a bit behind; never letting on, of course. but, bless you! she goes along as steadily as can be; rather slow, to be sure, and her head a bit on one side as if she were listening. and it's real beautiful to see her cross the road. she'll wait above a bit to hear that all is still; not that she's so dark as not to see a coach or a cart like a big black thing, but she can't rightly judge how far off it is by sight, so she listens. hark! that's her!" yes; in she came with her usually calm face all tear-stained and sorrow-marked. "what's the matter, my wench?" said job, hastily. "oh! grandfather! alice wilson's so bad!" she could say no more, for her breathless agitation. the afternoon, and the parting with will, had weakened her nerves for any after-shock. "what is it? do tell us, margaret!" said mary, placing her in a chair, and loosening her bonnet-strings. "i think it's a stroke o' the palsy. any rate she has lost the use of one side." "was it afore will had set off?" asked mary. "no; he were gone before i got there," said margaret; "and she were much about as well as she has been this many a day. she spoke a bit, but not much; but that were only natural, for mrs. wilson likes to have the talk to hersel, you know. she got up to go across the room, and then i heard a drag wi' her leg, and presently a fall, and mrs. wilson came running, and set up such a cry! i stopped wi' alice, while she fetched a doctor; but she could not speak, to answer me, though she tried, i think." "where was jem? why didn't he go for the doctor?" "he were out when i got there, and he never came home while i stopped." "thou'st never left mrs. wilson alone wi' poor alice?" asked job, hastily. "no, no," said margaret. "but, oh! grandfather; it's now i feel how hard it is to have lost my sight. i should have so loved to nurse her; and i did try, until i found i did more harm than good. oh! grandfather; if i could but see!" she sobbed a little; and they let her give that ease to her heart. then she went on-"no! i went round by mrs. davenport's, and she were hard at work; but, the minute i told my errand, she were ready and willing to go to jane wilson, and stop up all night with alice." "and what does the doctor say?" asked mary. "oh! much what all doctors say: he puts a fence on this side, and a fence on that, for fear he should be caught tripping in his judgment. one moment he does not think there's much hope--but while there is life there is hope; th' next he says he should think she might recover partial, but her age is again her. he's ordered her leeches to her head." margaret, having told her tale, leant back with weariness, both of body and mind. mary hastened to make her a cup of tea; while job, lately so talkative, sat quiet and mournfully silent. "i'll go first thing to-morrow morning, and learn how she is; and i'll bring word back before i go to work," said mary. "it's a bad job will's gone," said job. "jane does not think she knows any one," replied margaret. "it's perhaps as well he shouldn't see her now, for they say her face is sadly drawn. he'll remember her with her own face better, if he does not see her again." with a few more sorrowful remarks they separated for the night, and mary was left alone in her house, to meditate on the heavy day that had passed over her head. everything seemed going wrong. will gone; her father gone--and so strangely too! and to a place so mysteriously distant as glasgow seemed to be to her! she had felt his presence as a protection against harry carson and his threats; and now she dreaded lest he should learn she was alone. her heart began to despair, too, about jem. she feared he had ceased to love her; and she--she only loved him more and more for his seeming neglect. and, as if all this aggregate of sorrowful thoughts was not enough, here was this new woe, of poor alice's paralytic stroke. chapter xviii. murder. "but in his pulse there was no throb, nor on his lips one dying sob; sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath heralded his way to death." siege of corinth. "my brain runs this way and that way; 'twill not fix on aught but vengeance." duke of guise. i must now go back to an hour or two before mary and her friends parted for the night. it might be about eight o'clock that evening, and the three miss carsons were sitting in their father's drawing-room. he was asleep in the dining-room, in his own comfortable chair. mrs. carson was (as was usual with her, when no particular excitement was going on) very poorly, and sitting up-stairs in her dressing-room, indulging in the luxury of a head-ache. she was not well, certainly. "wind in the head," the servants called it. but it was but the natural consequence of the state of mental and bodily idleness in which she was placed. without education enough to value the resources of wealth and leisure, she was so circumstanced as to command both. it would have done her more good than all the ã¦ther and sal-volatile she was daily in the habit of swallowing, if she might have taken the work of one of her own housemaids for a week; made beds, rubbed tables, shaken carpets, and gone out into the fresh morning air, without all the paraphernalia of shawl, cloak, boa, fur boots, bonnet, and veil, in which she was equipped before setting out for an "airing," in the closely shut-up carriage. so the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, elegant, well-lighted drawing-room; and, like many similarly-situated young ladies, they did not exactly know what to do to while away the time until the tea-hour. the elder two had been at a dancing-party the night before, and were listless and sleepy in consequence. one tried to read "emerson's essays," and fell asleep in the attempt; the other was turning over a parcel of new music, in order to select what she liked. amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscript music. the air was heavy with the fragrance of strongly-scented flowers, which sent out their night odours from an adjoining conservatory. the clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight. sophy (the sleeping sister) started up at the sound. "what o'clock is that?" she asked. "eight," said amy. "oh dear! how tired i am! is harry come in? tea would rouse one up a little. are not you worn out, helen?" "yes; i am tired enough. one is good for nothing the day after a dance. yet i don't feel weary at the time; i suppose it is the lateness of the hours." "and yet, how could it be managed otherwise? so many don't dine till five or six, that one cannot begin before eight or nine; and then it takes a long time to get into the spirit of the evening. it is always more pleasant after supper than before." "well, i'm too tired to-night to reform the world in the matter of dances or balls. what are you copying, amy?" "only that little spanish air you sing--'quien quiera.'" "what are you copying it for?" asked helen. "harry asked me to do it for him this morning at breakfast-time,--for miss richardson, he said." "for jane richardson!" said sophy, as if a new idea were receiving strength in her mind. "do you think harry means any thing by his attention to her?" asked helen. "nay, i do not know any thing more than you do; i can only observe and conjecture. what do you think, helen?" "harry always likes to be of consequence to the belle of the room. if one girl is more admired than another, he likes to flutter about her, and seem to be on intimate terms with her. that is his way, and i have not noticed any thing beyond that in his manner to jane richardson." "but i don't think she knows it's only his way. just watch her the next time we meet her when harry is there, and see how she crimsons, and looks another way when she feels he is coming up to her. i think he sees it, too, and i think he is pleased with it." "i dare say harry would like well enough to turn the head of such a lovely girl as jane richardson. but i'm not convinced that he is in love, whatever she may be." "well, then!" said sophy, indignantly, "though it is our own brother, i do think he is behaving very wrongly. the more i think of it the more sure i am that she thinks he means something, and that he intends her to think so. and then, when he leaves off paying her attention--" "which will be as soon as a prettier girl makes her appearance," interrupted helen. "as soon as he leaves off paying her attention," resumed sophy, "she will have many and many a heart-ache, and then she will harden herself into being a flirt, a feminine flirt, as he is a masculine flirt. poor girl!" "i don't like to hear you speak so of harry," said amy, looking up at sophy. "and i don't like to have to speak so, amy, for i love him dearly. he is a good, kind brother, but i do think him vain, and i think he hardly knows the misery, the crimes, to which indulged vanity may lead him." helen yawned. "oh! do you think we may ring for tea? sleeping after dinner always makes me so feverish." "yes, surely. why should not we?" said the more energetic sophy, pulling the bell with some determination. "tea directly, parker," said she, authoritatively, as the man entered the room. she was too little in the habit of reading expressions on the faces of others to notice parker's countenance. yet it was striking. it was blanched to a dead whiteness; the lips compressed as if to keep within some tale of horror; the eyes distended and unnatural. it was a terror-stricken face. the girls began to put away their music and books, in preparation for tea. the door slowly opened again, and this time it was the nurse who entered. i call her nurse, for such had been her office in by-gone days, though now she held rather an anomalous situation in the family. seamstress, attendant on the young ladies, keeper of the stores; only "nurse" was still her name. she had lived longer with them than any other servant, and to her their manner was far less haughty than to the other domestics. she occasionally came into the drawing-room to look for things belonging to their father or mother, so it did not excite any surprise when she advanced into the room. they went on arranging their various articles of employment. she wanted them to look up. she wanted them to read something in her face--her face so full of woe, of horror. but they went on without taking any notice. she coughed; not a natural cough; but one of those coughs which ask so plainly for remark. "dear nurse, what is the matter?" asked amy. "are not you well?" "is mamma ill?" asked sophy, quickly. "speak, speak, nurse!" said they all, as they saw her efforts to articulate, choked by the convulsive rising in her throat. they clustered round her with eager faces, catching a glimpse of some terrible truth to be revealed. "my dear young ladies! my dear girls," she gasped out at length, and then she burst into tears. "oh! do tell us what it is, nurse," said one. "any thing is better than this. speak!" "my children! i don't know how to break it to you. my dears, poor mr. harry is brought home--" "brought home--_brought_ home--how?" instinctively they sank their voices to a whisper; but a fearful whisper it was. in the same low tone, as if afraid lest the walls, the furniture, the inanimate things which told of preparation for life and comfort, should hear, she answered, "dead!" amy clutched her nurse's arm, and fixed her eyes on her as if to know if such a tale could be true; and when she read its confirmation in those sad, mournful, unflinching eyes, she sank, without word or sound, down in a faint upon the floor. one sister sat down on an ottoman, and covered her face, to try and realise it. that was sophy. helen threw herself on the sofa, and burying her head in the pillows, tried to stifle the screams and moans which shook her frame. the nurse stood silent. she had not told _all_. "tell me," said sophy, looking up, and speaking in a hoarse voice, which told of the inward pain, "tell me, nurse! is he _dead_, did you say? have you sent for a doctor? oh! send for one, send for one," continued she, her voice rising to shrillness, and starting to her feet. helen lifted herself up, and looked, with breathless waiting, towards nurse. "my dears, he is dead! but i have sent for a doctor. i have done all i could." "when did he--when did they bring him home?" asked sophy. "perhaps ten minutes ago. before you rang for parker." "how did he die? where did they find him? he looked so well. he always seemed so strong. oh! are you sure he is dead?" she went towards the door. nurse laid her hand on her arm. "miss sophy, i have not told you all. can you bear to hear it? remember, master is in the next room, and he knows nothing yet. come, you must help me to tell him. now be quiet, dear! it was no common death he died!" she looked in her face as if trying to convey her meaning by her eyes. sophy's lips moved, but nurse could hear no sound. "he has been shot as he was coming home along turner street, to-night." sophy went on with the motion of her lips, twitching them almost convulsively. "my dear, you must rouse yourself, and remember your father and mother have yet to be told. speak! miss sophy!" but she could not; her whole face worked involuntarily. the nurse left the room, and almost immediately brought back some sal-volatile and water. sophy drank it eagerly, and gave one or two deep gasps. then she spoke in a calm unnatural voice. "what do you want me to do, nurse? go to helen and poor amy. see, they want help." "poor creatures! we must let them alone for a bit. you must go to master; that's what i want you to do, miss sophy. you must break it to him, poor old gentleman. come, he's asleep in the dining-room, and the men are waiting to speak to him." sophy went mechanically to the dining-room door. "oh! i cannot go in. i cannot tell him. what must i say?" "i'll come with you, miss sophy. break it to him by degrees." "i can't, nurse. my head throbs so, i shall be sure to say the wrong thing." however, she opened the door. there sat her father, the shaded light of the candle-lamp falling upon, and softening his marked features, while his snowy hair contrasted well with the deep crimson morocco of the chair. the newspaper he had been reading had dropped on the carpet by his side. he breathed regularly and deeply. at that instant the words of mrs. hemans's song came full into sophy's mind. "ye know not what ye do, that call the slumberer back from the realms unseen by you, to life's dim, weary track." but this life's track would be to the bereaved father something more than dim and weary, hereafter. "papa," said she, softly. he did not stir. "papa!" she exclaimed, somewhat louder. he started up, half awake. "tea is ready, is it?" and he yawned. "no! papa, but something very dreadful--very sad, has happened!" he was gaping so loud that he did not catch the words she uttered, and did not see the expression of her face. "master henry is not come back," said nurse. her voice, heard in unusual speech to him, arrested his attention, and rubbing his eyes, he looked at the servant. "harry! oh no! he had to attend a meeting of the masters about these cursed turn-outs. i don't expect him yet. what are you looking at me so strangely for, sophy?" "oh, papa, harry is come back," said she, bursting into tears. "what do you mean?" said he, startled into an impatient consciousness that something was wrong. "one of you says he is not come home, and the other says he is. now that's nonsense! tell me at once what's the matter. did he go on horseback to town? is he thrown? speak, child, can't you?" "no! he's not been thrown, papa," said sophy, sadly. "but he's badly hurt," put in the nurse, desirous to be drawing his anxiety to a point. "hurt? where? how? have you sent for a doctor?" said he, hastily rising, as if to leave the room. "yes, papa, we've sent for a doctor--but i'm afraid--i believe it's of no use." he looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read the truth. his son, his only son, was dead. he sank back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands, and bowed his head upon the table. the strong mahogany dining-table shook and rattled under his agony. sophy went and put her arms round his bowed neck. "go! you are not harry," said he; but the action roused him. "where is he? where is the--" said he, with his strong face set into the lines of anguish, by two minutes of such intense woe. "in the servants' hall," said nurse. "two policemen and another man brought him home. they would be glad to speak to you when you are able, sir." "i am able now," replied he. at first when he stood up, he tottered. but steadying himself, he walked, as firmly as a soldier on drill, to the door. then he turned back and poured out a glass of wine from the decanter which yet remained on the table. his eye caught the wine-glass which harry had used but two or three hours before. he sighed a long quivering sigh. and then mastering himself again, he left the room. "you had better go back to your sisters, miss sophy," said nurse. miss carson went. she could not face death yet. the nurse followed mr. carson to the servants' hall. there, on their dinner-table, lay the poor dead body. the men who had brought it were sitting near the fire, while several of the servants stood round the table, gazing at the remains. _the remains!_ one or two were crying; one or two were whispering; awed into a strange stillness of voice and action by the presence of the dead. when mr. carson came in they all drew back and looked at him with the reverence due to sorrow. he went forward and gazed long and fondly on the calm, dead face; then he bent down and kissed the lips yet crimson with life. the policemen had advanced and stood ready to be questioned. but at first the old man's mind could only take in the idea of death; slowly, slowly came the conception of violence, of murder. "how did he die?" he groaned forth. the policemen looked at each other. then one began, and stated that having heard the report of a gun in turner street, he had turned down that way (a lonely, unfrequented way mr. carson knew, but a short cut to his garden-door, of which harry had a key); that as he (the policeman) came nearer, he had heard footsteps as of a man running away; but the evening was so dark (the moon not having yet risen) that he could see no one twenty yards off. that he had even been startled when close to the body by seeing it lying across the path at his feet. that he had sprung his rattle; and when another policeman came up, by the light of the lantern they had discovered who it was that had been killed. that they believed him to be dead when they first took him up, as he had never moved, spoken, or breathed. that intelligence of the murder had been sent to the superintendent, who would probably soon be here. that two or three policemen were still about the place where the murder was committed, seeking out for some trace of the murderer. having said this, they stopped speaking. mr. carson had listened attentively, never taking his eyes off the dead body. when they had ended, he said, "where was he shot?" they lifted up some of the thick chestnut curls, and showed a blue spot (you could hardly call it a hole, the flesh had closed so much over it) in the left temple. a deadly aim! and yet it was so dark a night! "he must have been close upon him," said one policeman. "and have had him between him and the sky," added the other. there was a little commotion at the door of the room, and there stood poor mrs. carson, the mother. she had heard unusual noises in the house, and had sent down her maid (much more a companion to her than her highly-educated daughters) to discover what was going on. but the maid either forgot, or dreaded, to return; and with nervous impatience mrs. carson came down herself, and had traced the hum and buzz of voices to the servants' hall. mr. carson turned round. but he could not leave the dead for any one living. "take her away, nurse. it is no sight for her. tell miss sophy to go to her mother." his eyes were again fixed on the dead face of his son. presently mrs. carson's hysterical cries were heard all over the house. her husband shuddered at the outward expression of the agony which was rending his heart. then the police superintendent came, and after him the doctor. the latter went through all the forms of ascertaining death, without uttering a word, and when at the conclusion of the operation of opening a vein, from which no blood flowed, he shook his head, all present understood the confirmation of their previous belief. the superintendent asked to speak to mr. carson in private. "it was just what i was going to request of you," answered he; so he led the way into the dining-room, with the wine-glass still on the table. the door was carefully shut, and both sat down, each apparently waiting for the other to begin. at last mr. carson spoke. "you probably have heard that i am a rich man." the superintendent bowed in assent. "well, sir, half--nay, if necessary, the whole of my fortune i will give to have the murderer brought to the gallows." "every exertion, you may be sure, sir, shall be used on our part; but probably offering a handsome reward might accelerate the discovery of the murderer. but what i wanted particularly to tell you, sir, is that one of my men has already got some clue, and that another (who accompanied me here) has within this quarter of an hour found a gun in the field which the murderer crossed, and which he probably threw away when pursued, as encumbering his flight. i have not the smallest doubt of discovering the murderer." "what do you call a handsome reward?" said mr. carson. "well, sir, three, or five hundred pounds is a munificent reward: more than will probably be required as a temptation to any accomplice." "make it a thousand," said mr. carson, decisively. "it's the doing of those damned turn-outs." "i imagine not," said the superintendent. "some days ago the man i was naming to you before, reported to the inspector when he came on his beat, that he had had to separate your son from a young man, who by his dress he believed to be employed in a foundry; that the man had thrown mr. carson down, and seemed inclined to proceed to more violence, when the policeman came up and interfered. indeed, my man wished to give him in charge for an assault, but mr. carson would not allow that to be done." "just like him!--noble fellow!" murmured the father. "but after your son had left, the man made use of some pretty strong threats. and it's rather a curious coincidence that this scuffle took place in the very same spot where the murder was committed; in turner street." there was some one knocking at the door of the room. it was sophy, who beckoned her father out, and then asked him, in an awe-struck whisper, to come up-stairs and speak to her mother. "she will not leave harry, and talks so strangely. indeed--indeed--papa, i think she has lost her senses." and the poor girl sobbed bitterly. "where is she?" asked mr. carson. "in his room." they went up stairs rapidly and silently. it was a large, comfortable bedroom; too large to be well lighted by the flaring, flickering kitchen-candle which had been hastily snatched up, and now stood on the dressing-table. on the bed, surrounded by its heavy, pall-like green curtains, lay the dead son. they had carried him up, and laid him down, as tenderly as though they feared to waken him; and, indeed, it looked more like sleep than death, so very calm and full of repose was the face. you saw, too, the chiselled beauty of the features much more perfectly than when the brilliant colouring of life had distracted your attention. there was a peace about him which told that death had come too instantaneously to give any previous pain. in a chair, at the head of the bed, sat the mother,--smiling. she held one of the hands (rapidly stiffening, even in her warm grasp), and gently stroked the back of it, with the endearing caress she had used to all her children when young. "i am glad you are come," said she, looking up at her husband, and still smiling. "harry is so full of fun, he always has something new to amuse us with; and now he pretends he is asleep, and that we can't waken him. look! he is smiling now; he hears i have found him out. look!" and, in truth, the lips, in the rest of death, did look as though they wore a smile, and the waving light of the unsnuffed candle almost made them seem to move. "look, amy," said she to her youngest child, who knelt at her feet, trying to soothe her, by kissing her garments. "oh, he was always a rogue! you remember, don't you, love? how full of play he was as a baby; hiding his face under my arm, when you wanted to play with him. always a rogue, harry!" "we must get her away, sir," said nurse; "you know there is much to be done before--" "i understand, nurse," said the father, hastily interrupting her in dread of the distinct words which would tell of the changes of mortality. "come, love," said he to his wife. "i want you to come with me. i want to speak to you down-stairs." "i'm coming," said she, rising; "perhaps, after all, nurse, he's really tired, and would be glad to sleep. don't let him get cold, though,--he feels rather chilly," continued she, after she had bent down, and kissed the pale lips. her husband put his arm round her waist, and they left the room. then the three sisters burst into unrestrained wailings. they were startled into the reality of life and death. and yet, in the midst of shrieks and moans, of shivering, and chattering of teeth, sophy's eye caught the calm beauty of the dead; so calm amidst such violence, and she hushed her emotion. "come," said she to her sisters, "nurse wants us to go; and besides, we ought to be with mamma. papa told the man he was talking to, when i went for him, to wait, and she must not be left." meanwhile, the superintendent had taken a candle, and was examining the engravings that hung round the dining-room. it was so common to him to be acquainted with crime, that he was far from feeling all his interest absorbed in the present case of violence, although he could not help having much anxiety to detect the murderer. he was busy looking at the only oil-painting in the room (a youth of eighteen or so, in a fancy dress), and conjecturing its identity with the young man so mysteriously dead, when the door opened, and mr. carson returned. stern as he had looked before leaving the room, he looked far sterner now. his face was hardened into deep-purposed wrath. "i beg your pardon, sir, for leaving you." the superintendent bowed. they sat down, and spoke long together. one by one the policemen were called in, and questioned. all through the night there was bustle and commotion in the house. nobody thought of going to bed. it seemed strange to sophy to hear nurse summoned from her mother's side to supper, in the middle of the night, and still stranger that she could go. the necessity of eating and drinking seemed out of place in the house of death. when night was passing into morning, the dining-room door opened, and two persons' steps were heard along the hall. the superintendent was leaving at last. mr. carson stood on the front door-step, feeling the refreshment of the cooler morning air, and seeing the starlight fade away into dawn. "you will not forget," said he. "i trust to you." the policeman bowed. "spare no money. the only purpose for which i now value wealth is to have the murderer arrested, and brought to justice. my hope in life now is to see him sentenced to death. offer any rewards. name a thousand pounds in the placards. come to me at any hour, night or day, if that be required. all i ask of you is, to get the murderer hanged. next week, if possible--to-day is friday. surely, with the clues you already possess, you can muster up evidence sufficient to have him tried next week." "he may easily request an adjournment of his trial, on the ground of the shortness of the notice," said the superintendent. "oppose it, if possible. i will see that the first lawyers are employed. i shall know no rest while he lives." "every thing shall be done, sir." "you will arrange with the coroner. ten o'clock, if convenient." the superintendent took leave. mr. carson stood on the step, dreading to shut out the light and air, and return into the haunted, gloomy house. "my son! my son!" he said, at last. "but you shall be avenged, my poor murdered boy." ay! to avenge his wrongs the murderer had singled out his victim, and with one fell action had taken away the life that god had given. to avenge his child's death, the old man lived on; with the single purpose in his heart of vengeance on the murderer. true, his vengeance was sanctioned by law, but was it the less revenge? are we worshippers of christ? or of alecto? oh! orestes! you would have made a very tolerable christian of the nineteenth century! chapter xix. jem wilson arrested on suspicion. "deeds to be hid which were not hid, which, all confused, i could not know, whether i suffered or i did, for all seemed guilt, remorse, or woe." coleridge. i left mary, on that same thursday night which left its burden of woe at mr. carson's threshold, haunted with depressing thoughts. all through the night she tossed restlessly about, trying to get quit of the ideas that harassed her, and longing for the light when she could rise, and find some employment. but just as dawn began to appear, she became more quiet, and fell into a sound heavy sleep, which lasted till she was sure it was late in the morning by the full light that shone in. she dressed hastily, and heard the neighbouring church-clock strike eight. it was far too late to do as she had planned (after inquiring how alice was, to return and tell margaret), and she accordingly went in to inform the latter of her change of purpose, and the cause of it; but on entering the house she found job sitting alone, looking sad enough. she told him what she came for. "margaret, wench! why she's been gone to wilson's these two hours. ay! sure, you did say last night you would go; but she could na rest in her bed, so was off betimes this morning." mary could do nothing but feel guilty of her long morning nap, and hasten to follow margaret's steps; for late as it was, she felt she could not settle well to her work, unless she learnt how kind good alice wilson was going on. so, eating her crust-of-bread breakfast, she passed rapidly along the streets. she remembered afterwards the little groups of people she had seen, eagerly hearing, and imparting news; but at the time her only care was to hasten on her way, in dread of a reprimand from miss simmonds. she went into the house at jane wilson's, her heart at the instant giving a strange knock, and sending the rosy flush into her face, at the thought that jem might possibly be inside the door. but i do assure you, she had not thought of it before. impatient and loving as she was, her solicitude about alice on that hurried morning had not been mingled with any thought of him. her heart need not have leaped, her colour need not have rushed so painfully to her cheeks, for he was not there. there was the round table, with a cup and saucer, which had evidently been used, and there was jane wilson sitting on the other side, crying quietly, while she ate her breakfast with a sort of unconscious appetite. and there was mrs. davenport washing away at a night-cap or so, which, by their simple, old-world make, mary knew at a glance were alice's. but nothing--no one else. alice was much the same, or rather better of the two, they told her; at any rate she could speak, though it was sad rambling talk. would mary like to see her? of course she would. many are interested by seeing their friends under the new aspect of illness; and among the poor there is no wholesome fear of injury or excitement to restrain this wish. so mary went up-stairs, accompanied by mrs. davenport, wringing the suds off her hands, and speaking in a loud whisper far more audible than her usual voice. "i mun be hastening home, but i'll come again to-night, time enough to iron her cap; 'twould be a sin and a shame if we let her go dirty now she's ill, when she's been so rare and clean all her life-long. but she's sadly forsaken, poor thing! she'll not know you, mary; she knows none on us." the room up-stairs held two beds, one superior in the grandeur of four posts and checked curtains to the other, which had been occupied by the twins in their brief life-time. the smaller had been alice's bed since she had lived there; but with the natural reverence to one "stricken of god and afflicted," she had been installed since her paralytic stroke the evening before in the larger and grander bed, while jane wilson had taken her short broken rest on the little pallet. margaret came forwards to meet her friend, whom she half expected, and whose step she knew. mrs. davenport returned to her washing. the two girls did not speak; the presence of alice awed them into silence. there she lay with the rosy colour, absent from her face since the days of childhood, flushed once more into it by her sickness nigh unto death. she lay on the affected side, and with her other arm she was constantly sawing the air, not exactly in a restless manner, but in a monotonous, incessant way, very trying to a watcher. she was talking away, too, almost as constantly, in a low, indistinct tone. but her face, her profiled countenance, looked calm and smiling, even interested by the ideas that were passing through her clouded mind. "listen!" said margaret, as she stooped her head down to catch the muttered words more distinctly. "what will mother say? the bees are turning homeward for th' last time, and we've a terrible long bit to go yet. see! here's a linnet's nest in this gorse-bush. th' hen-bird is on it. look at her bright eyes, she won't stir! ay! we mun hurry home. won't mother be pleased with the bonny lot of heather we've got! make haste, sally, may be we shall have cockles for supper. i saw th' cockle-man's donkey turn up our way fra' arnside." margaret touched mary's hand, and the pressure in return told her that they understood each other; that they knew how in this illness to the old, world-weary woman, god had sent her a veiled blessing: she was once more in the scenes of her childhood, unchanged and bright as in those long departed days; once more with the sister of her youth, the playmate of fifty years ago, who had for nearly as many years slept in a grassy grave in the little church-yard beyond burton. alice's face changed; she looked sorrowful, almost penitent. "oh, sally! i wish we'd told her. she thinks we were in church all morning, and we've gone on deceiving her. if we'd told her at first how it was--how sweet th' hawthorn smelt through the open church-door, and how we were on th' last bench in the aisle, and how it were the first butterfly we'd seen this spring, and how it flew into th' very church itself; oh! mother is so gentle, i wish we'd told her. i'll go to her next time she comes in sight, and say, 'mother, we were naughty last sabbath.'" she stopped, and a few tears came stealing down the old withered cheek, at the thought of the temptation and deceit of her childhood. surely, many sins could not have darkened that innocent child-like spirit since. mary found a red-spotted pocket-handkerchief, and put it into the hand which sought about for something to wipe away the trickling tears. she took it with a gentle murmur. "thank you, mother." mary pulled margaret away from the bed. "don't you think she's happy, margaret?" "ay! that i do, bless her. she feels no pain, and knows nought of her present state. oh! that i could see, mary! i try and be patient with her afore me, but i'd give aught i have to see her, and see what she wants. i am so useless! i mean to stay here as long as jane wilson is alone; and i would fain be here all to-night, but--" "i'll come," said mary, decidedly. "mrs. davenport said she'd come again, but she's hard-worked all day--" "i'll come," repeated mary. "do!" said margaret, "and i'll be here till you come. may be, jem and you could take th' night between you, and jane wilson might get a bit of sound sleep in his bed; for she were up and down the better part of last night, and just when she were in a sound sleep this morning, between two and three, jem came home, and th' sound o' his voice roused her in a minute." "where had he been till that time o' night?" asked mary. "nay! it were none of my business; and, indeed, i never saw him till he came in here to see alice. he were in again this morning, and seemed sadly downcast. but you'll, may be, manage to comfort him to-night, mary," said margaret, smiling, while a ray of hope glimmered in mary's heart, and she almost felt glad, for an instant, of the occasion which would at last bring them together. oh! happy night! when would it come? many hours had yet to pass. then she saw alice, and repented, with a bitter self-reproach. but she could not help having gladness in the depths of her heart, blame herself as she would. so she tried not to think, as she hurried along to miss simmonds', with a dancing step of lightness. she was late--that she knew she should be. miss simmonds was vexed and cross. that also she had anticipated, but she had intended to smooth her raven down by extraordinary diligence and attention. but there was something about the girls she did not understand--had not anticipated. they stopped talking when she came in; or rather, i should say, stopped listening, for sally leadbitter was the talker to whom they were hearkening with intense attention. at first they eyed mary, as if she had acquired some new interest to them, since the day before. then they began to whisper; and, absorbed as mary had been in her own thoughts, she could not help becoming aware that it was of her they spoke. at last sally leadbitter asked mary if she had heard the news? "no! what news?" answered she. the girls looked at each other with gloomy mystery. sally went on. "have you not heard that young mr. carson was murdered last night?" mary's lips could not utter a negative, but no one who looked at her pale and terror-stricken face could have doubted that she had not heard before of the fearful occurrence. oh, it is terrible, that sudden information, that one you have known has met with a bloody death! you seem to shrink from the world where such deeds can be committed, and to grow sick with the idea of the violent and wicked men of earth. much as mary had learned to dread him lately, now he was dead (and dead in such a manner) her feeling was that of oppressive sorrow for him. the room went round and round, and she felt as though she should faint; but miss simmonds came in, bringing a waft of fresher air as she opened the door, to refresh the body, and the certainty of a scolding for inattention to brace the sinking mind. she, too, was full of the morning's news. "have you heard any more of this horrid affair, miss barton?" asked she, as she settled to her work. mary tried to speak; at first she could not, and when she succeeded in uttering a sentence, it seemed as though it were not her own voice that spoke. "no, ma'am, i never heard of it till this minute." "dear! that's strange, for every one is up about it. i hope the murderer will be found out, that i do. such a handsome young man to be killed as he was. i hope the wretch that did it may be hanged as high as haman." one of the girls reminded them that the assizes came on next week. "ay," replied miss simmonds, "and the milk-man told me they will catch the wretch, and have him tried and hung in less than a week. serve him right, whoever he is. such a handsome young man as he was." then each began to communicate to miss simmonds the various reports they had heard. suddenly she burst out-"miss barton! as i live, dropping tears on that new silk gown of mrs. hawkes'! don't you know they will stain, and make it shabby for ever? crying like a baby, because a handsome young man meets with an untimely end. for shame of yourself, miss. mind your character and your work if you please. or, if you must cry" (seeing her scolding rather increased the flow of mary's tears, than otherwise), "take this print to cry over. that won't be marked like this beautiful silk," rubbing it, as if she loved it, with a clean pocket-handkerchief, in order to soften the edges of the hard round drops. mary took the print, and naturally enough, having had leave given her to cry over it, rather checked the inclination to weep. every body was full of the one subject. the girl sent out to match silk, came back with the account gathered at the shop, of the coroner's inquest then sitting; the ladies who called to speak about gowns first began about the murder, and mingled details of that, with directions for their dresses. mary felt as though the haunting horror were a nightmare, a fearful dream, from which awakening would relieve her. the picture of the murdered body, far more ghastly than the reality, seemed to swim in the air before her eyes. sally leadbitter looked and spoke of her, almost accusingly, and made no secret now of mary's conduct, more blameable to her fellow-workwomen for its latter changeableness, than for its former giddy flirting. "poor young gentleman," said one, as sally recounted mary's last interview with mr. carson. "what a shame!" exclaimed another, looking indignantly at mary. "that's what i call regular jilting," said a third. "and he lying cold and bloody in his coffin now!" mary was more thankful than she could express, when miss simmonds returned, to put a stop to sally's communications, and to check the remarks of the girls. she longed for the peace of alice's sick room. no more thinking with infinite delight of her anticipated meeting with jem, she felt too much shocked for that now; but longing for peace and kindness, for the images of rest and beauty, and sinless times long ago, which the poor old woman's rambling presented, she wished to be as near death as alice; and to have struggled through this world, whose sufferings she had early learnt, and whose crimes now seemed pressing close upon her. old texts from the bible that her mother used to read (or rather spell out) aloud, in the days of childhood, came up to her memory. "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." "the tears shall be wiped away from all eyes," &c. and it was to that world alice was hastening! oh! that she were alice! i must return to the wilsons' house, which was far from being the abode of peace that mary was picturing it to herself. you remember the reward mr. carson offered for the apprehension of the murderer of his son? it was in itself a temptation, and to aid its efficacy came the natural sympathy for the aged parents mourning for their child, for the young man cut off in the flower of his days; and besides this, there is always a pleasure in unravelling a mystery, in catching at the gossamer clue which will guide to certainty. this feeling, i am sure, gives much impetus to the police. their senses are ever and always on the qui-vive, and they enjoy the collecting and collating evidence, and the life of adventure they experience: a continual unwinding of jack sheppard romances, always interesting to the vulgar and uneducated mind, to which the outward signs and tokens of crime are ever exciting. there was no lack of clue or evidence at the coroner's inquest that morning. the shot, the finding of the body, the subsequent discovery of the gun, were rapidly deposed to; and then the policeman who had interrupted the quarrel between jem wilson and the murdered young man was brought forward, and gave his evidence, clear, simple, and straightforward. the coroner had no hesitation, the jury had none, but the verdict was cautiously worded. "wilful murder against some person unknown." this very cautiousness, when he deemed the thing so sure as to require no caution, irritated mr. carson. it did not soothe him that the superintendent called the verdict a mere form,--exhibited a warrant empowering him to seize the body of jem wilson, committed on suspicion,--declared his intention of employing a well-known officer in the detective service to ascertain the ownership of the gun, and to collect other evidence, especially as regarded the young woman, about whom the policeman deposed that the quarrel had taken place: mr. carson was still excited and irritable; restless in body and mind. he made every preparation for the accusation of jem the following morning before the magistrates: he engaged attorneys skilled in criminal practice to watch the case and prepare briefs; he wrote to celebrated barristers coming the northern circuit, to bespeak their services. a speedy conviction, a speedy execution, seemed to be the only things that would satisfy his craving thirst for blood. he would have fain been policeman, magistrate, accusing speaker, all; but most of all, the judge, rising with full sentence of death on his lips. that afternoon, as jane wilson had begun to feel the effect of a night's disturbed rest, evinced in frequent droppings off to sleep while she sat by her sister-in-law's bed-side, lulled by the incessant crooning of the invalid's feeble voice, she was startled by a man speaking in the house-place below, who, wearied of knocking at the door, without obtaining any answer, had entered and was calling lustily for "missis! missis!" when mrs. wilson caught a glimpse of the intruder through the stair-rails, she at once saw he was a stranger, a working-man, it might be a fellow-labourer with her son, for his dress was grimy enough for the supposition. he held a gun in his hand. "may i make bold to ask if this gun belongs to your son?" she first looked at the man, and then, weary and half asleep, not seeing any reason for refusing to answer the inquiry, she moved forward to examine it, talking while she looked for certain old-fashioned ornaments on the stock. "it looks like his; ay, it's his, sure enough. i could speak to it anywhere by these marks. you see it were his grandfather's, as were gamekeeper to some one up in th' north; and they don't make guns so smart now-a-days. but, how comed you by it? he sets great store on it. is he bound for th' shooting gallery? he is not, for sure, now his aunt is so ill, and me left all alone;" and the immediate cause for her anxiety being thus recalled to her mind, she entered on a long story of alice's illness, interspersed with recollections of her husband's and her children's deaths. the disguised policeman listened for a minute or two, to glean any further information he could; and then, saying he was in a hurry, he turned to go away. she followed him to the door, still telling him her troubles, and was never struck, until it was too late to ask the reason, with the unaccountableness of his conduct, in carrying the gun away with him. then, as she heavily climbed the stairs, she put away the wonder and the thought about his conduct, by determining to believe he was some workman with whom her son had made some arrangement about shooting at the gallery; or mending the old weapon; or something or other. she had enough to fret her, without moidering herself about old guns. jem had given it him to bring to her; so it was safe enough; or, if it was not, why she should be glad never to set eyes on it again, for she could not abide fire-arms, they were so apt to shoot people. so, comforting herself for her want of thought in not making further inquiry, she fell off into another doze, feverish, dream-haunted, and unrefreshing. meanwhile, the policeman walked off with his prize, with an odd mixture of feelings; a little contempt, a little disappointment, and a good deal of pity. the contempt and the disappointment were caused by the widow's easy admission of the gun being her son's property, and her manner of identifying it by the ornaments. he liked an attempt to baffle him; he was accustomed to it; it gave some exercise to his wits and his shrewdness. there would be no fun in fox-hunting, if reynard yielded himself up without any effort to escape. then, again, his mother's milk was yet in him, policeman, officer of the detective service though he was; and he felt sorry for the old woman, whose "softness" had given such material assistance in identifying her son as the murderer. however, he conveyed the gun, and the intelligence he had gained, to the superintendent; and the result was, that, in a short time afterwards, three policemen went to the works at which jem was foreman, and announced their errand to the astonished overseer, who directed them to the part of the foundry where jem was then superintending a casting. dark, black were the walls, the ground, the faces around them, as they crossed the yard. but, in the furnace-house a deep and lurid red glared over all; the furnace roared with mighty flame. the men, like demons, in their fire-and-soot colouring, stood swart around, awaiting the moment when the tons of solid iron should have melted down into fiery liquid, fit to be poured, with still, heavy sound, into the delicate moulding of fine black sand, prepared to receive it. the heat was intense, and the red glare grew every instant more fierce; the policemen stood awed with the novel sight. then, black figures, holding strange-shaped bucket shovels, came athwart the deep-red furnace light, and clear and brilliant flowed forth the iron into the appropriate mould. the buzz of voices rose again; there was time to speak, and gasp, and wipe the brows; and then, one by one, the men dispersed to some other branch of their employment. no. b. 72 pointed out jem as the man he had seen engaged in a scuffle with mr. carson, and then the other two stepped forward and arrested him, stating of what he was accused, and the grounds of the accusation. he offered no resistance, though he seemed surprised; but calling a fellow-workman to him, he briefly requested him to tell his mother he had got into trouble, and could not return home at present. he did not wish her to hear more at first. so mrs. wilson's sleep was next interrupted in almost an exactly similar way to the last, like a recurring nightmare. "missis! missis!" some one called out from below. again it was a workman, but this time a blacker-looking one than before. "what don ye want?" said she, peevishly. "only nothing but--" stammered the man, a kind-hearted matter-of-fact person, with no invention, but a great deal of sympathy. "well! speak out, can't ye, and ha' done with it?" "jem's in trouble," said he, repeating jem's very words, as he could think of no others. "trouble!" said the mother, in a high-pitched voice of distress. "trouble! god help me, trouble will never end, i think. what d'ye mean by trouble? speak out, man, can't ye? is he ill? my boy! tell me, is he ill?" in a hurried voice of terror. "na, na, that's not it. he's well enough. all he bade me say was, 'tell mother i'm in trouble, and can't come home to-night.'" "not come home to-night! and what am i to do with alice? i can't go on, wearing my life out wi' watching. he might come and help me." "i tell you he can't," said the man. "can't; and he is well, you say? stuff! it's just that he's getten like other young men, and wants to go a-larking. but i'll give it him when he comes back." the man turned to go; he durst not trust himself to speak in jem's justification. but she would not let him off. she stood between him and the door, as she said, "yo shall not go, till yo've told me what he's after. i can see plain enough you know, and i'll know too, before i've done." "you'll know soon enough, missis!" "i'll know now, i tell ye. what's up that he can't come home and help me nurse? me, as never got a wink o' sleep last night wi' watching." "well, if you will have it out," said the poor badgered man, "the police have got hold on him." "on my jem!" said the enraged mother. "you're a downright liar, and that's what you are. my jem, as never did harm to any one in his life. you're a liar, that's what you are." "he's done harm enough now," said the man, angry in his turn, "for there's good evidence he murdered young carson, as was shot last night." she staggered forward to strike the man for telling the terrible truth; but the weakness of old age, of motherly agony, overcame her, and she sank down on a chair, and covered her face. he could not leave her. when next she spoke, it was in an imploring, feeble, child-like voice. "oh, master, say you're only joking. i ax your pardon if i have vexed ye, but please say you're only joking. you don't know what jem is to me." she looked humbly, anxiously up at him. "i wish i were only joking, missis; but it's true as i say. they've taken him up on charge o' murder. it were his gun as were found near th' place; and one o' the police heard him quarrelling with mr. carson a few days back, about a girl." "about a girl!" broke in the mother, once more indignant, though too feeble to show it as before. "my jem was as steady as--" she hesitated for a comparison wherewith to finish, and then repeated, "as steady as lucifer, and he were an angel, you know. my jem was not one to quarrel about a girl." "ay, but it was that, though. they'd got her name quite pat. the man had heard all they said. mary barton was her name, whoever she may be." "mary barton! the dirty hussey! to bring my jem into trouble of this kind. i'll give it her well when i see her: that i will. oh! my poor jem!" rocking herself to and fro. "and what about the gun? what did ye say about that?" "his gun were found on th' spot where the murder were done." "that's a lie for one, then. a man has got the gun now, safe and sound; i saw it not an hour ago." the man shook his head. "yes, he has indeed. a friend o' jem's, as he'd lent it to." "did you know the chap?" asked the man, who was really anxious for jem's exculpation, and caught a gleam of hope from her last speech. "no! i can't say as i did. but he were put on as a workman." "it's may be only one of them policemen, disguised." "nay; they'd never go for to do that, and trick me into telling on my own son. it would be like seething a kid in its mother's milk; and that th' bible forbids." "i don't know," replied the man. soon afterwards he went away, feeling unable to comfort, yet distressed at the sight of sorrow; she would fain have detained him, but go he would. and she was alone. she never for an instant believed jem guilty; she would have doubted if the sun were fire, first: but sorrow, desolation, and, at times, anger took possession of her mind. she told the unconscious alice, hoping to rouse her to sympathy; and then was disappointed, because, still smiling and calm, she murmured of her mother, and the happy days of infancy. chapter xx. mary's dream--and the awakening. "i saw where stark and cold he lay, beneath the gallows-tree, and every one did point and say, ''twas there he died for thee!' * * * * * * "oh! weeping heart! oh, bleeding heart! what boots thy pity now? bid from his eyes that shade depart, that death-damp from his brow!" "the birtle tragedy." so there was no more peace in the house of sickness, except to alice, the dying alice. but mary knew nothing of the afternoon's occurrences; and gladly did she breathe in the fresh air, as she left miss simmonds' house, to hasten to the wilsons'. the very change, from the in-door to the out-door atmosphere, seemed to alter the current of her thoughts. she thought less of the dreadful subject which had so haunted her all day; she cared less for the upbraiding speeches of her fellow work-women; the old association of comfort and sympathy received from alice gave her the idea that, even now, her bodily presence would soothe and compose those who were in trouble, changed, unconscious, and absent though her spirit might be. then, again, she reproached herself a little for the feeling of pleasure she experienced, in thinking that he whom she dreaded could never more beset her path; in the security with which she could pass each street corner--each shop, where he used to lie in ambush. oh! beating heart! was there no other little thought of joy lurking within, to gladden the very air without? was she not going to meet, to see, to hear jem; and could they fail at last to understand each other's loving hearts! she softly lifted the latch, with the privilege of friendship. _he_ was not there, but his mother was standing by the fire, stirring some little mess or other. never mind! he would come soon: and with an unmixed desire to do her grateful duty to all belonging to him, she stepped lightly forwards, unheard by the old lady, who was partly occupied by the simmering, bubbling sound of her bit of cookery; but more with her own sad thoughts, and wailing, half-uttered murmurings. mary took off bonnet and shawl with speed, and advancing, made mrs. wilson conscious of her presence, by saying, "let me do that for you. i'm sure you mun be tired." mrs. wilson slowly turned round, and her eyes gleamed like those of a pent-up wild beast, as she recognised her visitor. "and is it thee that dares set foot in this house, after what has come to pass? is it not enough to have robbed me of my boy with thy arts and thy profligacy, but thou must come here to crow over me--me--his mother? dost thou know where he is, thou bad hussy, with thy great blue eyes and yellow hair, to lead men on to ruin? out upon thee, with thy angel's face, thou whited sepulchre! dost thou know where jem is, all through thee?" "no!" quivered out poor mary, scarcely conscious that she spoke, so daunted, so terrified was she by the indignant mother's greeting. "he's lying in th' new bailey," slowly and distinctly spoke the mother, watching the effect of her words, as if believing in their infinite power to pain. "there he lies, waiting to take his trial for murdering young mr. carson." there was no answer; but such a blanched face, such wild, distended eyes, such trembling limbs, instinctively seeking support! "did you know mr. carson as now lies dead?" continued the merciless woman. "folk say you did, and knew him but too well. and that for the sake of such as you, my precious child shot yon chap. but he did not. i know he did not. they may hang him, but his mother will speak to his innocence with her last dying breath." she stopped more from exhaustion than want of words. mary spoke, but in so changed and choked a voice that the old woman almost started. it seemed as if some third person must be in the room, the voice was so hoarse and strange. "please, say it again. i don't quite understand you. what has jem done? please to tell me." "i never said he had done it. i said, and i'll swear that he never did do it. i don't care who heard 'em quarrel, or if it is his gun as were found near the body. it's not my own jem as would go for to kill any man, choose how a girl had jilted him. my own good jem, as was a blessing sent upon the house where he was born." tears came into the mother's burning eyes as her heart recurred to the days when she had rocked the cradle of her "first-born;" and then, rapidly passing over events, till the full consciousness of his present situation came upon her, and perhaps annoyed at having shown any softness of character in the presence of the dalilah who had lured him to his danger, she spoke again, and in a sharper tone. "i told him, and told him to leave off thinking on thee; but he wouldn't be led by me. thee! wench! thou were not good enough to wipe the dust off his feet. a vile, flirting quean as thou art. it's well thy mother does not know (poor body) what a good-for-nothing thou art." "mother! oh mother!" said mary, as if appealing to the merciful dead. "but i was not good enough for him! i know i was not," added she, in a voice of touching humility. for through her heart went tolling the ominous, prophetic words he had used when he had last spoken to her-"mary! you'll may be hear of me as a drunkard, and may be as a thief, and may be as a murderer. remember! when all are speaking ill of me, yo will have no right to blame me, for it's your cruelty that will have made me what i feel i shall become." and she did not blame him, though she doubted not his guilt; she felt how madly she might act if once jealous of him, and how much cause had she not given him for jealousy, miserable guilty wretch that she was! speak on, desolate mother! abuse her as you will. her broken spirit feels to have merited all. but her last humble, self-abased words had touched mrs. wilson's heart, sore as it was; and she looked at the snow-pale girl with those piteous eyes, so hopeless of comfort, and she relented in spite of herself. "thou seest what comes of light conduct, mary! it's thy doing that suspicion has lighted on him, who is as innocent as the babe unborn. thou'lt have much to answer for if he's hung. thou'lt have my death too at thy door!" harsh as these words seem, she spoke them in a milder tone of voice than she had yet used. but the idea of jem on the gallows, jem dead, took possession of mary, and she covered her eyes with her wan hands, as if indeed to shut out the fearful sight. she murmured some words, which, though spoken low, as if choked up from the depths of agony, jane wilson caught. "my heart is breaking," said she, feebly. "my heart is breaking." "nonsense!" said mrs. wilson. "don't talk in that silly way. my heart has a better right to break than yours, and yet i hold up, you see. but, oh dear! oh dear!" with a sudden revulsion of feeling, as the reality of the danger in which her son was placed pressed upon her. "what am i saying? how could i hold up if thou wert gone, jem? though i'm as sure as i stand here of thy innocence, if they hang thee, my lad, i will lie down and die!" she sobbed aloud with bitter consciousness of the fearful chance awaiting her child. she cried more passionately still. mary roused herself up. "oh, let me stay with you, at any rate, till we know the end. dearest mrs. wilson, mayn't i stay?" the more obstinately and upbraidingly mrs. wilson refused, the more mary pleaded, with ever the same soft, entreating cry, "let me stay with you." her stunned soul seemed to bound its wishes, for the hour at least, to remaining with one who loved and sorrowed for the same human being that she did. but no. mrs. wilson was inflexible. "i've may be been a bit hard on you, mary, i'll own that. but i cannot abide you yet with me. i cannot but remember it's your giddiness as has wrought this woe. i'll stay wi' alice, and perhaps mrs. davenport may come help a bit. i cannot put up with you about me. good-night. to-morrow i may look on you different, may be. good-night." and mary turned out of the house, which had been _his_ home, where _he_ was loved, and mourned for, into the busy, desolate, crowded street, where they were crying halfpenny broadsides, giving an account of the bloody murder, the coroner's inquest, and a raw-head-and-bloody-bones picture of the suspected murderer, james wilson. but mary heard not, she heeded not. she staggered on like one in a dream. with hung head and tottering steps, she instinctively chose the shortest cut to that home, which was to her, in her present state of mind, only the hiding place of four walls, where she might vent her agony, unseen and unnoticed by the keen, unkind world without, but where no welcome, no love, no sympathising tears awaited her. as she neared that home, within two minutes' walk of it, her impetuous course was arrested by a light touch on her arm, and turning hastily, she saw a little italian boy with his humble show-box,--a white mouse, or some such thing. the setting sun cast its red glow on his face, otherwise the olive complexion would have been very pale; and the glittering tear-drops hung on the long curled eye-lashes. with his soft voice and pleading looks, he uttered, in his pretty broken english, the words "hungry! so hungry." and, as if to aid by gesture the effect of the solitary word, he pointed to his mouth, with its white quivering lips. mary answered him impatiently, "oh, lad, hunger is nothing--nothing!" and she rapidly passed on. but her heart upbraided her the next minute with her unrelenting speech, and she hastily entered her door and seized the scanty remnant of food which the cupboard contained, and retraced her steps to the place where the little hopeless stranger had sunk down by his mute companion in loneliness and starvation, and was raining down tears as he spoke in some foreign tongue, with low cries for the far distant "mamma mia!" with the elasticity of heart belonging to childhood he sprang up as he saw the food the girl brought; she whose face, lovely in its woe, had tempted him first to address her; and, with the graceful courtesy of his country, he looked up and smiled while he kissed her hand, and then poured forth his thanks, and shared her bounty with his little pet companion. she stood an instant, diverted from the thought of her own grief by the sight of his infantine gladness; and then bending down and kissing his smooth forehead, she left him, and sought to be alone with her agony once more. she re-entered the house, locked the door, and tore off her bonnet, as if greedy of every moment which took her from the full indulgence of painful, despairing thought. then she threw herself on the ground, yes, on the hard flags she threw her soft limbs down; and the comb fell out of her hair, and those bright tresses swept the dusty floor, while she pillowed and hid her face on her arms, and burst forth into hard, suffocating sobs. oh, earth! thou didst seem but a dreary dwelling-place for thy poor child that night. none to comfort, none to pity! and self-reproach gnawing at her heart. oh, why did she ever listen to the tempter? why did she ever give ear to her own suggestions, and cravings after wealth and grandeur? why had she thought it a fine thing to have a rich lover? she--she had deserved it all; but he was the victim,--he, the beloved. she could not conjecture, she could not even pause to think who had revealed, or how he had discovered her acquaintance with harry carson. it was but too clear, some way or another, he had learnt all; and what would he think of her? no hope of his love,--oh, that she would give up, and be content; it was his life, his precious life, that was threatened. then she tried to recall the particulars, which, when mrs. wilson had given them, had fallen but upon a deafened ear,--something about a gun, a quarrel, which she could not remember clearly. oh, how terrible to think of his crime, his blood-guiltiness; he who had hitherto been so good, so noble, and now an assassin! and then she shrank from him in thought; and then, with bitter remorse, clung more closely to his image with passionate self-upbraiding. was it not she who had led him to the pit into which he had fallen? was she to blame him? she to judge him? who could tell how maddened he might have been by jealousy; how one moment's uncontrollable passion might have led him to become a murderer? and she had blamed him in her heart after his last deprecating, imploring, prophetic speech! then she burst out crying afresh; and when weary of crying, fell to thinking again. the gallows! the gallows! black it stood against the burning light which dazzled her shut eyes, press on them as she would. oh! she was going mad; and for awhile she lay outwardly still, but with the pulses careering through her head with wild vehemence. and then came a strange forgetfulness of the present, in thought of the long-past times;--of those days when she hid her face on her mother's pitying, loving bosom, and heard tender words of comfort, be her grief or her error what it might;--of those days when she had felt as if her mother's love was too mighty not to last for ever;--of those days when hunger had been to her (as to the little stranger she had that evening relieved) something to be thought about, and mourned over;--when jem and she had played together; he, with the condescension of an older child, and she, with unconscious earnestness, believing that he was as much gratified with important trifles as she was;--when her father was a cheery-hearted man, rich in the love of his wife, and the companionship of his friend;--when (for it still worked round to that), when mother was alive, and _he_ was not a murderer. and then heaven blessed her unaware, and she sank from remembering, to wandering, unconnected thought, and thence to sleep. yes! it was sleep, though in that strange posture, on that hard cold bed; and she dreamt of the happy times of long ago, and her mother came to her, and kissed her as she lay, and once more the dead were alive again in that happy world of dreams. all was restored to the gladness of childhood, even to the little kitten which had been her playmate and bosom friend then, and which had been long forgotten in her waking hours. all the loved ones were there! she suddenly wakened! clear and wide awake! some noise had startled her from sleep. she sat up, and put her hair (still wet with tears) back from her flushed cheeks, and listened. at first she could only hear her beating heart. all was still without, for it was after midnight, such hours of agony had passed away; but the moon shone clearly in at the unshuttered window, making the room almost as light as day, in its cold ghastly radiance. there was a low knock at the door! a strange feeling crept over mary's heart, as if something spiritual were near; as if the dead, so lately present in her dreams, were yet gliding and hovering round her, with their dim, dread forms. and yet, why dread? had they not loved her?--and who loved her now? was she not lonely enough to welcome the spirits of the dead, who had loved her while here? if her mother had conscious being, her love for her child endured. so she quieted her fears, and listened--listened still. "mary! mary! open the door!" as a little movement on her part seemed to tell the being outside of her wakeful, watchful state. they were the accents of her mother's voice; the very south-country pronunciation, that mary so well remembered; and which she had sometimes tried to imitate when alone, with the fond mimicry of affection. so, without fear, without hesitation, she rose and unbarred the door. there, against the moonlight, stood a form, so closely resembling her dead mother, that mary never doubted the identity, but exclaiming (as if she were a terrified child, secure of safety when near the protecting care of its parent)-"oh! mother! mother! you are come at last!" she threw herself, or rather fell, into the trembling arms of her long-lost, unrecognised aunt esther. chapter xxi. esther's motive in seeking mary. "my rest is gone, my heart is sore, peace find i never, and never more." margaret's song in "faust." i must go back a little to explain the motives which caused esther to seek an interview with her niece. the murder had been committed early on thursday night, and between then and the dawn of the following day there was ample time for the news to spread far and wide among all those whose duty, or whose want, or whose errors, caused them to be abroad in the streets of manchester. among those who listened to the tale of violence was esther. a craving desire to know more took possession of her mind. far away as she was from turner street, she immediately set off to the scene of the murder, which was faintly lighted by the gray dawn as she reached the spot. it was so quiet and still that she could hardly believe it to be the place. the only vestige of any scuffle or violence was a trail on the dust, as if somebody had been lying there, and then been raised by extraneous force. the little birds were beginning to hop and twitter in the leafless hedge, making the only sound that was near and distinct. she crossed into the field where she guessed the murderer to have stood; it was easy of access, for the worn, stunted hawthorn-hedge had many gaps in it. the night-smell of bruised grass came up from under her feet, as she went towards the saw-pit and carpenter's shed, which, as i have said before, were in a corner of the field near the road, and where one of her informants had told her it was supposed by the police that the murderer had lurked while waiting for his victim. there was no sign, however, that any one had been about the place. if the grass had been bruised or bent where he had trod, it had had enough of the elasticity of life to raise itself under the dewy influences of night. she hushed her breath with involuntary awe, but nothing else told of the violent deed by which a fellow-creature had passed away. she stood still for a minute, imagining to herself the position of the parties, guided by the only circumstance which afforded any evidence, the trailing mark on the dust in the road. suddenly (it was before the sun had risen above the horizon) she became aware of something white in the hedge. all other colours wore the same murky hue, though the forms of objects were perfectly distinct. what was it? it could not be a flower;--that, the time of year made clear. a frozen lump of snow, lingering late in one of the gnarled tufts of the hedge? she stepped forward to examine. it proved to be a little piece of stiff writing-paper compressed into a round shape. she understood it instantly; it was the paper that had served as wadding for the murderer's gun. then she had been standing just where the murderer must have been but a few hours before; probably (as the rumour had spread through the town, reaching her ears) one of the poor maddened turn-outs, who hung about everywhere, with black, fierce looks, as if contemplating some deed of violence. her sympathy was all with them, for she had known what they suffered; and besides this there was her own individual dislike of mr. carson, and dread of him for mary's sake. yet, poor mary! death was a terrible, though sure, remedy for the evil esther had dreaded for her; and how would she stand the shock, loving as her aunt believed her to do? poor mary! who would comfort her? esther's thoughts began to picture her sorrow, her despair, when the news of her lover's death should reach her; and she longed to tell her there might have been a keener grief yet had he lived. bright, beautiful came the slanting rays of the morning sun. it was time for such as she to hide themselves, with the other obscene things of night, from the glorious light of day, which was only for the happy. so she turned her steps towards town, still holding the paper. but in getting over the hedge it encumbered her to hold it in her clasped hand, and she threw it down. she passed on a few steps, her thoughts still of mary, till the idea crossed her mind, could it (blank as it appeared to be) give any clue to the murderer? as i said before, her sympathies were all on that side, so she turned back and picked it up; and then feeling as if in some measure an accessory, she hid it unexamined in her hand, and hastily passed out of the street at the opposite end to that by which she had entered it. and what do you think she felt, when, having walked some distance from the spot, she dared to open the crushed paper, and saw written on it mary barton's name, and not only that, but the street in which she lived! true, a letter or two was torn off, but, nevertheless, there was the name clear to be recognised. and oh! what terrible thought flashed into her mind; or was it only fancy? but it looked very like the writing which she had once known well--the writing of jem wilson, who, when she lived at her brother-in-law's, and he was a near neighbour, had often been employed by her to write her letters to people, to whom she was ashamed of sending her own misspelt scrawl. she remembered the wonderful flourishes she had so much admired in those days, while she sat by dictating, and jem, in all the pride of newly-acquired penmanship, used to dazzle her eyes by extraordinary graces and twirls. if it were his! oh! perhaps it was merely that her head was running so on mary, that she was associating every trifle with her. as if only one person wrote in that flourishing, meandering style! it was enough to fill her mind to think from what she might have saved mary by securing the paper. she would look at it just once more, and see if some very dense and stupid policeman could have mistaken the name, or if mary would certainly have been dragged into notice in the affair. no! no one could have mistaken the "ry barton," and it _was_ jem's handwriting! oh! if it was so, she understood it all, and she had been the cause! with her violent and unregulated nature, rendered morbid by the course of life she led, and her consciousness of her degradation, she cursed herself for the interference which she believed had led to this; for the information and the warning she had given to jem, which had roused him to this murderous action. how could she, the abandoned and polluted outcast, ever have dared to hope for a blessing, even on her efforts to do good? the black curse of heaven rested on all her doings, were they for good or for evil. poor, diseased mind! and there were none to minister to thee! so she wandered about, too restless to take her usual heavy morning's sleep, up and down the streets, greedily listening to every word of the passers by, and loitering near each group of talkers, anxious to scrape together every morsel of information, or conjecture, or suspicion, though without possessing any definite purpose in all this. and ever and always she clenched the scrap of paper which might betray so much, until her nails had deeply indented the palm of her hand; so fearful was she in her nervous dread, lest unawares she should let it drop. towards the middle of the day she could no longer evade the body's craving want of rest and refreshment; but the rest was taken in a spirit vault, and the refreshment was a glass of gin. then she started up from the stupor she had taken for repose; and suddenly driven before the gusty impulses of her mind, she pushed her way to the place where at that very time the police were bringing the information they had gathered with regard to the all-engrossing murder. she listened with painful acuteness of comprehension to dropped words and unconnected sentences, the meaning of which became clearer, and yet more clear to her. jem was suspected. jem was ascertained to be the murderer. she saw him (although he, absorbed in deep sad thought, saw her not), she saw him brought hand-cuffed and guarded out of the coach. she saw him enter the station,--she gasped for breath till he came out, still hand-cuffed, and still guarded, to be conveyed to the new bailey. he was the only one who had spoken to her with hope, that she might yet win her way back to virtue. his words had lingered in her heart with a sort of call to heaven, like distant sabbath bells, although in her despair she had turned away from his voice. he was the only one who had spoken to her kindly. the murder, shocking though it was, was an absent, abstract thing, on which her thoughts could not, and would not dwell; all that was present in her mind was jem's danger, and his kindness. then mary came to remembrance. esther wondered till she was sick of wondering, in what way she was taking the affair. in some manner it would be a terrible blow for the poor, motherless girl; with her dreadful father, too, who was to esther a sort of accusing angel. she set off towards the court where mary lived, to pick up what she could there of information. but she was ashamed to enter in where once she had been innocent, and hung about the neighbouring streets, not daring to question, so she learnt but little; nothing in fact but the knowledge of john barton's absence from home. she went up a dark entry to rest her weary limbs on a door-step and think. her elbows on her knees, her face hidden in her hands, she tried to gather together and arrange her thoughts. but still every now and then she opened her hand to see if the paper were yet there. she got up at last. she had formed a plan, and had a course of action to look forward to that would satisfy one craving desire at least. the time was long gone by when there was much wisdom or consistency in her projects. it was getting late, and that was so much the better. she went to a pawn-shop, and took off her finery in a back room. she was known by the people, and had a character for honesty, so she had no very great difficulty in inducing them to let her have a suit of outer clothes, befitting the wife of a working-man, a black silk bonnet, a printed gown, a plaid shawl, dirty and rather worn to be sure, but which had a sort of sanctity to the eyes of the street-walker as being the appropriate garb of that happy class to which she could never, never more belong. she looked at herself in the little glass which hung against the wall, and sadly shaking her head, thought how easy were the duties of that eden of innocence from which she was shut out; how she would work, and toil, and starve, and die, if necessary, for a husband, a home,--for children,--but that thought she could not bear; a little form rose up, stern in its innocence, from the witches' cauldron of her imagination, and she rushed into action again. you know now how she came to stand by the threshold of mary's door, waiting, trembling, until the latch was lifted, and her niece, with words that spoke of such desolation among the living, fell into her arms. she had felt as if some holy spell would prevent her (even as the unholy lady geraldine was prevented, in the abode of christabel) from crossing the threshold of that home of her early innocence; and she had meant to wait for an invitation. but mary's helpless action did away with all reluctant feeling, and she bore or dragged her to a seat, and looked on her bewildered eyes, as, puzzled with the likeness, which was not identity, she gazed on her aunt's features. in pursuance of her plan, esther meant to assume the manners and character, as she had done the dress, of a mechanic's wife; but then, to account for her long absence, and her long silence towards all that ought to have been dear to her, it was necessary that she should put on an indifference far distant from her heart, which was loving and yearning, in spite of all its faults. and, perhaps, she overacted her part, for certainly mary felt a kind of repugnance to the changed and altered aunt, who so suddenly re-appeared on the scene; and it would have cut esther to the very core, could she have known how her little darling of former days was feeling towards her. "you don't remember me i see, mary!" she began. "it's a long while since i left you all, to be sure; and i, many a time, thought of coming to see you, and--and your father. but i live so far off, and am always so busy, i cannot do just what i wish. you recollect aunt esther, don't you, mary?" "are you aunt hetty?" asked mary, faintly, still looking at the face which was so different from the old recollections of her aunt's fresh dazzling beauty. "yes! i am aunt hetty. oh! it's so long since i heard that name," sighing forth the thoughts it suggested; then recovering herself, and striving after the hard character she wished to assume, she continued: "and to-day i heard a friend of yours, and of mine too, long ago, was in trouble, and i guessed you would be in sorrow, so i thought i would just step this far and see you." mary's tears flowed afresh, but she had no desire to open her heart to her strangely-found aunt, who had, by her own confession, kept aloof from and neglected them for so many years. yet she tried to feel grateful for kindness (however late) from any one, and wished to be civil. moreover, she had a strong disinclination to speak on the terrible subject uppermost in her mind. so, after a pause she said, "thank you. i dare say you mean very kind. have you had a long walk? i'm so sorry," said she, rising, with a sudden thought, which was as suddenly checked by recollection, "but i've nothing to eat in the house, and i'm sure you must be hungry, after your walk." for mary concluded that certainly her aunt's residence must be far away on the other side of the town, out of sight or hearing. but, after all, she did not think much about her; her heart was so aching-full of other things, that all besides seemed like a dream. she received feelings and impressions from her conversation with her aunt, but did not, could not, put them together, or think or argue about them. and esther! how scanty had been her food for days and weeks, her thinly-covered bones and pale lips might tell, but her words should never reveal! so, with a little unreal laugh, she replied, "oh! mary, my dear! don't talk about eating. we've the best of every thing, and plenty of it, for my husband is in good work. i'd such a supper before i came out. i couldn't touch a morsel if you had it." her words shot a strange pang through mary's heart. she had always remembered her aunt's loving and unselfish disposition; how was it changed, if, living in plenty, she had never thought it worth while to ask after her relations, who were all but starving! she shut up her heart instinctively against her aunt. and all the time poor esther was swallowing her sobs, and over-acting her part, and controlling herself more than she had done for many a long day, in order that her niece might not be shocked and revolted, by the knowledge of what her aunt had become:--a prostitute; an outcast. for she longed to open her wretched, wretched heart, so hopeless, so abandoned by all living things, to one who had loved her once; and yet she refrained, from dread of the averted eye, the altered voice, the internal loathing, which she feared such disclosure might create. she would go straight to the subject of the day. she could not tarry long, for she felt unable to support the character she had assumed for any length of time. they sat by the little round table, facing each other. the candle was placed right between them, and esther moved it in order to have a clearer view of mary's face, so that she might read her emotions, and ascertain her interests. then she began: "it's a bad business, i'm afraid, this of mr. carson's murder." mary winced a little. "i hear jem wilson is taken up for it." mary covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shade them from the light, and esther herself, less accustomed to self-command, was getting too much agitated for calm observation of another. "i was taking a walk near turner street, and i went to see the spot," continued esther, "and, as luck would have it, i spied this bit of paper in the hedge," producing the precious piece still folded in her hand. "it has been used as wadding for the gun, i reckon; indeed, that's clear enough, from the shape it's crammed into. i was sorry for the murderer, whoever he might be (i didn't then know of jem's being suspected), and i thought i would never leave a thing about as might help, if ever so little, to convict him; the police are so 'cute about straws. so i carried it a little way, and then i opened it and saw your name, mary." mary took her hands away from her eyes, and looked with surprise at her aunt's face, as she uttered these words. she _was_ kind after all, for was she not saving her from being summoned, and from being questioned and examined; a thing to be dreaded above all others: as she felt sure that her unwilling answers, frame them how she might, would add to the suspicions against jem; her aunt was indeed kind, to think of what would spare her this. esther went on, without noticing mary's look. the very action of speaking was so painful to her, and so much interrupted by the hard, raking little cough, which had been her constant annoyance for months, that she was too much engrossed by the physical difficulty of utterance, to be a very close observer. "there could be no mistake if they had found it. look at your name, together with the very name of this court! and in jem's hand-writing too, or i'm much mistaken. look, mary!" and now she did watch her. mary took the paper and flattened it; then suddenly stood stiff up, with irrepressible movement, as if petrified by some horror abruptly disclosed; her face, strung and rigid; her lips compressed tight, to keep down some rising exclamation. she dropped on her seat, as suddenly as if the braced muscles had in an instant given way. but she spoke no word. "it is his hand-writing--isn't it?" asked esther, though mary's manner was almost confirmation enough. "you will not tell. you never will tell," demanded mary, in a tone so sternly earnest, as almost to be threatening. "nay, mary," said esther, rather reproachfully, "i am not so bad as that. oh! mary, you cannot think i would do that, whatever i may be." the tears sprang to her eyes at the idea that she was suspected of being one who would help to inform against an old friend. mary caught her sad and upbraiding look. "no! i know you would not tell, aunt. i don't know what i say, i am so shocked. but say you will not tell. do." "no, indeed i will not tell, come what may." mary sat still, looking at the writing, and turning the paper round with careful examination, trying to hope, but her very fears belying her hopes. "i thought you cared for the young man that's murdered," observed esther, half aloud; but feeling that she could not mistake this strange interest in the suspected murderer, implied by mary's eagerness to screen him from any thing which might strengthen suspicion against him. she had come, desirous to know the extent of mary's grief for mr. carson, and glad of the excuse afforded her by the important scrap of paper. her remark about its being jem's hand-writing, she had, with this view of ascertaining mary's state of feeling, felt to be most imprudent the instant after she uttered it; but mary's anxiety that she should not tell was too great, and too decided, to leave a doubt as to her interest for jem. she grew more and more bewildered, and her dizzy head refused to reason. mary never spoke. she held the bit of paper firmly, determined to retain possession of it, come what might; and anxious, and impatient, for her aunt to go. as she sat, her face bore a likeness to esther's dead child. "you are so like my little girl, mary!" said esther, weary of the one subject on which she could get no satisfaction, and recurring, with full heart, to the thought of the dead. mary looked up. her aunt had children, then. that was all the idea she received. no faint imagination of the love and the woe of that poor creature crossed her mind, or she would have taken her, all guilty and erring, to her bosom, and tried to bind up the broken heart. no! it was not to be. her aunt had children, then; and she was on the point of putting some question about them, but before it could be spoken another thought turned it aside, and she went back to her task of unravelling the mystery of the paper, and the hand-writing. oh! how she wished her aunt would go. as if, according to the believers in mesmerism, the intenseness of her wish gave her power over another, although the wish was unexpressed, esther felt herself unwelcome, and that her absence was desired. she felt this some time before she could summon up resolution to go. she was so much disappointed in this longed-for, dreaded interview with mary; she had wished to impose upon her with her tale of married respectability, and yet she had yearned and craved for sympathy in her real lot. and she had imposed upon her well. she should perhaps be glad of it afterwards; but her desolation of hope seemed for the time redoubled. and she must leave the old dwelling-place, whose very walls, and flags, dingy and sordid as they were, had a charm for her. must leave the abode of poverty, for the more terrible abodes of vice. she must--she would go. "well, good-night, mary. that bit of paper is safe enough with you, i see. but you made me promise i would not tell about it, and you must promise me to destroy it before you sleep." "i promise," said mary, hoarsely, but firmly. "then you are going?" "yes. not if you wish me to stay. not if i could be of any comfort to you, mary;" catching at some glimmering hope. "oh, no," said mary, anxious to be alone. "your husband will be wondering where you are. some day you must tell me all about yourself. i forget what your name is?" "fergusson," said esther, sadly. "mrs. fergusson," repeated mary, half unconsciously. "and where did you say you lived?" "i never did say," muttered esther; then aloud, "in angel's meadow, 145, nicholas street." "145, nicholas street, angel meadow. i shall remember." as esther drew her shawl around her, and prepared to depart, a thought crossed mary's mind that she had been cold and hard in her manner towards one, who had certainly meant to act kindly in bringing her the paper (that dread, terrible piece of paper) and thus saving her from--she could not rightly think how much, or how little she was spared. so, desirous of making up for her previous indifferent manner, she advanced to kiss her aunt before her departure. but, to her surprise, her aunt pushed her off with a frantic kind of gesture, and saying the words, "not me. you must never kiss me. you!" she rushed into the outer darkness of the street, and there wept long and bitterly. chapter xxii. mary's efforts to prove an alibi. "there was a listening fear in her regard, as if calamity had but begun; as if the vanward clouds of evil days had spent their malice, and the sullen rear was, with its stored thunder, labouring up." keats' "hyperion." no sooner was mary alone than she fastened the door, and put the shutters up against the window, which had all this time remained shaded only by the curtains hastily drawn together on esther's entrance, and the lighting of the candle. she did all this with the same compressed lips, and the same stony look that her face had assumed on the first examination of the paper. then she sat down for an instant to think; and rising directly, went, with a step rendered firm by inward resolution of purpose, up the stairs;--passed her own door, two steps, into her father's room. what did she want there? i must tell you; i must put into words the dreadful secret which she believed that bit of paper had revealed to her. her father was the murderer! that corner of stiff, shining, thick writing-paper, she recognised as part of the sheet on which she had copied samuel bamford's beautiful lines so many months ago--copied (as you perhaps remember) on the blank part of a valentine sent to her by jem wilson, in those days when she did not treasure and hoard up every thing he had touched, as she would do now. that copy had been given to her father, for whom it was made, and she had occasionally seen him reading it over, not a fortnight ago she was sure. but she resolved to ascertain if the other part still remained in his possession. he might, it was just possible he _might_, have given it away to some friend; and if so, that person was the guilty one, for she could swear to the paper anywhere. first of all she pulled out every article from the little old chest of drawers. amongst them were some things which had belonged to her mother, but she had no time now to examine and try and remember them. all the reverence she could pay them was to carry them and lay them on the bed carefully, while the other things were tossed impatiently out upon the floor. the copy of bamford's lines was not there. oh! perhaps he might have given it away; but then must it not have been to jem? it was his gun. and she set to with redoubled vigour to examine the deal-box which served as chair, and which had once contained her father's sunday clothes, in the days when he could afford to have sunday clothes. he had redeemed his better coat from the pawn-shop before he left, that she had noticed. here was his old one. what rustled under her hand in the pocket? the paper! "oh! father!" yes, it fitted; jagged end to jagged end, letter to letter; and even the part which esther had considered blank had its tallying mark with the larger piece, its tails of _y_s and _g_s. and then, as if that were not damning evidence enough, she felt again, and found some bullets or shot (i don't know which you would call them) in that same pocket, along with a small paper parcel of gunpowder. as she was going to replace the jacket, having abstracted the paper, and bullets, &c., she saw a woollen gun-case made of that sort of striped horse-cloth you must have seen a thousand times appropriated to such a purpose. the sight of it made her examine still further, but there was nothing else that could afford any evidence, so she locked the box, and sat down on the floor to contemplate the articles; now with a sickening despair, now with a kind of wondering curiosity, how her father had managed to evade observation. after all it was easy enough. he had evidently got possession of some gun (was it really jem's; was he an accomplice? no! she did not believe it; he never, never would deliberately plan a murder with another, however he might be wrought up to it by passionate feeling at the time. least of all would he accuse her to her father, without previously warning her; it was out of his nature). then having obtained possession of the gun, her father had loaded it at home, and might have carried it away with him some time when the neighbours were not noticing, and she was out, or asleep; and then he might have hidden it somewhere to be in readiness when he should want it. she was sure he had no such thing with him when he went away the last time. she felt it was of no use to conjecture his motives. his actions had become so wild and irregular of late, that she could not reason upon them. besides, was it not enough to know that he was guilty of this terrible offence? her love for her father seemed to return with painful force, mixed up as it was with horror at his crime. that dear father, who was once so kind, so warm-hearted, so ready to help either man or beast in distress, to murder! but, in the desert of misery with which these thoughts surrounded her, the arid depths of whose gloom she dared not venture to contemplate, a little spring of comfort was gushing up at her feet, unnoticed at first, but soon to give her strength and hope. and _that_ was the necessity for exertion on her part which this discovery enforced. oh! i do think that the necessity for exertion, for some kind of action (bodily or mental) in time of distress, is a most infinite blessing, although the first efforts at such seasons are painful. something to be done implies that there is yet hope of some good thing to be accomplished, or some additional evil that may be avoided; and by degrees the hope absorbs much of the sorrow. it is the woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped that admit least earthly comforting. of all trite, worn-out, hollow mockeries of comfort that were ever uttered by people who will not take the trouble of sympathising with others, the one i dislike the most is the exhortation not to grieve over an event, "for it cannot be helped." do you think if i could help it, i would sit still with folded hands, content to mourn? do you not believe that as long as hope remained i would be up and doing? i mourn because what has occurred cannot be helped. the reason you give me for not grieving, is the very and sole reason of my grief. give me nobler and higher reasons for enduring meekly what my father sees fit to send, and i will try earnestly and faithfully to be patient; but mock me not, or any other mourner, with the speech, "do not grieve, for it cannot be helped. it is past remedy." but some remedy to mary's sorrow came with thinking. if her father was guilty, jem was innocent. if innocent, there was a possibility of saving him. he must be saved. and she must do it; for was not she the sole depository of the terrible secret? her father was not suspected; and never should be, if by any foresight or any exertions of her own she could prevent it. she did not yet know how jem was to be saved, while her father was also to be considered innocent. it would require much thought and much prudence. but with the call upon her exertions, and her various qualities of judgment and discretion, came the answering consciousness of innate power to meet the emergency. every step now, nay, the employment of every minute, was of consequence; for you must remember she had learnt at miss simmonds' the probability that the murderer would be brought to trial the next week. and you must remember, too, that never was so young a girl so friendless, or so penniless, as mary was at this time. but the lion accompanied una through the wilderness and the danger; and so will a high, resolved purpose of right-doing ever guard and accompany the helpless. it struck two; deep, mirk, night. it was of no use bewildering herself with plans this weary, endless night. nothing could be done before morning: and, at first in her impatience, she began to long for day; but then she felt in how unfit a state her body was for any plan of exertion, and she resolutely made up her mind to husband her physical strength. first of all she must burn the tell-tale paper. the powder, bullets, and gun-case, she tied into a bundle, and hid in the sacking of the bed for the present, although there was no likelihood of their affording evidence against any one. then she carried the paper down stairs, and burnt it on the hearth, powdering the very ashes with her fingers, and dispersing the fragments of fluttering black films among the cinders of the grate. then she breathed again. her head ached with dizzying violence; she must get quit of the pain or it would incapacitate her for thinking and planning. she looked for food, but there was nothing but a little raw oatmeal in the house: still, although it almost choked her, she ate some of this, knowing from experience, how often headaches were caused by long fasting. then she sought for some water to bathe her throbbing temples, and quench her feverish thirst. there was none in the house, so she took the jug and went out to the pump at the other end of the court, whose echoes resounded her light footsteps in the quiet stillness of the night. the hard, square outlines of the houses cut sharply against the cold bright sky, from which myriads of stars were shining down in eternal repose. there was little sympathy in the outward scene, with the internal trouble. all was so still, so motionless, so hard! very different to this lovely night in the country in which i am now writing, where the distant horizon is soft and undulating in the moonlight, and the nearer trees sway gently to and fro in the night-wind with something of almost human motion; and the rustling air makes music among their branches, as if speaking soothingly to the weary ones who lie awake in heaviness of heart. the sights and sounds of such a night lull pain and grief to rest. but mary re-entered her home after she had filled her pitcher, with a still stronger sense of anxiety, and a still clearer conviction of how much rested upon her unassisted and friendless self, alone with her terrible knowledge, in the hard, cold, populous world. she bathed her forehead, and quenched her thirst, and then, with wise deliberation of purpose, went upstairs, and undressed herself, as if for a long night's slumber, although so few hours intervened before day-dawn. she believed she never could sleep, but she lay down, and shut her eyes; and before many minutes she was in as deep and sound a slumber as if there was no sin nor sorrow in the world. she awakened, as it was natural, much refreshed in body; but with a consciousness of some great impending calamity. she sat up in bed to recollect, and when she did remember, she sank down again with all the helplessness of despair. but it was only the weakness of an instant; for were not the very minutes precious, for deliberation if not for action? before she had finished the necessary morning business of dressing, and setting her house in some kind of order, she had disentangled her ravelled ideas, and arranged some kind of a plan for action. if jem was innocent (and now, of his guilt, even his slightest participation in, or knowledge of, the murder, she acquitted him with all her heart and soul), he must have been somewhere else when the crime was committed; probably with some others, who might bear witness to the fact, if she only knew where to find them. every thing rested on her. she had heard of an alibi, and believed it might mean the deliverance she wished to accomplish; but she was not quite sure, and determined to apply to job, as one of the few among her acquaintance gifted with the knowledge of hard words, for to her, all terms of law, or natural history, were alike many-syllabled mysteries. no time was to be lost. she went straight to job legh's house, and found the old man and his grand-daughter sitting at breakfast; as she opened the door she heard their voices speaking in a grave, hushed, subdued tone, as if something grieved their hearts. they stopped talking on her entrance, and then she knew they had been conversing about the murder; about jem's probable guilt; and (it flashed upon her for the first time) on the new light they would have obtained regarding herself: for until now they had never heard of her giddy flirting with mr. carson; not in all her confidential talk with margaret had she ever spoken of him. and now margaret would hear her conduct talked of by all, as that of a bold, bad girl; and even if she did not believe every thing that was said, she could hardly help feeling wounded, and disappointed in mary. so it was in a timid voice that mary wished her usual good-morrow, and her heart sank within her a little, when job, with a form of civility, bade her welcome in that dwelling, where, until now, she had been too well assured to require to be asked to sit down. she took a chair. margaret continued silent. "i'm come to speak to you about this--about jem wilson." "it's a bad business, i'm afeared," replied job, sadly. "ay, it's bad enough anyhow. but jem's innocent. indeed he is; i'm as sure as sure can be." "how can you know, wench? facts bear strong again him, poor fellow, though he'd a deal to put him up, and aggravate him, they say. ay, poor lad, he's done for himself, i'm afeared." "job!" said mary, rising from her chair in her eagerness, "you must not say he did it. he didn't; i'm sure and certain he didn't. oh! why do you shake your head? who is to believe me,--who is to think him innocent, if you, who know'd him so well, stick to it he's guilty?" "i'm loth enough to do it, lass," replied job; "but i think he's been ill used, and--jilted (that's plain truth, mary, hard as it may seem), and his blood has been up--many a man has done the like afore, from like causes." "oh, god! then you won't help me, job, to prove him innocent? oh! job, job; believe me, jem never did harm to no one." "not afore;--and mind, wench! i don't over-blame him for this." job relapsed into silence. mary thought a moment. "well, job, you'll not refuse me this, i know. i won't mind what you think, if you'll help me as if he was innocent. now suppose i know--i knew he was innocent,--it's only supposing, job,--what must i do to prove it? tell me, job! isn't it called an _alibi_, the getting folk to swear to where he really was at the time?" "best way, if you know'd him innocent, would be to find out the real murderer. some one did it, that's clear enough. if it wasn't jem, who was it?" "how can i tell?" answered mary, in an agony of terror, lest job's question was prompted by any suspicion of the truth. but he was far enough from any such thought. indeed, he had no doubt in his own mind that jem had, in some passionate moment, urged on by slighted love and jealousy, been the murderer. and he was strongly inclined to believe, that mary was aware of this, only that, too late repentant of her light conduct which had led to such fatal consequences, she was now most anxious to save her old play-fellow, her early friend, from the doom awaiting the shedder of blood. "if jem's not done it, i don't see as any on us can tell who did. we might find out something if we'd time; but they say he's to be tried on tuesday. it's no use hiding it, mary; things looks strong against him." "i know they do! i know they do! but, oh! job! isn't an _alibi_ a proving where he really was at th' time of the murder; and how must i set about an _alibi_?" "an _alibi_ is that, sure enough." he thought a little. "you mun ask his mother his doings, and his whereabouts that night; the knowledge of that will guide you a bit." for he was anxious that on another should fall the task of enlightening mary on the hopelessness of the case, and he felt that her own sense would be more convinced by inquiry and examination than any mere assertion of his. margaret had sat silent and grave all this time. to tell the truth, she was surprised and disappointed by the disclosure of mary's conduct, with regard to mr. henry carson. gentle, reserved, and prudent herself, never exposed to the trial of being admired for her personal appearance, and unsusceptible enough to be in doubt even yet, whether the fluttering, tender, infinitely-joyous feeling she was for the first time experiencing, at sight, or sound, or thought of will wilson, was love or not,--margaret had no sympathy with the temptations to which loveliness, vanity, ambition, or the desire of being admired, exposes so many; no sympathy with flirting girls, in short. then, she had no idea of the strength of the conflict between will and principle in some who were differently constituted from herself. with her, to be convinced that an action was wrong, was tantamount to a determination not to do so again; and she had little or no difficulty in carrying out her determination. so she could not understand how it was that mary had acted wrongly, and had felt too much ashamed, in spite of all internal sophistry, to speak of her actions. margaret considered herself deceived; felt aggrieved; and, at the time of which i am now telling you, was strongly inclined to give mary up altogether, as a girl devoid of the modest proprieties of her sex, and capable of gross duplicity, in speaking of one lover as she had done of jem, while she was encouraging another in attentions, at best of a very doubtful character. but now margaret was drawn into the conversation. suddenly it flashed across mary's mind, that the night of the murder was the very night, or rather the same early morning, that margaret had been with alice. she turned sharp round, with-"oh! margaret, you can tell me; you were there when he came back that night; were you not? no! you were not; but you were there not many hours after. did not you hear where he'd been? he was away the night before, too, when alice was first taken; when you were there for your tea. oh! where was he, margaret?" "i don't know," she answered. "stay! i do remember something about his keeping will company, in his walk to liverpool. i can't justly say what it was, so much happened that night." "i'll go to his mother's," said mary, resolutely. they neither of them spoke, either to advise or dissuade. mary felt she had no sympathy from them, and braced up her soul to act without such loving aid of friendship. she knew that their advice would be willingly given at her demand, and that was all she really required for jem's sake. still her courage failed a little as she walked to jane wilson's, alone in the world with her secret. jane wilson's eyes were swelled with crying; and it was sad to see the ravages which intense anxiety and sorrow had made on her appearance in four-and-twenty hours. all night long she and mrs. davenport had crooned over their sorrows, always recurring, like the burden of an old song, to the dreadest sorrow of all, which was now impending over mrs. wilson. she had grown--i hardly know what word to use--but, something like proud of her martyrdom; she had grown to hug her grief; to feel an excitement in her agony of anxiety about her boy. "so, mary, you're here! oh! mary, lass! he's to be tried on tuesday." she fell to sobbing, in the convulsive breath-catching manner which tells so of much previous weeping. "oh! mrs. wilson, don't take on so! we'll get him off, you'll see. don't fret; they can't prove him guilty!" "but i tell thee they will," interrupted mrs. wilson, half-irritated at the light way, as she considered it, in which mary spoke; and a little displeased that another could hope when she had almost brought herself to find pleasure in despair. "it may suit thee well," continued she, "to make light o' the misery thou hast caused; but i shall lay his death at thy door, as long as i live, and die i know he will; and all for what he never did--no, he never did; my own blessed boy!" she was too weak to be angry long; her wrath sank away to feeble sobbing and worn-out moans. mary was most anxious to soothe her from any violence of either grief or anger; she did so want her to be clear in her recollection; and, besides, her tenderness was great towards jem's mother. so she spoke in a low gentle tone the loving sentences, which sound so broken and powerless in repetition, and which yet have so much power when accompanied with caressing looks and actions, fresh from the heart; and the old woman insensibly gave herself up to the influence of those sweet, loving blue eyes, those tears of sympathy, those words of love and hope, and was lulled into a less morbid state of mind. "and now, dear mrs. wilson, can you remember where he said he was going on thursday night? he was out when alice was taken ill; and he did not come home till early in the morning, or, to speak true, in the night: did he?" "ay! he went out near upon five; he went out with will; he said he were going to set [45] him a part of the way, for will were hot upon walking to liverpool, and wouldn't hearken to jem's offer of lending him five shilling for his fare. so the two lads set off together. i mind it all now; but, thou seest, alice's illness, and this business of poor jem's, drove it out of my head; they went off together, to walk to liverpool; that's to say, jem were to go a part o' th' way. but, who knows" (falling back into the old desponding tone) "if he really went? he might be led off on the road. oh! mary, wench! they'll hang him for what he's never done." [footnote 45: "to set," to accompany.] "no, they won't--they shan't! i see my way a bit now. we mun get will to help; there'll be time. he can swear that jem were with him. where is jem?" "folk said he were taken to kirkdale, i' th' prison-van, this morning; without my seeing him, poor chap! oh! wench! but they've hurried on the business at a cruel rate." "ay! they've not let grass grow under their feet, in hunting out the man that did it," said mary, sorrowfully and bitterly. "but keep up your heart. they got on the wrong scent when they took to suspecting jem. don't be afeard. you'll see it will end right for jem." "i should mind it less if i could do aught," said jane wilson; "but i'm such a poor weak old body, and my head's so gone, and i'm so dazed-like, what with alice and all, that i think and think, and can do nought to help my child. i might ha' gone and seen him last night, they tell me now, and then i missed it. oh! mary, i missed it; and i may never see the lad again." she looked so piteously in mary's face with her miserable eyes, that mary felt her heart giving way, and, dreading the weakening of her powers, which the burst of crying she longed for would occasion, hastily changed the subject to alice; and jane, in her heart, feeling that there was no sorrow like a mother's sorrow, replied, "she keeps on much the same, thank you. she's happy, for she knows nought of what's going on; but th' doctor says she grows weaker and weaker. thou'lt may be like to see her?" mary went up-stairs: partly because it is the etiquette in humble life to offer to friends a last opportunity of seeing the dying or the dead, while the same etiquette forbids a refusal of the invitation; and partly because she longed to breathe, for an instant, the atmosphere of holy calm, which seemed ever to surround the pious good old woman. alice lay, as before, without pain, or at least any outward expression of it; but totally unconscious of all present circumstances, and absorbed in recollections of the days of her girlhood, which were vivid enough to take the place of realities to her. still she talked of green fields, and still she spoke to the long-dead mother and sister, low-lying in their graves this many a year, as if they were with her and about her, in the pleasant places where her youth had passed. but the voice was fainter, the motions were more languid; she was evidently passing away; but _how_ happily! mary stood for a time in silence, watching and listening. then she bent down and reverently kissed alice's cheek; and drawing jane wilson away from the bed, as if the spirit of her who lay there were yet cognisant of present realities, she whispered a few words of hope to the poor mother, and kissing her over and over again in a warm, loving manner, she bade her good-bye, went a few steps, and then once more came back to bid her keep up her heart. and when she had fairly left the house, jane wilson felt as if a sun-beam had ceased shining into the room. yet oh! how sorely mary's heart ached; for more and more the fell certainty came on her that her father was the murderer! she struggled hard not to dwell on this conviction; to think alone on the means of proving jem's innocence; that was her first duty, and that should be done. chapter xxiii. the sub-poena. "and must it then depend on this poor eye and this unsteady hand, whether the bark, that bears my all of treasured hope and love, shall find a passage through these frowning rocks to some fair port where peace and safety smile,- or whether it shall blindly dash against them, and miserably sink? heaven be my help; and clear my eye, and nerve my trembling hand!" "the constant woman." her heart beating, her head full of ideas, which required time and solitude to be reduced into order, mary hurried home. she was like one who finds a jewel of which he cannot all at once ascertain the value, but who hides his treasure until some quiet hour when he may ponder over the capabilities its possession unfolds. she was like one who discovers the silken clue which guides to some bower of bliss, and secure of the power within his grasp, has to wait for a time before he may tread the labyrinth. but no jewel, no bower of bliss was ever so precious to miser or lover as was the belief which now pervaded mary's mind, that jem's innocence might be proved, without involving any suspicion of that other--that dear one, so dear, although so criminal--on whose part in this cruel business she dared not dwell even in thought. for if she did, there arose the awful question,--if all went against jem the innocent, if judge and jury gave the verdict forth which had the looming gallows in the rear, what ought she to do, possessed of her terrible knowledge? surely not to inculpate her father--and yet--and yet--she almost prayed for the blessed unconsciousness of death or madness, rather than that awful question should have to be answered by her. but now a way seemed opening, opening yet more clear. she was thankful she had thought of the _alibi_, and yet more thankful to have so easily obtained the clue to jem's whereabouts that miserable night. the bright light that her new hope threw over all seemed also to make her thankful for the early time appointed for the trial. it would be easy to catch will wilson on his return from the isle of man, which he had planned should be on the monday; and on the tuesday all would be made clear--all that she dared to wish to be made clear. she had still to collect her thoughts and freshen her memory enough to arrange how to meet with will--for to the chances of a letter she would not trust; to find out his lodgings when in liverpool; to try and remember the name of the ship in which he was to sail: and the more she considered these points the more difficulty she found there would be in ascertaining these minor but important facts. for you are aware that alice, whose memory was clear and strong on all points in which her heart was interested, was lying in a manner senseless: that jane wilson was (to use her own word, so expressive to a lancashire ear) "dazed," that is to say, bewildered, lost in the confusion of terrifying and distressing thoughts; incapable of concentrating her mind; and at the best of times will's proceedings were a matter of little importance to her (or so she pretended), she was so jealous of aught which distracted attention from her pearl of price, her only son jem. so mary felt hopeless of obtaining any intelligence of the sailor's arrangements from her. then, should she apply to jem himself? no! she knew him too well. she felt how thoroughly he must ere now have had it in his power to exculpate himself at another's expense. and his tacit refusal so to do had assured her of what she had never doubted, that the murderer was safe from any impeachment of his. but then neither would he consent, she feared, to any steps which might tend to prove himself innocent. at any rate, she could not consult him. he was removed to kirkdale, and time pressed. already it was saturday at noon. and even if she could have gone to him, i believe she would not. she longed to do all herself; to be his liberator, his deliverer; to win him life, though she might never regain his lost love, by her own exertions. and oh! how could she see him to discuss a subject in which both knew who was the blood-stained man; and yet whose name might not be breathed by either, so dearly with all his faults, his sins, was he loved by both. all at once, when she had ceased to try and remember, the name of will's ship flashed across her mind. the _john cropper_. he had named it, she had been sure, all along. he had named it in his conversation with her that last, that fatal thursday evening. she repeated it over and over again, through a nervous dread of again forgetting it. the _john cropper_. and then, as if she were rousing herself out of some strange stupor, she bethought her of margaret. who so likely as margaret to treasure every little particular respecting will, now alice was dead to all the stirring purposes of life? she had gone thus far in her process of thought, when a neighbour stepped in; she with whom they had usually deposited the house-key, when both mary and her father were absent from home, and who consequently took upon herself to answer all inquiries, and receive all messages which any friends might make, or leave, on finding the house shut up. "here's somewhat for you, mary! a policeman left it." a bit of parchment. many people have a dread of those mysterious pieces of parchment. i am one. mary was another. her heart misgave her as she took it, and looked at the unusual appearance of the writing, which, though legible enough, conveyed no idea to her, or rather her mind shut itself up against receiving any idea, which after all was rather a proof she had some suspicion of the meaning that awaited her. "what is it?" asked she, in a voice from which all the pith and marrow of strength seemed extracted. "nay! how should i know? policeman said he'd call again towards evening, and see if you'd getten it. he were loth to leave it, though i telled him who i was, and all about my keeping th' key, and taking messages." "what is it about?" asked mary again, in the same hoarse, feeble voice, and turning it over in her fingers, as if she dreaded to inform herself of its meaning. "well! yo can read word of writing and i cannot, so it's queer i should have to tell you. but my master says it's a summons for yo to bear witness again jem wilson, at th' trial at liverpool assize." "god pity me!" said mary, faintly, as white as a sheet. "nay, wench, never take on so. what yo can say will go little way either to help or to hinder, for folk say he's certain to be hung; and sure enough it was t'other one as was your sweetheart." but mary was beyond any pang this speech would have given at another time. her thoughts were all busy picturing to herself the terrible occasion of their next meeting--not as lovers meet should they meet! "well!" said the neighbour, seeing no use in remaining with one who noticed her words or her presence so little; "thou'lt tell policeman thou'st getten his precious bit of paper. he seemed to think i should be keeping it for mysel; he's th' first as has ever misdoubted me about giving messages, or notes. good day." she left the house, but mary did not know it. she sat still with the parchment in her hand. all at once she started up. she would take it to job legh and ask him to tell her the true meaning, for it could not be _that_. so she went, and choked out her words of inquiry. "it's a sub-poena," he replied, turning the parchment over with the air of a connoisseur; for job loved hard words, and lawyer-like forms, and even esteemed himself slightly qualified for a lawyer, from the smattering of knowledge he had picked up from an odd volume of blackstone that he had once purchased at a book-stall. "a sub-poena--what is that?" gasped mary, still in suspense. job was struck with her voice, her changed, miserable voice, and peered at her countenance from over his spectacles. "a sub-poena is neither more nor less than this, my dear. it's a summonsing you to attend, and answer such questions as may be asked of you regarding the trial of james wilson, for the murder of henry carson; that's the long and short of it, only more elegantly put, for the benefit of them who knows how to value the gift of language. i've been a witness before-time myself; there's nothing much to be afeared on; if they are impudent, why, just you be impudent, and give 'em tit for tat." "nothing much to be afeared on!" echoed mary, but in such a different tone. "ay, poor wench, i see how it is. it'll go hard with thee a bit, i dare say; but keep up thy heart. yo cannot have much to tell 'em, that can go either one way or th' other. nay! may be thou may do him a bit o' good, for when they set eyes on thee, they'll see fast enough how he came to be so led away by jealousy; for thou'rt a pretty creature, mary, and one look at thy face will let 'em into th' secret of a young man's madness, and make 'em more ready to pass it over." "oh! job, and won't you ever believe me when i tell you he's innocent? indeed, and indeed i can prove it; he was with will all that night; he was, indeed, job!" "my wench! whose word hast thou for that?" said job, pityingly. "why! his mother told me, and i'll get will to bear witness to it. but, oh! job" (bursting into tears), "it is hard if you won't believe me. how shall i clear him to strangers, when those who know him, and ought to love him, are so set against his being innocent?" "god knows, i'm not against his being innocent," said job, solemnly. "i'd give half my remaining days on earth,--i'd give them all, mary (and but for the love i bear to my poor blind girl, they'd be no great gift), if i could save him. you've thought me hard, mary, but i'm not hard at bottom, and i'll help you if i can; that i will, right or wrong," he added; but in a low voice, and coughed the uncertain words away the moment afterwards. "oh, job! if you will help me," exclaimed mary, brightening up (though it was but a wintry gleam after all), "tell me what to say, when they question me; i shall be so gloppened, [46] i shan't know what to answer." [footnote 46: "gloppened," terrified.] "thou canst do nought better than tell the truth. truth's best at all times, they say; and for sure it is when folk have to do with lawyers; for they're 'cute and cunning enough to get it out sooner or later, and it makes folk look like tom noddies, when truth follows falsehood, against their will." "but i don't know the truth; i mean--i can't say rightly what i mean; but i'm sure, if i were pent up, and stared at by hundreds of folk, and asked ever so simple a question, i should be for answering it wrong; if they asked me if i had seen you on a saturday, or a tuesday, or any day, i should have clean forgotten all about it, and say the very thing i should not." "well, well, don't go for to get such notions into your head; they're what they call 'narvous,' and talking on 'em does no good. here's margaret! bless the wench! look, mary, how well she guides hersel." job fell to watching his grand-daughter, as with balancing, measured steps, timed almost as if to music, she made her way across the street. mary shrank as if from a cold blast--shrank from margaret! the blind girl, with her reserve, her silence, seemed to be a severe judge; she, listening, would be such a check to the trusting earnestness of confidence, which was beginning to unlock the sympathy of job. mary knew herself to blame; felt her errors in every fibre of her heart; but yet she would rather have had them spoken about, even in terms of severest censure, than have been treated in the icy manner in which margaret had received her that morning. "here's mary," said job, almost as if he wished to propitiate his grand-daughter, "come to take a bit of dinner with us, for i'll warrant she's never thought of cooking any for herself to-day; and she looks as wan and pale as a ghost." it was calling out the feeling of hospitality, so strong and warm in most of those who have little to offer, but whose heart goes eagerly and kindly with that little. margaret came towards mary with a welcoming gesture, and a kinder manner by far than she had used in the morning. "nay, mary, thou know'st thou'st getten nought at home," urged job. and mary, faint and weary, and with a heart too aching-full of other matters to be pertinacious in this, withdrew her refusal. they ate their dinner quietly; for to all it was an effort to speak, and after one or two attempts they had subsided into silence. when the meal was ended job began again on the subject they all had at heart. "yon poor lad at kirkdale will want a lawyer to see they don't put on him, but do him justice. hast thought of that?" mary had not, and felt sure his mother had not. margaret confirmed this last supposition. "i've but just been there, and poor jane is like one dateless; so many griefs come on her at once. one time she seems to make sure he'll be hung; and if i took her in that way, she flew out (poor body!) and said, that in spite of what folk said, there were them as could, and would prove him guiltless. so i never knew where to have her. the only thing she was constant in, was declaring him innocent." "mother-like!" said job. "she meant will, when she spoke of them that could prove him innocent. he was with will on thursday night, walking a part of the way with him to liverpool; now the thing is to lay hold on will and get him to prove this." so spoke mary, calm, from the earnestness of her purpose. "don't build too much on it, my dear," said job. "i do build on it," replied mary, "because i know it's the truth, and i mean to try and prove it, come what may. nothing you can say will daunt me, job, so don't you go and try. you may help, but you cannot hinder me doing what i'm resolved on." they respected her firmness of determination, and job almost gave in to her belief, when he saw how steadfastly she was acting upon it. oh! surest way of conversion to our faith, whatever it may be,--regarding either small things, or great,--when it is beheld as the actuating principle, from which we never swerve! when it is seen that, instead of over-much profession, it is worked into the life, and moves every action! mary gained courage as she instinctively felt she had made way with one at least of her companions. "now i'm clear about this much," she continued, "he was with will when the--shot was fired (she could not bring herself to say, when the murder was committed, when she remembered _who_ it was that, she had every reason to believe, was the taker-away of life). will can prove this. i must find will. he wasn't to sail till tuesday. there's time enough. he was to come back from his uncle's, in the isle of man, on monday. i must meet him in liverpool, on that day, and tell him what has happened, and how poor jem is in trouble, and that he must prove an _alibi_, come tuesday. all this i can and will do, though perhaps i don't clearly know how, just at present. but surely god will help me. when i know i'm doing right, i will have no fear, but put my trust in him; for i'm acting for the innocent and good, and not for my own self, who have done so wrong. i have no fear when i think of jem, who is so good." she stopped, oppressed with the fulness of her heart. margaret began to love her again; to see in her the same sweet, faulty, impulsive, lovable creature she had known in the former mary barton, but with more of dignity, self-reliance, and purpose. mary spoke again. "now i know the name of will's vessel--the _john cropper_; and i know that she is bound to america. that is something to know. but i forget, if i ever heard, where he lodges in liverpool. he spoke of his landlady, as a good, trustworthy woman; but if he named her name, it has slipped my memory. can you help me, margaret?" she appealed to her friend calmly and openly, as if perfectly aware of, and recognising the unspoken tie which bound her and will together; she asked her in the same manner in which she would have asked a wife where her husband dwelt. and margaret replied in the like calm tone, two spots of crimson on her cheeks alone bearing witness to any internal agitation. "he lodges at a mrs. jones's, milk-house yard, out of nicholas street. he has lodged there ever since he began to go to sea; she is a very decent kind of woman, i believe." "well, mary! i'll give you my prayers," said job. "it's not often i pray regular, though i often speak a word to god, when i'm either very happy or very sorry; i've catched myself thanking him at odd hours when i've found a rare insect, or had a fine day for an out; but i cannot help it, no more than i can talking to a friend. but this time i'll pray regular for jem, and for you. and so will margaret, i'll be bound. still, wench! what think yo of a lawyer? i know one, mr. cheshire, who's rather given to th' insect line--and a good kind o' chap. he and i have swopped specimens many's the time, when either of us had a duplicate. he'll do me a kind turn, i'm sure. i'll just take my hat, and pay him a visit." no sooner said, than done. margaret and mary were left alone. and this seemed to bring back the feeling of awkwardness, not to say estrangement. but mary, excited to an unusual pitch of courage, was the first to break silence. "oh, margaret!" said she, "i see--i feel how wrong you think i have acted; you cannot think me worse than i think myself, now my eyes are opened." here her sobs came choking up her voice. "nay," margaret began, "i have no right to--" "yes, margaret, you have a right to judge; you cannot help it; only in your judgment remember mercy, as the bible says. you, who have been always good, cannot tell how easy it is at first to go a little wrong, and then how hard it is to go back. oh! i little thought when i was first pleased with mr. carson's speeches, how it would all end; perhaps in the death of him i love better than life." she burst into a passion of tears. the feelings pent up through the day would have vent. but checking herself with a strong effort, and looking up at margaret as piteously as if those calm, stony eyes could see her imploring face, she added, "i must not cry; i must not give way; there will be time enough for that hereafter, if--i only wanted you to speak kindly to me, margaret, for i am very, very wretched; more wretched than any one can ever know; more wretched, i sometimes fancy, than i have deserved,--but that's wrong, isn't it, margaret? oh! i have done wrong, and i am punished; you cannot tell how much." who could resist her voice, her tones of misery, of humility? who would refuse the kindness for which she begged so penitently? not margaret. the old friendly manner came back. with it, may be, more of tenderness. "oh! margaret, do you think he can be saved; do you think they can find him guilty if will comes forward as a witness? won't that be a good _alibi_?" margaret did not answer for a moment. "oh, speak! margaret," said mary, with anxious impatience. "i know nought about law, or _alibis_," replied margaret, meekly; "but, mary, as grandfather says, aren't you building too much on what jane wilson has told you about his going with will? poor soul, she's gone dateless, i think, with care, and watching, and over-much trouble; and who can wonder? or jem may have told her he was going, by way of a blind." "you don't know jem," said mary, starting from her seat in a hurried manner, "or you would not say so." "i hope i may be wrong; but think, mary, how much there is against him. the shot was fired with his gun; he it was as threatened mr. carson not many days before; he was absent from home at that very time, as we know, and, as i'm much afeared, some one will be called on to prove; and there's no one else to share suspicion with him." mary heaved a deep sigh. "but, margaret, he did not do it," mary again asserted. margaret looked unconvinced. "i can do no good, i see, by saying so, for none on you believe me, and i won't say so again till i can prove it. monday morning i'll go to liverpool. i shall be at hand for the trial. oh dear! dear! and i will find will; and then, margaret, i think you'll be sorry for being so stubborn about jem." "don't fly off, dear mary; i'd give a deal to be wrong. and now i'm going to be plain spoken. you'll want money. them lawyers is no better than a spunge for sucking up money; let alone your hunting out will, and your keep in liverpool, and what not. you must take some of the mint i've got laid by in the old tea-pot. you have no right to refuse, for i offer it to jem, not to you; it's for his purposes you're to use it." "i know--i see. thank you, margaret; you're a kind one, at any rate. i take it for jem; and i'll do my very best with it for him. not all, though; don't think i'll take all. they'll pay me for my keep. i'll take this," accepting a sovereign from the hoard which margaret produced out of its accustomed place in the cupboard. "your grandfather will pay the lawyer. i'll have nought to do with him," shuddering as she remembered job's words, about lawyers' skill in always discovering the truth, sooner or later; and knowing what was the secret she had to hide. "bless you! don't make such ado about it," said margaret, cutting short mary's thanks. "i sometimes think there's two sides to the commandment; and that we may say, 'let others do unto you, as you would do unto them,' for pride often prevents our giving others a great deal of pleasure, in not letting them be kind, when their hearts are longing to help; and when we ourselves should wish to do just the same, if we were in their place. oh! how often i've been hurt, by being coldly told by persons not to trouble myself about their care, or sorrow, when i saw them in great grief, and wanted to be of comfort. our lord jesus was not above letting folk minister to him, for he knew how happy it makes one to do aught for another. it's the happiest work on earth." mary had been too much engrossed by watching what was passing in the street to attend very closely to that which margaret was saying. from her seat she could see out of the window pretty plainly, and she caught sight of a gentleman walking alongside of job, evidently in earnest conversation with him, and looking keen and penetrating enough to be a lawyer. job was laying down something to be attended to she could see, by his up-lifted fore-finger, and his whole gesture; then he pointed and nodded across the street to his own house, as if inducing his companion to come in. mary dreaded lest he should, and she be subjected to a closer cross-examination than she had hitherto undergone, as to why she was so certain that jem was innocent. she feared he was coming; he stepped a little towards the spot. no! it was only to make way for a child, tottering along, whom mary had overlooked. now job took him by the button, so earnestly familiar had he grown. the gentleman looked "fidging fain" to be gone, but submitted in a manner that made mary like him in spite of his profession. then came a volley of last words, answered by briefest nods, and monosyllables; and then the stranger went off with redoubled quickness of pace, and job crossed the street with a little satisfied air of importance on his kindly face. "well! mary," said he on entering, "i've seen the lawyer, not mr. cheshire though; trials for murder, it seems, are not his line o' business. but he gived me a note to another 'torney; a fine fellow enough, only too much of a talker; i could hardly get a word in, he cut me so short. however, i've just been going over the principal points again to him; may be you saw us? i wanted him just to come over and speak to you himsel, mary, but he was pressed for time; and he said your evidence would not be much either here or there. he's going to the 'sizes first train on monday morning, and will see jem, and hear the ins and outs from him, and he's gived me his address, mary, and you and will are to call on him (will 'special) on monday at two o'clock. thou'rt taking it in, mary; thou'rt to call on him in liverpool at two, monday afternoon?" job had reason to doubt if she fully understood him; for all this minuteness of detail, these satisfactory arrangements, as he considered them, only seemed to bring the circumstances in which she was placed more vividly home to mary. they convinced her that it was real, and not all a dream, as she had sunk into fancying it for a few minutes, while sitting in the old accustomed place, her body enjoying the rest, and her frame sustained by food, and listening to margaret's calm voice. the gentleman she had just beheld would see and question jem in a few hours, and what would be the result? monday: that was the day after to-morrow, and on tuesday, life and death would be tremendous realities to her lover; or else death would be an awful certainty to her father. no wonder job went over his main points again:-"monday; at two o'clock, mind; and here's his card. 'mr. bridgenorth, 41, renshaw street, liverpool.' he'll be lodging there." job ceased talking, and the silence roused mary up to thank him. "you're very kind, job; very. you and margaret won't desert me, come what will." "pooh! pooh! wench; don't lose heart, just as i'm beginning to get it. he seems to think a deal on will's evidence. you're sure, girls, you're under no mistake about will?" "i'm sure," said mary, "he went straight from here, purposing to go see his uncle at the isle of man, and be back sunday night, ready for the ship sailing on tuesday." "so am i," said margaret. "and the ship's name was the _john cropper_, and he lodged where i told mary before. have you got it down, mary?" mary wrote it on the back of mr. bridgenorth's card. "he was not over-willing to go," said she, as she wrote, "for he knew little about his uncle, and said he didn't care if he never knowed more. but he said kinsfolk was kinsfolk, and promises was promises, so he'd go for a day or so, and then it would be over." margaret had to go and practise some singing in town; so, though loth to depart and be alone, mary bade her friends good-bye. chapter xxiv. with the dying. "o sad and solemn is the trembling watch of those who sit and count the heavy hours, beside the fevered sleep of one they love! o awful is it in the hushed mid night, while gazing on the pallid, moveless form, to start and ask, 'is it now sleep--or death?'" anonymous. mary could not be patient in her loneliness; so much painful thought weighed on her mind; the very house was haunted with memories and foreshadowings. having performed all duties to jem, as far as her weak powers, yet loving heart could act; and a black veil being drawn over her father's past, present, and future life, beyond which she could not penetrate to judge of any filial service she ought to render; her mind unconsciously sought after some course of action in which she might engage. any thing, any thing, rather than leisure for reflection. and then came up the old feeling which first bound ruth to naomi; the love they both held towards one object; and mary felt that her cares would be most lightened by being of use, or of comfort to his mother. so she once more locked up the house, and set off towards ancoats; rushing along with down-cast head, for fear lest any one should recognise her and arrest her progress. jane wilson sat quietly in her chair as mary entered; so quietly, as to strike one by the contrast it presented to her usual bustling and nervous manner. she looked very pale and wan; but the quietness was the thing that struck mary most. she did not rise as mary came in, but sat still and said something in so gentle, so feeble a voice, that mary did not catch it. mrs. davenport, who was there, plucked mary by the gown, and whispered, "never heed her; she's worn out, and best let alone. i'll tell you all about it, up-stairs." but mary, touched by the anxious look with which mrs. wilson gazed at her, as if awaiting the answer to some question, went forward to listen to the speech she was again repeating. "what is this? will you tell me?" then mary looked and saw another ominous slip of parchment in the mother's hand, which she was rolling up and down in a tremulous manner between her fingers. mary's heart sickened within her, and she could not speak. "what is it?" she repeated. "will you tell me?" she still looked at mary, with the same child-like gaze of wonder and patient entreaty. what could she answer? "i telled ye not to heed her," said mrs. davenport, a little angrily. "she knows well enough what it is,--too well, belike. i was not in when they sarved it; but mrs. heming (her as lives next door) was, and she spelled out the meaning, and made it all clear to mrs. wilson. it's a summons to be a witness on jem's trial--mrs. heming thinks, to swear to the gun; for, yo see, there's nobbut [47] her as can testify to its being his, and she let on so easily to the policeman that it was his, that there's no getting off her word now. poor body; she takes it very hard, i dare say!" [footnote 47: "nobbut," none-but. "no man sigh evere god _no but_ the oon bigetun sone."--_wiclif's version._] mrs. wilson had waited patiently while this whispered speech was being uttered, imagining, perhaps, that it would end in some explanation addressed to her. but when both were silent, though their eyes, without speech or language, told their hearts' pity, she spoke again in the same unaltered gentle voice (so different from the irritable impatience she had been ever apt to show to every one except her husband,--he who had wedded her, broken-down and injured)--in a voice so different, i say, from the old, hasty manner, she spoke now the same anxious words, "what is this? will you tell me?" "yo'd better give it me at once, mrs. wilson, and let me put it out of your sight.--speak to her, mary, wench, and ask for a sight on it; i've tried, and better-tried to get it from her, and she takes no heed of words, and i'm loth to pull it by force out of her hands." mary drew the little "cricket" [48] out from under the dresser, and sat down at mrs. wilson's knee, and, coaxing one of her tremulous, ever-moving hands into hers, began to rub it soothingly; there was a little resistance--a very little, but that was all; and presently, in the nervous movement of the imprisoned hand, the parchment fell to the ground. [footnote 48 "cricket," a stool.] mary calmly and openly picked it up without any attempt at concealment, and quietly placing it in sight of the anxious eyes that followed it with a kind of spell-bound dread, went on with her soothing caresses. "she has had no sleep for many nights," said the girl to mrs. davenport, "and all this woe and sorrow,--it's no wonder." "no, indeed!" mrs. davenport answered. "we must get her fairly to bed; we must get her undressed, and all; and trust to god, in his mercy, to send her to sleep, or else,--" for, you see, they spoke before her as if she were not there; her heart was so far away. accordingly they almost lifted her from the chair in which she sat motionless, and taking her up as gently as a mother carries her sleeping baby, they undressed her poor, worn form, and laid her in the little bed up-stairs. they had once thought of placing her in jem's bed, to be out of sight or sound of any disturbance of alice's, but then again they remembered the shock she might receive in awakening in so unusual a place, and also that mary, who intended to keep vigil that night in the house of mourning, would find it difficult to divide her attention in the possible cases that might ensue. so they laid her, as i said before, on that little pallet-bed; and, as they were slowly withdrawing from the bed-side, hoping and praying that she might sleep, and forget for a time her heavy burden, she looked wistfully after mary, and whispered, "you haven't told me what it is. what is it?" and gazing in her face for the expected answer, her eye-lids slowly closed, and she fell into a deep, heavy sleep, almost as profound a rest as death. mrs. davenport went her way, and mary was alone,--for i cannot call those who sleep allies against the agony of thought which solitude sometimes brings up. she dreaded the night before her. alice might die; the doctor had that day declared her case hopeless, and not far from death; and at times the terror, so natural to the young, not of death, but of the remains of the dead, came over mary; and she bent and listened anxiously for the long-drawn, pausing breath of the sleeping alice. or mrs. wilson might awake in a state which mary dreaded to anticipate, and anticipated while she dreaded;--in a state of complete delirium. already her senses had been severely stunned by the full explanation of what was required of her,--of what she had to prove against her son, her jem, her only child,--which mary could not doubt the officious mrs. heming had given; and what if in dreams (that land into which no sympathy or love can penetrate with another, either to share its bliss or its agony,--that land whose scenes are unspeakable terrors, are hidden mysteries, are priceless treasures to one alone,--that land where alone i may see, while yet i tarry here, the sweet looks of my dead child),--what if, in the horrors of her dreams, her brain should go still more astray, and she should waken crazy with her visions, and the terrible reality that begot them? how much worse is anticipation sometimes than reality! how mary dreaded that night, and how calmly it passed by! even more so than if mary had not had such claims upon her care! anxiety about them deadened her own peculiar anxieties. she thought of the sleepers whom she was watching, till overpowered herself by the want of rest, she fell off into short slumbers in which the night wore imperceptibly away. to be sure alice spoke, and sang, during her waking moments, like the child she deemed herself; but so happily with the dearly-loved ones around her, with the scent of the heather, and the song of the wild bird hovering about her in imagination--with old scraps of ballads, or old snatches of primitive versions of the psalms (such as are sung in country churches half draperied over with ivy, and where the running brook, or the murmuring wind among the trees makes fit accompaniment to the chorus of human voices uttering praise and thanksgiving to their god)--that the speech and the song gave comfort and good cheer to the listener's heart, and the gray dawn began to dim the light of the rush-candle, before mary thought it possible that day was already trembling on the horizon. then she got up from the chair where she had been dozing, and went, half-asleep, to the window to assure herself that morning was at hand. the streets were unusually quiet with a sabbath stillness. no factory bells that morning; no early workmen going to their labours; no slip-shod girls cleaning the windows of the little shops which broke the monotony of the street; instead, you might see here and there some operative sallying forth for a breath of country air, or some father leading out his wee toddling bairns for the unwonted pleasure of a walk with "daddy," in the clear frosty morning. men with more leisure on week-days would perhaps have walked quicker than they did through the fresh sharp air of this sunday morning; but to them there was a pleasure, an absolute refreshment in the dawdling gait they, one and all of them, had. to be sure, there were one or two passengers on that morning whose objects were less innocent and less praiseworthy than those of the people i have already mentioned, and whose animal state of mind and body clashed jarringly on the peacefulness of the day; but upon them i will not dwell: as you and i, and almost every one, i think, may send up our individual cry of self-reproach that we have not done all that we could for the stray and wandering ones of our brethren. when mary turned from the window, she went to the bed of each sleeper, to look and listen. alice looked perfectly quiet and happy in her slumber, and her face seemed to have become much more youthful during her painless approach to death. mrs. wilson's countenance was stamped with the anxiety of the last few days, although she, too, appeared sleeping soundly; but as mary gazed on her, trying to trace a likeness to her son in her face, she awoke and looked up into mary's eyes, while the expression of consciousness came back into her own. both were silent for a minute or two. mary's eyes had fallen beneath that penetrating gaze, in which the agony of memory seemed every moment to find fuller vent. "is it a dream?" the mother asked at last in a low voice. "no!" replied mary, in the same tone. mrs. wilson hid her face in the pillow. she was fully conscious of every thing this morning; it was evident that the stunning effect of the subpoena, which had affected her so much last night in her weak, worn-out state, had passed away. mary offered no opposition when she indicated by languid gesture and action that she wished to rise. a sleepless bed is a haunted place. when she was dressed with mary's help, she stood by alice for a minute or two, looking at the slumberer. "how happy she is!" said she, quietly and sadly. all the time that mary was getting breakfast ready, and performing every other little domestic office she could think of, to add to the comfort of jem's mother, mrs. wilson sat still in the arm-chair, watching her silently. her old irritation of temper and manner seemed to have suddenly disappeared, or perhaps she was too depressed in body and mind to show it. mary told her all that had been done with regard to mr. bridgenorth; all her own plans for seeking out will; all her hopes; and concealed as well as she could all the doubts and fears that would arise unbidden. to this mrs. wilson listened without much remark, but with deep interest and perfect comprehension. when mary ceased she sighed and said, "oh wench! i am his mother, and yet i do so little, i can do so little! that's what frets me! i seem like a child as sees its mammy ill, and moans and cries its little heart out, yet does nought to help. i think my sense has left me all at once, and i can't even find strength to cry like the little child." hereupon she broke into a feeble wail of self-reproach, that her outward show of misery was not greater; as if any cries, or tears, or loud-spoken words could have told of such pangs at the heart as that look, and that thin, piping, altered voice! but think of mary and what she was enduring! picture to yourself (for i cannot tell you) the armies of thoughts that met and clashed in her brain; and then imagine the effort it cost her to be calm, and quiet, and even, in a faint way, cheerful and smiling at times. after a while she began to stir about in her own mind for some means of sparing the poor mother the trial of appearing as a witness in the matter of the gun. she had made no allusion to her summons this morning, and mary almost thought she must have forgotten it; and surely some means might be found to prevent that additional sorrow. she must see job about it; nay, if necessary, she must see mr. bridgenorth, with all his truth-compelling powers; for, indeed, she had so struggled and triumphed (though a sadly-bleeding victor at heart) over herself these two last days, had so concealed agony, and hidden her inward woe and bewilderment, that she began to take confidence, and to have faith in her own powers of meeting any one with a passably fair show, whatever might be rending her life beneath the cloak of her deception. accordingly, as soon as mrs. davenport came in after morning church, to ask after the two lone women, and she had heard the report mary had to give (so much better as regarded mrs. wilson than what they had feared the night before it would have been)--as soon as this kind-hearted, grateful woman came in, mary, telling her her purpose, went off to fetch the doctor who attended alice. he was shaking himself after his morning's round, and happy in the anticipation of his sunday's dinner; but he was a good-tempered man, who found it difficult to keep down his jovial easiness even by the bed of sickness or death. he had mischosen his profession; for it was his delight to see every one around him in full enjoyment of life. however, he subdued his face to the proper expression of sympathy, befitting a doctor listening to a patient, or a patient's friend (and mary's sad, pale, anxious face might be taken for either the one or the other). "well, my girl! and what brings you here?" said he, as he entered his surgery. "not on your own account, i hope." "i wanted you to come and see alice wilson,--and then i thought you would may be take a look at mrs. wilson." he bustled on his hat and coat, and followed mary instantly. after shaking his head over alice (as if it was a mournful thing for one so pure and good, so true, although so humble a christian, to be nearing her desired haven), and muttering the accustomed words intended to destroy hope, and prepare anticipation, he went in compliance with mary's look to ask the usual questions of mrs. wilson, who sat passively in her arm-chair. she answered his questions, and submitted to his examination. "how do you think her?" asked mary, eagerly. "why--a," began he, perceiving that he was desired to take one side in his answer, and unable to find out whether his listener was anxious for a favourable verdict or otherwise; but thinking it most probable that she would desire the former, he continued, "she is weak, certainly; the natural result of such a shock as the arrest of her son would be,--for i understand this james wilson, who murdered mr. carson, was her son. sad thing to have such a reprobate in the family." "you say '_who murdered_,' sir!" said mary, indignantly. "he is only taken up on suspicion, and many have no doubt of his innocence--those who know him, sir." "ah, well, well! doctors have seldom time to read newspapers, and i dare say i'm not very correct in my story. i dare say he's innocent; i'm sure i had no right to say otherwise,--only words slip out.--no! indeed, young woman, i see no cause for apprehension about this poor creature in the next room;--weak--certainly; but a day or two's good nursing will set her up, and i'm sure you're a good nurse, my dear, from your pretty, kind-hearted face,--i'll send a couple of pills and a draught, but don't alarm yourself,--there's no occasion, i assure you." "but you don't think her fit to go to liverpool?" asked mary, still in the anxious tone of one who wishes earnestly for some particular decision. "to liverpool--yes," replied he. "a short journey like that could not fatigue, and might distract her thoughts. let her go by all means,--it would be the very thing for her." "oh, sir!" burst out mary, almost sobbing; "i did so hope you would say she was too ill to go." "whew--" said he, with a prolonged whistle, trying to understand the case, but being, as he said, no reader of newspapers, utterly unaware of the peculiar reasons there might be for so apparently unfeeling a wish,--"why did you not tell me so sooner? it might certainly do her harm in her weak state; there is always some risk attending journeys--draughts, and what not. to her, they might prove very injurious,--very. i disapprove of journeys, or excitement, in all cases where the patient is in the low, fluttered state in which mrs. wilson is. if you take _my_ advice, you will certainly put a stop to all thoughts of going to liverpool." he really had completely changed his opinion, though quite unconsciously; so desirous was he to comply with the wishes of others. "oh, sir, thank you! and will you give me a certificate of her being unable to go, if the lawyer says we must have one? the lawyer, you know," continued she, seeing him look puzzled, "who is to defend jem,--it was as a witness against him--" "my dear girl!" said he, almost angrily, "why did you not state the case fully at first? one minute would have done it,--and my dinner waiting all this time. to be sure she can't go,--it would be madness to think of it; if her evidence could have done good, it would have been a different thing. come to me for the certificate any time; that is to say, if the lawyer advises you. i second the lawyer; take counsel with both the learned professions--ha, ha, ha,--" and laughing at his own joke, he departed, leaving mary accusing herself of stupidity in having imagined that every one was as well acquainted with the facts concerning the trial as she was herself; for indeed she had never doubted that the doctor would have been aware of the purpose of poor mrs. wilson's journey to liverpool. presently she went to job (the ever-ready mrs. davenport keeping watch over the two old women), and told him her fears, her plans, and her proceedings. to her surprise he shook his head doubtfully. "it may have an awkward look, if we keep her back. lawyers is up to tricks." "but it's no trick," said mary. "she is so poorly, she was last night, at least; and to-day she's so faded and weak." "poor soul! i dare say. i only mean for jem's sake; as so much is known, it won't do now to hang back. but i'll ask mr. bridgenorth. i'll e'en take your doctor's advice. yo tarry at home, and i'll come to yo in an hour's time. go thy ways, wench." chapter xxv. mrs. wilson's determination. "something there was, what, none presumed to say, clouds lightly passing on a smiling day,- whispers and hints which went from ear to ear, and mixed reports no judge on earth could clear." crabbe. "curious conjectures he may always make, and either side of dubious questions take." ib. mary went home. oh! how her head did ache, and how dizzy her brain was growing! but there would be time enough she felt for giving way, hereafter. so she sat quiet and still by an effort; sitting near the window, and looking out of it, but seeing nothing, when all at once she caught sight of something which roused her up, and made her draw back. but it was too late. she had been seen. sally leadbitter flaunted into the little dingy room, making it gaudy with the sunday excess of colouring in her dress. she was really curious to see mary; her connexion with a murderer seemed to have made her into a sort of _lusus naturã¦_, and was almost, by some, expected to have made a change in her personal appearance, so earnestly did they stare at her. but mary had been too much absorbed this last day or two to notice this. now sally had a grand view, and looked her over and over (a very different thing from looking her through and through), and almost learnt her off by heart;--"her every-day gown (hoyle's print you know, that lilac thing with the high body) she was so fond of; a little black silk handkerchief just knotted round her neck, like a boy; her hair all taken back from her face, as if she wanted to keep her head cool--she would always keep that hair of hers so long; and her hands twitching continually about." such particulars would make sally into a gazette extraordinary the next morning at the work-room, and were worth coming for, even if little else could be extracted from mary. "why, mary!" she began. "where have you hidden yourself? you never showed your face all yesterday at miss simmonds'. you don't fancy we think any the worse of you for what's come and gone. some on us, indeed, were a bit sorry for the poor young man, as lies stiff and cold for your sake, mary; but we shall ne'er cast it up against you. miss simmonds, too, will be mighty put out if you don't come, for there's a deal of mourning, agait." "i can't," mary said, in a low voice. "i don't mean ever to come again." "why, mary!" said sally, in unfeigned surprise. "to be sure you'll have to be in liverpool, tuesday, and may be wednesday; but after that you'll surely come, and tell us all about it. miss simmonds knows you'll have to be off those two days. but between you and me, she's a bit of a gossip, and will like hearing all how and about the trial, well enough to let you off very easy for your being absent a day or two. besides, betsy morgan was saying yesterday, she shouldn't wonder but you'd prove quite an attraction to customers. many a one would come and have their gowns made by miss simmonds just to catch a glimpse at you, at after the trial's over. really, mary, you'll turn out quite a heroine." the little fingers twitched worse than ever; the large soft eyes looked up pleadingly into sally's face; but she went on in the same strain, not from any unkind or cruel feeling towards mary, but solely because she was incapable of comprehending her suffering. she had been shocked, of course, at mr. carson's death, though at the same time the excitement was rather pleasant than otherwise; and dearly now would she have enjoyed the conspicuous notice which mary was sure to receive. "how shall you like being cross-examined, mary?" "not at all," answered mary, when she found she must answer. "la! what impudent fellows those lawyers are! and their clerks, too, not a bit better. i shouldn't wonder" (in a comforting tone, and really believing she was giving comfort) "if you picked up a new sweetheart in liverpool. what gown are you going in, mary?" "oh, i don't know and don't care," exclaimed mary, sick and weary of her visitor. "well, then! take my advice, and go in that blue merino. it's old to be sure, and a bit worn at elbows, but folk won't notice that, and th' colour suits you. now mind, mary. and i'll lend you my black watered scarf," added she, really good-naturedly, according to her sense of things, and withal, a little bit pleased at the idea of her pet article of dress figuring away on the person of a witness at a trial for murder. "i'll bring it to-morrow before you start." "no, don't!" said mary; "thank you, but i don't want it." "why, what can you wear? i know all your clothes as well as i do my own, and what is there you can wear? not your old plaid shawl, i do hope? you would not fancy this i have on, more nor the scarf, would you?" said she, brightening up at the thought, and willing to lend it, or any thing else. "oh sally! don't go on talking a-that-ns; how can i think on dress at such a time? when it's a matter of life and death to jem?" "bless the girl! it's jem, is it? well now, i thought there was some sweetheart in the back-ground, when you flew off so with mr. carson. then what in the name of goodness made him shoot mr. harry? after you had given up going with him, i mean? was he afraid you'd be on again?" "how dare you say he shot mr. harry?" asked mary, firing up from the state of languid indifference into which she had sunk while sally had been settling about her dress. "but it's no matter what you think as did not know him. what grieves me is, that people should go on thinking him guilty as did know him," she said, sinking back into her former depressed tone and manner. "and don't you think he did it?" asked sally. mary paused; she was going on too fast with one so curious and so unscrupulous. besides she remembered how even she herself had, at first, believed him guilty; and she felt it was not for her to cast stones at those who, on similar evidence, inclined to the same belief. none had given him much benefit of a doubt. none had faith in his innocence. none but his mother; and there the heart loved more than the head reasoned, and her yearning affection had never for an instant entertained the idea that her jem was a murderer. but mary disliked the whole conversation; the subject, the manner in which it was treated, were all painful, and she had a repugnance to the person with whom she spoke. she was thankful, therefore, when job legh's voice was heard at the door, as he stood with the latch in his hand, talking to a neighbour, and when sally jumped up in vexation and said, "there's that old fogey coming in here, as i'm alive! did your father set him to look after you while he was away? or what brings the old chap here? however, i'm off; i never could abide either him or his prim grand-daughter. goodbye, mary." so far in a whisper, then louder, "if you think better of my offer about the scarf, mary, just step in to-morrow before nine, and you're quite welcome to it." she and job passed each other at the door, with mutual looks of dislike, which neither took any pains to conceal. "yon's a bold, bad girl," said job to mary. "she's very good-natured," replied mary, too honourable to abuse a visitor who had only that instant crossed her threshold, and gladly dwelling on the good quality most apparent in sally's character. "ay, ay! good-natured, generous, jolly, full of fun; there are a number of other names for the good qualities the devil leaves his childer, as baits to catch gudgeons with. d'ye think folk could be led astray by one who was every way bad? howe'er, that's not what i came to talk about. i've seen mr. bridgenorth, and he is in a manner of the same mind as me; he thinks it would have an awkward look, and might tell against the poor lad on his trial; still if she's ill she's ill, and it can't be helped." "i don't know if she's so bad as all that," said mary, who began to dread her part in doing any thing which might tell against her poor lover. "will you come and see her, job? the doctor seemed to say as i liked, not as he thought." "that's because he had no great thought on the subject, either one way or t'other," replied job, whose contempt for medical men pretty nearly equalled his respect for lawyers. "but i'll go and welcome. i han not seen th' oud ladies since their sorrows, and it's but manners to go and ax after them. come along." the room at mrs. wilson's had that still, changeless look you must have often observed in the house of sickness or mourning. no particular employment going on; people watching and waiting rather than acting, unless in the more sudden and violent attacks; what little movement is going on, so noiseless and hushed; the furniture all arranged and stationary, with a view to the comfort of the afflicted; the window-blinds drawn down to keep out the disturbing variety of a sun-beam; the same saddened, serious look on the faces of the in-dwellers; you fall back into the same train of thought with all these associations, and forget the street, the outer world, in the contemplation of the one stationary, absorbing interest within. mrs. wilson sat quietly in her chair, with just the same look mary had left on her face; mrs. davenport went about with creaking shoes, which made all the more noise from her careful and lengthened tread, annoying the ears of those who were well, in this instance, far more than the dulled senses of the sick and the sorrowful. alice's voice still was going on cheerfully in the upper room with incessant talking and little laughs to herself, or perhaps in sympathy with her unseen companions; "unseen," i say, in preference to "fancied," for who knows whether god does not permit the forms of those who were dearest when living, to hover round the bed of the dying? job spoke, and mrs. wilson answered. so quietly, that it was unnatural under the circumstances. it made a deeper impression on the old man than any token of mere bodily illness could have done. if she had raved in delirium, or moaned in fever, he could have spoken after his wont, and given his opinion, his advice, and his consolation; now he was awed into silence. at length he pulled mary aside into a corner of the house-place where mrs. wilson was sitting, and began to talk to her. "yo're right, mary! she's no ways fit to go to liverpool, poor soul. now i've seen her, i only wonder the doctor could ha' been unsettled in his mind at th' first. choose how it goes wi' poor jem, she cannot go. one way or another it will soon be over, and best to leave her in the state she is till then." "i was sure you would think so," said mary. but they were reckoning without their host. they esteemed her senses gone, while, in fact, they were only inert, and could not convey impressions rapidly to the over-burdened, troubled brain. they had not noticed that her eyes had followed them (mechanically it seemed at first) as they had moved away to the corner of the room; that her face, hitherto so changeless, had begun to work with one or two of the old symptoms of impatience. but when they were silent she stood up, and startled them almost as if a dead person had spoken, by saying clearly and decidedly--"i go to liverpool. i hear you and your plans; and i tell you i shall go to liverpool. if my words are to kill my son, they have already gone forth out of my mouth, and nought can bring them back. but i will have faith. alice (up above) has often telled me i wanted faith, and now i will have it. they cannot--they will not kill my child, my only child. i will not be afeared. yet, oh! i am so sick with terror. but if he is to die, think ye not that i will see him again; ay! see him at his trial? when all are hating him, he shall have his poor mother near him, to give him all the comfort, eyes, and looks, and tears, and a heart that is dead to all but him, can give; his poor old mother, who knows how free he is from sin--in the sight of man at least. they'll let me go to him, maybe, the very minute it's over; and i know many scripture texts (though you would not think it), that may keep up his heart. i missed seeing him ere he went to yon prison, but nought shall keep me away again one minute when i can see his face; for maybe the minutes are numbered, and the count but small. i know i can be a comfort to him, poor lad. you would not think it, now, but he'd alway speak as kind and soft to me as if he were courting me, like. he loved me above a bit; and am i to leave him now to dree all the cruel slander they'll put upon him? i can pray for him at each hard word they say against him, if i can do nought else; and he'll know what his mother is doing for him, poor lad, by the look on my face." still they made some look, or gesture of opposition to her wishes. she turned sharp round on mary, the old object of her pettish attacks, and said, "now, wench! once for all! i tell yo this. _he_ could never guide me; and he'd sense enough not to try. what he could na do, don't you try. i shall go to liverpool to-morrow, and find my lad, and stay with him through thick and thin; and if he dies, why, perhaps, god of his mercy will take me too. the grave is a sure cure for an aching heart." she sank back in her chair, quite exhausted by the sudden effort she had made; but if they even offered to speak, she cut them short (whatever the subject might be), with the repetition of the same words, "i shall go to liverpool." no more could be said, the doctor's opinion had been so undecided; mr. bridgenorth had given his legal voice in favour of her going, and mary was obliged to relinquish the idea of persuading her to remain at home, if indeed under all the circumstances it could be thought desirable. "best way will be," said job, "for me to hunt out will, early to-morrow morning, and yo, mary, come at after with jane wilson. i know a decent woman where yo two can have a bed, and where we may meet together when i've found will, afore going to mr. bridgenorth's at two o'clock; for, i can tell him, i'll not trust none of his clerks for hunting up will, if jem's life is to depend on it." now mary disliked this plan inexpressibly; her dislike was partly grounded on reason, and partly on feeling. she could not bear the idea of deputing to any one the active measures necessary to be taken in order to save jem. she felt as if they were her duty, her right. she durst not trust to any one the completion of her plan; they might not have energy, or perseverance, or desperation enough to follow out the slightest chance; and her love would endow her with all these qualities, independently of the terrible alternative which awaited her in case all failed and jem was condemned. no one could have her motives; and consequently no one could have her sharpened brain, her despairing determination. besides (only that was purely selfish), she could not endure the suspense of remaining quiet, and only knowing the result when all was accomplished. so with vehemence and impatience she rebutted every reason job adduced for his plan; and of course, thus opposed, by what appeared to him wilfulness, he became more resolute, and angry words were exchanged, and a feeling of estrangement rose up between them, for a time, as they walked homewards. but then came in margaret with her gentleness, like an angel of peace, so calm and reasonable, that both felt ashamed of their irritation, and tacitly left the decision to her (only, by the way, i think mary could never have submitted if it had gone against her, penitent and tearful as was her manner now to job, the good old man who was helping her to work for jem, although they differed as to the manner). "mary had better go," said margaret to her grandfather, in a low tone, "i know what she's feeling, and it will be a comfort to her soon, may be, to think she did all she could herself. she would perhaps fancy it might have been different; do, grandfather, let her." margaret had still, you see, little or no belief in jem's innocence; and besides, she thought if mary saw will, and heard herself from him that jem had not been with him that thursday night, it would in a measure break the force of the blow which was impending. "let me lock up house, grandfather, for a couple of days, and go and stay with alice. it's but little one like me can do, i know" (she added softly); "but, by the blessing o' god, i'll do it and welcome; and here comes one kindly use o' money, i can hire them as will do for her what i cannot. mrs. davenport is a willing body, and one who knows sorrow and sickness, and i can pay her for her time, and keep her there pretty near altogether. so let that be settled. and you take mrs. wilson, dear grandad, and let mary go find will, and you can all meet together at after, and i'm sure i wish you luck." job consented with only a few dissenting grunts; but on the whole, with a very good grace for an old man who had been so positive only a few minutes before. mary was thankful for margaret's interference. she did not speak, but threw her arms round margaret's neck, and put up her rosy-red mouth to be kissed; and even job was attracted by the pretty, child-like gesture; and when she drew near him, afterwards, like a little creature sidling up to some person whom it feels to have offended, he bent down and blessed her, as if she had been a child of his own. to mary the old man's blessing came like words of power. chapter xxvi. the journey to liverpool. "like a bark upon the sea, life is floating over death; above, below, encircling thee, danger lurks in every breath. parted art thou from the grave only by a plank most frail; tossed upon the restless wave, sport of every fickle gale. let the skies be e'er so clear, and so calm and still the sea, shipwreck yet has he to fear, who life's voyager will be." rã�ckert. the early trains for liverpool, on monday morning, were crowded by attorneys, attorneys' clerks, plaintiffs, defendants, and witnesses, all going to the assizes. they were a motley assembly, each with some cause for anxiety stirring at his heart; though, after all, that is saying little or nothing, for we are all of us in the same predicament through life; each with a fear and a hope from childhood to death. among the passengers there was mary barton, dressed in the blue gown and obnoxious plaid shawl. common as railroads are now in all places as a means of transit, and especially in manchester, mary had never been on one before; and she felt bewildered by the hurry, the noise of people, and bells, and horns; the whiz and the scream of the arriving trains. the very journey itself seemed to her a matter of wonder. she had a back seat, and looked towards the factory-chimneys, and the cloud of smoke which hovers over manchester, with a feeling akin to the "heimweh." she was losing sight of the familiar objects of her childhood for the first time; and unpleasant as those objects are to most, she yearned after them with some of the same sentiment which gives pathos to the thoughts of the emigrant. the cloud-shadows which give beauty to chat-moss, the picturesque old houses of newton, what were they to mary, whose heart was full of many things? yet she seemed to look at them earnestly as they glided past; but she neither saw nor heard. she neither saw nor heard till some well-known names fell upon her ear. two lawyers' clerks were discussing the cases to come on that assizes; of course, "the murder-case," as it had come to be termed, held a conspicuous place in their conversation. they had no doubt of the result. "juries are always very unwilling to convict on circumstantial evidence, it is true," said one, "but here there can hardly be any doubt." "if it had not been so clear a case," replied the other, "i should have said they were injudicious in hurrying on the trial so much. still, more evidence might have been collected." "they tell me," said the first speaker,--"the people in gardener's office i mean,--that it was really feared the old gentleman would have gone out of his mind, if the trial had been delayed. he was with mr. gardener as many as seven times on saturday, and called him up at night to suggest that some letter should be written, or something done to secure the verdict." "poor old man," answered his companion, "who can wonder?--an only son,--such a death,--the disagreeable circumstances attending it; i had not time to read the _guardian_ on saturday, but i understand it was some dispute about a factory girl." "yes, some such person. of course she'll be examined, and williams will do it in style. i shall slip out from our court to hear him if i can hit the nick of time." "and if you can get a place, you mean, for depend upon it the court will be crowded." "ay, ay, the ladies (sweet souls) will come in shoals to hear a trial for murder, and see the murderer, and watch the judge put on his black cap." "and then go home and groan over the spanish ladies who take delight in bull-fights--'such unfeminine creatures!'" then they went on to other subjects. it was but another drop to mary's cup; but she was nearly in that state which crabbe describes, "for when so full the cup of sorrows flows add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows." and now they were in the tunnel!--and now they were in liverpool; and she must rouse herself from the torpor of mind and body which was creeping over her; the result of much anxiety and fatigue, and several sleepless nights. she asked a policeman the way to milk house yard, and following his directions with the _savoir faire_ of a town-bred girl, she reached a little court leading out of a busy, thronged street, not far from the docks. when she entered the quiet little yard she stopped to regain her breath, and to gather strength, for her limbs trembled, and her heart beat violently. all the unfavourable contingencies she had, until now, forbidden herself to dwell upon, came forward to her mind. the possibility, the bare possibility, of jem being an accomplice in the murder; the still greater possibility that he had not fulfilled his intention of going part of the way with will, but had been led off by some little accidental occurrence from his original intention; and that he had spent the evening with those, whom it was now too late to bring forward as witnesses. but sooner or later she must know the truth; so taking courage she knocked at the door of a house. "is this mrs. jones's?" she inquired. "next door but one," was the curt answer. and even this extra minute was a reprieve. mrs. jones was busy washing, and would have spoken angrily to the person who knocked so gently at the door, if anger had been in her nature; but she was a soft, helpless kind of woman, and only sighed over the many interruptions she had had to her business that unlucky monday morning. but the feeling which would have been anger in a more impatient temper, took the form of prejudice against the disturber, whoever he or she might be. mary's fluttered and excited appearance strengthened this prejudice in mrs. jones's mind, as she stood, stripping the soap-suds off her arms, while she eyed her visitor, and waited to be told what her business was. but no words would come. mary's voice seemed choked up in her throat. "pray what do you want, young woman?" coldly asked mrs. jones at last. "i want--oh! is will wilson here?" "no, he is not," replied mrs. jones, inclining to shut the door in her face. "is he not come back from the isle of man?" asked mary, sickening. "he never went; he stayed in manchester too long; as perhaps you know, already." and again the door seemed closing. but mary bent forwards with suppliant action (as some young tree bends, when blown by the rough, autumnal wind), and gasped out, "tell me--tell me--where is he?" mrs. jones suspected some love affair, and, perhaps, one of not the most creditable kind; but the distress of the pale young creature before her was so obvious and so pitiable, that were she ever so sinful, mrs. jones could no longer uphold her short, reserved manner. "he's gone this very morning, my poor girl. step in, and i'll tell you about it." "gone!" cried mary. "how gone? i must see him,--it's a matter of life and death: he can save the innocent from being hanged,--he cannot be gone,--how gone?" "sailed, my dear! sailed in the _john cropper_ this very blessed morning." "sailed!" chapter xxvii. in the liverpool docks. "yon is our quay! hark to the clamour in that miry road, bounded and narrowed by yon vessel's load; the lumbering wealth she empties round the place, package and parcel, hogshead, chest and case: while the loud seaman and the angry hind, mingling in business, bellow to the wind." crabbe. mary staggered into the house. mrs. jones placed her tenderly in a chair, and there stood bewildered by her side. "oh, father! father!" muttered she, "what have you done?--what must i do? must the innocent die?--or he--whom i fear--i fear--oh! what am i saying?" said she, looking round affrighted, and seemingly reassured by mrs. jones's countenance, "i am so helpless, so weak,--but a poor girl after all. how can i tell what is right? father! you have always been so kind to me,--and you to be--never mind--never mind, all will come right in the grave." "save us, and bless us!" exclaimed mrs. jones, "if i don't think she's gone out of her wits!" "no, i'm not!" said mary, catching at the words, and with a strong effort controlling the mind she felt to be wandering, while the red blood flushed to scarlet the heretofore white cheek, "i'm not out of my senses; there is so much to be done--so much--and no one but me to do it, you know,--though i can't rightly tell what it is," looking up with bewilderment into mrs. jones's face. "i must not go mad whatever comes--at least not yet. no!" (bracing herself up) "something may yet be done, and i must do it. sailed! did you say? the _john cropper_? sailed?" "ay! she went out of dock last night, to be ready for the morning's tide." "i thought she was not to sail till to-morrow," murmured mary. "so did will (he's lodged here long, so we all call him 'will')," replied mrs. jones. "the mate had told him so, i believe, and he never knew different till he got to liverpool on friday morning; but as soon as he heard, he gave up going to the isle o' man, and just ran over to rhyl with the mate, one john harris, as has friends a bit beyond abergele; you may have heard him speak on him, for they are great chums, though i've my own opinion of harris." "and he's sailed?" repeated mary, trying by repetition to realise the fact to herself. "ay, he went on board last night to be ready for the morning's tide, as i said afore, and my boy went to see the ship go down the river, and came back all agog with the sight. here, charley, charley!" she called out loudly for her son: but charley was one of those boys who are never "far to seek," as the lancashire people say, when any thing is going on; a mysterious conversation, an unusual event, a fire, or a riot, any thing, in short; such boys are the little omnipresent people of this world. charley had, in fact, been spectator and auditor all this time; though for a little while he had been engaged in "dollying" and a few other mischievous feats in the washing line, which had prevented his attention from being fully given to his mother's conversation with the strange girl who had entered. "oh, charley! there you are! did you not see the _john cropper_ sail down the river this morning? tell the young woman about it, for i think she hardly credits me." "i saw her tugged down the river by a steam-boat, which comes to same thing," replied he. "oh! if i had but come last night!" moaned mary. "but i never thought of it. i never thought but what he knew right when he said he would be back from the isle of man on monday morning, and not afore--and now some one must die for my negligence!" "die!" exclaimed the lad. "how?" "oh! will would have proved an _alibi_,--but he's gone,--and what am i to do?" "don't give it up yet," cried the energetic boy, interested at once in the case; "let's have a try for him. we are but where we were if we fail." mary roused herself. the sympathetic "we" gave her heart and hope. "but what can be done? you say he's sailed; what can be done?" but she spoke louder, and in a more life-like tone. "no! i did not say he'd sailed; mother said that, and women know nought about such matters. you see" (proud of his office of instructor, and insensibly influenced, as all about her were, by mary's sweet, earnest, lovely countenance) "there's sand-banks at the mouth of the river, and ships can't get over them but at high-water; especially ships of heavy burden, like the _john cropper_. now, she was tugged down the river at low water, or pretty near, and will have to lie some time before the water will be high enough to float her over the banks. so hold up your head,--you've a chance yet, though may be but a poor one." "but what must i do?" asked mary, to whom all this explanation had been a vague mystery. "do!" said the boy, impatiently, "why, have not i told you? only women (begging your pardon) are so stupid at understanding about any thing belonging to the sea;--you must get a boat, and make all haste, and sail after him,--after the _john cropper_. you may overtake her, or you may not. it's just a chance; but she's heavy laden, and that's in your favour. she'll draw many feet of water." mary had humbly and eagerly (oh, how eagerly!) listened to this young sir oracle's speech; but try as she would, she could only understand that she must make haste, and sail--somewhere-"i beg your pardon," (and her little acknowledgment of inferiority in this speech pleased the lad, and made him her still more zealous friend). "i beg your pardon," said she, "but i don't know where to get a boat. are there boat-stands?" the lad laughed outright. "you're not long in liverpool, i guess. boat-stands! no; go down to the pier,--any pier will do, and hire a boat,--you'll be at no loss when once you are there. only make haste." "oh, you need not tell me that, if i but knew how," said mary, trembling with eagerness. "but you say right,--i never was here before, and i don't know my way to the place you speak on; only tell me, and i'll not lose a minute." "mother!" said the wilful lad, "i'm going to show her the way to the pier; i'll be back in an hour,--or so,--" he added in a lower tone. and before the gentle mrs. jones could collect her scattered wits sufficiently to understand half of the hastily formed plan, her son was scudding down the street, closely followed by mary's half-running steps. presently he slackened his pace sufficiently to enable him to enter into conversation with mary, for once escaped from the reach of his mother's recalling voice, he thought he might venture to indulge his curiosity. "ahem!--what's your name? it's so awkward to be calling you young woman." "my name is mary,--mary barton," answered she, anxious to propitiate one who seemed so willing to exert himself in her behalf, or else she grudged every word which caused the slightest relaxation in her speed, although her chest seemed tightened, and her head throbbing, from the rate at which they were walking. "and you want will wilson to prove an _alibi_--is that it?" "yes--oh, yes--can we not cross now?" "no, wait a minute; it's the teagle hoisting above your head i'm afraid of;--and who is it that's to be tried?" "jem; oh, lad! can't we get past?" they rushed under the great bales quivering in the air above their heads and pressed onwards for a few minutes, till master charley again saw fit to walk a little slower, and ask a few more questions. "mary, is jem your brother, or your sweetheart, that you're so set upon saving him?" "no--no," replied she, but with something of hesitation, that made the shrewd boy yet more anxious to clear up the mystery. "perhaps he's your cousin, then? many a girl has a cousin who has not a sweetheart." "no, he's neither kith nor kin to me. what's the matter? what are you stopping for?" said she, with nervous terror, as charley turned back a few steps, and peered up a side street. "oh, nothing to flurry you so, mary. i heard you say to mother you had never been in liverpool before, and if you'll only look up this street you may see the back windows of our exchange. such a building as yon is! with 'natomy hiding under a blanket, and lord admiral nelson, and a few more people in the middle of the court! no! come here," as mary, in her eagerness, was looking at any window that caught her eye first, to satisfy the boy. "here, then, now you can see it. you can say, now, you've seen liverpool exchange." "yes, to be sure--it's a beautiful window, i'm sure. but are we near the boats? i'll stop as i come back, you know; only i think we'd better get on now." "oh! if the wind's in your favour, you'll be down the river in no time, and catch will, i'll be bound; and if it's not, why, you know, the minute it took you to look at the exchange will be neither here nor there." another rush onwards, till one of the long crossings near the docks caused a stoppage, and gave mary time for breathing, and charley leisure to ask another question. "you've never said where you come from?" "manchester," replied she. "eh, then! you've a power of things to see. liverpool beats manchester hollow, they say. a nasty, smoky hole, bean't it? are you bound to live there?" "oh, yes! it's my home." "well, i don't think i could abide a home in the middle of smoke. look there! now you see the river! that's something now you'd give a deal for in manchester. look!" and mary did look, and saw down an opening made in the forest of masts belonging to the vessels in dock, the glorious river, along which white-sailed ships were gliding with the ensigns of all nations, not "braving the battle," but telling of the distant lands, spicy or frozen, that sent to that mighty mart for their comforts or their luxuries; she saw small boats passing to and fro on that glittering highway, but she also saw such puffs and clouds of smoke from the countless steamers, that she wondered at charley's intolerance of the smoke of manchester. across the swing-bridge, along the pier,--and they stood breathless by a magnificent dock, where hundreds of ships lay motionless during the process of loading and unloading. the cries of the sailors, the variety of languages used by the passers-by, and the entire novelty of the sight compared with any thing which mary had ever seen, made her feel most helpless and forlorn; and she clung to her young guide as to one who alone by his superior knowledge could interpret between her and the new race of men by whom she was surrounded,--for a new race sailors might reasonably be considered, to a girl who had hitherto seen none but inland dwellers, and those for the greater part factory people. in that new world of sight and sound, she still bore one prevailing thought, and though her eye glanced over the ships and the wide-spreading river, her mind was full of the thought of reaching will. "why are we here?" asked she of charley. "there are no little boats about, and i thought i was to go in a little boat; those ships are never meant for short distances, are they?" "to be sure not," replied he, rather contemptuously. "but the _john cropper_ lay in this dock, and i know many of the sailors; and if i could see one i knew, i'd ask him to run up the mast, and see if he could catch a sight of her in the offing. if she's weighed her anchor no use for your going, you know." mary assented quietly to this speech, as if she were as careless as charley seemed now to be about her overtaking will; but in truth her heart was sinking within her, and she no longer felt the energy which had hitherto upheld her. her bodily strength was giving way, and she stood cold and shivering, although the noon-day sun beat down with considerable power on the shadeless spot where she was standing. "here's tom bourne!" said charley; and altering his manner from the patronising key in which he had spoken to mary, he addressed a weather-beaten old sailor who came rolling along the pathway where they stood, his hands in his pockets, and his quid in his mouth, with very much the air of one who had nothing to do but look about him, and spit right and left; addressing this old tar, charley made known to him his wish in slang, which to mary was almost inaudible, and quite unintelligible, and which i am too much of a land-lubber to repeat correctly. mary watched looks and actions with a renovated keenness of perception. she saw the old man listen attentively to charley; she saw him eye her over from head to foot, and wind up his inspection with a little nod of approbation (for her very shabbiness and poverty of dress were creditable signs to the experienced old sailor); and then she watched him leisurely swing himself on to a ship in the basin, and, borrowing a glass, run up the mast with the speed of a monkey. "he'll fall!" said she, in affright, clutching at charley's arm, and judging the sailor, from his storm-marked face and unsteady walk on land, to be much older than he really was. "not he!" said charley. "he's at the mast-head now. see! he's looking through his glass, and using his arms as steady as if he were on dry land. why, i've been up the mast, many and many a time; only don't tell mother. she thinks i'm to be a shoemaker, but i've made up my mind to be a sailor; only there's no good arguing with a woman. you'll not tell her, mary?" "oh, see!" exclaimed she (his secret was very safe with her, for, in fact, she had not heard it). "see! he's coming down; he's down. speak to him, charley." but unable to wait another instant she called out herself, "can you see the _john cropper_? is she there yet?" "ay, ay," he answered, and coming quickly up to them, he hurried them away to seek for a boat, saying the bar was already covered, and in an hour the ship would hoist her sails and be off. "you've the wind right against you, and must use oars. no time to lose." they ran to some steps leading down to the water. they beckoned to some watermen, who, suspecting the real state of the case, appeared in no hurry for a fare, but leisurely brought their boat alongside the stairs, as if it were a matter of indifference to them whether they were engaged or not, while they conversed together in few words, and in an under-tone, respecting the charge they should make. "oh, pray make haste," called mary. "i want you to take me to the _john cropper_. where is she, charley? tell them--i don't rightly know the words,--only make haste!" "in the offing she is, sure enough, miss," answered one of the men, shoving charley on one side, regarding him as too young to be a principal in the bargain. "i don't think we can go, dick," said he, with a wink to his companion; "there's the gentleman over at new brighton as wants us." "but, mayhap, the young woman will pay us handsome for giving her a last look at her sweetheart," interposed the other. "oh, how much do you want? only make haste--i've enough to pay you, but every moment is precious," said mary. "ay, that it is. less than an hour won't take us to the mouth of the river, and she'll be off by two o'clock!" poor mary's ideas of "plenty of money," however, were different to those entertained by the boatmen. only fourteen or fifteen shillings remained out of the sovereign margaret had lent her, and the boatmen, imagining "plenty" to mean no less than several pounds, insisted upon receiving a sovereign (an exorbitant fare, by the bye, although reduced from their first demand of thirty shillings). while charley, with a boy's impatience of delay, and disregard of money, kept urging, "give it 'em, mary; they'll none of them take you for less. it's your only chance. there's st. nicholas ringing one!" "i've only got fourteen and ninepence," cried she, in despair, after counting over her money; "but i'll give you my shawl, and you can sell it for four or five shillings,--oh! won't that much do?" asked she, in such a tone of voice, that they must indeed have had hard hearts who could refuse such agonised entreaty. they took her on board. and in less than five minutes she was rocking and tossing in a boat for the first time in her life, alone with two rough, hard-looking men. chapter xxviii. "john cropper, ahoy!" "a wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast and fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant mast! and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free, away the good ship flies, and leaves old england on the lee." allan cunningham. mary had not understood that charley was not coming with her. in fact, she had not thought about it, till she perceived his absence, as they pushed off from the landing-place, and remembered that she had never thanked him for all his kind interest in her behalf; and now his absence made her feel most lonely--even his, the little mushroom friend of an hour's growth. the boat threaded her way through the maze of larger vessels which surrounded the shore, bumping against one, kept off by the oars from going right against another, overshadowed by a third, until at length they were fairly out on the broad river, away from either shore; the sights and sounds of land being lost in the distance. and then came a sort of pause. both wind and tide were against the two men, and labour as they would they made but little way. once mary in her impatience had risen up to obtain a better view of the progress they had made, but the men had roughly told her to sit down immediately, and she had dropped on her seat like a chidden child, although the impatience was still at her heart. but now she grew sure they were turning off from the straight course which they had hitherto kept on the cheshire side of the river, whither they had gone to avoid the force of the current, and after a short time she could not help naming her conviction, as a kind of nightmare dread and belief came over her, that every thing animate and inanimate was in league against her one sole aim and object of overtaking will. they answered gruffly. they saw a boatman whom they knew, and were desirous of obtaining his services as steersman, so that both might row with greater effect. they knew what they were about. so she sat silent with clenched hands while the parley went on, the explanation was given, the favour asked and granted. but she was sickening all the time with nervous fear. they had been rowing a long, long time--half a day it seemed, at least--yet liverpool appeared still close at hand, and mary began almost to wonder that the men were not as much disheartened as she was, when the wind, which had been hitherto against them, dropped, and thin clouds began to gather over the sky, shutting out the sun, and casting a chilly gloom over every thing. there was not a breath of air, and yet it was colder than when the soft violence of the westerly wind had been felt. the men renewed their efforts. the boat gave a bound forwards at every pull of the oars. the water was glassy and motionless, reflecting tint by tint of the indian-ink sky above. mary shivered, and her heart sank within her. still now they evidently were making progress. then the steersman pointed to a rippling line in the river only a little way off, and the men disturbed mary, who was watching the ships that lay in what appeared to her the open sea, to get at their sails. she gave a little start, and rose. her patience, her grief, and perhaps her silence, had begun to win upon the men. "yon second to the norrard is the _john cropper_. wind's right now, and sails will soon carry us alongside of her." he had forgotten (or perhaps he did not like to remind mary) that the same wind which now bore their little craft along with easy, rapid motion, would also be favourable to the _john cropper_. but as they looked with straining eyes, as if to measure the decreasing distance that separated them from her, they saw her sails unfurled and flap in the breeze, till, catching the right point, they bellied forth into white roundness, and the ship began to plunge and heave, as if she were a living creature, impatient to be off. "they're heaving anchor!" said one of the boatmen to the others, as the faint musical cry of the sailors came floating over the waters that still separated them. full of the spirit of the chase, though as yet ignorant of mary's motives, the men sprang to hoist another sail. it was fully as much as the boat could bear, in the keen, gusty east wind which was now blowing, and she bent, and laboured, and ploughed, and creaked upbraidingly as if tasked beyond her strength; but she sped along with a gallant swiftness. they drew nearer, and they heard the distant "ahoy" more clearly. it ceased. the anchor was up, and the ship was away. mary stood up, steadying herself by the mast, and stretched out her arms, imploring the flying vessel to stay its course by that mute action, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. the men caught up their oars and hoisted them in the air, and shouted to arrest attention. they were seen by the men aboard the larger craft; but they were too busy with all the confusion prevalent in an outward-bound vessel to pay much attention. there were coils of ropes and seamen's chests to be stumbled over at every turn; there were animals, not properly secured, roaming bewildered about the deck, adding their pitiful lowings and bleatings to the aggregate of noises. there were carcases not cut up, looking like corpses of sheep and pigs rather than like mutton and pork; there were sailors running here and there and everywhere, having had no time to fall into method, and with their minds divided between thoughts of the land and the people they had left, and the present duties on board ship; while the captain strove hard to procure some kind of order by hasty commands given in a loud, impatient voice, to right and left, starboard and larboard, cabin and steerage. as he paced the deck with a chafed step, vexed at one or two little mistakes on the part of the mate, and suffering himself from the pain of separation from wife and children, but showing his suffering only by his outward irritation, he heard a hail from the shabby little river-boat that was striving to overtake his winged ship. for the men fearing that, as the ship was now fairly over the bar, they should only increase the distance between them, and being now within shouting range, had asked of mary her more particular desire. her throat was dry; all musical sound had gone out of her voice; but in a loud harsh whisper she told the men her errand of life and death, and they hailed the ship. "we're come for one william wilson, who is wanted to prove an _alibi_ in liverpool assize courts to-morrow. james wilson is to be tried for a murder, done on thursday night, when he was with william wilson. any thing more, missis?" asked the boat-man of mary, in a lower voice, and taking his hands down from his mouth. "say i'm mary barton. oh, the ship is going on! oh, for the love of heaven, ask them to stop." the boatman was angry at the little regard paid to his summons, and called out again; repeating the message with the name of the young woman who sent it, and interlarding it with sailors' oaths. the ship flew along--away,--the boat struggled after. they could see the captain take his speaking-trumpet. and oh! and alas! they heard his words. he swore a dreadful oath; he called mary a disgraceful name; and he said he would not stop his ship for any one, nor could he part with a single hand, whoever swung for it. the words came in unpitying clearness with their trumpet-sound. mary sat down, looking like one who prays in the death-agony. for her eyes were turned up to that heaven, where mercy dwelleth, while her blue lips quivered, though no sound came. then she bowed her head and hid it in her hands. "hark! yon sailor hails us." she looked up. and her heart stopped its beating to listen. william wilson stood as near the stern of the vessel as he could get; and unable to obtain the trumpet from the angry captain, made a tube of his own hands. "so help me god, mary barton, i'll come back in the pilot-boat, time enough to save the life of the innocent." "what does he say?" asked mary wildly, as the voice died away in the increasing distance, while the boatmen cheered, in their kindled sympathy with their passenger. "what does he say?" repeated she. "tell me. i could not hear." she had heard with her ears, but her brain refused to recognise the sense. they repeated his speech, all three speaking at once, with many comments; while mary looked at them and then at the vessel now far away. "i don't rightly know about it," said she, sorrowfully. "what is the pilot-boat?" they told her, and she gathered the meaning out of the sailors' slang which enveloped it. there was a hope still, although so slight and faint. "how far does the pilot go with the ship?" to different distances they said. some pilots would go as far as holyhead for the chance of the homeward-bound vessels; others only took the ships over the banks. some captains were more cautious than others, and the pilots had different ways. the wind was against the homeward bound vessels, so perhaps the pilot aboard the _john cropper_ would not care to go far out. "how soon would he come back?" there were three boatmen, and three opinions, varying from twelve hours to two days. nay, the man who gave his vote for the longest time, on having his judgment disputed, grew stubborn, and doubled the time, and thought it might be the end of the week before the pilot-boat came home. they began disputing, and urging reasons; and mary tried to understand them; but independently of their nautical language, a veil seemed drawn over her mind, and she had no clear perception of any thing that passed. her very words seemed not her own, and beyond her power of control, for she found herself speaking quite differently to what she meant. one by one her hopes had fallen away, and left her desolate; and though a chance yet remained, she could no longer hope. she felt certain it, too, would fade and vanish. she sank into a kind of stupor. all outward objects harmonised with her despair. the gloomy leaden sky,--the deep, dark waters below, of a still heavier shade of colour,--the cold, flat yellow shore in the distance, which no ray lightened up,--the nipping, cutting wind. she shivered with her depression of mind and body. the sails were taken down, of course, on the return to liverpool, and the progress they made, rowing and tacking, was very slow. the men talked together, disputing about the pilots at first, and then about matters of local importance, in which mary would have taken no interest at any time, and she gradually became drowsy; irrepressibly so, indeed, for in spite of her jerking efforts to keep awake she sank away to the bottom of the boat, and there lay couched on a rough heap of sails, rope, and tackle of various kinds. the measured beat of the waters against the sides of the boat, and the musical boom of the more distant waves, were more lulling than silence, and she slept sound. once she opened her eyes heavily, and dimly saw the old gray, rough boatman (who had stood out the most obstinately for the full fare) covering her with his thick pea-jacket. he had taken it off on purpose, and was doing it tenderly in his way, but before she could rouse herself up to thank him she had dropped off to sleep again. at last, in the dusk of evening, they arrived at the landing-place from which they had started some hours before. the men spoke to mary, but though she mechanically replied, she did not stir; so, at length, they were obliged to shake her. she stood up, shivering and puzzled as to her whereabouts. "now tell me where you are bound to, missis," said the gray old man, "and maybe i can put you in the way." she slowly comprehended what he said, and went through the process of recollection; but very dimly, and with much labour. she put her hand into her pocket and pulled out her purse, and shook its contents into the man's hand; and then began meekly to unpin her shawl, although they had turned away without asking for it. "no, no!" said the older man, who lingered on the step before springing into the boat, and to whom she mutely offered the shawl. "keep it! we donnot want it. it were only for to try you,--some folks say they've no more blunt, when all the while they've getten a mint." "thank you," said she, in a dull, low tone. "where are you bound to? i axed that question afore," said the gruff old fellow. "i don't know. i'm a stranger," replied she, quietly, with a strange absence of anxiety under the circumstances. "but you mun find out then," said he, sharply, "pier-head's no place for a young woman to be standing on, gape-saying." "i've a card somewhere as will tell me," she answered, and the man, partly relieved, jumped into the boat, which was now pushing off to make way for the arrivals from some steamer. mary felt in her pocket for the card, on which was written the name of the street where she was to have met mr. bridgenorth at two o'clock; where job and mrs. wilson were to have been, and where she was to have learnt from the former the particulars of some respectable lodging. it was not to be found. she tried to brighten her perceptions, and felt again, and took out the little articles her pocket contained, her empty purse, her pocket-handkerchief, and such little things, but it was not there. in fact she had dropped it when, so eager to embark, she had pulled out her purse to reckon up her money. she did not know this, of course. she only knew it was gone. it added but little to the despair that was creeping over her. but she tried a little more to help herself, though every minute her mind became more cloudy. she strove to remember where will had lodged, but she could not; name, street, every thing had passed away, and it did not signify; better she were lost than found. she sat down quietly on the top step of the landing, and gazed down into the dark, dank water below. once or twice a spectral thought loomed among the shadows of her brain; a wonder whether beneath that cold dismal surface there would not be rest from the troubles of earth. but she could not hold an idea before her for two consecutive moments; and she forgot what she thought about before she could act upon it. so she continued sitting motionless, without looking up, or regarding in any way the insults to which she was subjected. through the darkening light the old boatman had watched her: interested in her in spite of himself, and his scoldings of himself. when the landing-place was once more comparatively clear, he made his way towards it, across boats, and along planks, swearing at himself while he did so, for an old fool. he shook mary's shoulder violently. "d---you, i ask you again where you're bound to? don't sit there, stupid. where are you going to?" "i don't know," sighed mary. "come, come; avast with that story. you said a bit ago you'd a card, which was to tell you where to go." "i had, but i've lost it. never mind." she looked again down upon the black mirror below. he stood by her, striving to put down his better self; but he could not. he shook her again. she looked up, as if she had forgotten him. "what do you want?" asked she, wearily. "come with me, and be d----d to you!" replied he, clutching her arm to pull her up. she arose and followed him, with the unquestioning docility of a little child. chapter xxix. a true bill against jem. "there are who, living by the legal pen, are held in honour--honourable men." crabbe. at five minutes before two, job legh stood upon the door-step of the house where mr. bridgenorth lodged at assize time. he had left mrs. wilson at the dwelling of a friend of his, who had offered him a room for the old woman and mary: a room which had frequently been his, on his occasional visits to liverpool, but which he was thankful now to have obtained for them, as his own sleeping-place was a matter of indifference to him, and the town appeared crowded and disorderly on the eve of the assizes. he was shown in to mr. bridgenorth, who was writing. mary and will wilson had not yet arrived, being, as you know, far away on the broad sea; but of this job of course knew nothing, and he did not as yet feel much anxiety about their non-appearance; he was more curious to know the result of mr. bridgenorth's interview that morning with jem. "why, yes," said mr. bridgenorth, putting down his pen, "i have seen him, but to little purpose, i'm afraid. he's very impracticable--very. i told him, of course, that he must be perfectly open with me, or else i could not be prepared for the weak points. i named your name with the view of unlocking his confidence, but--" "what did he say?" asked job, breathlessly. "why, very little. he barely answered me. indeed, he refused to answer some questions--positively refused. i don't know what i can do for him." "then you think him guilty, sir?" said job, despondingly. "no, i don't," replied mr. bridgenorth, quickly and decisively. "much less than i did before i saw him. the impression (mind, 'tis only impression; i rely upon your caution, not to take it for fact)--the impression," with an emphasis on the word, "he gave me is, that he knows something about the affair, but what, he will not say; and so the chances are, if he persists in his obstinacy, he'll be hung. that's all." he began to write again, for he had no time to lose. "but he must not be hung," said job, with vehemence. mr. bridgenorth looked up, smiled a little, but shook his head. "what did he say, sir, if i may be so bold as to ask?" continued job. "his words were few enough, and he was so reserved and short, that as i said before, i can only give you the impression they conveyed to me. i told him of course who i was, and for what i was sent. he looked pleased, i thought,--at least his face (sad enough when i went in, i assure ye) brightened a little; but he said he had nothing to say, no defence to make. i asked him if he was guilty, then; and by way of opening his heart i said i understood he had had provocation enough, inasmuch as i heard that the girl was very lovely, and had jilted him to fall desperately in love with that handsome young carson (poor fellow!). but james wilson did not speak one way or another. i then went to particulars. i asked him if the gun was his, as his mother had declared. he had not heard of her admission it was evident, from his quick way of looking up, and the glance of his eye; but when he saw i was observing him, he hung down his head again, and merely said she was right; it was his gun." "well!" said job, impatiently, as mr. bridgenorth paused. "nay! i have little more to tell you," continued that gentleman. "i asked him to inform me in all confidence, how it came to be found there. he was silent for a time, and then refused. not only refused to answer that question, but candidly told me he would not say another word on the subject, and, thanking me for my trouble and interest in his behalf, he all but dismissed me. ungracious enough on the whole, was it not, mr. legh? and yet, i assure ye, i am twenty times more inclined to think him innocent than before i had the interview." "i wish mary barton would come," said job, anxiously. "she and will are a long time about it." "ay, that's our only chance, i believe," answered mr. bridgenorth, who was writing again. "i sent johnson off before twelve to serve him with his sub-poena, and to say i wanted to speak with him; he'll be here soon, i've no doubt." there was a pause. mr. bridgenorth looked up again, and spoke. "mr. duncombe promised to be here to speak to his character. i sent him a subpoena on saturday night. though after all, juries go very little by such general and vague testimony as that to character. it is very right that they should not often; but in this instance unfortunate for us, as we must rest our case on the _alibi_." the pen went again, scratch, scratch over the paper. job grew very fidgetty. he sat on the edge of his chair, the more readily to start up when will and mary should appear. he listened intently to every noise and every step on the stair. once he heard a man's footstep, and his old heart gave a leap of delight. but it was only mr. bridgenorth's clerk, bringing him a list of those cases in which the grand jury had found true bills. he glanced it over and pushed it to job, merely saying, "of course we expected this," and went on with his writing. there was a true bill against james wilson. of course. and yet job felt now doubly anxious and sad. it seemed the beginning of the end. he had got, by imperceptible degrees, to think jem innocent. little by little this persuasion had come upon him. mary (tossing about in the little boat on the broad river) did not come, nor did will. job grew very restless. he longed to go and watch for them out of the window, but feared to interrupt mr. bridgenorth. at length his desire to look out was irresistible, and he got up and walked carefully and gently across the room, his boots creaking at every cautious step. the gloom which had overspread the sky, and the influence of which had been felt by mary on the open water, was yet more perceptible in the dark, dull street. job grew more and more fidgetty. he was obliged to walk about the room, for he could not keep still; and he did so, regardless of mr. bridgenorth's impatient little motions and noises, as the slow, stealthy, creaking movements were heard, backwards and forwards, behind his chair. he really liked job, and was interested for jem, else his nervousness would have overcome his sympathy long before it did. but he could hold out no longer against the monotonous, grating sound; so at last he threw down his pen, locked his portfolio, and taking up his hat and gloves, he told job he must go to the courts. "but will wilson is not come," said job, in dismay. "just wait while i run to his lodgings. i would have done it before, but i thought they'd be here every minute, and i were afraid of missing them. i'll be back in no time." "no, my good fellow, i really must go. besides, i begin to think johnson must have made a mistake, and have fixed with this william wilson to meet me at the courts. if you like to wait for him here, pray make use of my room; but i've a notion i shall find him there: in which case, i'll send him to your lodgings; shall i? you know where to find me. i shall be here again by eight o'clock, and with the evidence of this witness that's to prove the _alibi_, i'll have the brief drawn out, and in the hands of counsel to-night." so saying he shook hands with job, and went his way. the old man considered for a minute as he lingered at the door, and then bent his steps towards mrs. jones's, where he knew (from reference to queer, odd, heterogeneous memoranda, in an ancient black-leather pocket-book) that will lodged, and where he doubted not he should hear both of him and of mary. he went there, and gathered what intelligence he could out of mrs. jones's slow replies. he asked if a young woman had been there that morning, and if she had seen will wilson. "no!" "why not?" "why, bless you, 'cause he had sailed some hours before she came asking for him." there was a dead silence, broken only by the even, heavy sound of mrs. jones's ironing. "where is the young woman now?" asked job. "somewhere down at the docks," she thought. "charley would know, if he was in, but he wasn't. he was in mischief, somewhere or other, she had no doubt. boys always were. he would break his neck some day, she knew;" so saying, she quietly spat upon her fresh iron, to test its heat, and then went on with her business. job could have boxed her, he was in such a state of irritation. but he did not, and he had his reward. charley came in, whistling with an air of indifference, assumed to carry off his knowledge of the lateness of the hour to which he had lingered about the docks. "here's an old man come to know where the young woman is who went out with thee this morning," said his mother, after she had bestowed on him a little motherly scolding. "where she is now, i don't know. i saw her last sailing down the river after the _john cropper_. i'm afeared she won't reach her; wind changed and she would be under weigh, and over the bar in no time. she should have been back by now." it took job some little time to understand this, from the confused use of the feminine pronoun. then he inquired how he could best find mary. "i'll run down again to the pier," said the boy; "i'll warrant i'll find her." "thou shalt do no such a thing," said his mother, setting her back against the door. the lad made a comical face at job, which met with no responsive look from the old man, whose sympathies were naturally in favour of the parent; although he would thankfully have availed himself of charley's offer, for he was weary, and anxious to return to poor mrs. wilson, who would be wondering what had become of him. "how can i best find her? who did she go with, lad?" but charley was sullen at his mother's exercise of authority before a stranger, and at that stranger's grave looks when he meant to have made him laugh. "they were river boatmen;--that's all i know," said he. "but what was the name of their boat?" persevered job. "i never took no notice;--the anne, or william,--or some of them common names, i'll be bound." "what pier did she start from?" asked job, despairingly. "oh, as for that matter, it were the stairs on the prince's pier she started from; but she'll not come back to the same, for the american steamer came up with the tide, and anchored close to it, blocking up the way for all the smaller craft. it's a rough evening too, to be out on," he maliciously added. "well, god's will be done! i did hope we could have saved the lad," said job, sorrowfully; "but i'm getten very doubtful again. i'm uneasy about mary, too,--very. she's a stranger in liverpool." "so she told me," said charley. "there's traps about for young women at every corner. it's a pity she's no one to meet her when she lands." "as for that," replied job, "i don't see how any one could meet her when we can't tell where she would come to. i must trust to her coming right. she's getten spirit and sense. she'll most likely be for coming here again. indeed, i don't know what else she can do, for she knows no other place in liverpool. missus, if she comes, will you give your son leave to bring her to no. 8, back garden court, where there's friends waiting for her? i'll give him sixpence for his trouble." mrs. jones, pleased with the reference to her, gladly promised. and even charley, indignant as he was at first at the idea of his motions being under the control of his mother, was mollified at the prospect of the sixpence, and at the probability of getting nearer to the heart of the mystery. but mary never came. chapter xxx. job legh's deception. "poor susan moans, poor susan groans; the clock gives warning for eleven; 'tis on the stroke--'he must be near,' quoth betty, 'and will soon be here, as sure as there's a moon in heaven.' the clock is on the stroke of twelve, and johnny is not yet in sight, --the moon's in heaven, as betty sees, but betty is not quite at ease; and susan has a dreadful night." wordsworth. job found mrs. wilson pacing about in a restless way; not speaking to the woman at whose house she was staying, but occasionally heaving such deep oppressive sighs as quite startled those around her. "well!" said she, turning sharp round in her tottering walk up and down, as job came in. "well, speak!" repeated she, before he could make up his mind what to say; for, to tell the truth, he was studying for some kind-hearted lie which might soothe her for a time. but now the real state of the case came blurting forth in answer to her impatient questioning. "will's not to the fore. but he'll may be turn up yet, time enough." she looked at him steadily for a minute, as if almost doubting if such despair could be in store for her as his words seemed to imply. then she slowly shook her head, and said, more quietly than might have been expected from her previous excited manner, "don't go for to say that! thou dost not think it. thou'rt well-nigh hopeless, like me. i seed all along my lad would be hung for what he never did. and better he were, and were shut [49] of this weary world, where there's neither justice nor mercy left." [footnote 49: "shut," quit.] she looked up with tranced eyes as if praying to that throne where mercy ever abideth, and then sat down. "nay, now thou'rt off at a gallop," said job. "will has sailed this morning for sure, but that brave wench, mary barton, is after him, and will bring him back, i'll be bound, if she can but get speech on him. she's not back yet. come, come, hold up thy head. it will all end right." "it will all end right," echoed she; "but not as thou tak'st it. jem will be hung, and will go to his father and the little lads, where the lord god wipes away all tears, and where the lord jesus speaks kindly to the little ones, who look about for the mothers they left upon earth. eh, job, yon's a blessed land, and i long to go to it, and yet i fret because jem is hastening there. i would not fret if he and i could lie down to-night to sleep our last sleep; not a bit would i fret if folk would but know him to be innocent--as i do." "they'll know it sooner or later, and repent sore if they've hanged him for what he never did," replied job. "ay, that they will. poor souls! may god have mercy on them when they find out their mistake." presently job grew tired of sitting waiting, and got up, and hung about the door and window, like some animal wanting to go out. it was pitch dark, for the moon had not yet risen. "you just go to bed," said he to the widow. "you'll want your strength for to-morrow. jem will be sadly off, if he sees you so cut up as you look to-night. i'll step down again and find mary. she'll be back by this time. i'll come and tell you every thing, never fear. but, now, you go to bed." "thou'rt a kind friend, job legh, and i'll go, as thou wishest me. but, oh! mind thou com'st straight off to me, and bring mary as soon as thou'st lit on her." she spoke low, but very calmly. "ay, ay!" replied job, slipping out of the house. he went first to mr. bridgenorth's, where it had struck him that will and mary might be all this time waiting for him. they were not there, however. mr. bridgenorth had just come in, and job went breathlessly up-stairs to consult with him as to the state of the case. "it's a bad job," said the lawyer, looking very grave, while he arranged his papers. "johnson told me how it was; the woman that wilson lodged with told him. i doubt it's but a wild-goose chase of the girl barton. our case must rest on the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence, and the goodness of the prisoner's previous character. a very vague and weak defence. however, i've engaged mr. clinton as counsel, and he'll make the best of it. and now, my good fellow, i must wish you good-night, and turn you out of doors. as it is, i shall have to sit up into the small hours. did you see my clerk as you came up-stairs? you did! then may i trouble you to ask him to step up immediately?" after this job could not stay, and, making his humble bow, he left the room. then he went to mrs. jones's. she was in, but charley had slipped off again. there was no holding that boy. nothing kept him but lock and key, and they did not always; for once she had him locked up in the garret, and he had got off through the skylight. perhaps now he was gone to see after the young woman down at the docks. he never wanted an excuse to be there. unasked, job took a chair, resolved to await charley's re-appearance. mrs. jones ironed and folded her clothes, talking all the time of charley and her husband, who was a sailor in some ship bound for india, and who, in leaving her their boy, had evidently left her rather more than she could manage. she moaned and croaked over sailors, and sea-port towns, and stormy weather, and sleepless nights, and trousers all over tar and pitch, long after job had left off attending to her, and was only trying to hearken to every step and every voice in the street. at last charley came in, but he came alone. "yon mary barton has getten into some scrape or another," said he, addressing himself to job. "she's not to be heard of at any of the piers; and bourne says it were a boat from the cheshire side as she went aboard of. so there's no hearing of her till to-morrow morning." "to-morrow morning she'll have to be in court at nine o'clock, to bear witness on a trial," said job, sorrowfully. "so she said; at least somewhat of the kind," said charley, looking desirous to hear more. but job was silent. he could not think of any thing further that could be done; so he rose up, and, thanking mrs. jones for the shelter she had given him, he went out into the street; and there he stood still, to ponder over probabilities and chances. after some little time he slowly turned towards the lodging where he had left mrs. wilson. there was nothing else to be done; but he loitered on the way, fervently hoping that her weariness and her woes might have sent her to sleep before his return, that he might be spared her questionings. he went very gently into the house-place where the sleepy landlady awaited his coming and his bringing the girl, who, she had been told, was to share the old woman's bed. but in her sleepy blindness she knocked things so about in lighting the candle (she could see to have a nap by fire-light, she said), that the voice of mrs. wilson was heard from the little back-room, where she was to pass the night. "who's there?" job gave no answer, and kept down his breath, that she might think herself mistaken. the landlady, having no such care, dropped the snuffers with a sharp metallic sound, and then, by her endless apologies, convinced the listening woman that job had returned. "job! job legh!" she cried out, nervously. "eh, dear!" said job to himself, going reluctantly to her bed-room door. "i wonder if one little lie would be a sin as things stand? it would happen give her sleep, and she won't have sleep for many and many a night (not to call sleep), if things goes wrong to-morrow. i'll chance it, any way." "job! art thou there?" asked she again with a trembling impatience that told in every tone of her voice. "ay! sure! i thought thou'd ha' been asleep by this time." "asleep! how could i sleep till i knowed if will were found?" "now for it," muttered job to himself. then in a louder voice, "never fear! he's found, and safe, ready for to-morrow." "and he'll prove that thing for my poor lad, will he? he'll bear witness that jem were with him? oh, job, speak! tell me all!" "in for a penny, in for a pound," thought job. "happen one prayer will do for the sum total. any rate, i must go on now.--ay, ay," shouted he, through the door. "he can prove all; and jem will come off as clear as a new-born babe." he could hear mrs. wilson's rustling movements, and in an instant guessed she was on her knees, for he heard her trembling voice uplifted in thanksgiving and praise to god, stopped at times by sobs of gladness and relief. and when he heard this, his heart misgave him; for he thought of the awful enlightening, the terrible revulsion of feeling that awaited her in the morning. he saw the short-sightedness of falsehood; but what could he do now? while he listened, she ended her grateful prayers. "and mary? thou'st found her at mrs. jones's, job?" said she, continuing her inquiries. he gave a great sigh. "yes, she was there, safe enough, second time of going.--god forgive me!" muttered he, "who'd ha' thought of my turning out such an arrant liar in my old days?" "bless the wench! is she here? why does she not come to bed? i'm sure she's need." job coughed away his remains of conscience, and made answer, "she was a bit weary, and o'er done with her sail; and mrs. jones axed her to stay there all night. it was nigh at hand to the courts, where she will have to be in the morning." "it comes easy enough after a while," groaned out job. "the father of lies helps one, i suppose, for now my speech comes as natural as truth. she's done questioning now, that's one good thing. i'll be off before satan and she are at me again." he went to the house-place, where the landlady stood wearily waiting. her husband was in bed, and asleep long ago. but job had not yet made up his mind what to do. he could not go to sleep, with all his anxieties, if he were put into the best bed in liverpool. "thou'lt let me sit up in this arm-chair," said he at length to the woman, who stood, expecting his departure. he was an old friend, so she let him do as he wished. but, indeed, she was too sleepy to have opposed him. she was too glad to be released and go to bed. chapter xxxi. how mary passed the night. "to think that all this long interminable night, which i have passed in thinking on two words- 'guilty'--'not guilty!'--like one happy moment o'er many a head hath flown unheeded by; o'er happy sleepers dreaming in their bliss of bright to-morrows--or far happier still, with deep breath buried in forgetfulness. o all the dismallest images of death did swim before my eyes!" wilson. and now, where was mary? how job's heart would have been relieved of one of its cares if he could have seen her: for he was in a miserable state of anxiety about her; and many and many a time through that long night he scolded her and himself; her for her obstinacy, and himself for his weakness in yielding to her obstinacy, when she insisted on being the one to follow and find out will. she did not pass that night in bed any more than job; but she was under a respectable roof, and among kind, though rough people. she had offered no resistance to the old boatman, when he had clutched her arm, in order to insure her following him, as he threaded the crowded dock-ways, and dived up strange bye-streets. she came on meekly after him, scarcely thinking in her stupor where she was going, and glad (in a dead, heavy way) that some one was deciding things for her. he led her to an old-fashioned house, almost as small as house could be, which had been built long ago, before all the other part of the street, and had a country-town look about it in the middle of that bustling back street. he pulled her into the house-place; and relieved to a certain degree of his fear of losing her on the way, he exclaimed, "there!" giving a great slap of one hand on her back. the room was light and bright, and roused mary (perhaps the slap on her back might help a little, too), and she felt the awkwardness of accounting for her presence to a little bustling old woman who had been moving about the fire-place on her entrance. the boatman took it very quietly, never deigning to give any explanation, but sitting down in his own particular chair, and chewing tobacco, while he looked at mary with the most satisfied air imaginable, half triumphantly, as if she were the captive of his bow and spear, and half defyingly, as if daring her to escape. the old woman, his wife, stood still, poker in hand, waiting to be told who it was that her husband had brought home so unceremoniously; but, as she looked in amazement the girl's cheek flushed, and then blanched to a dead whiteness; a film came over her eyes, and catching at the dresser for support in that hot whirling room, she fell in a heap on the floor. both man and wife came quickly to her assistance. they raised her up, still insensible, and he supported her on one knee, while his wife pattered away for some cold fresh water. she threw it straight over mary; but though it caused a great sob, the eyes still remained closed, and the face as pale as ashes. "who is she, ben?" asked the woman, as she rubbed her unresisting, powerless hands. "how should i know?" answered her husband gruffly. "well-a-well!" (in a soothing tone, such as you use to irritated children), and as if half to herself, "i only thought you might, you know, as you brought her home. poor thing! we must not ask aught about her, but that she needs help. i wish i'd my salts at home, but i lent 'em to mrs. burton, last sunday in church, for she could not keep awake through the sermon. dear-a-me, how white she is!" "here! you hold her up a bit," said her husband. she did as he desired, still crooning to herself, not caring for his short, sharp interruptions as she went on; and, indeed, to her old, loving heart, his crossest words fell like pearls and diamonds, for he had been the husband of her youth; and even he, rough and crabbed as he was, was secretly soothed by the sound of her voice, although not for worlds, if he could have helped it, would he have shown any of the love that was hidden beneath his rough outside. "what's the old fellow after?" said she, bending over mary, so as to accommodate the drooping head. "taking my pen, as i've had better nor five year. bless us, and save us! he's burning it! ay, i see now, he's his wits about him; burnt feathers is always good for a faint. but they don't bring her round, poor wench! now what's he after next? well! he is a bright one, my old man! that i never thought of that, to be sure!" exclaimed she, as he produced a square bottle of smuggled spirits, labelled "golden wasser," from a corner cupboard in their little room. "that'll do!" said she, as the dose he poured into mary's open mouth made her start and cough. "bless the man! it's just like him to be so tender and thoughtful!" "not a bit!" snarled he, as he was relieved by mary's returning colour, and opened eyes, and wondering, sensible gaze; "not a bit! i never was such a fool afore." his wife helped mary to rise, and placed her in a chair. "all's right now, young woman?" asked the boatman, anxiously. "yes, sir, and thank you. i'm sure, sir, i don't know rightly how to thank you," faltered mary, softly forth. "be hanged to you and your thanks." and he shook himself, took his pipe, and went out without deigning another word; leaving his wife sorely puzzled as to the character and history of the stranger within her doors. mary watched the boatman leave the house, and then, turning her sorrowful eyes to the face of her hostess, she attempted feebly to rise, with the intention of going away,--where she knew not. "nay! nay! who e'er thou be'st, thou'rt not fit to go out into the street. perhaps" (sinking her voice a little) "thou'rt a bad one; i almost misdoubt thee, thou'rt so pretty. well-a-well! it's the bad ones as have the broken hearts, sure enough; good folk never get utterly cast down, they've always getten hope in the lord: it's the sinful as bear the bitter, bitter grief in their crushed hearts, poor souls; it's them we ought, most of all, to pity and to help. she shanna leave the house to-night, choose who she is,--worst woman in liverpool, she shanna. i wished i knew where th' old man picked her up, that i do." mary had listened feebly to this soliloquy, and now tried to satisfy her hostess in weak, broken sentences. "i'm not a bad one, missis, indeed. your master took me out to sea after a ship as had sailed. there was a man in it as might save a life at the trial to-morrow. the captain would not let him come, but he says he'll come back in the pilot-boat." she fell to sobbing at the thought of her waning hopes, and the old woman tried to comfort her, beginning with her accustomed, "well-a-well! and he'll come back, i'm sure. i know he will; so keep up your heart. don't fret about it. he's sure to be back." "oh! i'm afraid! i'm sore afraid he won't," cried mary, consoled, nevertheless, by the woman's assertions, all groundless as she knew them to be. still talking half to herself and half to mary, the old woman prepared tea, and urged her visitor to eat and refresh herself. but mary shook her head at the proffered food, and only drank a cup of tea with thirsty eagerness. for the spirits had thrown her into a burning heat, and rendered each impression received through her senses of the most painful distinctness and intensity, while her head ached in a terrible manner. she disliked speaking, her power over her words seemed so utterly gone. she used quite different expressions to those she intended. so she kept silent, while mrs. sturgis (for that was the name of her hostess) talked away, and put her tea-things by, and moved about incessantly, in a manner that increased the dizziness in mary's head. she felt as if she ought to take leave for the night and go. but where? presently the old man came back, crosser and gruffer than when he went away. he kicked aside the dry shoes his wife had prepared for him, and snarled at all she said. mary attributed this to his finding her still there, and gathered up her strength for an effort to leave the house. but she was mistaken. by-and-bye, he said (looking right into the fire, as if addressing it), "wind's right against them!" "ay, ay, and is it so?" said his wife, who, knowing him well, knew that his surliness proceeded from some repressed sympathy. "well-a-well, wind changes often at night. time enough before morning. i'd bet a penny it has changed sin' thou looked." she looked out of their little window at a weather-cock, near, glittering in the moonlight; and as she was a sailor's wife, she instantly recognised the unfavourable point at which the indicator seemed stationary, and giving a heavy sigh, turned into the room, and began to beat about in her own mind for some other mode of comfort. "there's no one else who can prove what you want at the trial to-morrow, is there?" asked she. "no one!" answered mary. "and you've no clue to the one as is really guilty, if t'other is not?" mary did not answer, but trembled all over. sturgis saw it. "don't bother her with thy questions," said he to his wife. "she mun go to bed, for she's all in a shiver with the sea air. i'll see after the wind, hang it, and the weather-cock, too. tide will help 'em when it turns." mary went up-stairs murmuring thanks and blessings on those who took the stranger in. mrs. sturgis led her into a little room redolent of the sea and foreign lands. there was a small bed for one son, bound for china; and a hammock slung above for another, who was now tossing in the baltic. the sheets looked made out of sail-cloth, but were fresh and clean in spite of their brownness. against the wall were wafered two rough drawings of vessels with their names written underneath, on which the mother's eyes caught, and gazed until they filled with tears. but she brushed the drops away with the back of her hand, and in a cheerful tone went on to assure mary the bed was well aired. "i cannot sleep, thank you. i will sit here, if you please," said mary, sinking down on the window-seat. "come, now," said mrs. sturgis, "my master told me to see you to bed, and i mun. what's the use of watching? a watched pot never boils, and i see you are after watching that weather-cock. why now, i try never to look at it, else i could do nought else. my heart many a time goes sick when the wind rises, but i turn away and work away, and try never to think on the wind, but on what i ha' getten to do." "let me stay up a little," pleaded mary, as her hostess seemed so resolute about seeing her to bed. her looks won her suit. "well, i suppose i mun. i shall catch it down stairs, i know. he'll be in a fidget till you're getten to bed, i know; so you mun be quiet if you are so bent upon staying up." and quietly, noiselessly, mary watched the unchanging weather-cock through the night. she sat on the little window-seat, her hand holding back the curtain which shaded the room from the bright moonlight without; her head resting its weariness against the corner of the window-frame; her eyes burning and stiff with the intensity of her gaze. the ruddy morning stole up the horizon, casting a crimson glow into the watcher's room. it was the morning of the day of trial! chapter xxxii. the trial and verdict--"not guilty." "thou stand'st here arraign'd, that, with presumption impious and accursed, thou hast usurp'd god's high prerogative, making thy fellow mortal's life and death wait on thy moody and diseased passions; that with a violent and untimely steel hast set abroach the blood that should have ebbed in calm and natural current: to sum all in one wild name--a name the pale air freezes at, and every cheek of man sinks in with horror- thou art a cold and midnight murderer." milman's "fazio." of all the restless people who found that night's hours agonising from excess of anxiety, the poor father of the murdered man was perhaps the most restless. he had slept but little since the blow had fallen; his waking hours had been too full of agitated thought, which seemed to haunt and pursue him through his unquiet slumbers. and this night of all others was the most sleepless. he turned over and over again in his mind the wonder if every thing had been done that could be done, to insure the conviction of jem wilson. he almost regretted the haste with which he had urged forward the proceedings, and yet until he had obtained vengeance, he felt as if there was no peace on earth for him (i don't know that he exactly used the term vengeance in his thoughts; he spoke of justice, and probably thought of his desired end as such); no peace either bodily or mental, for he moved up and down his bedroom with the restless incessant tramp of a wild beast in a cage, and if he compelled his aching limbs to cease for an instant, the twitchings which ensued almost amounted to convulsions, and he re-commenced his walk as the lesser evil, and the more bearable fatigue. with daylight increased power of action came; and he drove off to arouse his attorney, and worry him with further directions and inquiries; and when that was ended, he sat, watch in hand, until the courts should be opened, and the trial begin. what were all the living,--wife or daughters,--what were they in comparison with the dead,--the murdered son who lay unburied still, in compliance with his father's earnest wish, and almost vowed purpose of having the slayer of his child sentenced to death, before he committed the body to the rest of the grave? at nine o'clock they all met at their awful place of _rendezvous_. the judge, the jury, the avenger of blood, the prisoner, the witnesses--all were gathered together within one building. and besides these were many others, personally interested in some part of the proceedings, in which, however, they took no part; job legh, ben sturgis, and several others were there, amongst whom was charley jones. job legh had carefully avoided any questioning from mrs. wilson that morning. indeed he had not been much in her company, for he had risen up early to go out once more to make inquiry for mary; and when he could hear nothing of her, he had desperately resolved not to undeceive mrs. wilson, as sorrow never came too late; and if the blow were inevitable, it would be better to leave her in ignorance of the impending evil as long as possible. she took her place in the witness-room, worn and dispirited, but not anxious. as job struggled through the crowd into the body of the court, mr. bridgenorth's clerk beckoned to him. "here's a letter for you from our client!" job sickened as he took it. he did not know why, but he dreaded a confession of guilt, which would be an overthrow of all hope. the letter ran as follows. dear friend,--i thank you heartily for your goodness in finding me a lawyer, but lawyers can do no good to me, whatever they may do to other people. but i am not the less obliged to you, dear friend. i foresee things will go against me--and no wonder. if i was a jury-man, i should say the man was guilty as had as much evidence brought against him as may be brought against me to-morrow. so it's no blame to them if they do. but, job legh, i think i need not tell you i am as guiltless in this matter as the babe unborn, although it is not in my power to prove it. if i did not believe that you thought me innocent, i could not write as i do now to tell you my wishes. you'll not forget they are the wishes of a man shortly to die. dear friend, you must take care of my mother. not in the money way, for she will have enough for her and aunt alice; but you must let her talk to you of me; and show her that (whatever others may do) you think i died innocent. i don't reckon she will stay long behind when we are all gone. be tender with her, job, for my sake; and if she is a bit fractious at times, remember what she has gone through. i know mother will never doubt me, god bless her. there is one other whom i fear i have loved too dearly; and yet, the loving her has made the happiness of my life. she will think i have murdered her lover; she will think i have caused the grief she must be feeling. and she must go on thinking so. it is hard upon me to say this; but she _must_. it will be best for her, and that's all i ought to think on. but, dear job, you are a hearty fellow for your time of life, and may live a many years to come; and perhaps you could tell her, when you felt sure you were drawing near your end, that i solemnly told you (as i do now) that i was innocent of this thing. you must not tell her for many years to come; but i cannot well bear to think on her living through a long life, and hating the thought of me as the murderer of him she loved, and dying with that hatred to me in her heart. it would hurt me sore in the other world to see the look of it in her face, as it would be, till she was told. i must not let myself think on how she must be viewing me now. so god bless you, job legh; and no more from yours to command, james wilson. job turned the letter over and over when he had read it; sighed deeply; and then wrapping it carefully up in a bit of newspaper he had about him, he put it in his waistcoat pocket, and went off to the door of the witness-room to ask if mary barton were there. as the door opened he saw her sitting within, against a table on which her folded arms were resting, and her head was hidden within them. it was an attitude of hopelessness, and would have served to strike job dumb in sickness of heart, even without the sound of mrs. wilson's voice in passionate sobbing, and sore lamentations, which told him as well as words could do (for she was not within view of the door, and he did not care to go in), that she was at any rate partially undeceived as to the hopes he had given her last night. sorrowfully did job return into the body of the court; neither mrs. wilson nor mary having seen him as he had stood at the witness-room door. as soon as he could bring his distracted thoughts to bear upon the present scene, he perceived that the trial of james wilson for the murder of henry carson was just commencing. the clerk was gabbling over the indictment, and in a minute or two there was the accustomed question, "how say you, guilty, or not guilty?" although but one answer was expected,--was customary in all cases,--there was a pause of dead silence, an interval of solemnity even in this hackneyed part of the proceeding; while the prisoner at the bar stood with compressed lips, looking at the judge with his outward eyes, but with far other and different scenes presented to his mental vision;--a sort of rapid recapitulation of his life,--remembrances of his childhood,--his father (so proud of him, his first-born child),--his sweet little playfellow, mary,--his hopes, his love,--his despair, yet still, yet ever and ever, his love,--the blank, wide world it had been without her love,--his mother,--his childless mother,--but not long to be so,--not long to be away from all she loved,--nor during that time to be oppressed with doubt as to his innocence, sure and secure of her darling's heart;--he started from his instant's pause, and said in a low firm voice, "not guilty, my lord." the circumstances of the murder, the discovery of the body, the causes of suspicion against jem, were as well known to most of the audience as they are to you, so there was some little buzz of conversation going on among the people while the leading counsel for the prosecution made his very effective speech. "that's mr. carson, the father, sitting behind serjeant wilkinson!" "what a noble-looking old man he is! so stern and inflexible, with such classical features! does he not remind you of some of the busts of jupiter?" "i am more interested by watching the prisoner. criminals always interest me. i try to trace in the features common to humanity some expression of the crimes by which they have distinguished themselves from their kind. i have seen a good number of murderers in my day, but i have seldom seen one with such marks of cain on his countenance as the man at the bar." "well, i am no physiognomist, but i don't think his face strikes me as bad. it certainly is gloomy and depressed, and not unnaturally so, considering his situation." "only look at his low, resolute brow, his downcast eye, his white compressed lips. he never looks up,--just watch him." "his forehead is not so low if he had that mass of black hair removed, and is very square, which some people say is a good sign. if others are to be influenced by such trifles as you are, it would have been much better if the prison barber had cut his hair a little previous to the trial; and as for down-cast eye, and compressed lip, it is all part and parcel of his inward agitation just now; nothing to do with character, my good fellow." poor jem! his raven hair (his mother's pride, and so often fondly caressed by her fingers), was that too to have its influence against him? the witnesses were called. at first they consisted principally of policemen; who, being much accustomed to giving evidence, knew what were the material points they were called on to prove, and did not lose the time of the court in listening to any thing unnecessary. "clear as day against the prisoner," whispered one attorney's clerk to another. "black as night, you mean," replied his friend; and they both smiled. "jane wilson! who's she? some relation, i suppose, from the name." "the mother,--she that is to prove the gun part of the case." "oh, ay--i remember! rather hard on her, too, i think." then both were silent, as one of the officers of the court ushered mrs. wilson into the witness-box. i have often called her "the old woman," and "an old woman," because, in truth, her appearance was so much beyond her years, which might not be many above fifty. but partly owing to her accident in early life, which left a stamp of pain upon her face, partly owing to her anxious temper, partly to her sorrows, and partly to her limping gait, she always gave me the idea of age. but now she might have seemed more than seventy; her lines were so set and deep, her features so sharpened, and her walk so feeble. she was trying to check her sobs into composure, and (unconsciously) was striving to behave as she thought would best please her poor boy, whom she knew she had often grieved by her uncontrolled impatience. he had buried his face in his arms, which rested on the front of the dock (an attitude he retained during the greater part of his trial, and which prejudiced many against him). the counsel began the examination. "your name is jane wilson, i believe." "yes, sir." "the mother of the prisoner at the bar?" "yes, sir;" with quivering voice, ready to break out into weeping, but earning respect by the strong effort at self-control, prompted, as i have said before, by her earnest wish to please her son by her behaviour. the barrister now proceeded to the important part of the examination, tending to prove that the gun found on the scene of the murder was the prisoner's. she had committed herself so fully to the policeman, that she could not well retract; so without much delay in bringing the question round to the desired point, the gun was produced in court, and the inquiry made-"that gun belongs to your son, does it not?" she clenched the sides of the witness-box in her efforts to make her parched tongue utter words. at last she moaned forth, "oh! jem, jem! what mun i say?" every one bent forward to hear the prisoner's answer; although, in fact, it was of little importance to the issue of the trial. he lifted up his head; and with a face brimming full of pity for his mother, yet resolved into endurance, said, "tell the truth, mother!" and so she did, with the fidelity of a little child. every one felt that she did; and the little colloquy between mother and son did them some slight service in the opinion of the audience. but the awful judge sat unmoved; and the jurymen changed not a muscle of their countenances; while the counsel for the prosecution went triumphantly through this part of the case, including the fact of jem's absence from home on the night of the murder, and bringing every admission to bear right against the prisoner. it was over. she was told to go down. but she could no longer compel her mother's heart to keep silence, and suddenly turning towards the judge (with whom she imagined the verdict to rest), she thus addressed him with her choking voice. "and now, sir, i've telled you the truth, and the whole truth, as _he_ bid me; but don't ye let what i have said go for to hang him; oh, my lord judge, take my word for it, he's as innocent as the child as has yet to be born. for sure, i, who am his mother, and have nursed him on my knee, and been gladdened by the sight of him every day since, ought to know him better than yon pack of fellows" (indicating the jury, while she strove against her heart to render her words distinct and clear for her dear son's sake) "who, i'll go bail, never saw him before this morning in all their born days. my lord judge, he's so good i often wondered what harm there was in him; many is the time when i've been fretted (for i'm frabbit enough at times), when i've scold't myself, and said, 'you ungrateful thing, the lord god has given you jem, and isn't that blessing enough for you?' but he has seen fit to punish me. if jem is--if jem is--taken from me, i shall be a childless woman; and very poor, having nought left to love on earth, and i cannot say 'his will be done.' i cannot, my lord judge, oh, i cannot." while sobbing out these words she was led away by the officers of the court, but tenderly, and reverently, with the respect which great sorrow commands. the stream of evidence went on and on, gathering fresh force from every witness who was examined, and threatening to overwhelm poor jem. already they had proved that the gun was his, that he had been heard not many days before the commission of the deed to threaten the deceased; indeed, that the police had, at that time, been obliged to interfere to prevent some probable act of violence. it only remained to bring forward a sufficient motive for the threat and the murder. the clue to this had been furnished by the policeman, who had overheard jem's angry language to mr. carson; and his report in the first instance had occasioned the subpoena to mary. and now she was to be called on to bear witness. the court was by this time almost as full as it could hold; but fresh attempts were being made to squeeze in at all the entrances, for many were anxious to see and hear this part of the trial. old mr. carson felt an additional beat at his heart at the thought of seeing the fatal helen, the cause of all--a kind of interest and yet repugnance, for was not she beloved by the dead; nay, perhaps in her way, loving and mourning for the same being that he himself was so bitterly grieving over? and yet he felt as if he abhorred her and her rumoured loveliness, as if she were the curse against him; and he grew jealous of the love with which she had inspired his son, and would fain have deprived her of even her natural right of sorrowing over her lover's untimely end: for you see it was a fixed idea in the minds of all, that the handsome, bright, gay, rich young gentleman must have been beloved in preference to the serious, almost stern-looking smith, who had to toil for his daily bread. hitherto the effect of the trial had equalled mr. carson's most sanguine hopes, and a severe look of satisfaction came over the face of the avenger,--over that countenance whence the smile had departed, never more to return. all eyes were directed to the door through which the witnesses entered. even jem looked up to catch one glimpse before he hid his face from her look of aversion. the officer had gone to fetch her. she was in exactly the same attitude as when job legh had seen her two hours before through the half-open door. not a finger had moved. the officer summoned her, but she did not stir. she was so still he thought she had fallen asleep, and he stepped forward and touched her. she started up in an instant, and followed him with a kind of rushing rapid motion into the court, into the witness-box. and amid all that sea of faces, misty and swimming before her eyes, she saw but two clear bright spots, distinct and fixed: the judge, who might have to condemn; and the prisoner, who might have to die. the mellow sunlight streamed down that high window on her head, and fell on the rich treasure of her golden hair, stuffed away in masses under her little bonnet-cap; and in those warm beams the motes kept dancing up and down. the wind had changed--had changed almost as soon as she had given up her watching; the wind had changed, and she heeded it not. many who were looking for mere flesh and blood beauty, mere colouring, were disappointed; for her face was deadly white, and almost set in its expression, while a mournful bewildered soul looked out of the depths of those soft, deep, gray eyes. but others recognised a higher and stranger kind of beauty; one that would keep its hold on the memory for many after years. i was not there myself; but one who was, told me that her look, and indeed her whole face, was more like the well-known engraving from guido's picture of "beatrice cenci" than any thing else he could give me an idea of. he added, that her countenance haunted him, like the remembrance of some wild sad melody, heard in childhood; that it would perpetually recur with its mute imploring agony. with all the court reeling before her (always save and except those awful two), she heard a voice speak, and answered the simple inquiry (something about her name) mechanically, as if in a dream. so she went on for two or three more questions, with a strange wonder in her brain, as to the reality of the terrible circumstances in which she was placed. suddenly she was roused, she knew not how or by what. she was conscious that all was real, that hundreds were looking at her, that true-sounding words were being extracted from her; that that figure, so bowed down, with the face concealed by both hands, was really jem. her face flushed scarlet, and then paler than before. but in her dread of herself, with the tremendous secret imprisoned within her, she exerted every power she had to keep in the full understanding of what was going on, of what she was asked, and of what she answered. with all her faculties preternaturally alive and sensitive, she heard the next question from the pert young barrister, who was delighted to have the examination of this witness. "and pray, may i ask, which was the favoured lover? you say you knew both these young men. which was the favoured lover? which did you prefer?" and who was he, the questioner, that he should dare so lightly to ask of her heart's secrets? that he should dare to ask her to tell, before that multitude assembled there, what woman usually whispers with blushes and tears, and many hesitations, to one ear alone? so, for an instant, a look of indignation contracted mary's brow, as she steadily met the eyes of the impertinent counsellor. but, in that instant, she saw the hands removed from a face beyond, behind; and a countenance revealed of such intense love and woe,--such a deprecating dread of her answer; and suddenly her resolution was taken. the present was everything; the future, that vast shroud, it was maddening to think upon; but _now_ she might own her fault, but _now_ she might even own her love. now, when the beloved stood thus, abhorred of men, there would be no feminine shame to stand between her and her avowal. so she also turned towards the judge, partly to mark that her answer was not given to the monkeyfied man who questioned her, and likewise that her face might be averted from, and her eyes not gaze upon, the form that contracted with the dread of the words he anticipated. "he asks me which of them two i liked the best. perhaps i liked mr. harry carson once--i don't know--i've forgotten; but i loved james wilson, that's now on trial, above what tongue can tell--above all else on earth put together; and i love him now better than ever, though he has never known a word of it till this minute. for you see, sir, mother died before i was thirteen, before i could know right from wrong about some things; and i was giddy and vain, and ready to listen to any praise of my good looks; and this poor young mr. carson fell in with me, and told me he loved me; and i was foolish enough to think he meant me marriage: a mother is a pitiful loss to a girl, sir; and so i used to fancy i could like to be a lady, and rich, and never know want any more. i never found out how dearly i loved another till one day, when james wilson asked me to marry him, and i was very hard and sharp in my answer (for indeed, sir, i'd a deal to bear just then), and he took me at my word and left me; and from that day to this i've never spoken a word to him, or set eyes on him; though i'd fain have done so, to try and show him we had both been too hasty; for he'd not been gone out of my sight above a minute before i knew i loved--far above my life," said she, dropping her voice as she came to this second confession of the strength of her attachment. "but, if the gentleman asks me which i loved the best, i make answer, i was flattered by mr. carson, and pleased with his flattery; but james wilson i--" she covered her face with her hands, to hide the burning scarlet blushes, which even dyed her fingers. there was a little pause; still, though her speech might inspire pity for the prisoner, it only strengthened the supposition of his guilt. presently the counsellor went on with his examination. "but you have seen young mr. carson since your rejection of the prisoner?" "yes, often." "you have spoken to him, i conclude, at these times." "only once to call speaking." "and what was the substance of your conversation? did you tell him you found you preferred his rival?" "no, sir. i don't think as i've done wrong in saying, now as things stand, what my feelings are; but i never would be so bold as to tell one young man i cared for another. i never named jem's name to mr. carson. never." "then what did you say when you had this final conversation with mr. carson? you can give me the substance of it, if you don't remember the words." "i'll try, sir; but i'm not very clear. i told him i could not love him, and wished to have nothing more to do with him. he did his best to over-persuade me, but i kept steady, and at last i ran off." "and you never spoke to him again?" "never!" "now, young woman, remember you are upon your oath. did you ever tell the prisoner at the bar of mr. henry carson's attentions to you? of your acquaintance, in short? did you ever try to excite his jealousy by boasting of a lover so far above you in station?" "never. i never did," said she, in so firm and distinct a manner as to leave no doubt. "were you aware that he knew of mr. henry carson's regard for you? remember you are on your oath!" "never, sir. i was not aware until i heard of the quarrel between them, and what jem had said to the policeman, and that was after the murder. to this day i can't make out who told jem. oh, sir, may not i go down?" for she felt the sense, the composure, the very bodily strength which she had compelled to her aid for a time, suddenly giving way, and was conscious that she was losing all command over herself. there was no occasion to detain her longer; she had done her part. she might go down. the evidence was still stronger against the prisoner; but now he stood erect and firm, with self-respect in his attitude, and a look of determination on his face, which almost made it appear noble. yet he seemed lost in thought. job legh had all this time been trying to soothe and comfort mrs. wilson, who would first be in the court, in order to see her darling, and then, when her sobs became irrepressible, had to be led out into the open air, and sat there weeping, on the steps of the court-house. who would have taken charge of mary on her release from the witness-box i do not know, if mrs. sturgis, the boatman's wife, had not been there, brought by her interest in mary, towards whom she now pressed, in order to urge her to leave the scene of the trial. "no! no!" said mary, to this proposition. "i must be here, i must watch that they don't hang him, you know i must." "oh! they'll not hang him! never fear! besides the wind has changed, and that's in his favour. come away. you're so hot, and first white and then red; i'm sure you're ill. just come away." "oh! i don't know about any thing but that i must stay," replied mary, in a strange hurried manner, catching hold of some rails as if she feared some bodily force would be employed to remove her. so mrs. sturgis just waited patiently by her, every now and then peeping among the congregation of heads in the body of the court, to see if her husband were still there. and there he always was to be seen, looking and listening with all his might. his wife felt easy that he would not be wanting her at home until the trial was ended. mary never let go her clutched hold on the rails. she wanted them to steady her, in that heaving, whirling court. she thought the feeling of something hard compressed within her hand would help her to listen, for it was such pain, such weary pain in her head, to strive to attend to what was being said. they were all at sea, sailing away on billowy waves, and every one speaking at once, and no one heeding her father, who was calling on them to be silent, and listen to him. then again, for a brief second, the court stood still, and she could see the judge, sitting up there like an idol, with his trappings, so rigid and stiff; and jem, opposite, looking at her, as if to say, am i to die for what you know your ----. then she checked herself, and by a great struggle brought herself round to an instant's sanity. but the round of thought never stood still; and off she went again; and every time her power of struggling against the growing delirium grew fainter and fainter. she muttered low to herself, but no one heard her except her neighbour, mrs. sturgis; all were too closely attending to the case for the prosecution, which was now being wound up. the counsel for the prisoner had avoided much cross-examination, reserving to himself the right of calling the witnesses forward again; for he had received so little, and such vague instructions, and understood that so much depended on the evidence of one who was not forthcoming, that in fact he had little hope of establishing any thing like a show of a defence, and contented himself with watching the case, and lying in wait for any legal objections that might offer themselves. he lay back on the seat, occasionally taking a pinch of snuff in a manner intended to be contemptuous; now and then elevating his eyebrows, and sometimes exchanging a little note with mr. bridgenorth behind him. the attorney had far more interest in the case than the barrister, to which he was perhaps excited by his poor old friend job legh; who had edged and wedged himself through the crowd close to mr. bridgenorth's elbow, sent thither by ben sturgis, to whom he had been "introduced" by charley jones, and who had accounted for mary's disappearance on the preceding day, and spoken of their chase, their fears, their hopes. all this was told in a few words to mr. bridgenorth--so few, that they gave him but a confused idea, that time was of value; and this he named to his counsel, who now rose to speak for the defence. job legh looked about for mary, now he had gained, and given, some idea of the position of things. at last he saw her, standing by a decent-looking woman, looking flushed and anxious, and moving her lips incessantly, as if eagerly talking; her eyes never resting on any object, but wandering about as if in search of something. job thought it was for him she was seeking, and he struggled to get round to her. when he had succeeded, she took no notice of him, although he spoke to her, but still kept looking round and round in the same wild, restless manner. he tried to hear the low quick mutterings of her voice, as he caught the repetition of the same words over and over again. "i must not go mad. i must not, indeed. they say people tell the truth when they're mad; but i don't. i was always a liar. i was, indeed; but i'm not mad. i must not go mad. i must not, indeed." suddenly she seemed to become aware how earnestly job was listening (with mournful attention) to her words, and turning sharp round upon him, with upbraiding for his eaves-dropping on her lips, she caught sight of something,--or some one,--who, even in that state, had power to arrest her attention, and throwing up her arms with wild energy, she shrieked aloud, "oh, jem! jem! you're saved; and i _am_ mad--" and was instantly seized with convulsions. with much commiseration she was taken out of court, while the attention of many was diverted from her, by the fierce energy with which a sailor forced his way over rails and seats, against turnkeys and policemen. the officers of the court opposed this forcible manner of entrance, but they could hardly induce the offender to adopt any quieter way of attaining his object, and telling his tale in the witness-box, the legitimate place. for will had dwelt so impatiently on the danger in which his absence would place his cousin, that even yet he seemed to fear that he might see the prisoner carried off, and hung, before he could pour out the narrative which would exculpate him. as for job legh, his feelings were all but uncontrollable; as you may judge by the indifference with which he saw mary borne, stiff and convulsed, out of the court, in the charge of the kind mrs. sturgis, who, you will remember, was an utter stranger to him. "she'll keep! i'll not trouble myself about her," said he to himself, as he wrote with trembling hands a little note of information to mr. bridgenorth, who had conjectured, when will had first disturbed the awful tranquillity of the life-and-death court, that the witness had arrived (better late than never) on whose evidence rested all the slight chance yet remaining to jem wilson of escaping death. during the commotion in the court, among all the cries and commands, the dismay and the directions, consequent upon will's entrance, and poor mary's fearful attack of illness, mr. bridgenorth had kept his lawyer-like presence of mind; and long before job legh's almost illegible note was poked at him, he had recapitulated the facts on which will had to give evidence, and the manner in which he had been pursued, after his ship had taken her leave of the land. the barrister who defended jem took new heart when he was put in possession of these striking points to be adduced, not so much out of earnestness to save the prisoner, of whose innocence he was still doubtful, as because he saw the opportunities for the display of forensic eloquence which were presented by the facts; "a gallant tar brought back from the pathless ocean by a girl's noble daring," "the dangers of too hastily judging from circumstantial evidence," &c., &c.; while the counsellor for the prosecution prepared himself by folding his arms, elevating his eyebrows, and putting his lips in the form in which they might best whistle down the wind such evidence as might be produced by a suborned witness, who dared to perjure himself. for, of course, it is etiquette to suppose that such evidence as may be given against the opinion which lawyers are paid to uphold, is any thing but based on truth; and "perjury," "conspiracy," and "peril of your immortal soul," are light expressions to throw at the heads of those who may prove (not the speaker, there would then be some excuse for the hasty words of personal anger, but) the hirer of the speaker to be wrong, or mistaken. but when once will had attained his end, and felt that his tale, or part of a tale, would be heard by judge and jury; when once he saw jem standing safe and well before him (even though he saw him pale and care-worn at the felon's bar); his courage took the shape of presence of mind, and he awaited the examination with a calm, unflinching intelligence, which dictated the clearest and most pertinent answers. he told the story you know so well: how his leave of absence being nearly expired, he had resolved to fulfil his promise, and go to see an uncle residing in the isle of man; how his money (sailor-like) was all expended in manchester, and how, consequently, it had been necessary for him to walk to liverpool, which he had accordingly done on the very night of the murder, accompanied as far as hollins greeb by his friend and cousin, the prisoner at the bar. he was clear and distinct in every corroborative circumstance, and gave a short account of the singular way in which he had been recalled from his outward-bound voyage, and the terrible anxiety he had felt, as the pilot-boat had struggled home against the wind. the jury felt that their opinion (so nearly decided half an hour ago) was shaken and disturbed in a very uncomfortable and perplexing way, and were almost grateful to the counsel for the prosecution, when he got up, with a brow of thunder, to demolish the evidence, which was so bewildering when taken in connexion with every thing previously adduced. but if such, without looking to the consequences, was the first impulsive feeling of some among the jury, how shall i describe the vehemence of passion which possessed the mind of poor mr. carson, as he saw the effect of the young sailor's statement? it never shook his belief in jem's guilt in the least, that attempt at an alibi; his hatred, his longing for vengeance, having once defined an object to itself, could no more bear to be frustrated and disappointed than the beast of prey can submit to have his victim taken from his hungry jaws. no more likeness to the calm stern power of jupiter was there in that white eager face, almost distorted by its fell anxiety of expression. the counsel to whom etiquette assigned the cross-examination of will, caught the look on mr. carson's face, and in his desire to further the intense wish there manifested, he over-shot his mark even in his first insulting question: "and now, my man, you've told the court a very good and very convincing story; no reasonable man ought to doubt the unstained innocence of your relation at the bar. still there is one circumstance you have forgotten to name; and i feel that without it your evidence is rather incomplete. will you have the kindness to inform the gentlemen of the jury what has been your charge for repeating this very plausible story? how much good coin of her majesty's realm have you received, or are you to receive, for walking up from the docks, or some less creditable place, and uttering the tale you have just now repeated,--very much to the credit of your instructor, i must say? remember, sir, you are upon oath." it took will a minute to extract the meaning from the garb of unaccustomed words in which it was invested, and during this time he looked a little confused. but the instant the truth flashed upon him, he fixed his bright clear eyes, flaming with indignation, upon the counsellor, whose look fell at last before that stern unflinching gaze. then, and not till then, will made answer. "will you tell the judge and jury how much money you've been paid for your impudence towards one who has told god's blessed truth, and who would scorn to tell a lie, or blackguard any one, for the biggest fee as ever lawyer got for doing dirty work? will you tell, sir?-but i'm ready, my lord judge, to take my oath as many times as your lordship or the jury would like, to testify to things having happened just as i said. there's o'brien, the pilot, in court now. would somebody with a wig on please to ask him how much he can say for me?" it was a good idea, and caught at by the counsel for the defence. o'brien gave just such testimony as was required to clear will from all suspicion. he had witnessed the pursuit, he had heard the conversation which took place between the boat and the ship; he had given will a homeward passage in his boat. and the character of an accredited pilot, appointed by trinity house, was known to be above suspicion. mr. carson sank back on his seat in sickening despair. he knew enough of courts to be aware of the extreme unwillingness of juries to convict, even where the evidence is most clear, when the penalty of such conviction is death. at the period of the trial most condemnatory to the prisoner, he had repeated this fact to himself in order to damp his too certain expectation of a conviction. now it needed not repetition, for it forced itself upon his consciousness, and he seemed to _know_, even before the jury retired to consult, that by some trick, some negligence, some miserable hocus-pocus, the murderer of his child, his darling, his absalom, who had never rebelled,--the slayer of his unburied boy would slip through the fangs of justice, and walk free and unscathed over that earth where his son would never more be seen. it was even so. the prisoner hid his face once more to shield the expression of an emotion he could not control, from the notice of the over-curious; job legh ceased his eager talking to mr. bridgenorth; charley looked grave and earnest; for the jury filed one by one back into their box, and the question was asked to which such an awful answer might be given. the verdict they had come to was unsatisfactory to themselves at last; neither being convinced of his innocence, nor yet quite willing to believe him guilty in the teeth of the alibi. but the punishment that awaited him, if guilty, was so terrible, and so unnatural a sentence for man to pronounce on man, that the knowledge of it had weighed down the scale on the side of innocence, and "not guilty" was the verdict that thrilled through the breathless court. one moment of silence, and then the murmurs rose, as the verdict was discussed by all with lowered voice. jem stood motionless, his head bowed; poor fellow, he was stunned with the rapid career of events during the last few hours. he had assumed his place at the bar with little or no expectation of an acquittal; and with scarcely any desire for life, in the complication of occurrences tending to strengthen the idea of mary's more than indifference to him; she had loved another, and in her mind jem believed that he himself must be regarded as the murderer of him she loved. and suddenly, athwart this gloom which made life seem such a blank expanse of desolation, there flashed the exquisite delight of hearing mary's avowal of love, making the future all glorious, if a future in this world he might hope to have. he could not dwell on any thing but her words, telling of her passionate love; all else was indistinct, nor could he strive to make it otherwise. she loved him. and life, now full of tender images, suddenly bright with all exquisite promises, hung on a breath, the slenderest gossamer chance. he tried to think that the knowledge of her love would soothe him even in his dying hours; but the phantoms of what life with her might be, would obtrude, and made him almost gasp and reel under the uncertainty he was enduring. will's appearance had only added to the intensity of this suspense. the full meaning of the verdict could not at once penetrate his brain. he stood dizzy and motionless. some one pulled his coat. he turned, and saw job legh, the tears stealing down his brown furrowed cheeks, while he tried in vain to command voice enough to speak. he kept shaking jem by the hand as the best and necessary expression of his feeling. "here! make yourself scarce! i should think you'd be glad to get out of that!" exclaimed the gaoler, as he brought up another livid prisoner, from out whose eyes came the anxiety which he would not allow any other feature to display. job legh pressed out of court, and jem followed unreasoningly. the crowd made way, and kept their garments tight about them, as jem passed, for about him there still hung the taint of the murderer. he was in the open air, and free once more! although many looked on him with suspicion, faithful friends closed round him; his arm was unresistingly pumped up and down by his cousin and job; when one was tired, the other took up the wholesome exercise, while ben sturgis was working off his interest in the scene by scolding charley for walking on his head round and round mary's sweetheart, for a sweetheart he was now satisfactorily ascertained to be, in spite of her assertion to the contrary. and all this time jem himself felt bewildered and dazzled; he would have given any thing for an hour's uninterrupted thought on the occurrences of the past week, and the new visions raised up during the morning; aye, even though that tranquil hour were to be passed in the hermitage of his quiet prison cell. the first question sobbed out by his choking voice, oppressed with emotion, was, "where is she?" they led him to the room where his mother sat. they had told her of her son's acquittal, and now she was laughing, and crying, and talking, and giving way to all those feelings which she had restrained with such effort during the last few days. they brought her son to her, and she threw herself upon his neck, weeping there. he returned her embrace, but looked around, beyond. excepting his mother there was no one in the room but the friends who had entered with him. "eh, lad!" said she, when she found voice to speak. "see what it is to have behaved thysel! i could put in a good word for thee, and the jury could na go and hang thee in the face of th' character i gave thee. was na it a good thing they did na keep me from liverpool? but i would come; i knew i could do thee good, bless thee, my lad. but thou'rt very white, and all of a tremble." he kissed her again and again, but looking round as if searching for some one he could not find, the first words he uttered were still, "where is she?" chapter xxxiii. requiescat in pace. "fear no more the heat o' th' sun, nor the furious winter's rages; thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone and ta'en thy wages." cymbeline. "while day and night can bring delight, or nature aught of pleasure give; while joys above my mind can move for thee, and thee alone i live: "when that grim foe of joy below comes in between to make us part, the iron hand that breaks our band, it breaks my bliss--it breaks my heart." burns. she was where no words of peace, no soothing hopeful tidings could reach her; in the ghastly spectral world of delirium. hour after hour, day after day, she started up with passionate cries on her father to save jem; or rose wildly, imploring the winds and waves, the pitiless winds and waves, to have mercy; and over and over again she exhausted her feverish fitful strength in these agonised entreaties, and fell back powerless, uttering only the wailing moans of despair. they told her jem was safe, they brought him before her eyes; but sight and hearing were no longer channels of information to that poor distracted brain, nor could human voice penetrate to her understanding. jem alone gathered the full meaning of some of her strange sentences, and perceived that by some means or other she, like himself, had divined the truth of her father being the murderer. long ago (reckoning time by events and thoughts, and not by clock or dial-plate), jem had felt certain that mary's father was harry carson's murderer; and although the motive was in some measure a mystery, yet a whole train of circumstances (the principal of which was that john barton had borrowed the fatal gun only two days before) had left no doubt in jem's mind. sometimes he thought that john had discovered, and thus bloodily resented, the attentions which mr. carson had paid to his daughter; at others, he believed the motive to exist in the bitter feuds between the masters and their work-people, in which barton was known to take so keen an interest. but if he had felt himself pledged to preserve this secret, even when his own life was the probable penalty, and he believed he should fall, execrated by mary as the guilty destroyer of her lover, how much more was he bound now to labour to prevent any word of hers from inculpating her father, now that she was his own; now that she had braved so much to rescue him; and now that her poor brain had lost all guiding and controlling power over her words. all that night long jem wandered up and down the narrow precincts of ben sturgis's house. in the little bed-room where mrs. sturgis alternately tended mary, and wept over the violence of her illness, he listened to her ravings; each sentence of which had its own peculiar meaning and reference, intelligible to his mind, till her words rose to the wild pitch of agony, that no one could alleviate, and he could bear it no longer, and stole, sick and miserable down stairs, where ben sturgis thought it his duty to snore away in an arm-chair instead of his bed, under the idea that he should thus be more ready for active service, such as fetching the doctor to revisit his patient. before it was fairly light, jem (wide-awake, and listening with an earnest attention he could not deaden, however painful its results proved) heard a gentle subdued knock at the house door; it was no business of his, to be sure, to open it, but as ben slept on, he thought he would see who the early visitor might be, and ascertain if there was any occasion for disturbing either host or hostess. it was job legh who stood there, distinct against the outer light of the street. "how is she? eh! poor soul! is that her! no need to ask! how strange her voice sounds! screech! screech! and she so low, sweet-spoken, when she's well! thou must keep up heart, old boy, and not look so dismal, thysel." "i can't help it, job; it's past a man's bearing to hear such a one as she is, going on as she is doing; even if i did not care for her, it would cut me sore to see one so young, and--i can't speak of it, job, as a man should do," said jem, his sobs choking him. "let me in, will you?" said job, pushing past him, for all this time jem had stood holding the door, unwilling to admit job where he might hear so much that would be suggestive to one acquainted with the parties that mary named. "i'd more than one reason for coming betimes. i wanted to hear how yon poor wench was;--that stood first. late last night i got a letter from margaret, very anxious-like. the doctor says the old lady yonder can't last many days longer, and it seems so lonesome for her to die with no one but margaret and mrs. davenport about her. so i thought i'd just come and stay with mary barton, and see as she's well done to, and you and your mother and will go and take leave of old alice." jem's countenance, sad at best just now, fell lower and lower. but job went on with his speech. "she still wanders, margaret says, and thinks she's with her mother at home; but for all that, she should have some kith and kin near her to close her eyes, to my thinking." "could not you and will take mother home? i'd follow when--" jem faltered out thus far, when job interrupted, "lad! if thou knew what thy mother has suffered for thee, thou'd not speak of leaving her just when she's got thee from the grave as it were. why, this very night she roused me up, and 'job,' says she, 'i ask your pardon for wakening you, but tell me, am i awake or dreaming? is jem proved innocent? oh, job legh! god send i've not been only dreaming it!' for thou see'st she can't rightly understand why thou'rt with mary, and not with her. ay, ay! i know why; but a mother only gives up her son's heart inch by inch to his wife, and then she gives it up with a grudge. no, jem! thou must go with thy mother just now, if ever thou hopest for god's blessing. she's a widow, and has none but thee. never fear for mary! she's young and will struggle through. they are decent people, these folk she is with, and i'll watch o'er her as though she was my own poor girl, that lies cold enough in london-town. i grant ye, it's hard enough for her to be left among strangers. to my mind john barton would be more in the way of his duty, looking after his daughter, than delegating it up and down the country, looking after every one's business but his own." a new idea and a new fear came into jem's mind. what if mary should implicate her father? "she raves terribly," said he. "all night long she's been speaking of her father, and mixing up thoughts of him with the trial she saw yesterday. i should not wonder if she'll speak of him as being in court next thing." "i should na wonder, either," answered job. "folk in her way say many and many a strange thing; and th' best way is never to mind them. now you take your mother home, jem, and stay by her till old alice is gone, and trust me for seeing after mary." jem felt how right job was, and could not resist what he knew to be his duty, but i cannot tell you how heavy and sick at heart he was as he stood at the door to take a last fond, lingering look at mary. he saw her sitting up in bed, her golden hair, dimmed with her one day's illness, floating behind her, her head bound round with wetted cloths, her features all agitated, even to distortion, with the pangs of her anxiety. her lover's eyes filled with tears. he could not hope. the elasticity of his heart had been crushed out of him by early sorrows; and now, especially, the dark side of every thing seemed to be presented to him. what if she died, just when he knew the treasure, the untold treasure he possessed in her love! what if (worse than death) she remained a poor gibbering maniac all her life long (and mad people do live to be old sometimes, even under all the pressure of their burden), terror-distracted as she was now, and no one able to comfort her! "jem!" said job, partly guessing the other's feelings by his own. "jem!" repeated he, arresting his attention before he spoke. jem turned round, the little motion causing the tears to overflow and trickle down his cheeks. "thou must trust in god, and leave her in his hands." he spoke hushed, and low; but the words sank all the more into jem's heart, and gave him strength to tear himself away. he found his mother (notwithstanding that she had but just regained her child through mary's instrumentality) half inclined to resent his having passed the night in anxious devotion to the poor invalid. she dwelt on the duties of children to their parents (above all others), till jem could hardly believe the relative positions they had held only yesterday, when she was struggling with and controlling every instinct of her nature, only because _he_ wished it. however, the recollection of that yesterday, with its hair's breadth between him and a felon's death, and the love that had lightened the dark shadow, made him bear with the meekness and patience of a true-hearted man all the worrying little acerbities of to-day; and he had no small merit in so doing; for in him, as in his mother, the re-action after intense excitement had produced its usual effect in increased irritability of the nervous system. they found alice alive, and without pain. and that was all. a child of a few weeks old would have had more bodily strength; a child of a very few months old, more consciousness of what was passing before her. but even in this state she diffused an atmosphere of peace around her. true, will, at first, wept passionate tears at the sight of her, who had been as a mother to him, so standing on the confines of life. but even now, as always, loud passionate feeling could not long endure in the calm of her presence. the firm faith which her mind had no longer power to grasp, had left its trail of glory; for by no other word can i call the bright happy look which illumined the old earth-worn face. her talk, it is true, bore no more that constant earnest reference to god and his holy word which it had done in health, and there were no death-bed words of exhortation from the lips of one so habitually pious. for still she imagined herself once again in the happy, happy realms of childhood; and again dwelling in the lovely northern haunts where she had so often longed to be. though earthly sight was gone away, she beheld again the scenes she had loved from long years ago! she saw them without a change to dim the old radiant hues. the long dead were with her, fresh and blooming as in those bygone days. and death came to her as a welcome blessing, like as evening comes to the weary child. her work here was finished, and faithfully done. what better sentence can an emperor wish to have said over his bier? in second childhood (that blessing clouded by a name), she said her "nunc dimittis,"--the sweetest canticle to the holy. "mother, good night! dear mother! bless me once more! i'm very tired, and would fain go to sleep." she never spoke again on this side heaven. she died the day after their return from liverpool. from that time, jem became aware that his mother was jealously watching for some word or sign which should betoken his wish to return to mary. and yet go to liverpool he must and would, as soon as the funeral was over, if but for a single glimpse of his darling. for job had never written; indeed, any necessity for his so doing had never entered his head. if mary died, he would announce it personally; if she recovered, he meant to bring her home with him. writing was to him little more than an auxiliary to natural history; a way of ticketing specimens, not of expressing thoughts. the consequence of this want of intelligence as to mary's state was, that jem was constantly anticipating that every person and every scrap of paper was to convey to him the news of her death. he could not endure this state long; but he resolved not to disturb the house by announcing to his mother his purposed intention of returning to liverpool, until the dead had been carried forth. on sunday afternoon they laid her low with many tears. will wept as one who would not be comforted. the old childish feeling came over him, the feeling of loneliness at being left among strangers. by and bye, margaret timidly stole near him, as if waiting to console; and soon his passion sank down to grief, and grief gave way to melancholy, and though he felt as if he never could be joyful again, he was all the while unconsciously approaching nearer to the full happiness of calling margaret his own, and a golden thread was interwoven even now with the darkness of his sorrow. yet it was on his arm that jane wilson leant on her return homewards. jem took charge of margaret. "margaret, i'm bound for liverpool by the first train to-morrow; i must set your grandfather at liberty." "i'm sure he likes nothing better than watching over poor mary; he loves her nearly as well as me. but let me go! i have been so full of poor alice, i've never thought of it before; i can't do so much as many a one, but mary will like to have a woman about her that she knows. i'm sorry i waited to be reminded, jem." replied margaret, with some little self-reproach. but margaret's proposition did not at all agree with her companion's wishes. he found he had better speak out, and put his intention at once to the right motive; the subterfuge about setting job legh at liberty had done him harm instead of good. "to tell truth, margaret, it's i that must go, and that for my own sake, not your grandfather's. i can rest neither by night nor day for thinking on mary. whether she lives or dies i look on her as my wife before god, as surely and solemnly as if we were married. so being, i have the greatest right to look after her, and i cannot yield it even to--" "her father," said margaret, finishing his interrupted sentence. "it seems strange that a girl like her should be thrown on the bare world to struggle through so bad an illness. no one seems to know where john barton is, else i thought of getting morris to write him a letter telling him about mary. i wish he was home, that i do!" jem could not echo this wish. "mary's not bad off for friends where she is," said he. "i call them friends, though a week ago we none of us knew there were such folks in the world. but being anxious and sorrowful about the same thing makes people friends quicker than any thing, i think. she's like a mother to mary in her ways; and he bears a good character, as far as i could learn just in that hurry. we're drawing near home, and i've not said my say, margaret. i want you to look after mother a bit. she'll not like my going, and i've got to break it to her yet. if she takes it very badly, i'll come back to-morrow night; but if she's not against it very much, i mean to stay till it's settled about mary, one way or the other. will, you know, will be there, margaret, to help a bit in doing for mother." will's being there made the only objection margaret saw to this plan. she disliked the idea of seeming to throw herself in his way; and yet she did not like to say any thing of this feeling to jem, who had all along seemed perfectly unconscious of any love-affair, besides his own, in progress. so margaret gave a reluctant consent. "if you can just step up to our house to-night, jem, i'll put up a few things as may be useful to mary, and then you can say when you'll likely be back. if you come home to-morrow night, and will's there, perhaps i need not step up?" "yes, margaret, do! i shan't leave easy unless you go some time in the day to see mother. i'll come to-night, though; and now good-bye. stay! do you think you could just coax poor will to walk a bit home with you, that i might speak to mother by myself?" no! that margaret could not do. that was expecting too great a sacrifice of bashful feeling. but the object was accomplished by will's going up-stairs immediately on their return to the house, to indulge his mournful thoughts alone. as soon as jem and his mother were left by themselves, he began on the subject uppermost in his mind. "mother!" she put her handkerchief from her eyes, and turned quickly round so as to face him where he stood, thinking what best to say. the little action annoyed him, and he rushed at once into the subject. "mother! i am going back to liverpool to-morrow morning to see how mary barton is." "and what's mary barton to thee, that thou shouldst be running after her in that-a-way?" "if she lives, she shall be my wedded wife. if she dies--mother, i can't speak of what i shall feel if she dies." his voice was choked in his throat. for an instant his mother was interested by his words; and then came back the old jealousy of being supplanted in the affections of that son, who had been, as it were, newly born to her, by the escape he had so lately experienced from danger. so she hardened her heart against entertaining any feeling of sympathy; and turned away from the face, which recalled the earnest look of his childhood, when he had come to her in some trouble, sure of help and comfort. and coldly she spoke, in those tones which jem knew and dreaded, even before the meaning they expressed was fully shaped. "thou'rt old enough to please thysel. old mothers are cast aside, and what they've borne forgotten, as soon as a pretty face comes across. i might have thought of that last tuesday, when i felt as if thou wert all my own, and the judge were some wild animal trying to rend thee from me. i spoke up for thee then; but it's all forgotten now, i suppose." "mother! you know all this while, _you know_ i can never forget any kindness you've ever done for me; and they've been many. why should you think i've only room for one love in my heart? i can love you as dearly as ever, and mary too, as much as man ever loved woman." he awaited a reply. none was vouchsafed. "mother, answer me!" said he, at last. "what mun i answer? you asked me no question." "well! i ask you this now. to-morrow morning i go to liverpool to see her, who is as my wife. dear mother! will you bless me on my errand? if it please god she recovers, will you take her to you as you would a daughter?" she could neither refuse nor assent. "why need you go?" said she querulously, at length. "you'll be getting in some mischief or another again. can't you stop at home quiet with me?" jem got up, and walked about the room in despairing impatience. she would not understand his feelings. at last he stopped right before the place where she was sitting, with an air of injured meekness on her face. "mother! i often think what a good man father was! i've often heard you tell of your courting days; and of the accident that befell you, and how ill you were. how long is it ago?" "near upon five-and-twenty years," said she, with a sigh. "you little thought when you were so ill you should live to have such a fine strapping son as i am, did you now?" she smiled a little, and looked up at him, which was just what he wanted. "thou'rt not so fine a man as thy father was, by a deal!" said she, looking at him with much fondness, notwithstanding her depreciatory words. he took another turn or two up and down the room. he wanted to bend the subject round to his own case. "those were happy days when father was alive!" "you may say so, lad! such days as will never come again to me, at any rate." she sighed sorrowfully. "mother!" said he at last, stopping short, and taking her hand in his with tender affection, "you'd like me to be as happy a man as my father was before me, would not you? you'd like me to have some one to make me as happy as you made father? now, would you not, dear mother?" "i did not make him as happy as i might ha' done," murmured she, in a low, sad voice of self-reproach. "th' accident gave a jar to my temper it's never got the better of; and now he's gone where he can never know how i grieve for having frabbed him as i did." "nay, mother, we don't know that!" said jem, with gentle soothing. "any how, you and father got along with as few rubs as most people. but for _his_ sake, dear mother, don't say me nay, now that i come to you to ask your blessing before setting out to see her, who is to be my wife, if ever woman is; for _his_ sake, if not for mine, love her who i shall bring home to be to me all you were to him: and mother! i do not ask for a truer or a tenderer heart than yours is, in the long run." the hard look left her face; though her eyes were still averted from jem's gaze, it was more because they were brimming over with tears, called forth by his words, than because any angry feeling yet remained. and when his manly voice died away in low pleadings, she lifted up her hands, and bent down her son's head below the level of her own; and then she solemnly uttered a blessing. "god bless thee, jem, my own dear lad. and may he bless mary barton for thy sake." jem's heart leaped up, and from this time hope took the place of fear in his anticipations with regard to mary. "mother! you show your own true self to mary, and she'll love you as dearly as i do." so with some few smiles, and some few tears, and much earnest talking, the evening wore away. "i must be off to see margaret. why, it's near ten o'clock! could you have thought it? now don't you stop up for me, mother. you and will go to bed, for you've both need of it. i shall be home in an hour." margaret had felt the evening long and lonely; and was all but giving up the thoughts of jem's coming that night, when she heard his step at the door. he told her of his progress with his mother; he told her his hopes, and was silent on the subject of his fears. "to think how sorrow and joy are mixed up together. you'll date your start in life as mary's acknowledged lover from poor alice wilson's burial day. well! the dead are soon forgotten!" "dear margaret!--but you're worn out with your long evening waiting for me. i don't wonder. but never you, nor any one else, think because god sees fit to call up new interests, perhaps right out of the grave, that therefore the dead are forgotten. margaret, you yourself can remember our looks, and fancy what we're like." "yes! but what has that to do with remembering alice?" "why, just this. you're not always trying to think on our faces, and making a labour of remembering; but often, i'll be bound, when you're sinking off to sleep, or when you're very quiet and still, the faces you knew so well when you could see, come smiling before you with loving looks. or you remember them, without striving after it, and without thinking it's your duty to keep recalling them. and so it is with them that are hidden from our sight. if they've been worthy to be heartily loved while alive, they'll not be forgotten when dead; it's against nature. and we need no more be upbraiding ourselves for letting in god's rays of light upon our sorrow, and no more be fearful of forgetting them, because their memory is not always haunting and taking up our minds, than you need to trouble yourself about remembering your grandfather's face, or what the stars were like,--you can't forget if you would, what it's such a pleasure to think about. don't fear my forgetting aunt alice." "i'm not, jem; not now, at least; only you seemed so full about mary." "i've kept it down so long, remember. how glad aunt alice would have been to know that i might hope to have her for my wife! that's to say, if god spares her!" "she would not have known it, even if you could have told her this last fortnight,--ever since you went away she's been thinking always that she was a little child at her mother's apron-string. she must have been a happy little thing; it was such a pleasure to her to think about those early days, when she lay old and gray on her death-bed." "i never knew any one seem more happy all her life long." "ay! and how gentle and easy her death was! she thought her mother was near her." they fell into calm thought about those last peaceful happy hours. it struck eleven. jem started up. "i should have been gone long ago. give me the bundle. you'll not forget my mother. good night, margaret." she let him out and bolted the door behind him. he stood on the steps to adjust some fastening about the bundle. the court, the street, was deeply still. long ago had all retired to rest on that quiet sabbath evening. the stars shone down on the silent deserted streets, and the soft clear moonlight fell in bright masses, leaving the steps on which jem stood in shadow. a foot-fall was heard along the pavement; slow and heavy was the sound. before jem had ended his little piece of business, a form had glided into sight; a wan, feeble figure, bearing, with evident and painful labour, a jug of water from the neighbouring pump. it went before jem, turned up the court at the corner of which he was standing, passed into the broad, calm light; and there, with bowed head, sinking and shrunk body, jem recognised john barton. no haunting ghost could have had less of the energy of life in its involuntary motions than he, who, nevertheless, went on with the same measured clock-work tread until the door of his own house was reached. and then he disappeared, and the latch fell feebly to, and made a faint and wavering sound, breaking the solemn silence of the night. then all again was still. for a minute or two jem stood motionless, stunned by the thoughts which the sight of mary's father had called up. margaret did not know he was at home: had he stolen like a thief by dead of night into his own dwelling? depressed as jem had often and long seen him, this night there was something different about him still; beaten down by some inward storm, he seemed to grovel along, all self-respect lost and gone. must he be told of mary's state? jem felt he must not; and this for many reasons. he could not be informed of her illness without many other particulars being communicated at the same time, of which it were better he should be kept in ignorance; indeed, of which mary herself could alone give the full explanation. no suspicion that he was the criminal seemed hitherto to have been excited in the mind of any one. added to these reasons was jem's extreme unwillingness to face him, with the belief in his breast that he, and none other, had done the fearful deed. it was true that he was mary's father, and as such had every right to be told of all concerning her; but supposing he were, and that he followed the impulse so natural to a father, and wished to go to her, what might be the consequences? among the mingled feelings she had revealed in her delirium, ay, mingled even with the most tender expressions of love for her father, was a sort of horror of him; a dread of him as a blood-shedder, which seemed to separate him into two persons,--one, the father who had dandled her on his knee, and loved her all her life long; the other, the assassin, the cause of all her trouble and woe. if he presented himself before her while this idea of his character was uppermost, who might tell the consequence? jem could not, and would not, expose her to any such fearful chance: and to tell the truth, i believe he looked upon her as more his own, to guard from all shadow of injury with most loving care, than as belonging to any one else in this world, though girt with the reverend name of father, and guiltless of aught that might have lessened such reverence. if you think this account of mine confused, of the half-feelings, half-reasons, which passed through jem's mind, as he stood gazing at the empty space, where that crushed form had so lately been seen,--if you are perplexed to disentangle the real motives, i do assure you it was from just such an involved set of thoughts that jem drew the resolution to act as if he had not seen that phantom likeness of john barton; himself, yet not himself. chapter xxxiv. the return home. "_dixwell._ forgiveness! oh, forgiveness, and a grave! _mary._ god knows thy heart, my father! and i shudder to think what thou perchance hast acted. _dixwell._ oh! _mary._ no common load of woe is thine, my father." elliott's "kerhonah." mary still hovered between life and death when jem arrived at the house where she lay; and the doctors were as yet unwilling to compromise their wisdom by allowing too much hope to be entertained. but the state of things, if not less anxious, was less distressing than when jem had quitted her. she lay now in a stupor, which was partly disease, and partly exhaustion after the previous excitement. and now jem found the difficulty which every one who has watched by a sick bed knows full well; and which is perhaps more insurmountable to men than it is to women,--the difficulty of being patient, and trying not to expect any visible change for long, long hours of sad monotony. but after awhile the reward came. the laboured breathing became lower and softer, the heavy look of oppressive pain melted away from the face, and a languor that was almost peace took the place of suffering. she slept a natural sleep; and they stole about on tip-toe, and spoke low, and softly, and hardly dared to breathe, however much they longed to sigh out their thankful relief. she opened her eyes. her mind was in the tender state of a lately-born infant's. she was pleased with the gay but not dazzling colours of the paper; soothed by the subdued light; and quite sufficiently amused by looking at all the objects in the room,--the drawing of the ships, the festoons of the curtain, the bright flowers on the painted backs of the chairs,--to care for any stronger excitement. she wondered at the ball of glass, containing various coloured sands from the isle of wight, or some such place, which hung suspended from the middle of the little valance over the window. but she did not care to exert herself to ask any questions, although she saw mrs. sturgis standing at the bed-side with some tea, ready to drop it into her mouth by spoonfuls. she did not see the face of honest joy, of earnest thankfulness,--the clasped hands,--the beaming eyes,--the trembling eagerness of gesture, of one who had long awaited her awakening, and who now stood behind the curtains watching through some little chink her every faint motion; or if she had caught a glimpse of that loving, peeping face, she was in too exhausted a state to have taken much notice, or have long retained the impression that he she loved so well was hanging about her, and blessing god for every conscious look which stole over her countenance. she fell softly into slumber, without a word having been spoken by any one during that half hour of inexpressible joy. and again the stillness was enforced by sign and whispered word, but with eyes that beamed out their bright thoughts of hope. jem sat by the side of the bed, holding back the little curtain, and gazing as if he could never gaze his fill at the pale, wasted face, so marbled and so chiselled in its wan outline. she wakened once more; her soft eyes opened, and met his over-bending look. she smiled gently, as a baby does when it sees its mother tending its little cot; and continued her innocent, infantine gaze into his face, as if the sight gave her much unconscious pleasure. but by-and-by a different expression came into her sweet eyes; a look of memory and intelligence; her white face flushed the brightest rosy red, and with feeble motion she tried to hide her head in the pillow. it required all jem's self-control to do what he knew and felt to be necessary, to call mrs. sturgis, who was quietly dozing by the fireside; and that done, he felt almost obliged to leave the room to keep down the happy agitation which would gush out in every feature, every gesture, and every tone. from that time forward mary's progress towards health was rapid. there was every reason, but one, in favour of her speedy removal home. all jem's duties lay in manchester. it was his mother's dwelling-place, and there his plans for life had been to be worked out; plans, which the suspicion and imprisonment he had fallen into, had thrown for a time into a chaos, which his presence was required to arrange into form. for he might find, in spite of a jury's verdict, that too strong a taint was on his character for him ever to labour in manchester again. he remembered the manner in which some one suspected of having been a convict was shunned by masters and men, when he had accidentally met with work in their foundry; the recollection smote him now, how he himself had thought that it did not become an honest upright man to associate with one who had been a prisoner. he could not choose but think on that poor humble being, with his downcast conscious look; hunted out of the work-shop, where he had sought to earn an honest livelihood, by the looks, and half-spoken words, and the black silence of repugnance (worse than words to bear), that met him on all sides. jem felt that his own character had been attainted; and that to many it might still appear suspicious. he knew that he could convince the world, by a future as blameless as his past had been, that he was innocent. but at the same time he saw that he must have patience, and nerve himself for some trials; and the sooner these were undergone, the sooner he was aware of the place he held in men's estimation, the better. he longed to have presented himself once more at the foundry; and then the reality would drive away the pictures that would (unbidden) come of a shunned man, eyed askance by all, and driven forth to shape out some new career. i said every reason "but one" inclined jem to hasten mary's return as soon as she was sufficiently convalescent. that one was the meeting which awaited her at home. turn it over as jem would, he could not decide what was the best course to pursue. he could compel himself to any line of conduct that his reason and his sense of right told him to be desirable; but they did not tell him it was desirable to speak to mary, in her tender state of mind and body, of her father. how much would be implied by the mere mention of his name! speak it as calmly, and as indifferently as he might, he could not avoid expressing some consciousness of the terrible knowledge she possessed. she, for her part, was softer and gentler than she had ever been in her gentlest mood; since her illness, her motions, her glances, her voice were all tender in their languor. it seemed almost a trouble to her to break the silence with the low sounds of her own sweet voice, and her words fell sparingly on jem's greedy, listening ear. her face was, however, so full of love and confidence, that jem felt no uneasiness at the state of silent abstraction into which she often fell. if she did but love him, all would yet go right; and it was better not to press for confidence on that one subject which must be painful to both. there came a fine, bright, balmy day. and mary tottered once more out into the open air, leaning on jem's arm, and close to his beating heart. and mrs. sturgis watched them from her door, with a blessing on her lips, as they went slowly up the street. they came in sight of the river. mary shuddered. "oh, jem! take me home. yon river seems all made of glittering, heaving, dazzling metal, just as it did when i began to be ill." jem led her homewards. she dropped her head as searching for something on the ground. "jem!" he was all attention. she paused for an instant. "when may i go home? to manchester, i mean. i am so weary of this place; and i would fain be at home." she spoke in a feeble voice; not at all impatiently, as the words themselves would seem to intimate, but in a mournful way, as if anticipating sorrow even in the very fulfilment of her wishes. "darling! we will go whenever you wish; whenever you feel strong enough. i asked job to tell margaret to get all in readiness for you to go there at first. she'll tend you and nurse you. you must not go home. job proffered for you to go there." "ah! but i must go home, jem. i'll try and not fail now in what's right. there are things we must not speak on" (lowering her voice), "but you'll be really kind if you'll not speak against my going home. let us say no more about it, dear jem. i must go home, and i must go alone." "not alone, mary!" "yes, alone! i cannot tell you why i ask it. and if you guess, i know you well enough to be sure you'll understand why i ask you never to speak on that again to me, till i begin. promise, dear jem, promise!" he promised; to gratify that beseeching face he promised. and then he repented, and felt as if he had done ill. then again he felt as if she were the best judge, and knowing all (perhaps more than even he did) might be forming plans which his interference would mar. one thing was certain! it was a miserable thing to have this awful forbidden ground of discourse; to guess at each other's thoughts, when eyes were averted, and cheeks blanched, and words stood still, arrested in their flow by some casual allusion. at last a day, fine enough for mary to travel on, arrived. she had wished to go, but now her courage failed her. how could she have said she was weary of that quiet house, where even ben sturgis' grumblings only made a kind of harmonious bass in the concord between him and his wife, so thoroughly did they know each other with the knowledge of many years! how could she have longed to quit that little peaceful room where she had experienced such loving tendence! even the very check bed-curtains became dear to her under the idea of seeing them no more. if it was so with inanimate objects, if they had such power of exciting regret, what were her feelings with regard to the kind old couple, who had taken the stranger in, and cared for her, and nursed her, as though she had been a daughter? each wilful sentence spoken in the half unconscious irritation of feebleness came now with avenging self-reproach to her memory, as she hung about mrs. sturgis, with many tears, which served instead of words to express her gratitude and love. ben bustled about with the square bottle of goldenwasser in one of his hands, and a small tumbler in the other; he went to mary, jem, and his wife in succession, pouring out a glass for each and bidding them drink it to keep their spirits up: but as each severally refused, he drank it himself; and passed on to offer the same hospitality to another with the like refusal, and the like result. when he had swallowed the last of the three draughts, he condescended to give his reasons for having done so. "i cannot abide waste. what's poured out mun be drunk. that's my maxim." so saying, he replaced the bottle in the cupboard. it was he who in a firm commanding voice at last told jem and mary to be off, or they would be too late. mrs. sturgis had kept up till then; but as they left her house, she could no longer restrain her tears, and cried aloud in spite of her husband's upbraiding. "perhaps they'll be too late for th' train!" exclaimed she, with a degree of hope, as the clock struck two. "what! and come back again! no! no! that would never do. we've done our part, and cried our cry; it's no use going o'er the same ground again. i should ha' to give 'em more out of yon bottle when next parting time came, and them three glasses they had made a hole in the stuff, i can tell you. time jack was back from hamburg with some more." when they reached manchester, mary looked very white, and the expression on her face was almost stern. she was in fact summoning up her resolution to meet her father if he were at home. jem had never named his midnight glimpse of john barton to human being; but mary had a sort of presentiment that wander where he would, he would seek his home at last. but in what mood she dreaded to think. for the knowledge of her father's capability of guilt seemed to have opened a dark gulf in his character, into the depths of which she trembled to look. at one moment she would fain have claimed protection against the life she must lead, for some time at least, alone with a murderer! she thought of his gloom, before his mind was haunted by the memory of so terrible a crime; his moody, irritable ways. she imagined the evenings as of old: she, toiling at some work, long after houses were shut, and folks abed; he, more savage than he had ever been before with the inward gnawing of his remorse. at such times she could have cried aloud with terror, at the scenes her fancy conjured up. but her filial duty, nay, her love and gratitude for many deeds of kindness done to her as a little child, conquered all fear. she would endure all imaginable terrors, although of daily occurrence. and she would patiently bear all wayward violence of temper; more than patiently would she bear it--pitifully, as one who knew of some awful curse awaiting the blood-shedder. she would watch over him tenderly, as the innocent should watch over the guilty; awaiting the gracious seasons, wherein to pour oil and balm into the bitter wounds. with the untroubled peace which the resolve to endure to the end gives, she approached the house that from habit she still called home, but which possessed the holiness of home no longer. "jem!" said she, as they stood at the entrance to the court, close by job legh's door, "you must go in there and wait half-an-hour. not less. if in that time i don't come back, you go your ways to your mother. give her my dear love. i will send by margaret when i want to see you." she sighed heavily. "mary! mary! i cannot leave you. you speak as coldly as if we were to be nought to each other. and my heart's bound up in you. i know why you bid me keep away, but--" she put her hand on his arm, as he spoke in a loud agitated tone; she looked into his face with upbraiding love in her eyes, and then she said, while her lips quivered, and he felt her whole frame trembling: "dear jem! i often could have told you more of love, if i had not once spoken out so free. remember that time, jem, if ever you think me cold. then, the love that's in my heart would out in words; but now, though i'm silent on the pain i'm feeling in quitting you, the love is in my heart all the same. but this is not the time to speak on such things. if i do not do what i feel to be right now, i may blame myself all my life long! jem, you promised--" and so saying she left him. she went quicker than she would otherwise have passed over those few yards of ground, for fear he should still try to accompany her. her hand was on the latch, and in a breath the door was opened. there sat her father, still and motionless--not even turning his head to see who had entered; but perhaps he recognised the foot-step,--the trick of action. he sat by the fire; the grate i should say, for fire there was none. some dull, gray ashes, negligently left, long days ago, coldly choked up the bars. he had taken the accustomed seat from mere force of habit, which ruled his automaton-body. for all energy, both physical and mental, seemed to have retreated inwards to some of the great citadels of life, there to do battle against the destroyer, conscience. his hands were crossed, his fingers interlaced; usually a position implying some degree of resolution, or strength; but in him it was so faintly maintained, that it appeared more the result of chance; an attitude requiring some application of outward force to alter,--and a blow with a straw seemed as though it would be sufficient. and as for his face, it was sunk and worn,--like a skull, with yet a suffering expression that skulls have not! your heart would have ached to have seen the man, however hardly you might have judged his crime. but crime and all was forgotten by his daughter, as she saw his abashed look, his smitten helplessness. all along she had felt it difficult (as i may have said before) to reconcile the two ideas, of her father and a blood-shedder. but now it was impossible. he was her father! her own dear father! and in his sufferings, whatever their cause, more dearly loved than ever before. his crime was a thing apart, never more to be considered by her. and tenderly did she treat him, and fondly did she serve him in every way that heart could devise, or hand execute. she had some money about her, the price of her strange services as a witness; and when the lingering dusk drew on, she stole out to effect some purchases necessary for her father's comfort. for how body and soul had been kept together, even as much as they were, during the days he had dwelt alone, no one can say. the house was bare as when mary had left it, of coal, or of candle, of food, or of blessing in any shape. she came quickly home; but as she passed job legh's door, she stopped. doubtless jem had long since gone; and doubtless, too, he had given margaret some good reason for not intruding upon her friend for this night at least, otherwise mary would have seen her before now. but to-morrow,--would she not come in to-morrow? and who so quick as blind margaret in noticing tones, and sighs, and even silence? she did not give herself time for further thought, her desire to be once more with her father was too pressing; but she opened the door, before she well knew what to say. "it's mary barton! i know her by her breathing! grandfather, it's mary barton!" margaret's joy at meeting her, the open demonstration of her love, affected mary much; she could not keep from crying, and sat down weak and agitated on the first chair she could find. "ay, ay, mary! thou'rt looking a bit different to when i saw thee last. thou'lt give jem and me good characters for sick nurses, i trust. if all trades fail, i'll turn to that. jem's place is for life, i reckon. nay, never redden so, lass. you and he know each other's minds by this time!" margaret held her hand, and gently smiled into her face. job legh took the candle up, and began a leisurely inspection. "thou hast getten a bit of pink in thy cheeks,--not much; but when last i saw thee, thy lips were as white as a sheet. thy nose is sharpish at th' end; thou'rt more like thy father than ever thou wert before. lord! child, what's the matter? art thou going to faint?" for mary had sickened at the mention of that name; yet she felt that now or never was the time to speak. "father's come home!" she said, "but he's very poorly; i never saw him as he is now, before. i asked jem not to come near him for fear it might fidget him." she spoke hastily, and (to her own idea) in an unnatural manner. but they did not seem to notice it, nor to take the hint she had thrown out of company being unacceptable; for job legh directly put down some insect, which he was impaling on a corking-pin, and exclaimed, "thy father come home! why, jem never said a word of it! and ailing too! i'll go in, and cheer him with a bit of talk. i ne'er knew any good come of delegating it." "oh, job! father cannot stand--father is too ill. don't come; not but that you're very kind and good; but to-night--indeed," said she at last, in despair, seeing job still persevere in putting away his things; "you must not come till i send or come for you. father's in that strange way, i can't answer for it if he sees strangers. please don't come. i'll come and tell you every day how he goes on. i must be off now to see after him. dear job! kind job! don't be angry with me. if you knew all you'd pity me." for job was muttering away in high dudgeon, and even margaret's tone was altered as she wished mary good night. just then she could ill brook coldness from any one, and least of all bear the idea of being considered ungrateful by so kind and zealous a friend as job had been; so she turned round suddenly, even when her hand was on the latch of the door, and ran back, and threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him first, and then margaret. and then, the tears fast-falling down her cheeks, but no word spoken, she hastily left the house, and went back to her home. there was no change in her father's position, or in his spectral look. he had answered her questions (but few in number, for so many subjects were unapproachable) by monosyllables, and in a weak, high, childish voice; but he had not lifted his eyes; he could not meet his daughter's look. and she, when she spoke, or as she moved about, avoided letting her eyes rest upon him. she wished to be her usual self; but while every thing was done with a consciousness of purpose, she felt it was impossible. in this manner things went on for some days. at night he feebly clambered up stairs to bed; and during those long dark hours mary heard those groans of agony which never escaped his lips by day, when they were compressed in silence over his inward woe. many a time she sat up listening, and wondering if it would ease his miserable heart if she went to him, and told him she knew all, and loved and pitied him more than words could tell. by day the monotonous hours wore on in the same heavy, hushed manner as on that first dreary afternoon. he ate,--but without relish; and food seemed no longer to nourish him, for each morning his face had caught more of the ghastly fore-shadowing of death. the neighbours kept strangely aloof. of late years john barton had had a repellent power about him, felt by all, except to the few who had either known him in his better and happier days, or those to whom he had given his sympathy and his confidence. people did not care to enter the doors of one whose very depth of thoughtfulness rendered him moody and stern. and now they contented themselves with a kind inquiry when they saw mary in her goings-out or in her comings-in. with her oppressing knowledge, she imagined their reserved conduct stranger than it was in reality. she missed job and margaret too; who, in all former times of sorrow or anxiety since their acquaintance first began, had been ready with their sympathy. but most of all she missed the delicious luxury she had lately enjoyed in having jem's tender love at hand every hour of the day, to ward off every wind of heaven, and every disturbing thought. she knew he was often hovering about the house; though the knowledge seemed to come more by intuition, than by any positive sight or sound for the first day or two. on the third day she met him at job legh's. they received her with every effort of cordiality; but still there was a cobweb-veil of separation between them, to which mary was morbidly acute; while in jem's voice, and eyes, and manner, there was every evidence of most passionate, most admiring, and most trusting love. the trust was shown by his respectful silence on that one point of reserve on which she had interdicted conversation. he left job legh's house when she did. they lingered on the step, he holding her hand between both of his, as loth to let her go; he questioned her as to when he should see her again. "mother does so want to see you," whispered he. "can you come to see her to-morrow? or when?" "i cannot tell," replied she, softly. "not yet. wait awhile; perhaps only a little while. dear jem, i must go to him,--dearest jem." the next day, the fourth from mary's return home, as she was sitting near the window, sadly dreaming over some work, she caught a glimpse of the last person she wished to see--of sally leadbitter! she was evidently coming to their house; another moment, and she tapped at the door. john barton gave an anxious, uneasy side-glance. mary knew that if she delayed answering the knock, sally would not scruple to enter; so as hastily as if the visit had been desired, she opened the door, and stood there with the latch in her hand, barring up all entrance, and as much as possible obstructing all curious glances into the interior. "well, mary barton! you're home at last! i heard you'd getten home; so i thought i'd just step over and hear the news." she was bent on coming in, and saw mary's preventive design. so she stood on tip-toe, looking over mary's shoulders into the room where she suspected a lover to be lurking; but instead, she saw only the figure of the stern, gloomy father she had always been in the habit of avoiding; and she dropped down again, content to carry on the conversation where mary chose, and as mary chose, in whispers. "so the old governor is back again, eh? and what does he say to all your fine doings at liverpool, and before?--you and i know where. you can't hide it now, mary, for it's all in print." mary gave a low moan,--and then implored sally to change the subject; for unpleasant as it always was, it was doubly unpleasant in the manner in which she was treating it. if they had been alone, mary would have borne it patiently,--or so she thought,--but now she felt almost certain her father was listening; there was a subdued breathing, a slight bracing-up of the listless attitude. but there was no arresting sally's curiosity to hear all she could respecting the adventures mary had experienced. she, in common with the rest of miss simmonds' young ladies, was almost jealous of the fame that mary had obtained; to herself, such miserable notoriety. "nay! there's no use shunning talking it over. why! it was in the _guardian_,--and the _courier_,--and some one told jane hodson it was even copied into a london paper. you've set up heroine on your own account, mary barton. how did you like standing witness? ar'n't them lawyers impudent things? staring at one so. i'll be bound you wished you'd taken my offer, and borrowed my black watered scarf! now didn't you, mary? speak truth!" "to tell truth, i never thought about it then, sally. how could i?" asked she, reproachfully. "oh--i forgot. you were all for that stupid james wilson. well! if i've ever the luck to go witness on a trial, see if i don't pick up a better beau than the prisoner. i'll aim at a lawyer's clerk, but i'll not take less than a turnkey." cast down as mary was, she could hardly keep from smiling at the idea, so wildly incongruous with the scene she had really undergone, of looking out for admirers during a trial for murder. "i'd no thought to be looking out for beaux, i can assure you, sally.--but don't let us talk any more about it; i can't bear to think on it. how is miss simmonds? and everybody?" "oh, very well; and by the way she gave me a bit of a message for you. you may come back to work if you'll behave yourself, she says. i told you she'd be glad to have you back, after all this piece of business, by way of tempting people to come to her shop. they'd come from salford to have a peep at you, for six months at least." "don't talk so; i cannot come, i can never face miss simmonds again. and even if i could--" she stopped, and blushed. "ay! i know what you're thinking on. but that will not be this some time, as he's turned off from the foundry,--you'd better think twice afore refusing miss simmonds' offer." "turned off from the foundry! jem?" cried mary. "to be sure! didn't you know it? decent men were not going to work with a--no! i suppose i mustn't say it, seeing you went to such trouble to get up an _alibi_; not that i should think much the worse of a spirited young fellow for falling foul of a rival,--they always do at the theatre." but mary's thoughts were with jem. how good he had been never to name his dismissal to her. how much he had had to endure for her sake! "tell me all about it," she gasped out. "why, you see, they've always swords quite handy at them plays," began sally; but mary, with an impatient shake of her head, interrupted, "about jem,--about jem, i want to know." "oh! i don't pretend to know more than is in every one's mouth: he's turned away from the foundry, because folks don't think you've cleared him outright of the murder; though perhaps the jury were loth to hang him. old mr. carson is savage against judge and jury, and lawyers and all, as i heard." "i must go to him, i must go to him," repeated mary, in a hurried manner. "he'll tell you all i've said is true, and not a word of lie," replied sally. "so i'll not give your answer to miss simmonds, but leave you to think twice about it. good afternoon!" mary shut the door, and turned into the house. her father sat in the same attitude; the old unchanging attitude. only his head was more bowed towards the ground. she put on her bonnet to go to ancoats; for see, and question, and comfort, and worship jem, she must. as she hung about her father for an instant before leaving him, he spoke--voluntarily spoke for the first time since her return; but his head was drooping so low she could not hear what he said, so she stooped down; and after a moment's pause, he repeated the words, "tell jem wilson to come here at eight o'clock to-night." could he have overheard her conversation with sally leadbitter? they had whispered low, she thought. pondering on this, and many other things, she reached ancoats. chapter xxxv. "forgive us our trespasses." "oh, had he lived, replied rusilla, never penitence had equalled his! full well i know his heart, vehement in all things. he would on himself have wreaked such penance as had reached the height of fleshly suffering,--yea, which being told, with its portentous rigour should have made the memory of his fault, o'erpowered and lost in shuddering pity and astonishment, fade like a feeble horror." southey's "roderick." as mary was turning into the street where the wilsons lived, jem overtook her. he came upon her suddenly, and she started. "you're going to see mother?" he asked tenderly, placing her arm within his, and slackening his pace. "yes, and you too. oh, jem, is it true? tell me." she felt rightly that he would guess the meaning of her only half expressed inquiry. he hesitated a moment before he answered her. "darling, it is; it's no use hiding it--if you mean that i'm no longer to work at duncombe's foundry. it's no time (to my mind) to have secrets from each other, though i did not name it yesterday, thinking you might fret. i shall soon get work again, never fear." "but why did they turn you off, when the jury had said you were innocent?" "it was not just to say turned off, though i don't think i could have well stayed on. a good number of the men managed to let out they should not like to work under me again; there were some few who knew me well enough to feel i could not have done it, but more were doubtful; and one spoke to young mr. duncombe, hinting at what they thought." "oh jem! what a shame!" said mary, with mournful indignation. "nay, darling! i'm not for blaming them. poor fellows like them have nought to stand upon and be proud of but their character, and it's fitting they should take care of that, and keep that free from soil and taint." "but you,--what could they get but good from you? they might have known you by this time." "so some do; the overlooker, i'm sure, would know i'm innocent. indeed, he said as much to-day; and he said he had had some talk with old mr. duncombe, and they thought it might be better if i left manchester for a bit; they'd recommend me to some other place." but mary could only shake her head in a mournful way, and repeat her words, "they might have known thee better, jem." jem pressed the little hand he held between his own work-hardened ones. after a minute or two, he asked, "mary, art thou much bound to manchester? would it grieve thee sore to quit the old smoke-jack?" "with thee?" she asked, in a quiet, glancing way. "ay, lass! trust me, i'll ne'er ask thee to leave manchester while i'm in it. because i've heard fine things of canada; and our overlooker has a cousin in the foundry line there.--thou knowest where canada is, mary?" "not rightly--not now, at any rate;--but with thee, jem," her voice sunk to a soft, low whisper, "anywhere--" what was the use of a geographical description? "but father!" said mary, suddenly breaking that delicious silence with the one sharp discord in her present life. she looked up at her lover's grave face; and then the message her father had sent flashed across her memory. "oh, jem, did i tell you?--father sent word he wished to speak with you. i was to bid you come to him at eight to-night. what can he want, jem?" "i cannot tell," replied he. "at any rate i'll go. it's no use troubling ourselves to guess," he continued, after a pause of a few minutes, during which they slowly and silently paced up and down the by-street, into which he had led her when their conversation began. "come and see mother, and then i'll take thee home, mary. thou wert all in a tremble when first i came up with thee; thou'rt not fit to be trusted home by thyself," said he, with fond exaggeration of her helplessness. yet a little more lovers' loitering; a few more words, in themselves nothing--to you nothing, but to those two what tender passionate language can i use to express the feelings which thrilled through that young man and maiden, as they listened to the syllables made dear and lovely through life by that hour's low-whispered talk. it struck the half hour past seven. "come and speak to mother; she knows you're to be her daughter, mary, darling." so they went in. jane wilson was rather chafed at her son's delay in returning home, for as yet he had managed to keep her in ignorance of his dismissal from the foundry; and it was her way to prepare some little pleasure, some little comfort for those she loved; and if they, unwittingly, did not appear at the proper time to enjoy her preparation, she worked herself up into a state of fretfulness which found vent in upbraidings as soon as ever the objects of her care appeared, thereby marring the peace which should ever be the atmosphere of a home, however humble; and causing a feeling almost amounting to loathing to arise at the sight of the "stalled ox," which, though an effect and proof of careful love, has been the cause of so much disturbance. mrs. wilson had first sighed, and then grumbled to herself, over the increasing toughness of the potato-cakes she had made for her son's tea. the door opened, and he came in; his face brightening into proud smiles, mary barton hanging on his arm, blushing and dimpling, with eye-lids veiling the happy light of her eyes,--there was around the young couple a radiant atmosphere--a glory of happiness. could his mother mar it? could she break into it with her martha-like cares? only for one moment did she remember her sense of injury,--her wasted trouble,--and then, her whole woman's heart heaving with motherly love and sympathy, she opened her arms, and received mary into them, as, shedding tears of agitated joy, she murmured in her ear, "bless thee, mary, bless thee! only make him happy, and god bless thee for ever!" it took some of jem's self-command to separate those whom he so much loved, and who were beginning, for his sake, to love one another so dearly. but the time for his meeting john barton drew on: and it was a long way to his house. as they walked briskly thither they hardly spoke; though many thoughts were in their minds. the sun had not long set, but the first faint shade of twilight was over all; and when they opened the door, jem could hardly perceive the objects within by the waning light of day, and the flickering fire-blaze. but mary saw all at a glance! her eye, accustomed to what was usual in the aspect of the room, saw instantly what was unusual,--saw, and understood it all. her father was standing behind his habitual chair, holding by the back of it as if for support. and opposite to him there stood mr. carson; the dark out-line of his stern figure looming large against the light of the fire in that little room. behind her father sat job legh, his head in his hands, and resting his elbows on the little family table,--listening evidently; but as evidently deeply affected by what he heard. there seemed to be some pause in the conversation. mary and jem stood at the half-open door, not daring to stir; hardly to breathe. "and have i heard you aright?" began mr. carson, with his deep quivering voice. "man! have i heard you aright? was it you, then, that killed my boy? my only son?"--(he said these last few words almost as if appealing for pity, and then he changed his tone to one more vehement and fierce). "don't dare to think that i shall be merciful, and spare you, because you have come forward to accuse yourself. i tell you i will not spare you the least pang the law can inflict,--you, who did not show pity on my boy, shall have none from me." "i did not ask for any," said john barton, in a low voice. "ask, or not ask, what care i? you shall be hanged--hanged--man!" said he, advancing his face, and repeating the word with slow, grinding emphasis, as if to infuse some of the bitterness of his soul into it. john barton gasped, but not with fear. it was only that he felt it terrible to have inspired such hatred, as was concentrated into every word, every gesture of mr. carson's. "as for being hanged, sir, i know it's all right and proper. i dare say it's bad enough; but i tell you what, sir," speaking with an out-burst, "if you'd hanged me the day after i'd done the deed, i would have gone down on my knees and blessed you. death! lord, what is it to life? to such a life as i've been leading this fortnight past. life at best is no great thing; but such a life as i have dragged through since that night," he shuddered at the thought. "why, sir, i've been on the point of killing myself this many a time to get away from my own thoughts. i didn't! and i'll tell you why. i didn't know but that i should be more haunted than ever with the recollection of my sin. oh! god above only can tell the agony with which i've repented me of it, and part perhaps because i feared he would think i were impatient of the misery he sent as punishment--far, far worse misery than any hanging, sir." he ceased from excess of emotion. then he began again. "sin' that day (it may be very wicked, sir, but it's the truth) i've kept thinking and thinking if i were but in that world where they say god is, he would, may be, teach me right from wrong, even if it were with many stripes. i've been sore puzzled here. i would go through hell-fire if i could but get free from sin at last, it's such an awful thing. as for hanging, that's just nought at all." his exhaustion compelled him to sit down. mary rushed to him. it seemed as if till then he had been unaware of her presence. "ay, ay, wench!" said he feebly, "is it thee? where's jem wilson?" jem came forward. john barton spoke again, with many a break and gasping pause, "lad! thou hast borne a deal for me. it's the meanest thing i ever did to leave thee to bear the brunt. thou, who wert as innocent of any knowledge of it as the babe unborn. i'll not bless thee for it. blessing from such as me would not bring thee any good. thou'lt love mary, though she is my child." he ceased, and there was a pause of a few seconds. then mr. carson turned to go. when his hand was on the latch of the door, he hesitated for an instant. "you can have no doubt for what purpose i go. straight to the police-office, to send men to take care of you, wretched man, and your accomplice. to-morrow morning your tale shall be repeated to those who can commit you to gaol, and before long you shall have the opportunity of trying how desirable hanging is." "oh, sir!" said mary, springing forward, and catching hold of mr. carson's arm, "my father is dying. look at him, sir. if you want death for death, you have it. don't take him away from me these last hours. he must go alone through death, but let me be with him as long as i can. oh, sir! if you have any mercy in you, leave him here to die." john himself stood up, stiff and rigid, and replied, "mary, wench! i owe him summut. i will go die, where, and as he wishes me. thou hast said true, i am standing side by side with death; and it matters little where i spend the bit of time left of life. that time i must pass in wrestling with my soul for a character to take into the other world. i'll go where you see fit, sir. he's innocent," faintly indicating jem, as he fell back in his chair. "never fear! they cannot touch him," said job legh, in a low voice. but as mr. carson was on the point of leaving the house with no sign of relenting about him, he was again stopped by john barton, who had risen once more from his chair, and stood supporting himself on jem, while he spoke. "sir, one word! my hairs are gray with suffering, and yours with years--" "and have i had no suffering?" asked mr. carson, as if appealing for sympathy, even to the murderer of his child. and the murderer of his child answered to the appeal, and groaned in spirit over the anguish he had caused. "have i had no inward suffering to blanch these hairs? have not i toiled and struggled even to these years with hopes in my heart that all centered in my boy? i did not speak of them, but were they not there? i seemed hard and cold; and so i might be to others, but not to him!--who shall ever imagine the love i bore to him? even he never dreamed how my heart leapt up at the sound of his footstep, and how precious he was to his poor old father.--and he is gone--killed--out of the hearing of all loving words--out of my sight for ever. he was my sunshine, and now it is night! oh, my god! comfort me, comfort me!" cried the old man aloud. the eyes of john barton grew dim with tears. rich and poor, masters and men, were then brothers in the deep suffering of the heart; for was not this the very anguish he had felt for little tom, in years so long gone by that they seemed like another life! the mourner before him was no longer the employer; a being of another race, eternally placed in antagonistic attitude; going through the world glittering like gold, with a stony heart within, which knew no sorrow but through the accidents of trade; no longer the enemy, the oppressor, but a very poor and desolate old man. the sympathy for suffering, formerly so prevalent a feeling with him, again filled john barton's heart, and almost impelled him to speak (as best he could) some earnest, tender words to the stern man, shaking in his agony. but who was he, that he should utter sympathy or consolation? the cause of all this woe. oh blasting thought! oh miserable remembrance! he had forfeited all right to bind up his brother's wounds. stunned by the thought, he sank upon the seat, almost crushed with the knowledge of the consequences of his own action; for he had no more imagined to himself the blighted home, and the miserable parents, than does the soldier, who discharges his musket, picture to himself the desolation of the wife, and the pitiful cries of the helpless little ones, who are in an instant to be made widowed and fatherless. to intimidate a class of men, known only to those below them as desirous to obtain the greatest quantity of work for the lowest wages,--at most to remove an overbearing partner from an obnoxious firm, who stood in the way of those who struggled as well as they were able to obtain their rights,--this was the light in which john barton had viewed his deed; and even so viewing it, after the excitement had passed away, the avenger, the sure avenger, had found him out. but now he knew that he had killed a man, and a brother,--now he knew that no good thing could come out of this evil, even to the sufferers whose cause he had so blindly espoused. he lay across the table, broken-hearted. every fresh quivering sob of mr. carson's stabbed him to his soul. he felt execrated by all; and as if he could never lay bare the perverted reasonings which had made the performance of undoubted sin appear a duty. the longing to plead some faint excuse grew stronger and stronger. he feebly raised his head, and looking at job legh, he whispered out, "i did not know what i was doing, job legh; god knows i didn't! oh, sir!" said he wildly, almost throwing himself at mr. carson's feet, "say you forgive me the anguish i now see i have caused you. i care not for pain, or death, you know i don't; but oh, man! forgive me the trespass i have done!" "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us," said job, solemnly and low, as if in prayer; as if the words were suggested by those john barton had used. mr. carson took his hands away from his face. i would rather see death than the ghastly gloom which darkened that countenance. "let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that i may have vengeance for my son's murder." there are blasphemous actions as well as blasphemous words: all unloving, cruel deeds are acted blasphemy. mr. carson left the house. and john barton lay on the ground as one dead. they lifted him up, and almost hoping that that deep trance might be to him the end of all earthly things, they bore him to his bed. for a time they listened with divided attention to his faint breathings; for in each hasty hurried step that echoed in the street outside, they thought they heard the approach of the officers of justice. when mr. carson left the house he was dizzy with agitation; the hot blood went careering through his frame. he could not see the deep blue of the night-heavens for the fierce pulses which throbbed in his head. and partly to steady and calm himself, he leaned against a railing, and looked up into those calm majestic depths with all their thousand stars. and by-and-by his own voice returned upon him, as if the last words he had spoken were being uttered through all that infinite space; but in their echoes there was a tone of unutterable sorrow. "let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that i may have vengeance for my son's murder." he tried to shake off the spiritual impression made by this imagination. he was feverish and ill,--and no wonder. so he turned to go homewards; not, as he had threatened, to the police-office. after all (he told himself), that would do in the morning. no fear of the man's escaping, unless he escaped to the grave. so he tried to banish the phantom voices and shapes which came unbidden to his brain, and to recall his balance of mind by walking calmly and slowly, and noticing every thing which struck his senses. it was a warm soft evening in spring, and there were many persons in the streets. among others, a nurse with a little girl in her charge, conveying her home from some children's gaiety; a dance most likely, for the lovely little creature was daintily decked out in soft, snowy muslin; and her fairy feet tripped along by her nurse's side as if to the measure of some tune she had lately kept time to. suddenly up behind her there came a rough, rude errand-boy, nine or ten years of age; a giant he looked by the fairy-child, as she fluttered along. i don't know how it was, but in some awkward way he knocked the poor little girl down upon the hard pavement as he brushed rudely past, not much caring whom he hurt, so that he got along. the child arose sobbing with pain; and not without cause, for blood was dropping down from the face, but a minute before so fair and bright--dropping down on the pretty frock, making those scarlet marks so terrible to little children. the nurse, a powerful woman, had seized the boy, just as mr. carson (who had seen the whole transaction) came up. "you naughty little rascal! i'll give you to a policeman, that i will! do you see how you've hurt the little girl? do you?" accompanying every sentence with a violent jerk of passionate anger. the lad looked hard and defying; but withal terrified at the threat of the policeman, those ogres of our streets to all unlucky urchins. the nurse saw it, and began to drag him along, with a view of making what she called "a wholesome impression." his terror increased, and with it his irritation; when the little sweet face, choking away its sobs, pulled down nurse's head and said, "please, dear nurse, i'm not much hurt; it was very silly to cry, you know. he did not mean to do it. _he did not know what he was doing_, did you, little boy? nurse won't call a policeman, so don't be frightened." and she put up her little mouth to be kissed by her injurer, just as she had been taught to do at home to "make peace." "that lad will mind, and be more gentle for the time to come, i'll be bound, thanks to that little lady," said a passer-by, half to himself, and half to mr. carson, whom he had observed to notice the scene. the latter took no apparent heed of the remark, but passed on. but the child's pleading reminded him of the low, broken voice he had so lately heard, penitently and humbly urging the same extenuation of his great guilt. "i did not know what i was doing." he had some association with those words; he had heard, or read of that plea somewhere before. where was it? could it be--? he would look when he got home. so when he entered his house he went straight and silently up-stairs to his library, and took down the great large handsome bible, all grand and golden, with its leaves adhering together from the bookbinder's press, so little had it been used. on the first page (which fell open to mr. carson's view) were written the names of his children, and his own. "henry john, son of the above john and elizabeth carson. born, sept. 29th, 1815." to make the entry complete, his death should now be added. but the page became hidden by the gathering mist of tears. thought upon thought, and recollection upon recollection came crowding in, from the remembrance of the proud day when he had purchased the costly book, in order to write down the birth of the little babe of a day old. he laid his head down on the open page, and let the tears fall slowly on the spotless leaves. his son's murderer was discovered; had confessed his guilt; and yet (strange to say) he could not hate him with the vehemence of hatred he had felt, when he had imagined him a young man, full of lusty life, defying all laws, human and divine. in spite of his desire to retain the revengeful feeling he considered as a duty to his dead son, something of pity would steal in for the poor, wasted skeleton of a man, the smitten creature, who had told him of his sin, and implored his pardon that night. in the days of his childhood and youth, mr. carson had been accustomed to poverty; but it was honest, decent poverty; not the grinding squalid misery he had remarked in every part of john barton's house, and which contrasted strangely with the pompous sumptuousness of the room in which he now sat. unaccustomed wonder filled his mind at the reflection of the different lots of the brethren of mankind. then he roused himself from his reverie, and turned to the object of his search--the gospel, where he half expected to find the tender pleading: "they know not what they do." it was murk midnight by this time, and the house was still and quiet. there was nothing to interrupt the old man in his unwonted study. years ago, the gospel had been his task-book in learning to read. so many years ago, that he had become familiar with the events before he could comprehend the spirit that made the life. he fell to the narrative now afresh, with all the interest of a little child. he began at the beginning, and read on almost greedily, understanding for the first time the full meaning of the story. he came to the end; the awful end. and there were the haunting words of pleading. he shut the book, and thought deeply. all night long, the archangel combated with the demon. all night long, others watched by the bed of death. john barton had revived to fitful intelligence. he spoke at times with even something of his former energy; and in the racy lancashire dialect he had always used when speaking freely. "you see i've so often been hankering after the right way; and it's a hard one for a poor man to find. at least it's been so to me. no one learned me, and no one telled me. when i was a little chap they taught me to read, and then they ne'er gave me no books; only i heard say the bible was a good book. so when i grew thoughtful, and puzzled, i took to it. but you'd never believe black was black, or night was night, when you saw all about you acting as if black was white, and night was day. it's not much i can say for myself in t'other world, god forgive me; but i can say this, i would fain have gone after the bible rules if i'd seen folk credit it; they all spoke up for it, and went and did clean contrary. in those days i would ha' gone about wi' my bible, like a little child, my finger in th' place, and asking the meaning of this or that text, and no one told me. then i took out two or three texts as clear as glass, and i tried to do what they bid me do. but i don't know how it was; masters and men, all alike cared no more for minding those texts, than i did for th' lord mayor of london; so i grew to think it must be a sham put upon poor ignorant folk, women, and such-like. "it was not long i tried to live gospel-wise, but it was liker heaven than any other bit of earth has been. i'd old alice to strengthen me; but every one else said, 'stand up for thy rights, or thou'lt never get 'em;' and wife and children never spoke, but their helplessness cried aloud, and i was driven to do as others did,--and then tom died. you know all about that--i'm getting scant o' breath, and blind-like." then again he spoke, after some minutes of hushed silence. "all along it came natural to love folk, though now i am what i am. i think one time i could e'en have loved the masters if they'd ha' letten me; that was in my gospel-days, afore my child died o' hunger. i was tore in two often-times, between my sorrow for poor suffering folk, and my trying to love them as caused their sufferings (to my mind). "at last i gave it up in despair, trying to make folks' actions square wi' th' bible; and i thought i'd no longer labour at following th' bible mysel. i've said all this afore, may be. but from that time i've dropped down, down,--down." after that he only spoke in broken sentences. "i did not think he'd been such an old man,--oh! that he had but forgiven me,"--and then came earnest, passionate, broken words of prayer. job legh had gone home like one struck down with the unexpected shock. mary and jem together waited the approach of death; but as the final struggle drew on, and morning dawned, jem suggested some alleviation to the gasping breath, to purchase which he left the house in search of a druggist's shop, which should be open at that early hour. during his absence, barton grew worse; he had fallen across the bed, and his breathing seemed almost stopped; in vain did mary strive to raise him, her sorrow and exhaustion had rendered her too weak. so, on hearing some one enter the house-place below, she cried out for jem to come to her assistance. a step, which was not jem's, came up the stairs. mr. carson stood in the door-way. in one instant he comprehended the case. he raised up the powerless frame; and the departing soul looked out of the eyes with gratitude. he held the dying man propped in his arms. john barton folded his hands as if in prayer. "pray for us," said mary, sinking on her knees, and forgetting in that solemn hour all that had divided her father and mr. carson. no other words could suggest themselves than some of those he had read only a few hours before. "god be merciful to us sinners.--forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us." and when the words were said, john barton lay a corpse in mr. carson's arms. so ended the tragedy of a poor man's life. mary knew nothing more for many minutes. when she recovered consciousness, she found herself supported by jem on the "settle" in the house-place. job and mr. carson were there, talking together lowly and solemnly. then mr. carson bade farewell and left the house; and job said aloud, but as if speaking to himself, "god has heard that man's prayer. he has comforted him." chapter xxxvi. jem's interview with mr. duncombe. "the first dark day of nothingness, the last of danger and distress." byron. although mary had hardly been conscious of her thoughts, and it had been more like a secret instinct informing her soul, than the result of any process of reasoning, she had felt for some time (ever since her return from liverpool, in fact), that for her father there was but one thing to be desired and anticipated, and that was death! she had seen that conscience had given the mortal wound to his earthly frame; she did not dare to question of the infinite mercy of god, what the future life would be to him. though at first desolate and stunned by the blow which had fallen on herself, she was resigned and submissive as soon as she recovered strength enough to ponder and consider a little; and you may be sure that no tenderness or love was wanting on jem's part, and no consideration and sympathy on that of job and margaret, to soothe and comfort the girl who now stood alone in the world as far as blood-relations were concerned. she did not ask or care to know what arrangements they were making in whispered tones with regard to the funeral. she put herself into their hands with the trust of a little child; glad to be undisturbed in the reveries and remembrances which filled her eyes with tears, and caused them to fall quietly down her pale cheeks. it was the longest day she had ever known in her life; every charge and every occupation was taken away from her: but perhaps the length of quiet time thus afforded was really good, although its duration weighed upon her; for by this means she contemplated her situation in every light, and fully understood that the morning's event had left her an orphan; and thus she was spared the pangs caused to us by the occurrence of death in the evening, just before we should naturally, in the usual course of events, lie down to slumber. for in such case, worn out by anxiety, and it may be by much watching, our very excess of grief rocks itself to sleep, before we have had time to realise its cause; and we waken, with a start of agony like a fresh stab, to the consciousness of the one awful vacancy, which shall never, while the world endures, be filled again. the day brought its burden of duty to mrs. wilson. she felt bound by regard, as well as by etiquette, to go and see her future daughter-in-law. and by an old association of ideas (perhaps of death with church-yards, and churches with sunday) she thought it necessary to put on her best, and latterly unused clothes, the airing of which on a little clothes-horse before the fire seemed to give her a not unpleasing occupation. when jem returned home late in the evening succeeding john barton's death, weary and oppressed with the occurrences and excitements of the day, he found his mother busy about her mourning, and much inclined to talk. although he longed for quiet, he could not avoid sitting down and answering her questions. "well, jem, he's gone at last, is he?" "yes. how did you hear, mother?" "oh, job came over here and telled me, on his way to the undertaker's. did he make a fine end?" it struck jem that she had not heard of the confession which had been made by john barton on his death-bed; he remembered job legh's discretion, and he determined that if it could be avoided his mother should never hear of it. many of the difficulties to be anticipated in preserving the secret would be obviated, if he could induce his mother to fall into the plan he had named to mary of emigrating to canada. the reasons which rendered this secrecy desirable related to the domestic happiness he hoped for. with his mother's irritable temper he could hardly expect that all allusion to the crime of john barton would be for ever restrained from passing her lips, and he knew the deep trial such references would be to mary. accordingly he resolved as soon as possible in the morning to go to job and beseech his silence; he trusted that secrecy in that quarter, even if the knowledge had been extended to margaret, might be easily secured. but what would be mr. carson's course? were there any means by which he might be persuaded to spare john barton's memory? he was roused up from this train of thought by his mother's more irritated tone of voice. "jem!" she was saying, "thou might'st just as well never be at a death-bed again, if thou cannot bring off more news about it; here have i been by mysel all day (except when oud job came in), but thinks i, when jem comes he'll be sure to be good company, seeing he was in the house at the very time of the death; and here thou art, without a word to throw at a dog, much less thy mother: it's no use thy going to a death-bed if thou cannot carry away any of the sayings!" "he did not make any, mother," replied jem. "well, to be sure! so fond as he used to be of holding forth, to miss such a fine opportunity that will never come again! did he die easy?" "he was very restless all night long," said jem, reluctantly returning to the thoughts of that time. "and in course thou plucked the pillow away? thou didst not! well! with thy bringing up, and thy learning, thou might'st have known that were the only help in such a case. there were pigeons' feathers in the pillow, depend on't. to think of two grown-up folk like you and mary, not knowing death could never come easy to a person lying on a pillow with pigeons' feathers in!" jem was glad to escape from all this talking to the solitude and quiet of his own room, where he could lie and think uninterruptedly of what had happened and remained to be done. the first thing was to seek an interview with mr. duncombe, his former master. accordingly, early the next morning jem set off on his walk to the works, where for so many years his days had been spent; where for so long a time his thoughts had been thought, his hopes and fears experienced. it was not a cheering feeling to remember that henceforward he was to be severed from all these familiar places; nor were his spirits enlivened by the evident feelings of the majority of those who had been his fellow-workmen. as he stood in the entrance to the foundry, awaiting mr. duncombe's leisure, many of those employed in the works passed him on their return from breakfast; and with one or two exceptions, without any acknowledgment of former acquaintance beyond a distant nod at the utmost. "it is hard," said jem to himself, with a bitter and indignant feeling rising in his throat, "that let a man's life be what it may, folk are so ready to credit the first word against him. i could live it down if i stayed in england; but then what would not mary have to bear? sooner or later the truth would out; and then she would be a show to folk for many a day as john barton's daughter. well! god does not judge as hardly as man, that's one comfort for all of us!" mr. duncombe did not believe in jem's guilt, in spite of the silence in which he again this day heard the imputation of it; but he agreed that under the circumstances it was better he should leave the country. "we have been written to by government, as i think i told you before, to recommend an intelligent man, well acquainted with mechanics, as instrument-maker to the agricultural college they are establishing at toronto, in canada. it is a comfortable appointment,--house,--land,--and a good per-centage on the instruments made. i will show you the particulars if i can lay my hand on the letter, which i believe i must have left at home." "thank you, sir. no need for seeing the letter to say i'll accept it. i must leave manchester; and i'd as lief quit england at once when i'm about it." "of course government will give you your passage; indeed, i believe an allowance would be made for a family if you had one; but you are not a married man, i believe?" "no, sir, but--" jem hung back from a confession with the awkwardness of a girl. "but--" said mr. duncombe, smiling, "you would like to be a married man before you go, i suppose; eh, wilson?" "if you please, sir. and there's my mother, too. i hope she'll go with us. but i can pay her passage; no need to trouble government." "nay, nay! i'll write to-day and recommend you; and say that you have a family of two. they'll never ask if the family goes upwards or downwards. i shall see you again before you sail, i hope, wilson; though i believe they'll not allow you long to wait. come to my house next time; you'll find it pleasanter, i daresay. these men are so wrong-headed. keep up your heart!" jem felt that it was a relief to have this point settled; and that he need no longer weigh reasons for and against his emigration. and with his path growing clearer and clearer before him the longer he contemplated it, he went to see mary, and if he judged it fit, to tell her what he had decided upon. margaret was sitting with her. "grandfather wants to see you!" said she to jem on his entrance. "and i want to see him," replied jem, suddenly remembering his last night's determination to enjoin secrecy on job legh. so he hardly stayed to kiss poor mary's sweet woe-begone face, but tore himself away from his darling to go to the old man, who awaited him impatiently. "i've getten a note from mr. carson," exclaimed job the moment he saw jem; "and man-alive, he wants to see thee and me! for sure, there's no more mischief up, is there?" said he, looking at jem with an expression of wonder. but if any suspicion mingled for an instant with the thoughts that crossed job's mind, it was immediately dispelled by jem's honest, fearless, open countenance. "i can't guess what he's wanting, poor old chap," answered he. "may be there's some point he's not yet satisfied on; may be--but it's no use guessing; let's be off." "it wouldn't be better for thee to be scarce a bit, would it, and leave me to go and find out what's up? he has, perhaps, getten some crotchet into his head thou'rt an accomplice, and is laying a trap for thee." "i'm not afeared!" said jem; "i've done nought wrong, and know nought wrong, about yon poor dead lad; though i'll own i had evil thoughts once on a time. folk can't mistake long if once they'll search into the truth. i'll go and give the old gentleman all the satisfaction in my power, now it can injure no one. i'd my own reasons for wanting to see him besides, and it all falls in right enough for me." job was a little reassured by jem's boldness; but still, if the truth must be told, he wished the young man would follow his advice, and leave him to sound mr. carson's intentions. meanwhile jane wilson had donned her sunday suit of black, and set off on her errand of condolence. she felt nervous and uneasy at the idea of the moral sayings and texts which she fancied were expected from visitors on occasions like the present; and prepared many a good set speech as she walked towards the house of mourning. as she gently opened the door, mary, sitting idly by the fire, caught a glimpse of her,--of jem's mother,--of the early friend of her dead parents,--of the kind minister to many a little want in days of childhood,--and rose and came and fell about her neck, with many a sob and moan, saying, "oh, he's gone--he's dead--all gone--all dead, and i am left alone!" "poor wench! poor, poor wench!" said jane wilson, tenderly kissing her. "thou'rt not alone, so donnot take on so. i'll say nought of him who's above, for thou know'st he is ever the orphan's friend; but think on jem! nay, mary, dear, think on me! i'm but a frabbit woman at times, but i've a heart within me through all my temper, and thou shalt be as a daughter henceforward,--as mine own ewe-lamb. jem shall not love thee better in his way, than i will in mine; and thou'lt bear with my turns, mary, knowing that in my soul god sees the love that shall ever be thine, if thou'lt take me for thy mother, and speak no more of being alone." mrs. wilson was weeping herself long before she had ended this speech, which was so different to all she had planned to say, and from all the formal piety she had laid in store for the visit; for this was heart's piety, and needed no garnish of texts to make it true religion, pure and undefiled. they sat together on the same chair, their arms encircling each other; they wept for the same dead; they had the same hope, and trust, and overflowing love in the living. from that time forward, hardly a passing cloud dimmed the happy confidence of their intercourse; even by jem would his mother's temper sooner be irritated than by mary; before the latter she repressed her occasional nervous ill-humour till the habit of indulging it was perceptibly decreased. years afterwards in conversation with jem, he was startled by a chance expression which dropped from his mother's lips; it implied a knowledge of john barton's crime. it was many a long day since they had seen any manchester people who could have revealed the secret (if indeed it was known in manchester, against which jem had guarded in every possible way). and he was led to inquire first as to the extent, and then as to the source of her knowledge. it was mary herself who had told all. for on the morning to which this chapter principally relates, as mary sat weeping, and as mrs. wilson comforted her by every tenderest word and caress, she revealed to the dismayed and astonished jane, the sting of her deep sorrow; the crime which stained her dead father's memory. she was quite unconscious that jem had kept it secret from his mother; she had imagined it bruited abroad as the suspicion against her lover had been; so word after word (dropped from her lips in the supposition that mrs. wilson knew all) had told the tale and revealed the cause of her deep anguish; deeper than is ever caused by death alone. on large occasions like the present, mrs. wilson's innate generosity came out. her weak and ailing frame imparted its irritation to her conduct in small things, and daily trifles; but she had deep and noble sympathy with great sorrows, and even at the time that mary spoke she allowed no expression of surprise or horror to escape her lips. she gave way to no curiosity as to the untold details; she was as secret and trustworthy as her son himself; and if in years to come her anger was occasionally excited against mary, and she, on rare occasions, yielded to ill-temper against her daughter-in-law, she would upbraid her for extravagance, or stinginess, or over-dressing, or under-dressing, or too much mirth or too much gloom, but never, never in her most uncontrolled moments did she allude to any one of the circumstances relating to mary's flirtation with harry carson, or his murderer; and always when she spoke of john barton, named him with the respect due to his conduct before the last, miserable, guilty month of his life. therefore it came like a blow to jem when, after years had passed away, he gathered his mother's knowledge of the whole affair. from the day when he learnt (not without remorse) what hidden depths of self-restraint she had in her soul, his manner to her, always tender and respectful, became reverential; and it was more than ever a loving strife between him and mary which should most contribute towards the happiness of the declining years of their mother. but i am speaking of the events which have occurred only lately, while i have yet many things to tell you that happened six or seven years ago. chapter xxxvii. details connected with the murder. "the rich man dines, while the poor man pines, and eats his heart away; 'they teach us lies,' he sternly cries, 'would _brothers_ do as they?'" "the dream." mr. carson stood at one of the breathing-moments of life. the object of the toils, the fears, and the wishes of his past years, was suddenly hidden from his sight,--vanished into the deep mystery which circumscribes existence. nay, even the vengeance which he had proposed to himself as an aim for exertion, had been taken away from before his eyes, as by the hand of god. events like these would have startled the most thoughtless into reflection, much more such a man as mr. carson, whose mind, if not enlarged, was energetic; indeed, whose very energy, having been hitherto the cause of the employment of his powers in only one direction, had prevented him from becoming largely and philosophically comprehensive in his views. but now the foundations of his past life were razed to the ground, and the place they had once occupied was sown with salt, to be for ever rebuilt no more. it was like the change from this life to that other hidden one, when so many of the motives which have actuated all our earthly existence, will have become more fleeting than the shadows of a dream. with a wrench of his soul from the past, so much of which was as nothing, and worse than nothing to him now, mr. carson took some hours, after he had witnessed the death of his son's murderer, to consider his situation. but suddenly, while he was deliberating, and searching for motives which should be effective to compel him to exertion and action once more; while he contemplated the desire after riches, social distinction, a name among the merchant-princes amidst whom he moved, and saw these false substances fade away into the shadows they truly are, and one by one disappear into the grave of his son,--suddenly, i say, the thought arose within him that more yet remained to be learned about the circumstances and feelings which had prompted john barton's crime; and when once this mournful curiosity was excited, it seemed to gather strength in every moment that its gratification was delayed. accordingly he sent a message to summon job legh and jem wilson, from whom he promised himself some elucidation of what was as yet unexplained; while he himself set forth to call on mr. bridgenorth, whom he knew to have been jem's attorney, with a glimmering suspicion intruding on his mind, which he strove to repel, that jem might have had some share in his son's death. he had returned before his summoned visitors arrived; and had time enough to recur to the evening on which john barton had made his confession. he remembered with mortification how he had forgotten his proud reserve, and his habitual concealment of his feelings, and had laid bare his agony of grief in the presence of these two men who were coming to see him by his desire; and he entrenched himself behind stiff barriers of self-control, through which he hoped no appearance of emotion would force its way in the conversation he anticipated. nevertheless, when the servant announced that two men were there by appointment to speak to him, and he had desired that they might be shown into the library where he sat, any watcher might have perceived by the trembling hands, and shaking head, not only how much he was aged by the occurrences of the last few weeks, but also how much he was agitated at the thought of the impending interview. but he so far succeeded in commanding himself at first, as to appear to jem wilson and job legh one of the hardest and most haughty men they had ever spoken to, and to forfeit all the interest which he had previously excited in their minds by his unreserved display of deep and genuine feeling. when he had desired them to be seated, he shaded his face with his hand for an instant before speaking. "i have been calling on mr. bridgenorth this morning," said he, at last; "as i expected, he can give me but little satisfaction on some points respecting the occurrence on the 18th of last month which i desire to have cleared up. perhaps you two can tell me what i want to know. as intimate friends of barton's you probably know, or can conjecture a good deal. have no scruple as to speaking the truth. what you say in this room shall never be named again by me. besides, you are aware that the law allows no one to be tried twice for the same offence." he stopped for a minute, for the mere act of speaking was fatiguing to him after the excitement of the last few weeks. job legh took the opportunity of speaking. "i'm not going to be affronted either for myself or jem at what you've just now been saying about the truth. you don't know us, and there's an end on't; only it's as well for folk to think others good and true until they're proved contrary. ask what you like, sir, i'll answer for it we'll either tell truth or hold our tongues." "i beg your pardon," said mr. carson, slightly bowing his head. "what i wished to know was," referring to a slip of paper he held in his hand, and shaking so much he could hardly adjust his glasses to his eyes, "whether you, wilson, can explain how barton came possessed of your gun. i believe you refused this explanation to mr. bridgenorth." "i did, sir! if i had said what i knew then, i saw it would criminate barton, and so i refused telling aught. to you, sir, now i will tell every thing and any thing; only it is but little. the gun was my father's before it was mine, and long ago he and john barton had a fancy for shooting at the gallery; and they used always to take this gun, and brag that though it was old-fashioned it was sure." jem saw with self-upbraiding pain how mr. carson winced at these last words, but at each irrepressible and involuntary evidence of feeling, the hearts of the two men warmed towards him. jem went on speaking. "one day in the week--i think it was on the wednesday,--yes, it was,--it was on st. patrick's day, i met john just coming out of our house, as i were going to my dinner. mother was out, and he'd found no one in. he said he'd come to borrow the old gun, and that he'd have made bold, and taken it, but it was not to be seen. mother was afraid of it, so after father's death (for while he were alive, she seemed to think he could manage it) i had carried it to my own room. i went up and fetched it for john, who stood outside the door all the time." "what did he say he wanted it for?" asked mr. carson, hastily. "i don't think he spoke when i gave it him. at first he muttered something about the shooting-gallery, and i never doubted but that it were for practice there, as i knew he had done years before." mr. carson had strung up his frame to an attitude of upright attention while jem was speaking; now the tension relaxed, and he sank back in his chair, weak and powerless. he rose up again, however, as jem went on, anxious to give every particular which could satisfy the bereaved father. "i never knew for what he wanted the gun till i was taken up,--i do not know yet why he wanted it. no one would have had me get out of the scrape by implicating an old friend,--my father's old friend, and the father of the girl i loved. so i refused to tell mr. bridgenorth aught about it, and would not have named it now to any one but you." jem's face became very red at the allusion he made to mary, but his honest, fearless eyes had met mr. carson's penetrating gaze unflinchingly, and had carried conviction of his innocence and truthfulness. mr. carson felt certain that he had heard all that jem could tell. accordingly he turned to job legh. "you were in the room the whole time while barton was speaking to me, i think?" "yes, sir," answered job. "you'll excuse my asking plain and direct questions; the information i am gaining is really a relief to my mind, i don't know how, but it is,--will you tell me if you had any idea of barton's guilt in this matter before?" "none whatever, so help me god!" said job, solemnly. "to tell truth (and axing your forgiveness, jem), i had never got quite shut of the notion that jem here had done it. at times i was as clear of his innocence as i was of my own; and whenever i took to reasoning about it, i saw he could not have been the man that did it. still i never thought of barton." "and yet by his confession he must have been absent at the time," said mr. carson, referring to his slip of paper. "ay, and for many a day after,--i can't rightly say how long. but still, you see, one's often blind to many a thing that lies right under one's nose, till it's pointed out. and till i heard what john barton had to say yon night, i could not have seen what reason he had for doing it; while in the case of jem, any one who looked at mary barton might have seen a cause for jealousy, clear enough." "then you believe that barton had no knowledge of my son's unfortunate,--" he looked at jem, "of his attentions to mary barton. this young man, wilson, had heard of them, you see." "the person who told me said clearly she neither had, nor would tell mary's father," interposed jem. "i don't believe he'd ever heard of it; he weren't a man to keep still in such a matter, if he had." "besides," said job, "the reason he gave on his death-bed, so to speak, was enough; 'specially to those who knew him." "you mean his feelings regarding the treatment of the workmen by the masters; you think he acted from motives of revenge, in consequence of the part my son had taken in putting down the strike?" "well, sir," replied job, "it's hard to say: john barton was not a man to take counsel with people; nor did he make many words about his doings. so i can only judge from his way of thinking and talking in general, never having heard him breathe a syllable concerning this matter in particular. you see he were sadly put about to make great riches and great poverty square with christ's gospel"--job paused, in order to try and express what was clear enough in his own mind, as to the effect produced on john barton by the great and mocking contrasts presented by the varieties of human condition. before he could find suitable words to explain his meaning, mr. carson spoke. "you mean he was an owenite; all for equality and community of goods, and that kind of absurdity." "no, no! john barton was no fool. no need to tell him that were all men equal to-night, some would get the start by rising an hour earlier to-morrow. nor yet did he care for goods, nor wealth--no man less, so that he could get daily bread for him and his; but what hurt him sore, and rankled in him as long as i knew him (and, sir, it rankles in many a poor man's heart far more than the want of any creature-comforts, and puts a sting into starvation itself), was that those who wore finer clothes, and eat better food, and had more money in their pockets, kept him at arm's length, and cared not whether his heart was sorry or glad; whether he lived or died,--whether he was bound for heaven or hell. it seemed hard to him that a heap of gold should part him and his brother so far asunder. for he was a loving man before he grew mad with seeing such as he was slighted, as if christ himself had not been poor. at one time, i've heard him say, he felt kindly towards every man, rich or poor, because he thought they were all men alike. but latterly he grew aggravated with the sorrows and suffering that he saw, and which he thought the masters might help if they would." "that's the notion you've all of you got," said mr. carson. "now, how in the world can we help it? we cannot regulate the demand for labour. no man or set of men can do it. it depends on events which god alone can control. when there is no market for our goods, we suffer just as much as you can do." "not as much, i'm sure, sir; though i'm not given to political economy, i know that much. i'm wanting in learning, i'm aware; but i can use my eyes. i never see the masters getting thin and haggard for want of food; i hardly ever see them making much change in their way of living, though i don't doubt they've got to do it in bad times. but it's in things for show they cut short; while for such as me, it's in things for life we've to stint. for sure, sir, you'll own it's come to a hard pass when a man would give aught in the world for work to keep his children from starving, and can't get a bit, if he's ever so willing to labour. i'm not up to talking as john barton would have done, but that's clear to me at any rate." "my good man, just listen to me. two men live in solitude; one produces loaves of bread, the other coats,--or what you will. now, would it not be hard if the bread-producer were forced to give bread for the coats, whether he wanted them or not, in order to furnish employment to the other? that is the simple form of the case; you've only to multiply the numbers. there will come times of great changes in the occupation of thousands, when improvements in manufactures and machinery are made.--it's all nonsense talking,--it must be so!" job legh pondered a few moments. "it's true it was a sore time for the hand-loom weavers when power-looms came in: them new-fangled things make a man's life like a lottery; and yet i'll never misdoubt that power-looms, and railways, and all such-like inventions, are the gifts of god. i have lived long enough, too, to see that it is part of his plan to send suffering to bring out a higher good; but surely it's also part of his plan that as much of the burden of the suffering as can be, should be lightened by those whom it is his pleasure to make happy, and content in their own circumstances. of course it would take a deal more thought and wisdom than me, or any other man has, to settle out of hand how this should be done. but i'm clear about this, when god gives a blessing to be enjoyed, he gives it with a duty to be done; and the duty of the happy is to help the suffering to bear their woe." "still, facts have proved and are daily proving how much better it is for every man to be independent of help, and self-reliant," said mr. carson, thoughtfully. "you can never work facts as you would fixed quantities, and say, given two facts, and the product is so and so. god has given men feelings and passions which cannot be worked into the problem, because they are for ever changing and uncertain. god has also made some weak; not in any one way, but in all. one is weak in body, another in mind, another in steadiness of purpose, a fourth can't tell right from wrong, and so on; or if he can tell the right, he wants strength to hold by it. now to my thinking, them that is strong in any of god's gifts is meant to help the weak,--be hanged to the facts! i ask your pardon, sir; i can't rightly explain the meaning that is in me. i'm like a tap as won't run, but keeps letting it out drop by drop, so that you've no notion of the force of what's within." job looked and felt very sorrowful at the want of power in his words, while the feeling within him was so strong and clear. "what you say is very true, no doubt," replied mr. carson; "but how would you bring it to bear upon the masters' conduct,--on my particular case?" added he, gravely. "i'm not learned enough to argue. thoughts come into my head that i'm sure are as true as gospel, though may be they don't follow each other like the q. e. d. of a proposition. the masters has it on their own conscience,--you have it on yours, sir, to answer for to god whether you've done, and are doing all in your power to lighten the evils that seem always to hang on the trades by which you make your fortunes. it's no business of mine, thank god. john barton took the question in hand, and his answer to it was no! then he grew bitter, and angry, and mad; and in his madness he did a great sin, and wrought a great woe; and repented him with tears as of blood; and will go through his penance humbly and meekly in t'other place, i'll be bound. i never seed such bitter repentance as his that last night." there was a silence of many minutes. mr. carson had covered his face, and seemed utterly forgetful of their presence; and yet they did not like to disturb him by rising to leave the room. at last he said, without meeting their sympathetic eyes, "thank you both for coming,--and for speaking candidly to me. i fear, legh, neither you nor i have convinced each other, as to the power, or want of power, in the masters to remedy the evils the men complain of." "i'm loth to vex you, sir, just now; but it was not the want of power i was talking on; what we all feel sharpest is the want of inclination to try and help the evils which come like blights at times over the manufacturing places, while we see the masters can stop work and not suffer. if we saw the masters try for our sakes to find a remedy,--even if they were long about it,--even if they could find no help, and at the end of all could only say, 'poor fellows, our hearts are sore for ye; we've done all we could, and can't find a cure,'--we'd bear up like men through bad times. no one knows till they've tried, what power of bearing lies in them, if once they believe that men are caring for their sorrows and will help if they can. if fellow-creatures can give nought but tears and brave words, we take our trials straight from god, and we know enough of his love to put ourselves blind into his hands. you say our talk has done no good. i say it has. i see the view you take of things from the place where you stand. i can remember that, when the time comes for judging you; i sha'n't think any longer, does he act right on my views of a thing, but does he act right on his own. it has done me good in that way. i'm an old man, and may never see you again; but i'll pray for you, and think on you and your trials, both of your great wealth, and of your son's cruel death, many and many a day to come; and i'll ask god to bless both to you now and for evermore. amen. farewell!" jem had maintained a manly and dignified reserve ever since he had made his open statement of all he knew. now both the men rose and bowed low, looking at mr. carson with the deep human interest they could not fail to take in one who had endured and forgiven a deep injury; and who struggled hard, as it was evident he did, to bear up like a man under his affliction. he bowed low in return to them. then he suddenly came forward and shook them by the hand; and thus, without a word more, they parted. there are stages in the contemplation and endurance of great sorrow, which endow men with the same earnestness and clearness of thought that in some of old took the form of prophecy. to those who have large capability of loving and suffering, united with great power of firm endurance, there comes a time in their woe, when they are lifted out of the contemplation of their individual case into a searching inquiry into the nature of their calamity, and the remedy (if remedy there be) which may prevent its recurrence to others as well as to themselves. hence the beautiful, noble efforts which are from time to time brought to light, as being continuously made by those who have once hung on the cross of agony, in order that others may not suffer as they have done; one of the grandest ends which sorrow can accomplish; the sufferer wrestling with god's messenger until a blessing is left behind, not for one alone but for generations. it took time before the stern nature of mr. carson was compelled to the recognition of this secret of comfort, and that same sternness prevented his reaping any benefit in public estimation from the actions he performed; for the character is more easily changed than the habits and manners originally formed by that character, and to his dying day mr. carson was considered hard and cold by those who only casually saw him, or superficially knew him. but those who were admitted into his confidence were aware, that the wish which lay nearest to his heart was that none might suffer from the cause from which he had suffered; that a perfect understanding, and complete confidence and love, might exist between masters and men; that the truth might be recognised that the interests of one were the interests of all, and as such, required the consideration and deliberation of all; that hence it was most desirable to have educated workers, capable of judging, not mere machines of ignorant men; and to have them bound to their employers by the ties of respect and affection, not by mere money bargains alone; in short, to acknowledge the spirit of christ as the regulating law between both parties. many of the improvements now in practice in the system of employment in manchester, owe their origin to short, earnest sentences spoken by mr. carson. many and many yet to be carried into execution, take their birth from that stern, thoughtful mind, which submitted to be taught by suffering. chapter xxxviii. conclusion. "touch us gently, gentle time! we've not proud nor soaring wings, our ambition, our content, lies in simple things; humble voyagers are we o'er life's dim unsounded sea; touch us gently, gentle time!" barry cornwall. not many days after john barton's funeral was over, all was arranged respecting jem's appointment at toronto; and the time was fixed for his sailing. it was to take place almost immediately: yet much remained to be done; many domestic preparations were to be made; and one great obstacle, anticipated by both jem and mary, to be removed. this was the opposition they expected from mrs. wilson, to whom the plan had never yet been named. they were most anxious that their home should continue ever to be hers, yet they feared that her dislike to a new country might be an insuperable objection to this. at last jem took advantage of an evening of unusual placidity, as he sat alone with his mother just before going to bed, to broach the subject; and to his surprise she acceded willingly to his proposition of her accompanying himself and his wife. "to be sure 'merica is a long way to flit to; beyond london a good bit i reckon; and quite in foreign parts; but i've never had no opinion of england, ever since they could be such fools as take up a quiet chap like thee, and clap thee in prison. where you go, i'll go. perhaps in them indian countries they'll know a well-behaved lad when they see him; ne'er speak a word more, lad, i'll go." their path became daily more smooth and easy; the present was clear and practicable, the future was hopeful; they had leisure of mind enough to turn to the past. "jem!" said mary to him, one evening as they sat in the twilight, talking together in low happy voices till margaret should come to keep mary company through the night, "jem! you've never yet told me how you came to know about my naughty ways with poor young mr. carson." she blushed for shame at the remembrance of her folly, and hid her head on his shoulder while he made answer. "darling, i'm almost loth to tell you; your aunt esther told me." "ah, i remember! but how did she know? i was so put about that night i did not think of asking her. where did you see her? i've forgotten where she lives." mary said all this in so open and innocent a manner, that jem felt sure she knew not the truth respecting esther, and he half hesitated to tell her. at length he replied, "where did you see esther lately? when? tell me, love, for you've never named it before, and i can't make it out." "oh! it was that horrible night which is like a dream." and she told him of esther's midnight visit, concluding with, "we must go and see her before we leave, though i don't rightly know where to find her." "dearest mary,--" "what, jem?" exclaimed she, alarmed by his hesitation. "your poor aunt esther has no home:--she's one of them miserable creatures that walk the streets." and he in his turn told of his encounter with esther, with so many details that mary was forced to be convinced, although her heart rebelled against the belief. "jem, lad!" said she, vehemently, "we must find her out,--we must hunt her up!" she rose as if she was going on the search there and then. "what could we do, darling?" asked he, fondly restraining her. "do! why! what could we _not_ do, if we could but find her? she's none so happy in her ways, think ye, but what she'd turn from them, if any one would lend her a helping hand. don't hold me, jem; this is just the time for such as her to be out, and who knows but what i might find her close at hand." "stay, mary, for a minute; i'll go out now and search for her if you wish, though it's but a wild chase. you must not go. it would be better to ask the police to-morrow. but if i should find her, how can i make her come with me? once before she refused, and said she could not break off her drinking ways, come what might?" "you never will persuade her if you fear and doubt," said mary, in tears. "hope yourself, and trust to the good that must be in her. speak to that,--she has it in her yet,--oh, bring her home, and we will love her so, we'll make her good." "yes!" said jem, catching mary's sanguine spirit; "she shall go to america with us; and we'll help her to get rid of her sins. i'll go now, my precious darling, and if i can't find her, it's but trying the police to-morrow. take care of your own sweet self, mary," said he, fondly kissing her before he went out. it was not to be. jem wandered far and wide that night, but never met esther. the next day he applied to the police; and at last they recognised under his description of her, a woman known to them under the name of the "butterfly," from the gaiety of her dress a year or two ago. by their help he traced out one of her haunts, a low lodging-house behind peter street. he and his companion, a kind-hearted policeman, were admitted, suspiciously enough, by the landlady, who ushered them into a large garret where twenty or thirty people of all ages and both sexes lay and dozed away the day, choosing the evening and night for their trades of beggary, thieving, or prostitution. "i know the butterfly was here," said she, looking round. "she came in, the night before last, and said she had not a penny to get a place for shelter; and that if she was far away in the country she could steal aside and die in a copse, or a clough, like the wild animals; but here the police would let no one alone in the streets, and she wanted a spot to die in, in peace. it's a queer sort of peace we have here, but that night the room was uncommon empty, and i'm not a hard-hearted woman (i wish i were, i could ha' made a good thing out of it afore this if i were harder), so i sent her up,--but she's not here now, i think." "was she very bad?" asked jem. "ay! nought but skin and bone, with a cough to tear her in two." they made some inquiries, and found that in the restlessness of approaching death, she had longed to be once more in the open air, and had gone forth,--where, no one seemed to be able to tell. leaving many messages for her, and directions that he was to be sent for if either the policeman or the landlady obtained any clue to her where-abouts, jem bent his steps towards mary's house; for he had not seen her all that long day of search. he told her of his proceedings and want of success; and both were saddened at the recital, and sat silent for some time. after a while they began talking over their plans. in a day or two, mary was to give up house, and go and live for a week or so with job legh, until the time of her marriage, which would take place immediately before sailing; they talked themselves back into silence and delicious reverie. mary sat by jem, his arm round her waist, her head on his shoulder; and thought over the scenes which had passed in that home she was so soon to leave for ever. suddenly she felt jem start, and started too without knowing why; she tried to see his countenance, but the shades of evening had deepened so much she could read no expression there. it was turned to the window; she looked and saw a white face pressed against the panes on the outside, gazing intently into the dusky chamber. while they watched, as if fascinated by the appearance, and unable to think or stir, a film came over the bright, feverish, glittering eyes outside, and the form sank down to the ground without a struggle of instinctive resistance. "it is esther!" exclaimed they, both at once. they rushed outside; and, fallen into what appeared simply a heap of white or light-coloured clothes, fainting or dead, lay the poor crushed butterfly--the once innocent esther. she had come (as a wounded deer drags its heavy limbs once more to the green coolness of the lair in which it was born, there to die) to see the place familiar to her innocence, yet once again before her death. whether she was indeed alive or dead, they knew not now. job came in with margaret, for it was bed-time. he said esther's pulse beat a little yet. they carried her upstairs and laid her on mary's bed, not daring to undress her, lest any motion should frighten the trembling life away; but it was all in vain. towards midnight, she opened wide her eyes and looked around on the once familiar room; job legh knelt by the bed praying aloud and fervently for her, but he stopped as he saw her roused look. she sat up in bed with a sudden convulsive motion. "has it been a dream then?" asked she wildly. then with a habit, which came like instinct even in that awful dying hour, her hand sought for a locket which hung concealed in her bosom, and, finding that, she knew all was true which had befallen her since last she lay an innocent girl on that bed. she fell back, and spoke word never more. she held the locket containing her child's hair still in her hand, and once or twice she kissed it with a long soft kiss. she cried feebly and sadly as long as she had any strength to cry, and then she died. they laid her in one grave with john barton. and there they lie without name, or initial, or date. only this verse is inscribed upon the stone which covers the remains of these two wanderers. psalm ciii. v. 9.--"for he will not always chide, neither will he keep his anger for ever." i see a long, low, wooden house, with room enough and to spare. the old primeval trees are felled and gone for many a mile around; one alone remains to overshadow the gable-end of the cottage. there is a garden around the dwelling, and far beyond that stretches an orchard. the glory of an indian summer is over all, making the heart leap at the sight of its gorgeous beauty. at the door of the house, looking towards the town, stands mary, watching for the return of her husband from his daily work; and while she watches, she listens, smiling; "clap hands, daddy comes, with his pocket full of plums, and a cake for johnnie." then comes a crow of delight from johnnie. then his grandmother carries him to the door, and glories in seeing him resist his mother's blandishments to cling to her. "english letters! 'twas that made me so late!" "oh, jem, jem! don't hold them so tight! what do they say?" "why, some good news. come, give a guess what it is." "oh, tell me! i cannot guess," said mary. "then you give it up, do you? what do you say, mother?" jane wilson thought a moment. "will and margaret are married?" asked she. "not exactly,--but very near. the old woman has twice the spirit of the young one. come, mary, give a guess!" he covered his little boy's eyes with his hands for an instant, significantly, till the baby pushed them down, saying in his imperfect way, "tan't see." "there now! johnnie can see. do you guess, mary?" "they've done something to margaret to give her back her sight!" exclaimed she. "they have. she has been couched, and can see as well as ever. she and will are to be married on the twenty-fifth of this month, and he's bringing her out here next voyage; and job legh talks of coming too,--not to see you, mary,--nor you, mother,--nor you, my little hero" (kissing him), "but to try and pick up a few specimens of canadian insects, will says. all the compliment is to the earwigs, you see, mother!" "dear job legh!" said mary, softly and seriously. 