CHAPTER IIIEXPIATION
The steamer reached New York harbor a few minutes after sunrise.
As soon as she ran alongside of her pier Harcourt came up on deck.
Charles Cutts was there, standing with two or three other passengers, waiting for the gangplank to be laid down for them to pass ashore.
“Going to stay long in New York?” inquired Cutts, coming to his side.
“I do not know yet,” answered Harcourt.
“Come this way,” said Cutts, lowering his voice and walking some little distance from the group.
Harcourt followed anxiously.
“Now that we are to part,” said Cutts in a still lower tone, “I wish you to promise me one thing.”
“What is it?” inquired Harcourt, seeing that Cutts paused and hesitated.
“Never to mention the secret I told you yesterday morning,” said Cutts solemnly.
“But you told me no secret,” replied Harcourt.
“Well, then, the fact that I hinted as to knowing something more about the death of that scoundrel, Yelverton, than the coroner’s Dogberries ever suspected. I never mentioned the fact to any human being before. Heaven knows I don’t know what in the devil possessed me to speak of it to you, unless it was because you were the first and the last and the only man, except the porter, that I spoke to on that one fatal night of my visit to the Isle of Storms. Promise me, on your word of honor, that you will not speak of it to any one until I give you leave.”
“I promise on my word of honor,” replied Harcourt, in amazement; for if this man had really seen the manner of the death of Yelverton by any unknown means, why should he think it necessary to bind him, Harcourt, the culprit, by a promise never to mention his knowledge?
“We may, or may not, ever meet again. In the meantime, I rely on your honor to keep your promise,” said Cutts.
“You may do so,” replied the young man, still dazed.
“Well, good-by.”
The gangplank was down, and the passengers were going off the boat.
“Good-by,” returned Harcourt, and followed the stream to the pier to begin his new life.
First he went to a barber’s shop and had his handsome dark mustache shaved off, and his rather long, silken dark hair cut short.
Then he went to a tailor’s and procured a rough suit of clothes, which, after trying on, he kept on, and had his traveling suit put up in a parcel, which he took under his arm.
New York shopkeepers are used to all sorts of queer customers, but they certainly did look a little curiously after this strange young man.
“An escaped lunatic, I shouldn’t at all wonder,” remarked the proprietor.
Harcourt went in search of cheap lodgings in the lowest and most crowded part of the city.
He saw many placards on the front of tall, dingy tenement houses with rooms to let, furnished or unfurnished, with or without board. But on inquiry he found they were rooms on crowded floors, full of bad air, and he wanted an attic or a loft, however poor and bare, that he might have the fresh air which was so needful for the preservation of his health and ability to work.
At length, after some hours’ wanderings, he found what he wanted on a street near the water. It was one of the oldest houses of old New York, the basement and ground floors used for small groceries and dry goods and the upper floors as tenements. The attic, of two large rooms, each with two dormer windows, was occupied only by a poor, solitary seamstress, who lived in the front room. The back room was vacant, and bare of furniture, but, like the attic rooms of many old houses, in city as well as country, it had a small open fireplace, with cupboards on each side of the chimney, and its two dormer windows gave a fine view of New York Bay, with its picturesque headlands and islands.
Seven dollars a month, in advance, was the price of this attic room.
Harcourt paid the money, and went out to buy the cheapest furniture, in the smallest quantity that he could get on with, but not from second-hand dealers; his inherited fastidiousness shrank from the close contact of discarded household goods of whose antecedents he knew nothing.
He bought a narrow cot, a straw mattress and pillow, two sets of bed linen, two pairs of blankets and a woolen spread, a pine table, a cane chair, a tea kettle, a coffee pot, a gridiron, and some little crockery and cutlery. All his furniture, new though it was, did not cost him more than twelve dollars.
He had this all arranged in his room before night.
Lastly, he went down to the baggage room of thesteamer, claimed his trunk, and had it brought up to his attic.
When he had paid the truckman, and shut the door upon him, he knelt down beside his trunk, and with a little chisel began to pry out the small brass-headed tacks that formed the initials of his name—W. E. H.
To the agent of whom he rented the room he had given the name of William Williams, persuading himself that the doubling of his first name and the suppression of the other could scarcely be called giving a false name.
He did not wish to take into his new life the old name. His reluctance did not come from any remnant of false pride. All that was gone now, and William Harcourt knew that labor with the pick or shovel, the hod or trowel, honestly performed, was just as honorable as labor with the pen, the pencil or the voice.
But he wished to guard against the chances of his mother’s discovery of his hard life, which would certainly give her great pain and distress, and lead to questionings that could not be answered.
For the present he hoped and believed that she was enjoying a rare season of comfort and happiness in the society of Ruth Elde, at Goblin Hall, and with the prospect of several weeks of uninterrupted peace.
He did not dare to write to her just yet; nor did he think she would be uneasy at not hearing from him. She would just think that he was so much absorbed in his happiness that, knowing she was well cared for at Goblin Hall, he had delayed writing. She was not jealous or exacting, this noble Dorothy Harcourt.
Later she must know the truth—that Roma Fronde had married William Hanson and not William Harcourt; but, oh! let it be as much later as possible. How should he tell her? How should he explain his own part in that wrong? He could not think, and he told himself it was not necessary to think just now.
He had borne as much of the burden of heavy thought as he could bear without going mad.
When he had finished picking the tacks out of histrunk, and shoved it across the bare floor into a corner, he began to feel faint from fatigue and fasting. He was also very cold, for there was no fire in the room.
He went out again, and bought a bucket of coal, a parcel of kindling wood, a box of matches, a loaf of bread, a mutton chop and a little coffee, sugar, pepper and salt.
Then he returned to his attic, kindled a fire in his rusty little grate, filled his kettle from the water spigot at the end of the hall, and cooked his frugal supper.
He had been accustomed, in his struggling college days, to wait upon himself, as we have seen, and that had in some measure prepared him for his present life. He was habitually neat, and when he had finished his meal he washed up all utensils, set his room in order, and then went to sit at one of the dormer windows to look out upon the night. A starlit sky hung over the bay, with its islands and headlands and its groves of shipping.
The hum of the city was far below him, and at this hour it was much lessened. The house was also very still. No sound was to be heard but the monotonous motion of the sewing machine worked by the seamstress in the next room. In this silence and solitude, thought overwhelmed him. Imagination conjured up the picture of Roma in her island prison, in the power of William Hanson. He could not bear this. He started up with a suppressed cry, and ran downstairs and into the crowded streets. He pushed through the crowd to get at freer space and fresher air, and went on toward the piers.
He walked rapidly up and down one of the most deserted-looking, to fatigue himself into the need of rest and the possibility of sleep. He walked for hours, until he began to feel weary; then he slackened his pace, but still walked and walked, being resolved to so exhaust his physical powers that his mental faculties might find rest in unconsciousness. He walkedup and down until from very prostration he had to stop and sit down on a pile of planks left lying there.
He had been sitting there some time, felt somewhat rested, and able to return to his lodgings, and was about to rise and retrace his steps, when his attention was attracted by the figure of a man coming toward him. The man was of low stature, slight and slim, and would have looked like a boy but for his stooping shoulders and long beard. He came on, tottering like an inebriate.
Something in his form and manner compelled Harcourt to look at him. He came on, tottering from right to left, passed Harcourt without seeing him, and went on toward the end of the pier. Harcourt, moved by some inspiration he could not understand, arose and followed him silently, closely.
When the stranger reached the end of the pier, where the water was deep, he paused, looked down profoundly, much as Harcourt himself had looked into the depth of Chesapeake Bay two nights before.
“There is peace there,” the stranger murmured, using the very words that Harcourt had used under a recent similar temptation.
And then he threw up his arms for the fatal leap.
But Harcourt’s swift arms were cast around him and held him back.
The would-be suicide struggled hard to release himself, but he was weak, very weak, and Harcourt, inspired by the sudden joy of saving him, held him fast.
“Let me go! Who are you that would save a tortured and maddened wretch from rest and peace?” demanded the stranger, still struggling, though now very feebly, for his poor strength was failing, and he seemed more like fainting than resisting. “Who are you? Who are you, I say?”
“Another tortured and maddened wretch, who, two nights ago, if conscience had not restrained him, would have sought rest and peace as you wish to seek them now, but would not have found them, as you would not have found them if you had taken that fatalplunge. What is your trouble, man? Tell me. Possibly, possibly, possibly, I may be able to help you bear it. God grant that I may! Come, what is your trouble?” demanded Harcourt, setting the stranger down upon a large box, placing himself at his side, and passing his arm around the man’s waist, the better to protect him from himself.
“Trouble!” cried the other. “Trouble enough! Illness all autumn. No work. Wife and children freezing, starving, in a cellar. No food for two days. Everything pawned but just enough clothes to cover our nakedness. Trouble, indeed!”
“Good Heaven! good Heaven! It is incredible! ‘In a whole city full!’” exclaimed Harcourt, quoting Hood. “Come with me. The stores are not all closed yet. We will get coal and wood, and have a fire and a supper. Come!”
“I—I——What do you mean?” demanded the dazed little man.
“‘All men are brethren.’ I cannot see my brother hunger or freeze while I have the means of getting him food and a fire. Come with me.”
And Harcourt arose and took the man by the arm and raised him up.
The two walked from the pier.
There was a restaurant near at hand, Harcourt first took his protégé in there, ordered beefsteak and coffee, and made him eat.
“How far is your home from this place?” inquired Harcourt.
“About half a block.”
“All right,” said the young man. “We will have something cooked just here and take it with us as soon as it is ready.”
And he ordered half a gallon of stewed oysters, a quart of strong coffee, and bread and butter for six, to be put in a hamper to be taken away.
“I don’t know how many you have at home,” he said, “but the order for six I judged a safe guess.”
“There are three at home—my wife, son and daughter,the two last quite small children, the boy seven, the girl five,” said the stranger.
“All right. You feel better now?” inquired the young man.
“Yes, much better, thanks to you; but how or when can I ever repay you?”
“You are repaying me now. I was feeling as unhappy as you yourself were when I was so blessed as to save you from suicide. I, too, feel better, much better now. I am fully repaid.”
“It is good of you to look at it in that light. But have you had trouble, too?” inquired the stranger with much feeling.
“Yes, but we will not talk of trouble now. We both feel better. Here comes the waiter with the wife’s and children’s supper in the hamper; let us go to them—that is, if you have finished.”
“Oh, I have finished,” said the stranger, pointing to the empty platters, which he had cleaned.
Harcourt paid the bill for the stranger’s supper and for the contents of the hamper.
Then both arose and left the restaurant, followed by the waiter, with the hamper, who went with them to bring back the crockeryware.
The stranger led the way to a dingy tenement house with an open cellar door. The stranger dived down into this cellar, followed by his two companions.
They found themselves in a deep, murky room, with a damp flagstone floor, damp brick walls, a musty atmosphere, without furniture, without fire, and without light, except from the street gas lamp that stood directly in front of the house, and shone down into the cellar.
By its light they saw three miserable human beings—a young woman, a little boy, and a baby girl—huddled together on the damp floor, as if trying to keep each other warm.
“Come, wife, cheer up! Help has come! Here is supper for you and the children!” said the husband, taking the hamper from the waiter, who was staringin astonishment at the party he had been called upon to serve.
“You can go back now. It is but a step to your place, and come later for the dishes—or I can send them around,” said Harcourt, slipping a quarter into the waiter’s hand.
“All right, sir,” said the latter, now quite understanding, despite Harcourt’s rough suit, that “a gentleman” had chosen to relieve a starving family.
The husband and father had hastily arranged the food on the cellar floor, and the famished wife and children had gathered around. He had put a cup of coffee in the hands of his wife, and was now giving hot milk to the two children.
It was a Rembrandt picture, seen in the glare of the street gas lamp.
“Have you no light?” inquired Harcourt.
“Light! Should we have light when we have not fire, and hadn’t food until you brought it?” exclaimed the man.
“Then I will hurry out and try to get some candles and some coal before the stores are closed,” said Harcourt. And away he went.
He succeeded in buying a bucket of coal, a bundle of kindlings, a box of matches, a pound of candles, and a pair of tin candlesticks.
With these he returned to his new friends, kindled a fire in the stove, lighted two candles, and placed them in the candlesticks, on the floor, and then looked around.
There was no furniture of any description in the cellar, unless a pile of ragged bedclothes, in the dryest corner, next the chimney, could be called such.
“I see what you are looking for, sir! But they are all at the pawnbroker’s, every stick! And the rags would have been along with the rest if any broker would have advanced ten cents on them, to buy the children bread to-day.”
“It is dreadful, my friend, dreadful! I wish I could do more for you now, but the stores are all closed. Make yourself as comfortable as you can, under thecircumstances, to-night, and to-morrow I will see you again. What is your name, by the way?”
“Adler, sir; Abel Adler.”
“Mine is Williams. Good-night. You will see the hamper of dishes returned?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Thank you more than words can say,” responded Adler.
“More than words can say,” repeated his wife.
“Good-night! good-night!” said Harcourt hastily, and he hurried out from the cellar.
It had cost him almost as much to relieve the pressing necessities of this poor family as it had to furnish his own bare attic room, and both outlays had nearly exhausted the remains of the funds from the payment of that “old debt” which the “pious fraud” of Ruth Elde, assisted by her Joe, had invented.
Poor Harcourt did not grudge the money, but he felt that he must find work at once, or have nothing to send to his mother, when, in the course of weeks, he should write to her.
He went up to his attic, but as soon as he found himself alone there his temporary feelings of relief left him. While with Adler and his family he had really felt better, as he had said; but it was the surrounding and reflection of their happier feelings.
Now, in the solitude of his attic, remorse and despair seized him again, much on account of his share in that tragedy at the Isle of Storms, but more, far more, for that which had come of it—his black, black treachery to Roma Fronde. The first might be expiated when he should give himself up to justice to suffer the penalty of his offense; but the last—the last! How should he ever atone for the irreparable wrong done to Roma?
In the soul’s utter extremity to whom can it go but to its Father in heaven?
Harcourt cast himself down prone upon the floor, and called upon the name of the Lord, not for pardon—he dared not—but for some means, through however much of suffering for himself, to atone for his sin to Roma.
“I can do nothing! nothing!” he cried. “I have fallen hopelessly into the pit! But with Thee ‘all things are possible.’ Thou holdest in Thine almighty hands the springs of all life and all activity. Oh, make it so that I may be sacrificed, humiliated, destroyed, for her sake, so that she may be happy!”
In his deep despair time passed unheeded. He lay face downward on the floor of his attic, sometimes giving vent to the anguish of his soul in deep groans, sometimes rolling over, but always falling into the same position, face to the floor.
So the wretched night passed, and the morning dawned and found him there.
In the midst of his misery he became conscious that some one was knocking at his door, and had been knocking for some few seconds.
“Who is there?” he called at length, as he slowly rose from the floor.
“It is I, your next neighbor. Are you ill? Can I do anything for you?” inquired a sweet voice from without.
Will Harcourt instantly opened the door, and saw in the uncertain light of the dawn a woman standing there. But whether she was young or old, pretty or plain, he could not tell.
“Oh! you are all in the dark,” she said. “Let me go and bring my candle.”
And she was off like a shot, before Harcourt could speak to prevent her.
But he went to his cupboard and lighted his own candle, so that when she came back with hers the darkness had fled.
By this light he saw that she was a middle-aged woman; but as middle age is a sort of “movable feast,” anywhere between thirty and sixty, let us be a little more definite, and say that she was about forty, and not at all of the pale, thin, starved needlewoman and tenement-house type whom to see or hear of is so heartrending. She was plump, fair, rosy, blue-eyed and light-haired, with a cheerful and kindly expression, and she was neatly dressed in a gown ofsome cheap blue woolen material and a white bib apron.
“You have been ill all night, I fear, and I am very sorry for it,” she said as she set her candlestick down on the table and looked at him. “I heard you groaning just as soon as I stopped my sewing machine and could hear anything, but you ceased soon, and I didn’t think much of it, but went to bed and to sleep. I always sleep like a top; but this morning, as soon as I woke up, I heard you groaning worse than ever, and I blamed myself for not attending to you last night. Now what is the matter? Tell me. I am a right good nurse and doctress, but not professional, so I don’t cost my patients anything.”
“You are very kind, and I truly thank you, but I am not ill in the body,” replied Harcourt, with a feeble smile.
“Not in body! Then in mind. But you have not slept all night, I know, and so you are not well in body, any more than in mind. Lie down there on your bed, and I will go and make you a cup of coffee. No denial, and no thanks, please! I won’t have the first, and I don’t want the last,” said the neighbor; and leaving her candle with the other, to make the room more cheerful, she went back to her own apartment.
Will Harcourt certainly felt soothed and comforted by the homely kindliness of his neighbor, and even supported by the motherly authority she assumed over him. He went and lay down as she had bid him do.
Soon he heard her stirring about around her stove in the next room, humming in a low tone a popular school song:
“Sing at your work, ’twill lightenThe labors of the day;Sing at your work, ’twill brightenThe darkness of the way;Sing at your work, though sorrowIts lengthened shadow cast;Joy cometh with the morrow,And soon the night is past.”
“Sing at your work, ’twill lightenThe labors of the day;Sing at your work, ’twill brightenThe darkness of the way;Sing at your work, though sorrowIts lengthened shadow cast;Joy cometh with the morrow,And soon the night is past.”
“Sing at your work, ’twill lightenThe labors of the day;Sing at your work, ’twill brightenThe darkness of the way;Sing at your work, though sorrowIts lengthened shadow cast;Joy cometh with the morrow,And soon the night is past.”
“Sing at your work, ’twill lighten
The labors of the day;
Sing at your work, ’twill brighten
The darkness of the way;
Sing at your work, though sorrow
Its lengthened shadow cast;
Joy cometh with the morrow,
And soon the night is past.”
Presently she came in with a generous cup of coffee and a plate of buttered toast on a battered little black Japan waiter, the whole covered with a clean, white, well darned old napkin.
She sank down on the solitary chair beside the bed, and holding the waiter of breakfast in her lap, said:
“Now sit up and take this, while I get a good look at you.”
Again, with a feeble smile, Harcourt obeyed her, took the offered cup from her hand, and while he eagerly quaffed the fragrant coffee, which he found so grateful to his parched throat and fainting frame, she regarded him with the eyes of experience.
“Yes, young man,” she said gravely and tenderly, “you have seen trouble—plenty of trouble, but that is the lot of human beings. ‘Man is born to trouble as the sparks to fly upward.’ Ah! and if we in trouble go upward in spirit to Him who can turn our trouble to our greatest good, then it will be well with us. Everything is good that sends us to Him. But there, I am not going to preach to you. I am not wise enough nor good enough to do that. I only wanted to drop that one little hint.”
“But,” said Harcourt, setting down his empty cup on the waiter she still held, “if one has sinned—grievously, basely, atrociously sinned—what then? What then?”
She looked at his pale, haggard, questioning face for a few moments and then said:
“You are putting a case that is not your own, I feel sure. You are incapable of baseness or atrocity. Yet I will answer your question. If one has sinned—feels that he has so sinned—despairs because he has so sinned—still let him go to his Father in heaven. To whom else in the universe could he go?”
“To Christ.”
“He is the Father. But I told you I would not preach, and I won’t. I only wished to say this simple thing: Whatever your trouble may be, take it to your Saviour God. Now let me bring you another cup of coffee.”
“Are you not mixing spiritual and material up very considerably?” inquired Harcourt.
“We cannot help mixing them up in this world. Were they not so mixed in the ‘last supper’? Are they not mixed everywhere in this world?” said the woman as she took up the waiter and went off to her room to replenish the empty cup from the hot coffee pot on her stove.
“Thank you,” said Harcourt as he received the second cup from her hands. “Thank you. But I feel like a sneak and a coward to be sitting here taking all these attentions from you and telling you nothing about myself.”
“You will tell me after a while. I do not wish to force your confidence. You will find relief in telling me after a while; but not so much as you will find when you carry your burden where I told you to carry it, and where your New Testament would have told you, if you had read it.”
“How do you know I don’t read it?”
“Because if you did you would not be so low down. Read your New Testament. But, there, I won’t preach.”
Will Harcourt smiled. His neighbor so often declared she would not preach, yet she preached all the time.
She began again:
“I will give you three words: Read (the Word of God), work, pray. Now I will leave you. But call on me any time, day or night, and I will come to you.”
She took up her little waiter and left the room.
“If the blessing of such a miserable wretch as myself could avail, I should bless her; but I can obey her. I will read, work and pray. But, oh! Roma! Roma! Roma! Where are you now? How are you now? Will you become reconciled to the love of that man who loved you enough to wreck his soul and my own for your sake? I must not think of it. That way, indeed, ‘madness lies.’ Who is my kind neighbor, I wonder? She came and ministered to me, and never told her name or asked mine. True Arabian kindness!The janitor downstairs said that she was a poor seamstress, who worked for the ready-made clothing department of a large store in Grand Street, and that she was a most respectable woman. To me she is only my neighbor, with a little gift of preaching. Well, I must be up and doing. I must go out and look for work.”
He went to the water tank and filled his pitcher, and then washed his face and hands, brushed his hair, whisked his rough suit of clothes, and went down the four flights of stairs that led to the street door.
Outside, he suddenly thought of Adler’s family, and determined to go to see them before going to seek work.
But he had not walked half a block before he met Adler.
“Well,” he said, “how is the wife, and how are the babies?”
“All well and happy. Had the best breakfast of a month past off what was left of last night’s supper.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Harcourt, and he thought how little it took to make some people happy.
“You certainly brought me luck, young boss,” said the man.
“I am glad to hear that, also, if it is true; but I do not see how I could have done so.”
“Why, my luck turned last night, when you picked me out of the very jaws of hell—first, in the shape of a good meal for self and wife and kids, the first of any sort we had in two days; then a good night’s rest for all, which came from satisfied hunger; then a good breakfast from the fragments that remained; then, early this morning, a message from my old boss to come to work on Rue Street. My boss is in the employment of a contractor who is pulling down a row of tenement houses in Rue Street, to put up a row of fine buildings for stores. They say these houses have been condemned by the commissioners, and now they have got to go. Turn around and walk with me, boss, and I’ll tell you all about it. You see, I am on my way to work, and want to get there in good time.”
Harcourt turned about, and as they went on he asked his companion:
“Do you think that I could get work on that same job?”
“You, boss!” exclaimed Adler, stopping in his astonishment and gazing on the speaker.
“Yes; I am looking for a job,” quietly replied Harcourt.
“You—looking for a job—of that sort?”
“Of any honest sort.”
“But that is hard labor of the roughest and dirtiest—pulling down moldy and pestiferous old houses.”
“No matter; I shall be glad to get it.”
“Well, I am hit hard—hit harder than I ever was in my life!”
“How so?”
“Why, boss—not to be offensive—I—I—I—thought you were a gentleman and a scholar.”
“Need a man be less a gentleman and a scholar because he takes any honest work he can get, rather than live in idleness and go in debt?”
“You have got me there, boss, sure as a gun. But I should think you might do better than that—might get a salesman’s place in an uptown store. You would be sure to be popular among customers, with your figure and address.”
“But why should I seek a salesman’s situation in preference to a laborer’s?”
“Well, it is nicer and cleaner, and you would be in better company.”
“I do not think so; and I prefer to take work that offers itself, rather than to seek it in vain.”
“Very well, young boss. Here we are,” said Adler, as they turned the corner, and were at once deafened by a tremendous crash, and choked by a great enveloping grayish-white dust.
“There!” exclaimed Adler, as soon as by coughing and sneezing he had in some measure cleared his air pipes, “there! that was the plastering from some failing partition wall. It was an accident, of course. They never intended a wall to come down like that;but you see they can’t always prevent it, any more than miners can always prevent a caving in or an explosion. So you see, sir, the work is not only dirty, but dangerous.”
“So much the more suited to me,” muttered Harcourt under his breath.
“I hope no one was hurt by the falling of that wall,” said Adler, hurrying on to the scene of destruction, closely accompanied by Harcourt. The workmen employed on the job were waiting for the cloud to clear away.
To Adler’s anxious inquiries they answered that no one was hurt, no one having been near the wall when it fell. Adler inquired for his own boss, and was directed where to find him.
He went, still accompanied by Harcourt.
The “boss,” a tall, hard-featured, dark-skinned man, with gray hair and beard, and clothed in a business suit, received the workman with a kindly smile, but said:
“You are an hour behind time, Adler. I shall have to dock you a quarter of a day.”
“I know that, sir, and I am sorry, but couldn’t help it.”
Then Adler presented his friend, “Williams,” and succeeded in getting him “taken on” at a dollar a day.
Then their section of work was pointed out to them, and they went together toward it.
“You see,” said Adler, as they hurried on, “you see, as we are an hour behind, we are docked a quarter of a day; that is, instead of getting a dollar, we shall only get seventy-five cents. Just think of it! We work ten hours for a dollar, and if we are one hour behind they dock us the wages of two and a half. ’Tisn’t the boss’s fault; it’s the contractor’s. Ross is not a bad man himself.”
So Harcourt’s self-inflicted penal servitude commenced; and, indeed, it was a most severe penance to the young man.
He did not mind the muscular exertion, the painfulfatigue of back and limbs unaccustomed to hard work, but the dust, the dirt, the stench, formed a purgatory to his sensitive nerves.
That first night, when he was on his way home with Adler, he offered to lend the man money to get his goods and chattels out of pawn, and the latter thankfully accepted the help.
He went to his attic, and, first of all, took a sponge bath and changed all his clothing. He felt as if he could scarcely live and breathe until he had done that. Then he kindled his fire, cooked his chop, boiled his coffee, and ate his supper.
When he had washed up his few dishes and put them away, he snuffed his candle, lighted another, set them on the table, and sat down to read.
Through all this he had heard, and continued to hear, the monotonous thumper-thumper-thumper-thumper of his neighbor’s sewing machine. She did not come near him, however, although he felt sure that she would come if he should call her, and he felt less lonesome on that account.
About ten o’clock the first fruits of his hard work began to appear, in the shape of great fatigue and drowsiness. He went to bed, and, despite mental trouble, slept soundly—slept until the movements of his neighbor about her room waked him up, only in time to get a hurried breakfast and hasten off to his work, to escape being docked a quarter of a day for losing one hour.
This is a fair sample of many days and nights spent by young Harcourt. He allowed himself no indulgences, not even a newspaper, so he never saw the advertisements for himself, nor, if he had, could he have answered them.
He determined that at the end of one month he would write to his mother, or go to see her. He thought that for one month she would be living in comfort, and even in luxury, at Goblin Hall, and that she would excuse his silence in his supposed honeymoon at the Isle of Storms. His honeymoon! Oh! Father of Mercies! was ever mortal man wounded ashe was? His mother would be in blissful ignorance of his real position. There would be no one to tell her. Hanson would not, and Roma could not. Roma would be Hanson’s closely watched prisoner until he should have won her love or conquered her into submission, and then he would take her on his yacht to Europe.
Oh, the infernal thought! And the traitor who had betrayed her to this captivity! Why did not some thunderbolt from heaven fall upon his accursed head? He could not think of Roma’s condition and keep his senses. He fled the subject.
He would write to his mother, or visit her at the end of the month, and he would explain, or not, as circumstances should seem to indicate.
Such was his resolution.
But before the month ended a catastrophe prevented the execution of his plans.
When the work of tearing down and clearing away the old Rue Street tenement houses was finished Harcourt, still following in the wake of his friend, Adler, got employment in the upper part of the city, where a large number of men were at work blasting rock.
He had been engaged with that gang about a week, when, at an explosion, a piece of rock struck him on the side, breaking three of his ribs and knocking him down senseless from the nervous shock.
No one knew him there but Adler, who instantly identified him.
He was carried to the nearest hospital and entered under the name of William Williams. He was supposed to be, and reported to be, a native of South Wales, his complexion and his general appearance favoring that theory.
I will not weary my reader with any details of his illness. Let it be enough to say that it was long, tedious, and very dangerous. The utmost skill and devotion of the hospital doctors and nurses only sufficed to save his life, after many weeks, as “a brand plucked from the burning.”
And if his illness was long and tedious, his slow convalescence was even longer and more tedious.
Adler and his “neighbor” had been constant in their visits to him, whenever they were allowed to see him.
It was late in December when he had been stricken down. It was late in March when he was reported cured.
He was to have been discharged on Monday morning, but Adler pleaded that he might be let out on Sunday, as on that day he and another friend would be at leisure to take charge of him and see him comfortably installed in his home. Adler’s plea was granted.
Adler and his neighbor both came that day to escort him home.
When he reached his attic room he found everything in good order—a fire lighted in the stove, and materials for a good dinner on hand.
“How is this?” he inquired, turning to his two friends.
“We did it,” said Adler. “But I ought to tell you. Your month wanted a few days of being up when you were stricken down, so when I heard that you were not likely to be out of bed for two months to come, even if then, I took it upon myself, as your next friend, you know, to give up your room to save the rent. And as you had paid in advance, without any promise of giving warning when you wanted to leave, I had no trouble with the agent. And then I and Annie, your neighbor here, moved all your traps into her room for safe keeping. And when we heard that you were to come out this week I went and engaged the room again, and we moved your traps back and fixed it up for you, and here you are.”
“Heaven bless you both,” said Harcourt fervently as he sank into his chair.
“Oh, that’s all right. One good turn deserves another,” said Adler carelessly.
“Now, will you tell me the name of my good neighbor here, whom I have only known as my neighbor?” Harcourt asked.
“Annie Moss. I thought you knew. I thought everybody knew her. She is a widow, quite alone in the world, except for the boy brother of her late husband, who is out in Colorado somewhere, seeking his fortune, but not finding it, somehow. He never sends her anything,” Adler exclaimed.
“He can’t help it, poor fellow. His one dream is to strike ore some day and make a lady of his mammy, as he always calls me, though I am only his elder sister-in-law,” Annie added; and then she began to prepare chicken broth for the convalescent.
Harcourt made some faint effort to prevent her, and to wait on himself, but neither Annie nor Adler would permit him to stir from his chair. When his meal was ready they drew the little table up before him.
“But you? Have you dined?” anxiously inquired Harcourt, before tasting his soup.
“Oh, I am going right away now to get my dinner with the wife and babies. Only day in the week I can do it, you know. In better quarters now, right around the corner, over the baker’s shop. Will look in again to-night. Good-by. Annie’ll take care of you,” said Adler, and he left the room.
“And you?” said Harcourt, turning to his neighbor.
“I am going to keep you company in a bowl of this soup. That is all,” said Annie, and she took a bowl and spoon from the corner cupboard, helped herself from the pot on the stove, and sat down near him.
“I am afraid I have got very much in debt,” said Harcourt uneasily.
“Don’t be afraid of anything. Be quiet, and rest on this blessed Sabbath day. To-morrow, when you look into your affairs, I think you will find that you are not in debt at all, except to Adler, who must have advanced a month’s rent before he secured this room for you again—not that he has said anything about it, though.”
“Well, I have enough to pay him, but the hospital——”
“You were in the free ward there.”
Harcourt’s pale face flushed crimson.
“In the pauper ward?” he murmured.
“You could not help being there. It was not your fault. Why should a man mind that, if it is not his fault?” inquired Annie.
“Why, indeed?” assented Harcourt humbly.
“Besides, if you do not like to rest under an obligation, you can, when you are able, make some donation to the hospital that may cover the cost of your treatment there. And now that you have finished your soup you must lie down and try to sleep, and I will take these things into my room and wash them up,” said Annie, and she also rose and went away.
Harcourt stretched himself on his bed, but he did not go to sleep.
His mind was full of anxiety. It was now four months since that fraudulent marriage ceremony—four months since he had seen or heard from his mother or written to her.
Where was Roma now? Traveling in Europe with her husband, probably. Had she become reconciled to her lot? And what was her judgment of him? He did not dare to think.
Perhaps in the future, when his poor mother should have passed to her eternal home, and he should give himself up to justice, “to be dealt with according to law,” and the whole story of his life’s deep tragedy should come out, Roma might judge him leniently. But how was that poor mother, even now? How had she borne the suspense and anxiety of his mysterious silence? Did she perhaps think that he had gone abroad with his rich wife, and totally forgotten his poor mother? Or had she in some way learned the truth?
He felt that he could not write at this late date; he must go and see his mother, and find out her condition for himself.
He had saved a little money from his wages. He arose and went to his trunk to see how much that might be. He found the key hanging on the little nailin the dark corner of the cupboard, where he had been accustomed to keep it.
Either Annie had never found it when she removed his goods from the room, or else she had replaced it, for there it hung.
He took it down, unlocked his trunk, and found and counted his money. Nineteen dollars. Enough to repay Adler the sum advanced for his rent and to bear his expenses to Logwood. Besides, there was his trunk full of costly wearing apparel that he would never want again, and might sell for a considerable sum. He would sell everything except one suit of gentleman’s clothing and three changes of fine underclothing, which he would keep to wear when he should go to see his mother.
His mind was now made up.
He locked his trunk and threw himself on his bed again.
After a while his neighbor brought him a large cup of tea, which he drank gratefully.
“Now,” she said, taking away the empty cup, “I will bid you good-night; but if you should want anything, call me, and I will come to you.”
And with these words she went away.
Later Adler came up.
Then Harcourt told him of his wish to go and see his aged mother.
“I cannot wait to write and hear from her. I must fly to see her. I did intend to go to see her within a few days, when I was prevented by that accident that laid me up for nearly three months. I am her only son—her only child, indeed—and she is a widow. I must go and end her suspense,” Harcourt explained.
“Yes, indeed, you must go,” Adler assented.
Then Harcourt told his friend of his wish to dispose of his trunkful of clothing.
And Adler mentioned the name of a second-hand dealer who would give him a fair price.
“That is, as fair as ever they give. You know, whether it is a book or a coat that you want to sell second-hand, they will tell you that they will have tosell it at half price; and to make any profit they can only give you quarter price. I will go with you there to-morrow, at the noon recess.”
Harcourt thanked him, and the appointment was made.
Adler stayed with his friend until nine o’clock, and then left him, with the advice that he should go to bed.
Harcourt followed his good counsel, and retired, but could not sleep.