"That's true. The more disgrace to me. Well, cripple or not, that's the last time anybody shall ever say, truthfully, that my little sister has set me an example of courage and effort. Hurry up. Open the door."
A moment later both lads stood within the little room wherein so many big money transactions took place; and it is doubtful if any speculator coming there had felt greater anxiety over the outcome of his visit than these two whose "operations" were to be of such a modest limit.
"Boss, I've come after my money. I want the whole lot."
"Good day, 'Bony'; good day, Hallam Kaye, I believe."
Hallam bowed, and before his courage could wane, replied:—
"Yes; I'm sorry to interrupt you in business hours, but—will you buy Balaam, Pepita's brother?"
Before the gentleman could answer, Fayette had clutched Hallam's shoulder.
"What's that? Did you come here to sell that donkey?"
"I came to try to sell it, certainly."
"Then I'm sorry I ever touched to help you. Iwant him myself. I come to get my money a purpose. My money is as good as his. He shan't have it. I'll have it myself."
Mr. Metcalf interrupted:—
"But, 'Bony,' you can't afford to keep such an animal. It would take all your capital to pay for him. Wait. Sometime, if you're industrious, you'll be rich enough to have a horse and carriage. Indeed, I mean it; and, yes, Hallam, I will very gladly buy your burro. I've wanted him ever since Amy let us have Pepita. I—"
"You shan't have him, then. You never shall. I want him, an' I'll keep him. You see!"
The door opened and shut with a bang. Whether purposely or not, it was impossible to say, but in his outward rush the half-wit brushed so rudely past Hallam that he knocked his crutch from his grasp, so that he would have fallen, had not the superintendent caught and steadied the lad to a seat.
"That's 'Bony' all over. As irresponsible as a child and ungovernable in his rage. Yet, never fear; he'll be back again, sometime."
"But—he has taken Balaam. What can I do now?"
Mr. Metcalf walked to the window and looked out. There was a dash of something black disappearing at the turn of the road.
"Humph! That's bad. He's taken the road to themountains. When his 'wood fit' comes over him, summer or winter, he vanishes. Sometimes he is gone for months."
"And he's taken Balaam with him," repeated the other.
"Yes; he certainly has;" but when the superintendent looked toward Hallam he was startled by the hopeless expression of the lad's fine face.
"Sit down, lad, and rest. It will not be long before noon, and then I will send for your sister to come here."
"Thank you. Do you think he will stay long, this time?"
"'Bony'? It's just as the fit takes him. There's no accounting for his whims, poor unbalanced fellow. In some respects he is clever and remarkably clean-handed. In fixing parts of the machinery, I would rather have his help than that of most professionals, he is so careful about the minutest details. Yet, of course, it would be out of the question to rely upon him. There's another thing. He's a most excellent nurse. For days at a time, when there's been sickness in the mill village, he has devoted himself faithfully to whoever seemed to take his fancy. His big, ungainly hand has a truly wonderful power of soothing. When I had rheumatic fever, he was the only person I could endure to have in the room with me. His step was lighter even than that of my wife, and I really believe I should have died but for his care."
The superintendent was talking, simply to entertain and divert his visitor from the lad's own present annoyance, but he little knew how full of import his casual remarks were to his hearer.
"Do you mean that he is magnetic? that there is something in the claim he makes of being a 'healer'?"
"Quite as much as in the claim of any such person. There are, of course, some human beings so constituted that they can influence for good the physical conditions of other people. I am very sorry that his present whim has seized him. I would like the burro, and you would like the price of him. Well, all in good time. Meanwhile, if I can help you, please tell me."
"There was only one way in which you could, so far as I know. That was by buying my pet. I—I don't suppose," Hallam continued, with hesitancy, "that there is anything such a—a useless fellow as I could do to earn money here?"
"I am not so sure about that. What sort of work would you like?"
"Any sort."
Mr. Metcalf went into another room and presently returned with some oblong pieces of cardboard. These had a checked surface, and upon these checks were painted or stained partial patterns, designs for the carpets woven in the mills.
"Your father is an artist. Have you learned anything about his work, or of coloring?"
"Something, of course, though very little. I would not be an artist."
"Indeed? But there are artisans whose work is simple, mechanical, and reasonably lucrative. Our designers, for instance, make an excellent living. Do you see these numbers at the sides of the patterns?"
"Yes."
"They are for the guidance of the weavers. The threads of the carpets are numbered, and these numbers correspond. Therefore, the weaver can make his carpet from his pattern with mathematical exactness. We require many such copies of the original design. If you would like to try this sort of work, I will give you a temporary job. The boy who usually does it is ailing, and I have allowed him a vacation. The wages are small, no more than Amy earns, but the work isn't difficult, and is the only thing I have now, suitable for you."
Incidentally the gentleman's eyes turned toward Hallam's crutches leaning against the arm of the chair where he sat; but instead of feeling humiliated by the glance, as the sensitive cripple often did, this casual one fired his heart with a new ambition. He recalled the words of the surgeon, and was no longer angry with them.
"I will be a man in spite of it all," flashed through his brain. Aloud he said:—
"I will be very glad to try the work."
"Very well. When can you begin?"
"Now."
Mr. Metcalf smiled.
"All right. A lad so prompt is the lad for me. But I had imagined another sort of fellow,—not so energetic, indeed."
"I've not been worth much. I've been lazy and selfish; but I mean to turn over a new leaf. I'll try to be useful, and if I fail—I fail."
"But you'll not fail. God never sent anybody into this world for whom He did not provide a place, a duty. You will succeed. You may even get to 'the top,' that roomy plane where there are so few competitors. I want you to count me your friend. I, too, am a self-made man. There are few obstacles one cannot conquer, given good health and determination."
Then once more the employer's gaze rested upon the crutches, and his heart misgave him that he had roused ambitions which could not be realized. The poor cripple was handicapped from the start by his infirmity.
Hallam again saw the expression of the other's face, and again it nerved him to a firmer will.
"Even that shall not hinder, sir; and now if you will explain to me the work, I'll make a try at it right away."
Mr. Metcalf placed the designs upon a sloping table, at one side the office, and Hallam took the chair before it, as requested. Then the superintendent went over the system of numbering the designs, and illustrated briefly.
"Now you try. I'll watch. Go on as if I were nothere. If I do not speak, consider that you are working correctly."
Hallam's intelligence was of a fine order, and he had always been a keen observer. Before Mr. Metcalf had finished his explanations the lad had grasped the whole idea of the work, and he took up the pen the gentleman laid down with the confidence of one who understood exactly what he had to do.
"'Knowledge is power,' there is no truer saying," remarked the teacher, watching the tyro's eager efforts. "It's as easy as A B C to you, apparently."
"It seems very simple. I think I would enjoy it better, though, if I could see the application."
"How the patterns are used?"
"Yes."
"Come this way."
Which was not by the shorter one of the stairway on the cliff, up which Fayette had once forced the reluctant Pepita, but around by the sloping wagon track and into the lower rooms of the great building. Already the lad knew most of these by the descriptions his sister had given him, but no description could equal the facts. As she had done, so he experienced that thrill of excitement, as he realized the mighty, throbbing life all around him, of which the wonderful machinery and the human hands and brains which controlled it seemed but parts of one vast whole. His eyes kindled, his cheeks flushed, and, as Amy had done, he forgot inhis eagerness over the new scene that others might be observing him and his deformity.
At the weavers' looms he was "all eyes and ears," as one remarked. Seeing the woollen threads stretched up and down, perfectly colored and looking like a greatly elongated pattern, gave him a complete insight of the task for which he had been engaged.
"I thought I understood it before. I think I could not make a mistake now. A mistake would mean disaster wouldn't it?"
"It would," answered the superintendent, delighted to find his new helper such a promising aid. "See, here is the pattern. Watch the weaver awhile, then come with me to the 'setting room.' There is where Amy will be if she keeps on as industriously as she has begun. I tell you brains count. You are both gifted with them, and it should make you grateful—helpful, too. I think the least of all a man's possessions that he has a right to keep to himself is his brain."
Hallam looked up in surprise. Amy's acquaintance with the superintendent had begun most auspiciously, and he had desired to be considered her "friend," even as now her brother's. Yet since her coming to work in the mill, Mr. Metcalf had not exchanged a dozen sentences with her. She saw him daily, almost hourly. He was everywhere present about the great buildings. In no department was anybody sure of the time of his appearance, yet not one was overlooked. This keptthe operators keyed to an expectancy which brought out from them their best, for the approbation of this observant 'boss' meant much to each. Yet he rarely spoke in a harsh tone to any, nor had any ever heard him utter an oath. This, in itself, gave him a distinction from all other mill superintendents under which most of these operatives had served, and added, it may be, a greater awe to their respect of him.
"I've been color mixer in a carpet mill these forty years, and Metcalf's the only 'Supe' I ever knew could run one without swearing," often remarked the master of the dyeing room. "He does; and a fellow may count himself lucky to work under such a man."
The color mixer, being a most important personage in the institution, had influence among hisconfrères, with good reason. His trade was an art and a secret. Like all trade secrets it commanded its own price. He was said to enjoy a salary "among the thousands," and to have rejected even richer offers for the sake of the peaceful discipline at Ardsley.
Then the two visited the "setting room," where the mill girls reached the highest promotion possible in their business. The "setting" is the arrangement upon frames of the threads of the carpet, perfectly adjusted. A girl sits upon each side the frame, which holds from two hundred threads to slightly an advance upon that number. It is clean and dainty work, and the operator is fortunate who can secure the position. It is the same"thread" which, drawn over wires, in the weaver's hands, makes the looplike surface of Brussels carpeting, which was the only sort manufactured at Ardsley.
"You find it fascinating, don't you? So did Amy. Well, if you work here, in any department, you will have opportunity to study the whole science, from beginning to end. But I'm to meet Mr. Wingate in ten minutes in his private office. Let us go back."
Amy, away up on the fourth floor where she worked, knew nothing of this visit, and was a little dismayed when she received a summons to go down "to the 'Supe's' room for her nooning."
She was now alone with Mary at her "jenny," and had already become so expert that those who understood such matters prophesied she would soon be promoted to the "twisting and doubling." That very morning the "boss" of their room had said to her:—
"We never had a girl come here who got on so fast. It mostly takes months to learn a half-machine. After another three she can mind both sides. That means about four dollars and a half a week. Well, you've been quick and faithful, and nobody could envy your good luck."
As she picked up her lunch basket and descended toward the office, more than one called after her a good wish.
"Don't you be scared of the 'Supe.' If he scoldsand you aren't to blame, just tell him so, and he'll like you the better."
"Maybe he's going to promote you a'ready, though I don't see how he could. I won't be jealous if he does, though," cried another; and Gwendolyn, the inquisitive, resolved to keep up Amy's spirits by accompanying her to the interview.
"But, Gwen, did he send for you?"
"No; course not. If he did, I shouldn't feel so chipper. There ain't no love lost 'twixt the 'Supe' and me."
"Then maybe—"
"Trash! I'm going. Ain't I the one that fetched you here in the first place? Hadn't I ought to stand by you, thick or thin?"
"Yes, I suppose so," answered Amy, more frightened by Gwendolyn's suggestive manner than by any consciousness of blunders made. Nor did she remind her neighbor that for a time, at first, while Amy's popularity had not been determined, the other had shrewdly held aloof, waiting the turn of the tide. Fortunately, this had been in the "new hand's" direction, and since then Gwendolyn's attentions had been almost overpowering.
But, indeed, Amy did not even think this. "Simplicity, sincerity, sympathy"—she was faithfully striving to make this the rule of her own life, and therefore she could not imagine anything lower in the lives of others.But she still kept her frank tongue, and she gave it rein, as the pair hurried officeward.
"Dear Gwen, if you only wouldn't chew that gum! It makes you look so queer, and spoils all the pretty outline of your cheek. Besides, I'm sure Mr. Metcalf doesn't like it. He always frowns when a gum-chewer has to speak with him about her work."
"Pshaw, what a fuss you are! There, then, though that's the first bit off a new stick, I've thrown it out the window.Ismy cheek pretty? How do you manage to see things without looking? I never see you take your eyes off your frame, yet not a thing goes on in that room you don't seem to hear or know."
"I'm sure I don't know, unless it's because having lived all alone, without other girls, I love to hear the voices and see the bright faces. Oh, I do lovefolks! And it seems to me that every single girl in that mill is far more interesting than the best story book I ever read."
"Well, if you don't beat! But, say, Amy!"
"Well?"
"I don't believe there's another girl there would tell me I was pretty without saying something else would spoil it."
"Oh, indeed, there must be. If it's the truth, why shouldn't one say it? But if it's the truth, again, you have no right to deface the beauty. Do give up the gum."
"Why haven't I a right?"
"I don't know why. I simply know you haven't, any more than I have to be untidy or disagreeable. I never realized until I came to be always among so many people how each one could pain or please her neighbor. And it seems to me each of us should be the sweetest, the best natured, the truest, it is possible. Heigho! I'm turning a preacher, and it's a good thing that there's the office, and I must stop. Brace your courage, Amy, and knock at the door."
She did so and was promptly admitted; but did not see the superintendent, who thus served her, for he purposely stepped behind the door, so that her first glance fell upon Hallam seated at the sloping table and busily at work. She caught her breath, regained it, and rushed forward with a little shriek.
"Hallam! Hallam Kaye! You here! you—working?"
"Yes; I'm here. My first day at wage-earning. Didn't provide any lunch. Can you spare some for me? Ah, Gwendolyn, good day."
Then another person appeared in the doorway—one whom nobody present cared to see just then, though the superintendent stepped from his hiding-place, the mirth dying out of his genial face as he bowed respectfully to his superior, Mr. Archibald Wingate, the owner of Ardsley Mill and of most of the surrounding property.
"Good day, Metcalf. Eh? What? Amy? Hallam? You here?"
"Yes, cousin Archibald. We are both here and working for you," answered Amy, quietly. Then she surprised even herself by extending her hand in greeting.
For an instant it seemed as if the old man would respond to the proffered civility; but his hand dropped again to his side, and Amy had the mortification of one who is repulsed. However, she had little time for thought. The master of the mill passed onward into his "den" and closed its door with a snap. On the ground glass which admitted light through the upper half the door, yet effectually screened from observation any who were within, was printed in large letters:—
"Private. No Admittance."
Then the girl turned an inquiring face toward the superintendent, who took her hand and shook it warmly.
"Allow me to congratulate you, Miss Amy. You have done well,—famously, even. There's not been a girl in the mill, since I've had charge, who has learned so swiftly and thoroughly. What's the secret of it? Can you guess?"
She had not been summoned for a reprimand, then. In her relief at this, the young operative scarcely heardthe question put to her, and the gentleman replied to it himself.
"I can tell you. It's your untiring perseverance, your persistent effort to do your best, without regard to anything or anybody about you. If all our girls would take example by you, promotions would be more frequent."
Gwendolyn resented the glance with which the superintendent now favored her, and Amy would have preferred not to be so openly praised. She drew a chair to the table where Hallam sat, and hastily spread her luncheon upon it.
"Come, Gwendolyn, bring yours. While we're eating, Hal shall tell us what this all means."
He did so, rapidly, and between mouthfuls, for the half-hour's nooning had already been cut short by the unexpected meetings; and when the whistle sounded and the girls hurried back to their room, Amy carried a very thoughtful face.
"Why, what a funny girl you are! You look as if you'd been scolded, after all, 'stead of praised and promised promotion. What's wrong?"
"Fayette. To think he could run away with Balaam, after all we—or Cleena has done for him. Of course, he's done things for us, too; but I thought if we were kind to him, and made him feel that he was dear to somebody, he would improve and grow a splendid man."
"'Can't make a purse out of a pig's ear,'" quotedGwendolyn, seriously. "But don't you fret. He'll be back again, as humble as a lamb. You couldn't dog him away from 'Charity House,' I believe. He's been just wild over you all ever since he first saw you and your white burro. Say, Amy, I'm going to try and not chew any more. Your brother don't like it, does he, either?"
"No; he detests it. He doesn't like anything that is unwomanly or coarse."
Then they separated, but in the heart of each was a fresh determination: in Gwendolyn's that she would make herself into a "real lady," according to the standard of this brother and sister whom she admired, or saw admired of others; and in Amy's, to better deserve the encouragement of her employers, and to support Hallam to the utmost in his new ambition.
But as she resumed her work she reflected, with much perplexity: "I don't understand yet why Mr. Metcalf is so delightful out of mill and so different here; nor why cousin Archibald still persists in being unfriendly, since he has gotten everything he wants."
But she was still too ignorant of life to know that it is commonly the inflicter of an injury who shows ill feeling, and not the recipient of it.
The afternoon passed swiftly, as all her days did now, and at the signal for leaving labor, both the girls hurried to don their outer things and join Hallam. But Amy had still a word for Mary.
"To-morrow is half-holiday, you know, dear, and I've talked with Cleena. She wishes you to come and spend the night at 'Charity House,' and we'll fix things about that club all right."
"What's that about a club?" asked another girl, noticing how the hunchback's face brightened. "Are you two going to join ours?"
"Maybe; maybe not. Maybe we'll compromise and have but one. Though we can do little until after Christmas, it's so near now."
"Oh, don't get up another. We have just lovely times in ours. All the boys come and—but I'll not tell. I'll leave you to see. They wanted I should ask you, and your brother, too. He's real nice looking, 'Jack doffer' says, even if he is lame."
Amy's cheek burned, and her quick temper got her into trouble.
"My brother Hallam is a very, very handsome boy. Even with his lameness he's a thousand times better looking than any boy in this mill, and what's more, he's agentleman!"
Then this champion of the aristocracy, which she thought she disdained but now discovered she was proud to call her own class, walked off with her nose in the air and her dark eyes glittering with an angry light.
"There, now you've done it!" cried Gwendolyn, in amazement. "But ma said it wouldn't last. Shesays that's the way with all the heroines in her novels that lose their money and pretend to be just plain folks afterward. They never are. They're always 'ristocratics an' they can't help it."
"Oh, well, they shouldn't try," remarked this young "heroine," fiercely. "I don't care at all what they say about me, but they'd best let my Hal alone."
"Hoity-toity, I don't see as he's any better than anybody else."
Amy stopped short on the path from the mill to the ladder upon the bluff. Suddenly she reflected how her mother would have regarded her present mood. "He that ruleth his own spirit."
The words seemed whispered in her ear. A moment later she turned and spoke again, but her voice was now gentle and appealing.
"Yes, he is better, though I'm not. He is better because he is just what he seems. There is no pretence about him. He doesn't think that plastering his hair with stuff, and wearing ugly, showy clothes, and a hat on the back of his head, or swaggering, or smoking nasty cigarettes, or being insolent to women, are marks of a gentleman. He's the real thing. That's what Hal is, and that's why I'm so proud of him, so—so touchy about him."
"Amy, what does make a gentleman, anyway, if it isn't dressing in style and knowing things?"
"It's the simplest thing in the world; it's just beingkind out of one's heart instead of one's head. It's being just as pure-minded and honest as one can be, and—believing that everybody else is as good or a little better than one's self. So it seems to me."
"Wearedifferent, then. I never should know how to say such things. I don't know how to think them. It isn't any use. You are you, and I am me, and that ends it."
Amy did not even smile at the crooked grammar. This was the old cry of Mary, too, and it hurt her.
"Oh, Gwen, I am so sorry. Itisof use. Thereisn'tany difference, really. We are both girls who have to earn our living. Our training has been different, that is all. I want to know all you know; I want you to know all I do. I want to be friends; oh, I want to be friends with every girl in the world!"
"Pshaw! do you? Well, I don't. I don't want but a few, and I want them to be stylish and nice. You'd have a lot of style if you could dress different."
Poor Amy. This was like a dash of cold water over her enthusiasm. Just when she fancied that Gwendolyn was aspiring to all that was noble and uplifting, down she had dropped again into that idea of "style" and fashion and good times. But she remembered Mary. In the soul of that afflicted little mill girl was, indeed, a true ambition, and she felt glad again, from thoughts of her.
"Hallam, how can you climb all the way to 'CharityHouse'? You will drop by the way. It's hard, even for me."
"I can do it. I must. There is nothing else to be done."
So they set out together, through the darkness. The days were at the shortest, and Christmas would come the following week. Hallam and Amy looked forward with dread to the festival, remembering their mother had striven, even under disadvantages, to keep the holiday a bright one for her children. There had never been either many or costly gifts at Fairacres, but there had been something for each and all; and the home-made trifles were all the dearer because Salome's gentle fingers had fashioned them.
Now Gwendolyn was full of anticipation, and from her talk about it her neighbors judged she meant to expend a really large sum of money in presents for her friends.
"But, Gwendolyn, how can you buy all these things? You told me you earned about five dollars a week, and you've bought so many clothes; and—I guess I'm not good at figures. My poor little two dollars and a half, that I get now, wouldn't buy a quarter of all you say."
"Oh, that's all right. Mis' Hackett, she charges it. I always run an account with her."
"You? a girl like you? What is your mother thinking about? I thought to buy a wheel that way was queer; but how dare you?"
"Why, I'm working all the time, ain't I? Anybodythat has regular work can get anything they want at Mis' Hackett's, or other places, too. Ma and pa do the same way."
"But—that'sdebt. It must be horrible. It seems like going out of one debt into another as fast as you can. Oh, Gwen, don't do it."
"Pshaw! that isn't anything. Why, look here, that's the very way your own folks did. If they hadn't been in debt, they wouldn't have had to move from Fairacres, and all that. Would they?"
Both Hallam and Amy were silent. The keen common sense of the mill girl had struck home, and again Amy realized that her vocation was not that of "preaching." Finally, the cripple spoke:—
"It's like it, yet it isn't. We had something left to pay our debts. It wasn't money, but it was money's worth. We paid them. We are left poor indeed, but we haven't mortgaged our future. That's all. But we are too young to talk so wisely. If your parents approve, they probably know best. Hark! there is a wagon coming."
They all paused, and drew aside out of the road to let the vehicle pass. It was so dark that they could distinguish nothing clearly, and the lantern fastened to the dashboard of the buggy seemed but to throw into greater shadow the face of the occupant. To their surprise, the traveller drew rein and saluted them:—
"Hello. Just getting home, eh?"
All recognized the voice. It belonged to Mr. Wingate.
"Yes, just getting home," answered Amy, cheerily.
"Growing pretty dark, isn't it? Hmm, yes. Heard you lost your donkey, Hallam."
"For the time, I have, sir," responded the lad, rather stiffly. He hated this man "on sight," or out of it, and it was difficult for him to conquer his aversion. All the kindness he had felt toward him, on the night of Mr. Wingate's first unwelcome visit to Fairacres, had been forgotten since; because in his heart he believed that his mother's death was due to her removal from her home. Yet he wished to be just, and he would try to feel differently by and by. Meanwhile, his unused strength was fast waning. He had met with a great disappointment that day, for he was going home empty-handed. He had lost his beloved Balaam, and he had nothing to show for it. In all his life he had never walked so far as from the mill to the Bareacre knoll, and even his crutches seemed to wobble and twist with fatigue. Amy had noticed this, and made him pause to rest more than once; but the night was cold, and he felt it most unwise to risk taking cold by standing in the wind. Poverty was teaching Hallam prudence, among many other excellent things.
"None of us can afford to be sick now," he reflected.
"Hmm. That half-witted fellow ought not to be allowed to go free. He's done me a lot of mischief, and I guess he injures everybody who befriends him.The last thing he ought to be trusted with is horse-flesh, or mule-flesh either. Well, I'm going your way, and it's a tough pull on a pair of crutches. If you'll get in, I'll give you a lift as far as the bars."
Everybody was astonished, and everybody waited for Hallam's reply in some anxiety. Amy knew his mind, and she knew, also, that he was very weary. She hoped that he would say:—
"Thank you; I'll be glad to accept," but his answer was a curt: "Thank you; I would rather walk."
"Very well. Suit yourself."
The horse was touched sharply, and bounded up the hill road at an unusual pace.
"Oh, Hal, why didn't you ride? You are so tired."
"Well—because."
"You'd better. Old man don't like to have his favors lost," remarked Gwendolyn. "I've heard lots say that, even though he hasn't been at Ardsley so very long."
Now, in the lad's heart, besides his unwillingness to "accept favors from an enemy," there had been another motive. Until that evening he had not realized how lonely and dark was the homeward walk for his sister, after her long day of toil, and even with the company of Gwendolyn. In this his first experience it had come upon him with a shock, that it was neither pleasant nor safe for Amy, and he resolved she should never again be left without his escort, if he were possibly able to be with her.
But he could not, or felt that he could not, tell this to the girls; much less to Mr. Wingate, finding it easier to be misjudged than to explain. Yet had the mill owner known the fact, it would have gone far toward propitiating him, and toward rousing his admiration for his young kinsman.
So with the best intentions all around, the breach between Fairacres and "Charity House" was duly widened.
The trio of mill workers trudged wearily upward, and the mill master hurried recklessly through the gloom toward a home he had coveted, but found a lonely, "ghost-haunted" solitude. For though there are no real spectres to frighten the eye, there are memories which are sadder to face than any "haunt" would be.
"Stir up the fire, man. Don't you know it's a bitter night outside?" he cried, as he entered it.
The master's tone boded ill for the servant if obedience were not prompt. So though a great blaze roared upon the wide hearth in the old room where we first met this gentleman he was not content, nor was the good dinner which followed appreciated. Nothing was right that night for Archibald Wingate.
Nothing? Yes, one thing gave him great satisfaction, so that, late in the evening, sitting before the blaze he had complained of, he rubbed his hands with a quiet glee.
"If you please, sir, there's a black donkey wanderedinto the place to-night. It went straight to the stable and to one of the box stalls on the west. It seemed to know the way. The stable boy says it's one of them belonged to the—the folks was here before we came. I thought you'd like to know, sir; and, if you please, is it to remain?"
"Yes, Marshall, it is to remain."
And again the old gentleman smiled into the dancing flames and rubbed his smooth palms.
After one o'clock on the afternoon before Christmas was a mill holiday; and while the great looms were silent, those who usually toiled at them took their way into Wallburg city to do their Christmas shopping. Though a few, indeed, were able to satisfy their needs at the local stores, and among these, for once, was Gwendolyn. She had come up the knoll after dinner hour, to invite Amy's presence at the gift buying, and concluded her invitation by saying:—
"Even if you won't get anything yourself, you might come and look at the pretty things. It's surprising how many you find you can pick out in a few minutes. They've the loveliest dolls there 't I'm going to get for Beatrice and Belinda. Victoria's so big she's outgrown doll—"
Cleena could hold her tongue no longer.
"Toys, is it, alanna! Better be shoes for their feet; an' as for Queen Victory an' her dolls, more's the shame to you as sets her the example o' growin' up before her time. Vases for the mother, is it? An' she afterpatchin' the sheets off her bed. Pardon unasked advice, which same is unsavory, belike, an' get the makin' of a new pair. That's sense, so it is."
It was sense. As such it commended itself to Gwendolyn, during her walk to the village, and bore results for the comfort of her family; for though she did run in debt to make her Christmas gifts, at least she now altered her usual habit completely, and for each member of the household provided some article of use. Even Mrs. Hackett paused in her busy attendance upon the crowd of customers to remark:—
"Well, now, Gwen, that's a good plan. I guess your folks will be proud of what you're giving them this year. Yes, I'm more 'n willing to trust you for 'em. A girl that'll spend her money as you are, isn't going to cheat me in the long run. Yes, the wagon'll be going out late to-night and will fetch 'em all for you. Flannel and sheeting and such are a mighty sight heavier to carry than notions. But say, I'll put in a little candy for the youngsters, seeing they're disappointed of their dolls."
Meanwhile, up at "Charity House," Amy had drawn Cleena into a corner to discuss their own plans, and especially to ask concerning a proposed trip to the city, by her father, and immediately after the holidays.
"You know, Goodsoul, that he hasn't been there alone in a long time. Is it safe for him to go now? If he should have one of his attacks, what wouldhappen? Should Hallam go with him? and—worst of all—how can we spare the money?"
"Faith, Miss Amy, I'd leave the master be. It's the fine sense he's gettin' the now. It would hearten the mistress could she see how he does be pickin' up. Always that gentle I d' know, as if the sorrow had been a broom sweepin' his soul all free of the moilder an' muss was in it long by. Only yesternight, whilst I was just washin' off me table afore layin' me cloth, into the kitchen he steps an' sits himself down by the door, lookin' out toward Fairacres. It was as soft as summer, like it is this eve, but faith! a 'green Christmas makes a fat graveyard.'"
The very word made them both silent for a moment, and then Amy resumed:—
"Father has packed up a half a dozen or more of his small canvases, studies of heads most of them are, I believe, and all are unframed. What do you suppose he means to do with them?"
"Sell them. What for no?"
"But mother never liked to have him. These are all pictures he did long ago."
"The quicker they'll go off the hand then."
"Do you approve?"
"With all me heart."
Amy dropped her face on her palms and considered the matter. Even with her habit of dealing with facts rather than fancies, she still found life a mostperplexing and complex affair. The only help she gained toward understanding it was that clew taught her by her mother of matching the days and the events as one matches a fascinating puzzle. Out of this thought she spoke at last, though quite to the bewilderment of honest Cleena.
"It seems as if our losing all that belonged to us were making us sturdier folks, improving us all. Mother needed no improvement, so she hadn't to face the battle long. Well, one thing I know, she would be glad for us all, and some way I feel her very near to-day. Only, if I could just talk with her and ask her things."
"Sure ye can, me colleen. I mind it's no far to the land where she's gone. But about the money. See here; how got I this?"
And Cleena whipped out a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and unfolded it with utmost care. In this were a number of silver pieces, from half-dollars to dimes, and added together made the "smart decent sum" of five dollars and fifteen cents.
"Why, Cleena! Where? I thought all ours was spent as soon as earned."
"Where? An' I to be mendin' a few clothes for me neighbors. Even that man John fetches me a blouse now an' again, to put in a fresh pair o' sleeves or set on a button that's missin'. Sure, ye didn't think Cleena was one would be leavin' her childer bring in allthe wage. Only—" and the good creature's fine face clouded dismally.
Amy's arms were around the other's neck, and her soft cheek pressed against the shoulder that had borne so many burdens for her and hers.
"Only what, you darling Scrubbub?"
"Only I was mindin' to buy a few trinkets for you an' Master Hal. 'Tis Christmas comes but once a year, an' sure me heart should give good cheer—"
"Cleena, Cleena! A poet! What next?"
"Arrah musha, no! Not one o' them sort. But it's in the air, belike. Christmastide do set the blood running hitherty-which. So they say in old Ireland. It's this way, me darling. Gifts for you an' Hal—or the trip to town for the master. Which, says you? For here's the silver will pay either one, an' it's you an' him shall decide."
"Then it's decided already. At least, I'm sure Hallam will so agree when he comes in. You know he's stopped at Mr. Metcalf's to see some books on designing. Hallam thinks that either he might learn to do it or that perhaps even father might give some odd moments to it, though I don't know as he would hardly dare propose it. The idea was Mr. Metcalf's, and he hasn't much 'sentiment' about him. He said that if there was any way in which father could make a living, he would be happier if so employed. It sounded dreadful to me at first, and then it seemed just sensible."
"That last it was, and so I b'lieve the master'll say himself. But child, child, you do be gettin' too sober notions into your bonny head. Oh, for that Balaam the spalpeen stole! But since ye can't ride, why then it's aye ye must walk. Either way, get into the open. There's not many such a day 'twixt now and Easter. Away with ye! Haven't I me pastry to make an' to-morrow Christmas? Go where ye've no thought, an' let the spirit carry ye. Then there'll be rest. But be home by nightfall, mind."
"Cleena, you dear, the kindest, truest, best woman left in this world!"
"Indeed, that's sweet decent speech, me dear; but seein' your 'world's' no bigger nor Ardsley township, I 'low I'll not be over set up by that same. Run away, child, run away!"
"Cleena, you're watching down the road. Why? Why?—I demand; and you talk of pastry, the which hasn't been in 'Charity House' since we came to it, save and except that dried apple pie sent in by Mrs. Jones."
"Ugh!" cried Cleena, making a face of contempt. "The match o' that good soul's pastry for hardness an' toughness isn't found this side of the Red Sea."
"Cleena, is that old John coming here to-day? Is itheyou are watching for?"
"Why for no? If a man's more nor his share an' nobody to cook it, why shouldn't he be a bringin' it up an' lettin' a body fix it eatable? Sure, it's John himself.Ye're too sharp in the wits, an' I don't mind tellin' ye; it's all charity, Miss Amy. Him livin' by his lone an' gettin' boardin'-house truck. If he says to me, says he, 'Shall I fetch the furnishin' o' the best Christmas dinner ever cooked an' you be after preparin' it,' says he, 'only givin' me one plateful beside your nice kitchen fire,' says he, could I tell the man no, and me a good Christian? Ye know better, Miss Amy. Think o' the master, an' Master Hal, to-morrow comes. What's the good o' John, then, but to find food for me folks? Run along!"
Mr. Kaye had already gone off for one of his long tramps, over the fields and through the woods, to which he was now much given. He had taken such, at first, to subdue the restlessness which followed upon his wife's death, and as some sort of break in his unutterable loneliness. But nature had helped him more than he had dreamed; and to the pure air, the physical fatigue, and consequent sound sleep was due much of the cure of his mental illness that all who knew him now noticed.
So there was nobody who needed Amy just then, and she set off from "Charity House" at a brisk pace, resolved, as Cleena had advised, to forget all worry and labor, and "just have one good, jolly time."
She took the road upward toward the woods behind Fairacres, meaning to gather a bunch of late ferns for the decoration of the morrow's dinner table, since Cleena promised it should be a feast day, after all.
Before she quite realized it even, she had deflected from her course, remembering just then a certain glen in the grounds of her old home where rare ferns grew to prodigious size, and where no cold of winter seemed to harm them. Then once upon the familiar path every step was suggestive of some bygone outing, and led her to explore farther and still farther.
"Ah, the frost-bleached maiden-hair. Nowhere else does it last like this. It's almost as white as edelweiss, and far more graceful. I must put that in my basket, if nothing else." So she pulled it gently and with infinite care, lest she should break the delicate fronds that had outlasted their season by so long. Then there were others, dainty green and still fragrant, which she gathered eagerly; with here and there a bit of crimson-berried vine, or a patch of velvet moss.
Always she kept to the depth of the little ravine, through which ran a tiny, babbling brook. This had long ago been named "Merrywater," nor had it ever seemed gayer and more winsome than then. It was like reunion with some old beloved playmate, and Amy forgot everything but the present enjoyment as she stooped and dabbled in the water here and there. Sometimes she came to the fantastic little bridges which Hallam had used to lie upon the bank and construct out of the roots and pebbles she brought him. Where these had fallen into decay she repaired them; and at one time was busily endeavoring to force a grapevine intoplace when she heard a sound that made her pause in her task and spring to her feet.
"Ah-umph! A-h-u-m-ph! A-H-U-M-P-H!!!"
"Pepita! No—Balaam! Balaam, Balaam—Balaam!"
She was off up the bank in another instant. The sound was from the old stable, so dear, so familiar to her. As she ran she caught up here and there great tufts of sweet grass, such as had been neglected by the mowers, but were dear to donkey appetites.
"Oh, the precious! The blessed little beast! Won't Hallam be glad! Won't this be a Christmas gift indeed, to bring him back his own pet! How glad I am I took this way to walk, and how queer it is that he should be back in his very own old home. Is it so queer, though? Wouldn't I come, too, if I were just a burro and were set free to follow my own will? I can hardly wait to reach him."
In a moment she had done so, and had filled the manger with the still luscious grass, while climbing upon its front she had thrown her arms about the animal's neck and was assuring him, as she might a human being, that he had been sadly missed and would be most welcome home.
On his part the burro was fortunately silent, though his great, dark eyes looked volumes of affection, and he laid his big ears gently back to be out of Amy's way, while she caressed him. She smoothed his forelock,ran her fingers through his mane, patted his shaggy head, and told him that his "big velvet lips were the softest things on earth."
"Ahem!"
This remark, if such it could be called, fell upon Amy's ears so suddenly that she half tumbled backward from her perch upon the manger, and just saved herself by springing lightly down, or she thought it was lightly, until she wheeled and faced the intruder.
None other than Archibald Wingate, making a horrible grimace, and holding up one of his pudgy feet as if he were in great pain.
"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't know it was your foot, or you were you—I thought it was only the hay on the floor."
"Ugh! Great goodness! Umm. If you ever have the gout, young woman, you will understand how it feels to have anybody jump down full force upon your toes. Ouch! O dear! O dear!"
Amy had never been accustomed to seeing people make ado over physical suffering. She did not understand this man before her, and a thrill of distress ran through her own frame, like the touch of an electric battery.
"Oh, I am so sorry! I wouldn't have done it for anything if I had known. Can't I do something now to help you? Let me rub it or—or—lead you. You look—" In spite of her good intentions, the horriblecontortions by which Mr. Wingate's countenance expressed his feelings affected her sense of the ridiculous, and she smiled. As instantly ashamed of the smile, she buried her face in her hands, and waited what would come next.
"Huh! Yes, you look sorry, of course you do, laughing at an old man after you've nearly broken his foot in two. Hmm. You're a sorry lot, the whole of you; yes, you are! O-oh!" Yet he, too, and in spite of himself, laughed; but it was at his own pitiful joke about his kinsmen being a "sorry lot."
Fortunately, Amy did not understand a jest of this nature, but she was swift to see the brightening of his face. She put her hand on his arm, and tried to draw his hand within her own.
"Maybe it won't be so bad. Lean on me, and I'll help you to a seat or to the house. And thank you, thank you so much for putting Balaam in the stable, and taking such good care of him. If Hal had known, he wouldn't have worried so about the little beast. He's been so tenderly cared for, we couldn't bear to think of him as off in the open fields with nobody but Fayette."
Mr. Wingate said not a word. He simply ceased groaning and grimacing, and he slipped his arm through Amy's, while a curious expression settled on his face. He did not lean at all heavily upon her, however, and he merely glanced toward the burro asthe pair walked to the stable door. Then the animal thought it time to protest. Amy had brought him fresh grass, but she had dropped it all outside his manger, where he could not reach it. This was aggravation in the extreme. More than that, whenever, in the old days, she had been afflicted with one of these outbursts of affection, there had generally been a lump of sugar connected with it. To lose affection, hay, and sugar, all in one unhappy moment, was too much even for donkey patience.
"AH-UMPH! H-umph! A-h-u-m-p-h!"
"Whew! he's split my ears open. Plague take the beast!" cried Mr. Wingate, hurrying forward, and now stepping with suspicious freedom from lameness.
Amy hurried, too, wondering at his sudden recovery. "Oh, do you dislike his talk? I love it. I always laugh when I hear it, it is so absurd, and Pepita's was even funnier. She had a feminine note, so to speak, and she whined like a spoiled baby."
"What do you know about spoiled babies?"
"Why—nothing—only William Gladstone, he's a trifle self-willed, I think."
"William Gladstone! What do you mean? Who are you talking about? Are you all crazy together?"
"Not the English statesman, certainly. Just Mrs. Jones's youngest son. And I don't think we're crazy."
"I think you are, the whole lot. Well, will youcome into the house with me? How did you know the donkey was here? Who told you?"
"He told me," laughed Amy. "Yes, I'll go in if you wish, if I can help you."
"How did he tell you?"
"I was gathering these ferns in the glen, and I heard him bray. See, aren't they beautiful? They're for the table to-morrow. The prettiest ferns in all Fairacres grow along the banks of 'Merrywater.'"
"Yes, I know. I used to gather them when I was a child. My grandmother liked them, though she called them plain 'brakes.' So you're not afraid to trespass, then? And you're able to have a dinner-party even so soon after—and with all the pretended devotion. But Cuthbert—"
Amy's hand went up to her kinsman's lips. It was a habit of hers, sometimes playfully sometimes earnestly used, to ward off anything she did not wish another to say to her, and she had done it before she thought; but having so done she would not withdraw her silent protest. This man should never say, nor would she ever hear, a word against her father. Of that she was determined, even though she must be rude to prevent.
For a moment Archibald Wingate resented the girl's correction. Then, as her hand dropped to her side and her gaze to the ground, he spoke:—
"You are right. I had no business to so speak. I honor you for your filial loyalty and—Come into thehouse. I have something I wish to discuss with you. So you want to thank me for taking care of Balaam, do you? You may feel differently after you have heard what I have to say. Oh, you did give me a twinge, I tell you!"
"Would it relieve the pain if I bathed the foot for you? Or is there anybody else to do it?"
"Would you do that forme?"
"Certainly."
"Ring that bell."
Amy obeyed. It was the familiar one which summoned, or had summoned, Cleena from her kitchen.
A man answered the call.
"Marshall, have a foot-bath brought in here. This young lady is going to dress my foot for me. For once there'll be no blundering heavy-handed servant to hurt me."
Over and over and over Amy washed and soothed the red, misshapen foot. The repugnance she had felt to touching it had all vanished when she saw how acute must have been the old man's suffering and his now evident relief.
"I thought you made a big fuss. Now I don't see how you walk about at all."
"I walk on my will," answered he, grimly. "You're a good girl; yes, you are. You're a real Kaye. Our women were all good nurses and tender-handed. It's a pity—such a pity!"
Amy thought the prodigious sigh that moved his mighty breast was for his own distress, and echoed his regret sincerely. "Yes; it is a pity. It seems to me it should be cured. I wish it could."
"So do I. Say, little woman, suppose you and I try to cure it."
Amy looked up. She had been speaking simply of his disease. She now saw that he had not been thinking of that at all. For the moment, while she so gently manipulated the swollen ankle and bound it with the lotions Marshall handed her, he had been quite comfortable, and the keen twinkle in his eye set her thinking. Was it the family feud he wished might be healed? He, who was the very foundation and cause of it?