Before sunrise the next morning Paul was awakened by a rude shake from Mr. Mudge, with an intimation that he had better get up, as there was plenty of work before him.
By the light of the lantern, for as yet it was too dark to dispense with it, Paul dressed himself. Awakened from a sound sleep, he hardly had time to collect his thoughts, and it was with a look of bewilderment that he surveyed the scene about him. As Mrs. Mudge had said, they were pretty full already, and accordingly a rude pallet had been spread for him in the attic, of which, with the exception of nocturnal marauders, he was the only occupant. Paul had not, to be sure, been used to very superior accommodations, and if the bed had not been quite so hard, he would have got along very well. As it was he was separated from slats only by a thin straw bed which did not improve matters much. It was therefore with a sense of weariness which slumber had not dissipated, that Paul arose at the summons of Mr. Mudge.
When he reached the kitchen, he found that gentleman waiting for him.
“Do you know how to milk?” was his first salutation.
“I never learned,” said Paul.
“Then you'll have to, in double-quick time,” was the reply, “for I don't relish getting up so early, and you can take it off my hands.”
The two proceeded to the barn, where Paul received his first lesson in this important branch of education.
Mr. Mudge kept five cows. One might have thought he could have afforded a moderate supply of milk to his boarders, but all, with the exception of a single quart, was sold to the milkman who passed the door every morning.
After breakfast, which was on the same economical plan with the dinner of the day previous, Paul was set to work planting potatoes, at which he was kept steadily employed till the dinner-hour.
Poor Paul! his back ached dreadfully, for he had never before done any harder work than trifling services for his father. But the inexorable Mr. Mudge was in sight, and however much he wished, he did not dare to lay aside his hoe even for a moment.
Twelve o'clock found him standing beside the dinner-table. He ate more heartily than before, for his forenoon's labor made even poorhouse fare palatable.
Mrs. Mudge observed the change, and remarked in a satisfied tone. “Well, my fine gentleman, I see you are coming to your appetite. I thought you wouldn't hold out long.”
Paul, who had worn off something of his diffidence, could not help feeling indignant at this speech; unaccustomed to be addressed in this way, the taunt jarred upon his feelings, but he only bit his lip and preserved silence.
Aunt Lucy, too, who had come to feel a strong interest in Paul, despite her natural mildness, could not resist the temptation of saying with some warmth, “what's the use of persecuting the child? He has sorrows enough of his own without your adding to them.”
Mrs. Mudge was not a little incensed at this remonstrance.
“I should like to know, ma'am, who requested you to put in your oar!” she said with arms akimbo. “Anybody wouldn't think from your lofty airs that you lived in the poorhouse; I'll thank you to mind your own business in the future, and not meddle with what don't concern you.”
Aunt Lucy was wise enough to abstain from provoking further the wrath of her amiable landlady, and continued to eat her soup in silence. But Mrs. Mudge neer forgot this interference, nor the cause of it, and henceforth with the malignity of a narrow-minded and spiteful woman, did what she could to make Paul uncomfortable. Her fertile ingenuity always found some new taunt, or some new reproach, to assail him with. But Paul, though at first he felt indignant, learned at last to treat them as they deserved, with silent disdain. Assured of the sympathy of those around him, he did not allow his appetite to be spoiled by any remark which Mrs. Mudge might offer.
This, of course, only provoked her the more, and she strove to have his daily tasks increased, in the amiable hope that his “proud spirit” might be tamed thereby.
Mr. Mudge, who was somewhat under petticoat government, readily acceded to his wife's wishes, and henceforth Paul's strength was taxed to its utmost limit. He was required to be up with the first gray tint of dawn and attend to the cattle. From this time until night, except the brief time devoted to his meals, he was incessantly occupied. Aunt Lucy's society, his chief comfort, was thus taken from him; since, in order to rise early, he was obliged to go to bed as soon as possible after day's work was finished.
The effects of such incessant labor without a sufficient supply of nourishing food, may easily be imagined. The dry bread and meagre soup which constituted the chief articles of diet in Mrs. Mudge's economical household, had but one recommendation,—they were effectual preventives of gluttony. It was reported that on one occasion a beggar, apparently famishing with hunger, not knowing the character of the house, made application at the door for food. In an unusual fit of generosity, Mrs. Mudge furnished him with a slice of bread and a bowl of soup, which, however, proved so far from tempting that the beggar, hungry as he was, left them almost untouched.
One day, as Paul was working in the field at a little distance from Mr. Mudge, he became conscious of a peculiar feeling of giddiness which compelled him to cling to the hoe for support,—otherwise he must have fallen.
“No laziness there,” exclaimed Mr. Mudge, observing Paul's cessation from labor, “We can't support you in idleness.”
But the boy paid no regard to this admonition, and Mr. Mudge, somewhat surprised, advanced toward him to enforce the command.
Even he was startled at the unusual paleness of Paul's face, and inquired in a less peremptory tone, “what's the matter?”
“I feel sick,” gasped Paul.
Without another word, Mr. Mudge took Paul up in his arms and carried him into the house.
“What's the matter, now?” asked his wife, meeting him at the door.
“The boy feels a little sick, but I guess he'll get over it by-and by. Haven't you got a little soup that you can give him? I reckon he's faint, and that'll brighten him up.”
Paul evidently did not think so, for he motioned away a bowl of the delightful mixture, though it was proffered him by the fair hands of Mrs. Mudge. The lady was somewhat surprised, and said, roughly, “I shouldn't wonder if he was only trying to shirk.”
This was too much even for Mr. Mudge; “The boy's sick,” said he, “that's plain enough; if he don't get better soon, I must send for the doctor, for work drives, and I can't spare him.”
“There's no more danger of his being sick than mine,” said Mrs. Mudge, emphatically; “however, if you're fool enough to go for a doctor, that's none of my business. I've heard of feigning sickness before now, to get rid of work. As to his being pale, I've been as pale as that myself sometimes without your troubling yourself very much about me.”
“'Twon't be any expense to us,” alleged Mr. Mudge, in a tone of justification, for he felt in some awe of his wife's temper, which was none of the mildest when a little roused, “'Twon't be any expense to us; the town has got to pay for it, and as long as it will get him ready for work sooner, we might as well take advantage of it.”
This consideration somewhat reconciled Mrs. Mudge to the step proposed, and as Paul, instead of getting better, grew rapidly worse, Mr. Mudge thought it expedient to go immediately for the village physician. Luckily Dr. Townsend was at home, and an hour afterwards found him standing beside the sick boy.
“I don't know but you'll think it rather foolish, our sending for you, doctor,” said Mrs. Mudge, “but Mudge would have it that the boy was sick and so he went for you.”
“And he did quite right,” said Dr. Townsend, noticing the ghastly pallor of Paul's face. “He is a very sick boy, and if I had not been called I would not have answered for the consequences. How do you feel, my boy?” he inquired of Paul.
“I feel very weak, and my head swims,” was the reply.
“How and when did this attack come on?” asked the doctor, turning to Mr. Mudge.
“He was taken while hoeing in the field,” was the reply.
“Have you kept him at work much there lately?”
“Well, yes, I've been drove by work, and he has worked there all day latterly.”
“At what time has he gone to work in the morning?”
“He has got up to milk the cows about five o'clock. I used to do it, but since he has learned, I have indulged myself a little.”
“It would have been well for him if he had enjoyed the same privilege. It is my duty to speak plainly. The sickness of this boy lies at your door. He has never been accustomed to hard labor, and yet you have obliged him to rise earlier and work later than most men. No wonder he feels weak. Has he a good appetite?”
“Well, rather middlin',” said Mrs. Mudge, “but it's mainly because he's too dainty to eat what's set before him. Why, only the first day he was here he turned up his nose at the bread and soup we had for dinner.”
“Is this a specimen of the soup?” asked Dr. Townsend, taking from the table the bowl which had been proffered to Paul and declined by him.
Without ceremony he raised to his lips a spoonful of the soup and tasted it with a wry face.
“Do you often have this soup on the table?” he asked abruptly.
“We always have it once a day, and sometimes twice,” returned Mrs. Mudge.
“And you call the boy dainty because he don't relish such stuff as this?” said the doctor, with an indignation he did not attempt to conceal. “Why, I wouldn't be hired to take the contents of that bowl. It is as bad as any of my own medicines, and that's saying a good deal. How much nourishment do you suppose such a mixture would afford? And yet with little else to sustain him you have worked this boy like a beast of burden,—worse even, for they at least have abundance of GOOD food.”
Mr. and Mrs. Mudge both winced under this plain speaking, but they did not dare to give expression to their anger, for they knew well that Dr. Townsend was an influential man in town, and, by representing the affair in the proper quarter, might render their hold upon their present post a very precarious one. Mr. Mudge therefore contented himself with muttering that he guessed he worked as hard as anybody, and he didn't complain of his fare.
“May I ask you, Mr. Mudge,” said the doctor, fixing his penetrating eye full upon him, “whether you confine yourself to the food upon which you have kept this boy?”
“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, in some confusion, moving uneasily in his seat, “I can't say but now and then I eat something a little different.”
“Do you eat at the same table with the inmates of your house?”
“Well, no,” said the embarrassed Mr. Mudge.
“Tell me plainly,—how often do you partake of this soup?”
“I aint your patient,” said the man, sullenly, “Why should you want to know what I eat?”
“I have an object in view. Are you afraid to answer?”
“I don't know as there's anything to be afraid of. The fact is, I aint partial to soup; it don't agree with me, and so I don't take it.”
“Did you ever consider that this might be the case with others as well as yourself?” inquired the doctor with a glance expressive of his contempt for Mr. Mudge's selfishness. Without waiting for a reply, Dr. Townsend ordered Paul to be put to bed immediately, after which he would leave some medicine for him to take.
Here was another embarrassment for the worthy couple. They hardly knew where to put our hero. It would not do for them to carry him to his pallet in the attic, for they felt sure that this would lead to some more plain speaking on the part of Dr. Townsend. He was accordingly, though with some reluctance, placed in a small bedroom upstairs, which, being more comfortable than those appropriated to the paupers, had been reserved for a son at work in a neighboring town, on his occasional visits home.
“Is there no one in the house who can sit in the chamber and attend to his occasional wants?” asked Dr. Townsend. “He will need to take his medicine at stated periods, and some one will be required to administer it.”
“There's Aunt Lucy Lee,” said Mrs. Mudge, “she's taken a fancy to the boy, and I reckon she'll do as well as anybody.”
“No one better,” returned the doctor, who well knew Aunt Lucy's kindness of disposition, and was satisfied that she would take all possible care of his patient.
So it was arranged that Aunt Lucy should take her place at Paul's bedside as his nurse.
Paul was sick for many days,—not dangerously so, but hard work and scanty fare had weakened him to such a degree that exhausted nature required time to recruit its wasted forces. But he was not unhappy or restless. Hour after hour he would lie patiently, and listen to the clicking of her knitting needles. Though not provided with luxurious food, Dr. Townsend had spoken with so much plainness that Mrs. Mudge felt compelled to modify her treatment, lest, through his influence, she with her husband, might lose their situation. This forced forbearance, however, was far from warming her heart towards its object. Mrs. Mudge was a hard, practical woman, and her heart was so encrusted with worldliness and self-interest that she might as well have been without one.
One day, as Paul lay quietly gazing at Aunt Lucy's benevolent face, and mentally contrasting it with that of Mrs. Mudge, whose shrill voice could be heard form below, he was seized with a sudden desire to learn something of her past history.
“How long have you been here, Aunt Lucy?” he inquired.
She looked up from her knitting, and sighed as she answered, “A long and weary time to look back upon, Paul. I have been here ten years.”
“Ten years,” repeated Paul, thoughtfully, “and I am thirteen. So you have been here nearly all my lifetime. Has Mr. Mudge been here all that time?”
“Only the last two years. Before that we had Mrs. Perkins.”
“Did she treat you any better than Mrs. Mudge?”
“Any better than Mrs. Mudge!” vociferated that lady, who had ascended the stairs without being heard by Aunt Lucy of Paul, and had thus caught the last sentence. “Any better than Mrs. Mudge!” she repeated, thoroughly provoked. “So you've been talking about me, you trollop, have you? I'll come up with you, you may depend upon that. That's to pay for my giving you tea Sunday night, is it? Perhaps you'll get some more. It's pretty well in paupers conspiring together because they aint treated like princes and princesses. Perhaps you'd like to got boarded with Queen Victoria.”
The old lady sat very quiet during this tirade. She had been the subject of similar invective before, and knew that it would do no good to oppose Mrs. Mudge in her present excited state.
“I don't wonder you haven't anything to say,” said the infuriated dame. “I should think you'd want to hide your face in shame, you trollop.”
Paul was not quite so patient as his attendant. Her kindness had produced such an impression on him, that Mrs. Mudge, by her taunts, stirred up his indignation.
“She's no more of a trollop than you are,” said he, with spirit.
Mrs. Mudge whirled round at this unexpected attack, and shook her fist menacingly at Paul—
“So, you've put in your oar, you little jackanapes,” said she, “If you're well enough to be impudent you're well enough to go to work. You aint a goin' to lie here idle much longer, I can tell you. If you deceive Dr. Townsend, and make him believe you're sick, you can't deceive me. No doubt you feel mighty comfortable, lyin' here with nothing to do, while I'm a slavin' myself to death down stairs, waitin' upon you; (this was a slight exaggeration, as Aunt Lucy took the entire charge of Paul, including the preparation of his food;) but you'd better make the most of it, for you won't lie here much longer. You'll miss not bein' able to talk about me, won't you?”
Mrs. Mudge paused a moment as if expecting an answer to her highly sarcastic question, but Paul felt that no advantage would be gained by saying more.. He was not naturally a quick-tempered buy, and had only been led to this little ebullition by the wanton attack by Mrs. Mudge.
This lady, after standing a moment as if defying the twain to a further contest, went out, slamming the door violently after her.
“You did wrong to provoke her, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, gravely.
“How could I help it?” asked Paul, earnestly. “If she had only abused ME, I should not have cared so much, but when she spoke about you, who have been so kind to me, I could not be silent.”
“I thank you, Paul, for your kind feeling,” said the old lady, gently, “but we must learn to bear and forbear. The best of us have our faults and failings.”
“What are yours, Aunt Lucy?”
“O, a great many.”
“Such as what?”
“I am afraid I am sometimes discontented with the station which God has assigned me.”
“I don't think you can be very much to blame for that. I should never learn to be contented here if I lived to the age of Methuselah.”
Paul lay quite still for an hour or more. During that time he formed a determination which will be announced in the next chapter.
At the close of the last chapter it was stated that Paul had come to a determination.
This was,—TO RUN AWAY.
That he had good reason for this we have already seen.
He was now improving rapidly, and only waited till he was well enough to put his design into execution.
“Aunt Lucy,” said he one day, “I've got something to tell you.”
The old lady looked up inquiringly.
“It's something I've been thinking of a long time,—at least most of the time since I've been sick. It isn't pleasant for me to stay here, and I've pretty much made up my mind that I sha'n't.”
“Where will you go?” asked the old lady, dropping her work in surprise.
“I don't know of any particular place, but I should be better off most anywhere than here.”
“But you are so young, Paul.”
“God will take care of me, Aunt Lucy,—mother used to tell me that. Besides, here I have no hope of learning anything or improving my condition. Then again, if I stay here, I can never do what father wished me to do.”
“What is that, Paul?”
Paul told the story of his father's indebtedness to Squire Conant, and the cruel letter which the Squire had written.
“I mean to pay that debt,” he concluded firmly. “I won't let anybody say that my father kept them out of their money. There is no chance here; somewhere else I may find work and money.”
“It is a great undertaking for a boy like you, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, thoughtfully. “To whom is the money due?”
“Squire Conant of Cedarville.”
Aunt Lucy seemed surprised and agitated by the mention of this name.
“Paul,” said she, “Squire Conant is my brother.”
“Your brother!” repeated he in great surprise. “Then why does he allow you to live here? He is rich enough to take care of you.”
“It is a long story,” said the old lady, sadly. “All that you will be interested to know is that I married against the wishes of my family. My husband died and I was left destitute. My brother has never noticed me since.”
“It is a great shame,” said Paul.
“We won't judge him, Paul. Have you fixed upon any time to go?”
“I shall wait a few days till I get stronger. Can you tell me how far it is to New York?”
“O, a great distance; a hundred miles at least. You can't think of going so far as that?”
“I think it would be the best plan,” said Paul. “In a great city like New York there must be a great many things to do which I can't do here. I don't feel strong enough to work on a farm. Besides, I don't like it. O, it must be a fine thing to live in a great city. Then too,” pursued Paul, his face lighting up with the hopeful confidence of youth, “I may become rich. If I do, Aunt Lucy, I will build a fine house, and you shall come and live with me.”
Aunt Lucy had seen more of life than Paul, and was less sanguine. The thought came to her that her life was already declining while his was but just begun, and in the course of nature, even if his bright dreams should be realized, she could hardly hope to live long enough to see it. But of this she said nothing. She would not for the world have dimmed the brightness of his anticipations by the expression of a single doubt.
“I wish you all success, Paul, and I thank you for wishing me to share in your good fortune. God helps those who help themselves, and he will help you if you only deserve it. I shall miss you very much when you are gone. It will seem more lonely than ever.”
“If it were not for you, Aunt Lucy, I should not mind going at all, but I shall be sorry to leave you behind.”
“God will care for both of us, my dear boy. I shall hope to hear from you now and then, and if I learn that you are prosperous and happy, I shall be better contented with my own lot. But have you thought of all the labor and weariness that you will have to encounter? It is best to consider well all this, before entering upon such an undertaking.”
“I have thought of all that, and if there were any prospect of my being happy here, I might stay for the present. But you know how Mrs. Mudge has treated me, and how she feels towards me now.”
“I acknowledge, Paul, that it has proved a hard apprenticeship, and perhaps it might be made yet harder if you should stay longer. You must let me know when you are going, I shall want to bid you good-by.”
“No fear that I shall forget that, Aunt Lucy. Next to my mother you have been most kind to me, and I love you for it.”
Lightly pressing her lips to Paul's forehead Aunt Lucy left the room to conceal the emotion called forth by his approaching departure. Of all the inmates of the establishment she had felt most closely drawn to the orphan boy, whose loneliness and bereavement had appealed to her woman's heart. This feeling had been strengthened by the care she had been called to bestow upon him in his illness, for it is natural to love those whom we have benefited. But Aunt Lucy was the most unselfish of living creatures, and the idea of dissuading Paul from a course which he felt was right never occurred to her. She determined that she would do what she could to further his plans, now that he had decided to go. Accordingly she commenced knitting him a pair of stockings, knowing that this would prove a useful present. This came near being the means of discovering Paul's plan to Mrs. Mudge The latter, who notwithstanding her numerous duties, managed to see everything that was going on, had her attention directed to Aunt Lucy's work.
“Have you finished the stockings that I set you to knitting for Mr. Mudge?” she asked.
“No,” said Aunt Lucy, in some confusion.
“Then whose are those, I should like to know? Somebody of more importance than my husband, I suppose.”
“They are for Paul,” returned the old lady, in some uneasiness.
“Paul!” repeated Mrs. Mudge, in her haste putting a double quantity of salaeratus into the bread she was mixing; “Paul's are they? And who asked you to knit him a pair, I should like to be informed?”
“No one.”
“Then what are you doing it for?”
“I thought he might want them.”
“Mighty considerate, I declare. And I shouldn't be at all surprised if you were knitting them with the yarn I gave you for Mr. Mudge's stockings.”
“You are mistaken,” said Aunt Lucy, shortly.
“Oh, you're putting on your airs, are you? I'll tell you what, Madam, you'd better put those stockings away in double-quick time, and finish my husband's, or I'll throw them into the fire, and Paul Prescott may wait till he goes barefoot before he gets them.”
There was no alternative. Aunt Lucy was obliged to obey, at least while her persecutor was in the room. When alone for any length of time she took out Paul's stockings from under her apron, and worked on them till the approaching steps of Mrs. Mudge warned her to desist.
Three days passed. The shadows of twilight were already upon the earth. The paupers were collected in the common room appropriated to their use. Aunt Lucy had suspended her work in consequence of the darkness, for in this economical household a lamp was considered a useless piece of extravagance. Paul crept quietly to her side, and whispered in tones audible to her alone, “I AM GOING TO-MORROW.”
“To-morrow! so soon?”
“Yes,” said Paul, “I am as ready now as I shall ever be. I wanted to tell you, because I thought maybe you might like to know that this is the last evening we shall spend together at present.”
“Do you go in the morning?”
“Yes, Aunt Lucy, early in the morning. Mr. Mudge usually calls me at five; I must be gone an hour before that time. I suppose I must bid you good-by to-night.”
“Not to-night, Paul; I shall be up in the morning to see you go.”
“But if Mrs. Mudge finds it out she will abuse you.”
“I am used to that, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, with a sorrowful smile. “I have borne it many times, and I can again. But I can't lie quiet and let you go without one word of parting. You are quite determined to go?”
“Quite, Aunt Lucy. I never could stay here. There is no pleasure in the present, and no hope for the future. I want to see something of life,” and Paul's boyish figure dilated with enthusiasm.
“God grant that you do not see too much!” said Aunt Lucy, half to herself.
“Is the world then, so very sad a place?” asked Paul.
“Both joy and sorrow are mingled in the cup of human life,” said Aunt Lucy, solemnly:
“Which shall preponderate it is partly in our power to determine. He who follows the path of duty steadfastly, cannot be wholly miserable, whatever misfortunes may come upon him. He will be sustained by the conviction that his own errors have not brought them upon him.”
“I will try to do right,” said Paul, placing his hand in that of his companion, “and if ever I am tempted to do wrong, I will think of you and of my mother, and that thought shall restrain me.”
“It's time to go bed, folks,” proclaimed Mrs Mudge, appearing at the door. “I can't have you sitting up all night, as I've no doubt you'd like to do.”
It was only eight o'clock, but no one thought of interposing an objection. The word of Mrs. Mudge was law in her household, as even her husband was sometimes made aware.
All quietly rose from their seats and repaired to bed. It was an affecting sight to watch the tottering gait of those on whose heads the snows of many winters had drifted heavily, as they meekly obeyed the behest of one whose coarse nature forbade her sympathizing with them in their clouded age, and many infirmities.
“Come,” said she, impatient of their slow movements, “move a little quicker, if it's perfectly convenient. Anybody'd think you'd been hard at work all day, as I have. You're about the laziest set I ever had anything to do with. I've got to be up early in the morning, and can't stay here dawdling.”
“She's got a sweet temper,” said Paul, in a whisper, to Aunt Lucy.
“Hush!” said the old lady. “She may hear you.”
“What's that you're whispering about?” said Mrs. Mudge, suspiciously. “Something you're ashamed to have heard, most likely.”
Paul thought it best to remain silent.
“To-morrow morning at four!” he whispered to Aunt Lucy, as he pressed her hand in the darkness.
Paul ascended the stairs to his hard pallet for the last time. For the last time! There is sadness in the thought, even when the future which lies before us glows with brighter colors than the past has ever worn. But to Paul, whose future was veiled in uncertainty, and who was about to part with the only friend who felt an interest in his welfare, this thought brought increased sorrow.
He stood before the dirt-begrimed window through which alone the struggling sunbeams found an inlet into the gloomy little attic, and looked wistfully out upon the barren fields that surrounded the poorhouse. Where would he be on the morrow at that time? He did not know. He knew little or nothing of the great world without, yet his resolution did not for an instant falter. If it had, the thought of Mrs. Mudge would have been enough to remove all his hesitation.
He threw himself on his hard bed, and a few minutes brought him that dreamless sleep which comes so easily to the young.
Meanwhile Aunt Lucy, whose thoughts were also occupied with Paul's approaching departure, had taken from the pocket of her OTHER dress—for she had but two—something wrapped in a piece of brown paper. One by one she removed the many folds in which it was enveloped, and came at length to the contents.
It was a coin.
“Paul will need some money, poor boy,” said she, softly to herself, “I will give him this. It will never do me any good, and it may be of some service to him.”
So saying she looked carefully at the coin in the moonlight.
But what made her start, and utter a half exclamation?
Instead of the gold eagle, the accumulation of many years, which she had been saving for some extraordinary occasion like the presents she held in her hand—a copper cent.
“I have been robbed,” she exclaimed indignantly in the suddenness of her surprise.
“What's the matter now?” inquired Mrs Mudge, appearing at the door, “Why are you not in bed, Aunt Lucy Lee? How dare you disobey my orders?”
“I have been robbed,” exclaimed the old lady in unwonted excitement.
“Of what, pray?” asked Mrs. Mudge, with a sneer.
“I had a gold eagle wrapped up in that paper,” returned Aunt Lucy, pointing to the fragments on the floor, “and now, to-night, when I come to open it, I find but this cent.”
“A likely story,” retorted Mrs. Mudge, “very likely, indeed, that a common pauper should have a gold eagle. If you found a cent in the paper, most likely that's what you put there. You're growing old and forgetful, so don't get foolish and flighty. You'd better go to bed.”
“But I did have the gold, and it's been stolen,” persisted Aunt Lucy, whose disappointment was the greater because she intended the money for Paul.
“Again!” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge. “Will you never have done with this folly? Even if you did have the gold, which I don't for an instant believe, you couldn't keep it. A pauper has no right to hold property.”
“Then why did the one who stole the little I had leave me this?” said the old lady, scornfully, holding up the cent which had been substituted for the gold.
“How should I know?” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge, wrathfully. “You talk as if you thought I had taken your trumpery money.”
“So you did!” chimed in an unexpected voice, which made Mrs. Mudge start nervously.
It was the young woman already mentioned, who was bereft of reason, but who at times, as often happens in such cases, seemed gifted with preternatural acuteness.
“So you did. I saw you, I did; I saw you creep up when you thought nobody was looking, and search her pocket. You opened that paper and took out the bright yellow piece, and put in another. You didn't think I was looking at you, ha! ha! How I laughed as I stood behind the door and saw you tremble for fear some one would catch you thieving. You didn't think of me, dear, did you?”
And the wild creature burst into an unmeaning laugh.
Mrs. Mudge stood for a moment mute, overwhelmed by this sudden revelation. But for the darkness, Aunt Lucy could have seen the sudden flush which overspread her face with the crimson hue of detected guilt. But this was only for a moment. It was quickly succeeded by a feeling of intense anger towards the unhappy creature who had been the means of exposing her.
“I'll teach you to slander your betters, you crazy fool,” she exclaimed, in a voice almost inarticulate with passion, as she seized her rudely by the arm, and dragged her violently from the room.
She returned immediately.
“I suppose,” said she, abruptly, confronting Aunt Lucy, “that you are fool enough to believe her ravings?”
“I bring no accusation,” said the old lady, calmly, “If your conscience acquits you, it is not for me to accuse you.”
“But what do you think?” persisted Mrs. Mudge, whose consciousness of guilt did not leave her quite at ease.
“I cannot read the heart,” said Aunt Lucy, composedly. “I can only say, that, pauper as I am, I would not exchange places with the one who has done this deed.”
“Do you mean me?” demanded Mrs. Mudge.
“You can tell best.”
“I tell you what, Aunt Lucy Lee,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes blazing with anger, “If you dare insinuate to any living soul that I stole your paltry money, which I don't believe you ever had, I will be bitterly revenged upon you.”
She flaunted out of the room, and Aunt Lucy, the first bitterness of her disappointment over, retired to bed, and slept more tranquilly than the unscrupulous woman who had robbed her.
At a quarter before four Paul started from his humble couch, and hastily dressed himself, took up a little bundle containing all his scanty stock of clothing, and noiselessly descended the two flights of stairs which separated him from the lower story. Here he paused a moment for Aunt Lucy to appear. Her sharp ears had distinguished his stealthy steps as he passed her door, and she came down to bid him good-by. She had in her hands a pair of stockings which she slipped into his bundle.
“I wish I had something else to give you, Paul,” she said, “but you know that I am not very rich.”
“Dear Aunt Lucy,” said Paul, kissing her, “you are my only friend on earth. You have been very kind to me, and I never will forget you, NEVER! By-and-by, when I am rich, I will build a fine house, and you will come and live with me, won't you?”
Paul's bright anticipations, improbable as they were, had the effect of turning his companion's thoughts into a more cheerful channel.
She bent down and kissed him, whispering softly, “Yes, I will, Paul.”
“Then it's a bargain,” said he, joyously, “Mind you don't forget it. I shall come for you one of these days when you least expect it.”
“Have you any money?” inquired Aunt Lucy.
Paul shook his head.
“Then,” said she, drawing from her finger a gold ring which had held its place for many long years, “here is something which will bring you a little money if you are ever in distress.”
Paul hung back.
“I would rather not take it, indeed I would,” he said, earnestly, “I would rather go hungry for two or three days than sell your ring. Besides, I shall not need it; God will provide for me.”
“But you need not sell it,” urged Aunt Lucy, “unless it is absolutely necessary. You can take it and keep it in remembrance of me. Keep it till you see me again, Paul. It will be a pledge to me that you will come back again some day.”
“On that condition I will take it,” said Paul, “and some day I will bring it back.”
A slight noise above, as of some one stirring in sleep, excited the apprehensions of the two, and warned them that it was imprudent for them to remain longer in conversation.
After a hurried good-by, Aunt Lucy quietly went upstairs again, and Paul, shouldering his bundle, walked rapidly away.
The birds, awakening from their night's repose, were beginning to carol forth their rich songs of thanksgiving for the blessing of a new day. From the flowers beneath his feet and the blossom-laden branches above his head, a delicious perfume floated out upon the morning air, and filled the heart of the young wanderer with a sense of the joyousness of existence, and inspired him with a hopeful confidence in the future.
For the first time he felt that he belonged to himself. At the age of thirteen he had taken his fortune in his own hand, and was about to mold it as best he might.
There were care, and toil, and privations before him, no doubt, but in that bright morning hour he could harbor only cheerful and trusting thoughts. Hopefully he looked forward to the time when he could fulfil his father's dying injunction, and lift from his name the burden of a debt unpaid. Then his mind reverting to another thought, he could not help smiling at the surprise and anger of Mr. Mudge, when he should find that his assistant had taken French leave. He thought he should like to be concealed somewhere where he could witness the commotion excited by his own departure. But as he could not be in two places at the same time, he must lose that satisfaction. He had cut loose from the Mudge household, as he trusted, forever. He felt that a new and brighter life was opening before him.