With a sigh Claudia turned and crossed the hall and entered the "parlor-chamber," as the large bedroom adjoining the morning room was called.
Ruth was hanging the last dresses in the wardrobe, and Jim was shouldering the last empty trunk to take it away.
"I have left out the silver gray glace, for you to wear this evening, if you please, my lady," said Ruth, indicating the dress that lay upon the bed.
"That will do, Ruth," answered her mistress, whose thoughts were now not on dresses, but on that time when Ishmael, for her sake, lay wounded, bleeding, and almost dying on that very bed.
Ha! like a kind hand on my browComes this fresh breeze.Cooling its dull and feverish glow,While through my being seems to flowShe breath of a new life—the healing of the seas.
Good-by to pain and care! I takeMine ease to-day;Here where these sunny waters break,And ripples this keen breeze. I shakeAll burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away.
With every nerve, vein, and artery throbbing with excitement Ishmael hurried away from the house that contained Claudia.
The solitary walk through the thick woods calmed his emotion before he reached Woodside.
He found a tidy room, a tempting tea-table, and smiling faces waiting to welcome him.
"That's my boy!" exclaimed Reuben, coming forward and grasping his hand; "I telled Hannah to keep the tea back a spell, 'cause I knowed you wouldn't disappoint us."
"As if I ever thought you would, Ishmael! Reuben is always prophesying things that can't fail to come true, like the rising of the sun in the east every day, and so forth. And he expects to get credit for his foresight," said Hannah, taking her seat before the steaming tea-pot and calling upon the others to sit down.
"Well, that was rayther a surprise, as met you and the judge, when you comed home from church, wasn't it?" inquired Reuben, as he began to cut slices from the cold ham.
"You knew of the arrival, then?" questioned Ishmael.
"Why, bless you, yes! Why, laws, you know the carriage passed right by here, and stopped to water the horses afore going on to Tanglewood. But look here! There was nobody in it but Mrs. Vincent— blame my head—I mean Mrs. Lord Vincent—and her city maid."
"Lady Vincent, Reuben. How many times will I have to tell you that?" said Hannah impatiently.
"All right, Hannah, my dear; I'll remember next time. Ishmael, my boy, I think you got all your interlects from Hannah. You sartainly didn't get 'em from me. Well as I was a-saying of, there was no one inside except Mrs. Lord—I mean Mrs. Lady Vincent and her city waiting-maid. And on the outside, a-sitting alongside o' the driver, was a gentleman, as Jim as happened to be here introduced to me as Mr. Frisbie, Lord Vincent's vallysham, whatever that may be."
"Body-servant, Reuben," said his monitress.
"Servant! Well, if he was a servant, I don't know nothink! Why, there ain't a gentleman in S'Mary's county as dresses as fine and puts on as many airs!"
"That is quite likely, Uncle Reuben; but for all that, Frisbie isLord Vincent's servant," said Ishmael.
"Well, hows'ever that may be, there he was alongside o' the driver. But what staggers of me is, that there wa'n't no Lord Vincent nowhere to be seen! He was 'mong the missin'. And that was the rummest go as ever was. A new bride a-comin' home to her 'pa without no bridegroom. And so I jest axed Mr. Frisbie, Esquire, and he telled me how his lordship missed the trail. What trail! And what business had he to be offen the trail, when his wife was on it? That's what I want to know. And, anyways, it's the rummest go as ever was. Did you hear anythink about it, Ishmael?"
"I chanced to overhear Lady Vincent say to her father—that she was alone. That was all. I did not even see her ladyship."
"Well, now, that's another rum go. Didn't wait to see her. And you sich friends? Owtch! Oh! Ah! What's that for, Hannah? You've trod on my toe and ground it a'most to powder! Ah!"
"If your foot is as soft as your head, no wonder every touch hurts it!" snapped Mrs. Gray.
"Law, what a temper she have got, Ishmael!" said poor Reuben, carressing his afflicted foot.
Hannah had effected the diversion she intended, and soon after gave the signal for rising from the table. And she took good care during the rest of the evening that the subject of Lord and Lady Vincent should not be brought upon the tapis.
The next morning being Monday, Ishmael accompanied Reuben in his rounds over his own little farm and the great Tanglewood estate, to see the improvements. The "durrum" cow and calf and the "shank-bye" fowls received due notice. And the first ripe bunches of the "hamburg" grapes were plucked in the visitor's honor.
In the afternoon they went down to the oyster banks and amused themselves with watching Sam rake the oysters and load the cart.
They returned to a late tea.
It was while they were sitting out on the vine-shaded porch, enjoying their usual evening chat under the star-lit sky, that they heard the sound of approaching wheels.
And a few moments afterwards a carriage drew up at the gate.
Reuben walked up to see who was within it. And Ishmael heard the voice of Lord Vincent inquiring:
"Is this the best road to Tanglewood?"
"Well, yes, sir; I do s'pose it's the best, if any can be called the best where none on 'em is good, but every one on 'em as bad as bad can be!" was the encouraging answer.
"Drive on!" said Lord Vincent. And the carriage rolled out of sight into the forest road.
After all, then, the viscount had not absconded. He probably had missed the train. But why had he missed it? That was still the question.
On Tuesday morning Ishmael took leave of Hannah and Reuben, promising to stop and spend another day and night with them on his return to Washington; and mounted on a fine horse, borrowed from Reuben, with his knapsack behind him, he started for the Beacon.
It was yet early in the forenoon when he arrived at that cool promontory where the refreshing sea breezes met him.
As he rode up to the house, that you know fronted the water, he saw Bee, blooming and radiant with youth and beauty, out on the front lawn with her younger sisters and brothers.
Their restless glances caught sight of him first; and they all exclaimed at once:
"Here's Ishmael, Bee! here's Ishmael, Bee!" and ran off to meet him.
Bee impulsively started to run too, but checked herself, and stood, blushing but eager, waiting until Ishmael dismounted and came to greet her.
She met him with a warm, silent welcome, and then, looking at him suddenly, said:
"You are so much better; you are quite well. I am so glad, Ishmael!"
"Yes, I am well and happy, dearest Bee—thanks to you and to Heaven!" said Ishmael, warmly pressing her hands again to his lips, before turning to embrace the children who were jumping around him.
Then they all went into the house, where Mr. and Mrs. Middleton met him with an equally cordial welcome.
"And how did you leave the family at Tanglewood? Family, said I? Ah! there is no family there now; no one left but the old judge. How is he? And when is Claudia and her lordling expected back?" inquired Mr. Middleton, when they were all seated near one of the sea-view windows.
"The judge is well. Lord and Lady Vincent are with him," repliedIshmael.
And then in answer to their exclamations of surprise he told all he knew of the unexpected arrival.
A luncheon of fruit, cream, cake, and wine was served, and the welcome guest was pressed to partake of it.
Ishmael tasted and enjoyed all except the wine—that, faithful to his vow, he avoided, and was rewarded by a sympathetic look from Bee.
This was one of the bright days of Ishmael's life. Nowhere did he feel so much at home or so happy as with these kind friends. They had an early seaside dinner—fish, crabs, oysters, and water-fowl, forming a large portion of the bill of fare. Luscious, freshly gathered fruits composed the dessert. After dinner, as the evening was clear and bright, the wind fresh and the waters calm, they went for a sail down to Silver Sands, and returned by starlight.
Ishmael remained all the week at the Beacon. And it was a week of rare enjoyment to him. He passed nearly all the time with Bee and her inseparable companions, the children. He helped them with the lessons in the schoolroom in the morning; he went nutting with them in the woods, or strolled with them on the beach; and he gave himself up to the task of amusing them during the hour after the lamp was lighted that they were permitted to sit up.
All this was due partly to his desire to be with his betrothed, and partly to his genial love to children.
About the middle of the week, as they were all seated at breakfast one morning, missives came from Tanglewood to the Beacon— invitations to dine there the following Wednesday evening. These invitations included Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, Beatrice, and Ishmael.
"You will go, of course, Worth?" said Mr. Middleton.
"I am due at Brudenell Hall on Tuesday evening, and I must keep my appointment," said Ishmael.
"Well, I suppose that settles it, for I never knew you to break an appointment, under any sort of temptation," said Mr. Middleton.
And Bee, who well understood why, even had Ishmael's time been at his own disposal, he should not have gone to Tanglewood, silently acquiesced. On this day Ishmael sought an interview with Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, and besought them, as his present income and future prospects equally justified him in taking a wife, to fix some day, not very distant, for his marriage with Bee.
But the father and mother assured him, in the firmest though the most affectionate manner, that at least one year, if not two, must elapse before they could consent to part with their daughter.
Ishmael most earnestly deprecated the two years of probation, and finally compromised for one year, during which he should be permitted to correspond freely with his betrothed, and visit her at will.
With this Ishmael rested satisfied.
The remainder of the week passed delightfully to him.
Mrs. Middleton took the children off Bee's hands for a few days, to leave her to some enjoyment of her lover's visit.
And every morning and afternoon Ishmael and Bee rode or walked together, through the old forest or along the pebbly beach. Sometimes they had a sail to some fine point on the shore. Their evenings were passed in the drawing room, with Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, and were employed in music, books, and conversation.
And so the pleasant days slipped by and brought the Sabbath, when all the family went together to the old Shelton church.
Monday was the last day of his visit, and he passed it almost exclusively in the society of Bee. In the evening Mr. and Mrs. Middleton left them alone in the drawing room, that they might say their last kind words to each other unembarrassed by the presence of others.
And on Tuesday morning Ishmael mounted his horse and started forBrudenell.
God loves no heart to others iced,Nor erring flatteries which bedimOur glorious membership in Christ,Wherein all loving His, love Him.—M. F. Tupper.
It was a long day's ride from the Beacon to Brudenell Hall. The greater length of the road lay through the forest. It was, in fact, the very same route traversed, five years before, by Reuben Gray, when he brought Hannah and Ishmael from the Hill Hut to Woodside.
Ishmael thought of that time, as he ambled on through the leafy wilderness.
At noon he stopped at a rural inn to feed and rest his horse, and refresh himself, and an hour afterwards he mounted and resumed his journey.
It was near sunset when he came in sight of the bay and the village to which it gave the name of Baymouth. How well he remembered the last time he had been at that village—when he had run that frantic race to catch the sleigh which was carrying Claudia away from him, and had fallen in a swoon at the sight of the steamer that was bearing her off.
How many changes had taken place since then! Claudia was a viscountess; he was a successful barrister; their love a troubled dream of the past.
He rode through Baymouth, looking left and right at the old familiar shops and signs that had been the wonder and amusement of his childhood; and at many new shops and signs that the march of progress had brought down even to Baymouth.
He paused a moment to gaze at Hamlin's book store, that had been the paradise of his boyhood; and he recalled that noteworthy day in August, when, while standing before Hamlin's window, staring at the books, he had first been accosted by Mr. Middleton, afterwards assaulted by Alfred Burghe, and finally defended by Claudia Merlin. Claudia was noble then—but, ah, how ignoble now!
He passed on, unrecognized by anyone, first because the years between the ages of seventeen, when he was last there, and twenty- one, when he was now there, really had wrought serious changes in his personal appearance, and secondly because no one was just then expecting to see Ishmael Worth at all, and least of all in the person of the tall, distinguished-looking, and well-mounted stranger, who came riding through their town and taking the road to Brudenell.
Every foot of that road was rich in memories to Ishmael. Over it he had ridden, in Mr. Middleton's carriage, on that fateful day of his first meeting with Claudia.
Over it he had traveled, weary and footsore, through the snow, to sell his precious book to buy tea for Hannah.
And over it he had again flashed in Mr. Middleton's sleigh, happy in the possession of his recovered treasure.
Twilight was deepening into dark when he reached that point in the road where the little footpath diverged from it and led up to the Hill Hut.
No! he could not pass this by. The path was wide enough to admit the passage of a horse. He turned up it, and rode on until he came in sight of the hut.
It was but little changed. It is astonishing how long these little lonely dilapidated houses hold on if let alone.
He alighted, tied his horse to a tree, and walked up behind the house, where, under the old elm, he saw the low headstone gleaming dimly in the starlight.
He knelt and bowed his head over it for a little while. Then he arose and stood with folded arms, gazing thoughtfully down upon it. Finally he murmured to himself: "Not here, but risen;" and turned and left the spot.
He went to the tree where he had tied his horse, remounted, and rode on his way.
Again he passed down the narrow path leading back to the broad turnpike road that wound around the brow of the hills to Brudenell Hall.
Here also every yard of the road was redolent of past associations.
How often, while self-apprenticed to the Professor of Odd Jobs, he had passed up and down this road, carrying a basket of tools behind his master.
At length he came to the cross-roads, and to the turnstile, where he had once seen and been accosted by the beautiful Countess of Hurstmonceux.
He rode past this spot, and taking the lower arm of the road entered upon the Brudenell grounds.
A very short ride brought him to the semi-circular avenue leading to the house.
It was now quite dark; but the front of the house was lighted up, holding forth, as it were, its hands in welcome.
As he rode up and dismounted a servant took his horse.
And as he walked up the front steps Mr. Brudenell came out of the front door and, holding out his hand, said cordially:
"You are welcome, my dear Ishmael! I received your letter this morning, and have been looking for you all afternoon!"
"And I am very glad to get here at last, sir," said Ishmael, returning the fervent pressure of his father's hands.
"Come up, my boy! Felix, go before us with the light to the room prepared for Mr. Worth," he said to a mulatto boy who was waiting in the hall.
Felix immediately led the way upstairs to a large back room, whose windows overlooked the star-lit, dew-spangled garden, and which Ishmael at once recognized as the happy schoolroom of his boyhood, now transformed into his bedroom. He welcomed the old familiar walls with all his heart; he was glad to be in them.
Mr. Brudenell himself took care that Ishmael had everything he was likely to want, and then he left him.
When Ishmael had changed his dress he went below to the drawing room, where he found his father waiting. The late dinner was immediately served.
Old Jovial, who on account of his age and infirmity had been left to vegetate on the estate, waited on the table.
He stole wistful glances at the strange young man who was his master's guest, and who somehow or other reminded him of somebody whom he felt he ought to remember, but knew he could not.
At length Ishmael, attracted by his covert regards, looked at him in return, and in spite of his bowed and shrunken form and thinned and whitened hair, recognized the old friend of his boyhood, and exclaimed, as he offered his hand:
"Why, Jovial, it is never you!"
"Mr. Ishmael, sir, it's never you!" returned the old man with a grin of joyful recognition.
They shook hands then and there.
And old Jovial showed his increased regard for the guest by continually proffering bread, vegetables, meat, poultry, pepper, salt, in short, everything in succession over and over again, thereby effectually preventing Ishmael from eating his dinner, by compelling his constant attention to these offerings; until at length Mr. Brudenell interfered and brought him to reason.
The next morning Mr. Brudenell proposed to Ishmael to go out for a day's shooting. And accordingly they took their fowling-pieces, called the dogs and started for the wooded valley where game most abounded.
They spent the day pleasantly, bagged many birds and returned home to a late dinner; and the evening closed as before.
"What would you like to do with yourself this morning, Ishmael?" inquired Mr. Brudenell, as they were seated at breakfast on Thursday.
"I wish to go in search of a valued old friend of mine, known in this neighborhood as the Professor of Odd Jobs," was the reply.
"Oh, Morris. Yes. You will find him, I fancy, in the old place, just on the edge of the estate," replied Mr. Brudenell.
And when they arose from the table the latter went out and mounted his horse to ride to the post office, for Herman Brudenell's establishment was now reduced to so small a number of servants that he was compelled to be his own postman. To be plain with you, there were but two servants—old Jovial, who was gardener, coachman, and waiter; and old Dinah, his wife, who was cook, laundress, and chambermaid.
Felix, the lad mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, was scarcely to be called one, upon account of the mental imbecility that confined his usefulness to such simple duties as running little errands from room to room about the house.
So Mr. Brudenell rode off to the post office, and Ishmael walked off to the cottage occupied by Jim Morris.
An ancient man, hoary gray with eld.—Dante.
The little house was situated right at the foot of the hill south ofBrudenell Hall.
Ishmael approached it from behind and walked around to the front. He opened the little wooden gate of the front yard and saw seated in the front door, enjoying that early autumn morning, a stalwart old man, whose well-marked features and high forehead were set in a rim of hair and beard as white as snow. A most respectable and venerable-looking form, indeed, though the raiment that clothed it was old and patched. But Ishmael had to look again before he could recognize in this reverend personage the Professor of Odd Jobs.
A curiosity to know whether the professor would recognize him induced Ishmael to approach him as a stranger. As he came into the yard, however, Morris arose slowly, and, lifting his old felt hat, bowed courteously to the supposed stranger.
"Your name is Morris, I believe," said Ishmael, by way of opening a conversation.
But at the first word the professor started and gazed at his visitor, and exclaiming: "Young Ishmael! Oh, my dear boy, how glad I am to see you once more before I die!" burst into tears.
Ishmael went straight into his embrace, and the old odd-job man pressed the young gentleman to his honest, affectionate heart.
"You knew me at once, professor," said Ishmael affectionately.
"Knew you, my boy!" burst out the old man, with enthusiasm. "Why, I knew you as soon as ever you looked at me and spoke to me. I knew you by your steady, smiling eyes and by your rich, sweet voice, young Ishmael. No one has a look and a tone like yours."
"You think so because you like me, professor."
"And how you have grown! And they tell me that you have risen to be a great lawyer? I knew it was in you to do it!" said the professor, holding the young man off and gazing at him with all a father's pride.
"By the blessing of Heaven, I have been successful, dear old friend," said Ishmael affectionately; "but how has it been with you, all these years?" he asked.
"How has it been with me? Ah, young Ishmael—I should say 'Mr.Worth.'"
"Young Ishmael, professor."
"No, no; 'Mr. Worth.' I shall love you none the less by honoring you more. And with me you are henceforth 'Mr. Worth.'"
"As you please, professor. But I hope it has been well with you all these years?"
"Come in, Mr. Worth, and sit down and I will tell you."
The professor led the way into the humble dwelling. It was as neat as ever, with its sanded floor, flag-bottom chairs, and pine tables,—all of the professor's manufacture,—and its bright tinware and clean crockery ranged in order on its well scrubbed shelves.
But its look of solitude struck a chill upon Ishmael's spirits.
"Where are they all, professor?" he inquired.
"Gone, Mr. Worth," answered Morris solemnly, as he placed a chair for his guest.
"Gone! not dead!" exclaimed Ishmael, dropping into the offered seat.
"Not all dead, but all gone," answered the professor sadly, letting himself sink into a seat near Ishmael.
"Your wife?" inquired the young man.
"There—and there," answered the professor, pointing first down and then up; "her body is in the earth; her soul in heaven, I hope."
"And your daughters, professor?" inquired Ishmael, in a voice of sympathy.
"Both married, Mr. Worth. Ann Maria married Lewis Digges, old Commodore Burghe's boy that he set free before he died, and they have moved up to Washington to better themselves, and they're doing right well, as I hear. He drives a hack and she clear starches. They have three children, two girls and a boy. I have never seen one of them yet."
"And your other daughter?"
"Mary Ellen? She married Henry Parsons, a free man, by trade a blacksmith, and they live in St. Inigoes. They have one child, a boy. I haven't seen them either since they have been married."
"And you are quite alone?" said Ishmael, in a tender voice
"Quite alone, young Ishmael," answered the professor, who forgot on this occasion to call his sometime pupil Mr. Worth.
"And how is business, professor?"
"Business has fallen off considerably; indeed I may say it has fallen off altogether."
"I am very sorry to hear it. How is that, professor?"
"Why, you see, Mr. Worth, its falling off is the natural result of time and progress, of which I cannot complain, and at which I ought to rejoice. It was all very well for the neighborhood to patronize a Jack of all trades like me when there was nothing better to be had; but now you see there are lots of regular mechanics been gradually coming down and settling here—carpenters and stone-masons and painters and glaziers and plumbers and tinners and saddlers and shoemakers, and what not. Law, why you might have seen their signs as you rode through Baymouth."
"I did."
"Well, you see these mechanics, they have journeymen and apprentices with their trades at their fingers' ends, and they can do their work not only easier and quicker and better than I can, but even cheaper. So I cannot complain that they have taken the custom of the neighborhood from me."
"Professor, I really do admire the justice and forbearance of your nature."
"Well, young Ishmael, there was another thing. I was getting too old to tramp miles and miles through the country with a heavy pack on my back, as I used to do."
"Well, then, I hope you have saved a little money, at least, old friend, to make you comfortable in your old age," said Ishmael feelingly.
The poor, old odd-job man looked up with a humorous twinkle in his eye, as he replied:
"Why, law, young Ishmael, the idea of my saving money! When had I ever a chance to do it in the best o' days? Why, Ishmael, they say how ministers of the gospel and teachers of youth are the worst paid men in the community; but I think, judging by my own case, that professors are quite as poorly remunerated. It used to take everything I could rake and scrape to keep my family together; and so, young Ishmael, I haven't saved a dollar."
"Is that so?" asked Ishmael, in a voice of pain.
"True as gospel, young Ishmael—Mr. Worth."
"How then do you manage to live, Morris? I ask this from the kindest of feelings."
"Don't I know it, young—Mr. Worth. Well, sir, I do an odd job once in a while yet, for the colored people, and that keeps me from starving," said the professor, with a smile.
Ishmael fell into a deep thought for a while, and then lifting his head, said:
"Well, professor, you have been in your day and generation as useful a man to your fellow-creatures as any other in this world. You have contributed as much to the comfort and well-being of the community in which you live as any other member of it! And you should not and you shall not be left in your old age, either to suffer from want or to live on charity—"
"I may suffer for want, Mr. Worth, but I never will consent to live on charity!" said the odd-job man with dignity.
"That I am sure you never will, professor; though mind! I do not believe it to be any degradation to live by charity when one cannot live in any other way. For if all men are brethren should not the able brother help the disabled brother, and that without humbling him?"
"Yes; but I am not disabled, young—Mr. Worth. I am only disused."
"That is very true. And therefore I spoke as I did when I said just now that you should not suffer from want nor live by charity. Listen to me, professor. I have a proposition to make to you. Your daughters are all married and your work is done; you are alone and idle here. But you are not a mere animal to be tied down to one spot of earth by local attachment. You are a very intelligent man with a progressive mind. You will never stop improving, professor. You have improved very much in the last few years. I notice it in your conversation—"
"I am glad you think so, young—Mr. Worth! but I'm getting aged."
"What of that? You are 'traveling towards the light,' and after improving all your life here you will go on progressing through all eternity."
"Well, sir, that thought ought to be a great comfort to an old man."
"Yes. Now what I want to propose to you is this—I think you love me, professor?"
"Love you, young—Mr. Worth! Why the Lord in heaven bless your dear heart, I love you better than I do anything on the face of the earth, and that's a fact," said the professor, with his face all in a glow of feeling.
And all who knew him might have known that he spoke truth; for though he was not in the least degree deficient in affection for his daughters, yet his love of Ishmael amounted almost to idolatry.
"Dear old friend, I will prove to you some day how high a value I set upon your love. I think, professor, that loving me, as you do, you could live happily with me?"
"What did you say, young—Mr. Worth? I did not quite understand."
"I will be plain, professor. You have lived out your present life here; it is gone. Now, instead of vegetating on here any longer, come into another sphere, a more enlarged and active sphere, where your thoughts as well as your hands will find employment and your mind as well as your body have food."
"How is that to be done, young—Mr. Worth?"
"Come with me to Washington. I have a suite of three very pleasant rooms in the house where I board. Now suppose you come and live with me and take care of my rooms? Your services would be worth a good, liberal salary, from which you would be enabled to live very comfortably and save money."
"What, young Ishmael! Me! I go to Washington and live with you all the time, day and night, under one roof! and live where I can get books and newspapers and hear lectures and debates and see pictures and models, and, in short, come at everything I have been longing to reach all my life?"
"Yes, professor, that is what I propose to you."
"There! I used to say that you'd live to be a blessing to my declining years, young—Mr. Worth (I declare I'll not forget myself again), Mr. Worth! there! Do you really mean it, sir?"
"Really and truly."
"There, then, I am not going to be a hypocrite and pretend to higgle-haggle about it. I'll go, sir; and be proud to do it; it will be taking a new lease of life for me to go. Do you know, I never was in a large city in all my life, though I have always longed to go? Well, sir, I'll go with you. And I will serve you faithfully, sir; for mine will be a service for love more than for money. And I will never forget the proprieties so far as to call you anything else but 'Mr. Worth,' or 'sir,' in the presence of others, sir, though my heart does betray me into calling you young Ishmael sometimes here."
"I shall leave here on Saturday morning. Can you be ready to go with me as soon as that?"
"Of course I can, Mr. Worth. There's nothing for me to do in the way of preparation but to pack my knapsack and lock my door," answered this "Rough and Ready."
"Very well, then, professor, I like your promptitude. Meet me at Brudenell Hall on Saturday morning at seven o'clock, and in the meantime I will find a conveyance for you."
"All right; thank you, sir; I will be ready."
And Ishmael shook hands with the professor and departed, leaving him hopeful and happy.
At the dinner-table that day, being questioned by his father,Ishmael told him of the retainer he had engaged.
"Ah, my dear boy, it is just like you to burden yourself with the presence and support of that poor old man, and persuade him—and yourself, too, perhaps—that you are securing the services of an invaluable assistant. And all with no other motive than his welfare," said Mr. Brudenell.
"Indeed, sir, I think it will add to my happiness to have Morris with me. I like and esteem the old man, and I believe that he really will be of much use to me," replied the son.
"Well, I hope so, Ishmael; I hope so."
There was through all his talk a preoccupied air about Mr. Brudenell that troubled his son, who at last said:
"I hope, sir, that you have received no unpleasant news by this mail?"
"Oh, no; no, Ishmael! but I have had on my mind for several days something of which I wish to speak to you—"
"Yes, sir?"
"Ishmael, since I have been down here I have followed your counsel. I have gone about among my tenants and dependents, and—without making inquiries—I have led them to speak of the long period of my absence from my little kingdom, and of the manner in which Lady Hurstmonceux administered its affairs. And, Ishmael, I have heard but one account of her. With one voice the community here accord her the highest praise."
"I told you so, sir."
"As a wife, though an abandoned one, as mistress of the house, and as lady of the manor, she seems to have performed all her duties in the most unexceptionable manner."
"Everyone knows that, sir."
"But still remains the charge not yet refuted."
"Because you have given her no chance to refute it, sir. Be just! Put her on her defense, and my word for it, she will exonerate herself," said Ishmael earnestly.
Mr. Brudenell shook his head.
"There are some things, Ishmael, that on the very face of them admit of no defense," said Mr. Brudenell, with an emphasis that put an end to the conversation.
Punctually at seven o'clock Saturday the professor, accoutered for a journey, with knapsack on his back, presented himself at the servant's door at Brudenell Hall.
His arrival being announced, Ishmael came out to meet him.
"Well, here I am, Mr. Worth; though how I am to travel I don't know.I have walked, by faith, so far!" he said.
"All right, professor. Mr. Brudenell will lend me an extra horse."
And father and son took leave of each other with earnest wishes for their mutual good.
Ever charming, ever new,When will the landscape tire the view?The fountains fall, the rivers flow,The woody valleys, warm and low,The windy summit, wild and high,Roughly rushing on the sky!The pleasant seat, the chapel tower,The naked rock, the shady bower,The town and village, dome and farm,Each gave each a double charm,As pearls upon a woman's arm.—Dyer.
Ishmael and his aged retainer rode on, down the elm-shaded avenue and out upon the turnpike road. There seemed to be a special fitness in the relations between these two. Ishmael, you are aware, was a very handsome, stately, and gracious young man. And the professor was the tallest, gravest, and most respectable of servants. Ah, their relative positions were changed since twelve years before, when they used to travel that same road on foot, as "boss" and "boy."
Many men in Ishmael's position would have shrunk from all that would have reminded them of the poverty from which they had sprung; and would have avoided as much as possible all persons who were familiar with their early struggles.
But Ishmael did not so. While pressing forward to the duties and distinctions of the future, with burning aspiration and untiring energy, he held the places and persons of the past in most affectionate remembrance.
To a vain or haughty man in Ishmael's situation there could scarcely have occurred a more humiliating circumstance than the constant presence of the poor, old odd-jobber, whose "boy" he had once been.
But Ishmael was neither the one nor the other; he was intellectual and affectionate. His breadth of mind took in his past memories, his present position, and his future prospects, and saw them all in perfect harmony. And his depth of heart found room for the humblest friends of his wretched infancy, as well as for the higher loves of his manhood's prime.
Ishmael was at ease with the old odd-job man, and he would have been at ease with his imperial majesty, had circumstances brought him into the immediate circle of the Czar; because from the depths of his soul he was intensely conscious of the innate majesty of man.
Ishmael had no more need of a servant than a coach has of a fifth wheel. He took the professor into his service for no other purpose than to take care of the poor old man and make him happy, never foreseeing how really useful and important this gray-haired retainer would eventually become to him. He was planning only the professor's happiness, not his own convenience. But he found both.
As they rode along that pleasant September morning he was pleasing himself with thinking how that intelligent old man, starved all his life for mental food, would delight himself amid the intellectual wealth of his new life.
They were approaching the turn-stile at the cross-roads, memorable for the weary watchings of Lady Hurstmonceux.
As they reached the spot and took the road leading to Baymouth Ishmael looked back to the professor, who, as he felt in duty bound to do, rode in the rear of his master, and, as was natural, looked a little serious.
"Do you remember, professor, how often you and I have traveled afoot up and down this road in the exercise of our useful calling of odd- jobbing? Your great shoulders bowed under an enormous load of pots, pans, kettles, umbrellas, and everything that required your surgical skill; and my little back bent beneath the basket of tools?" inquired Ishmael, by way of diverting him.
"Ah, do I not, sir! But why recall those days? You have left them far behind, sir," said the professor, in grave consideration of his master's dignity.
"Because I like to recall them, professor. It quickens my gratitude to the Lord for all his marvelous mercies, and it deepens my love for my friends for their goodness to me then," said Ishmael fervently.
"The Lord knows I don't know who was good to you then! Of course, now, sir, there are multitudes of people who would be proud to be numbered among your friends. But then, of all the abandoned children that ever I saw, you were about the most friendless," said the professor, with much feeling.
"You, for one, were good to me, professor; and I do not forget it."
"Ah, the Lord knows it was but little I could do."
"What you did do was vital to me, professor. My life was but a little flame, in danger of dying out. You fed it with little chips, and kept it alive."
"And it burns great hickory logs now, and warms the world," said the professor, looking proudly and fondly upon the fine young man before him.
"It shall at least warm and shelter your age, professor. And whatever of prosperity the Lord accords me, you shall share."
As he said these words he turned an affectionate look on his retainer, and saw the tears rolling down the old man's cheeks.
"It was but a few, poor crumbs I cast upon the waters, that all this bread should come back to me after many days," he muttered in a broken voice.
"We were really very happy, professor, when we used to trudge the road together, plying our profession; but we are going to be much happier now, because our lives will be enlarged."
The professor smiled assent and they rode on.
They passed through Baymouth, where the professor directed his master's attention to the new signs of the mechanics who had taken his custom from him,
"But it is a true saying, sir, that there never was one door closed but what there was another opened. Many doors were closed against me at once; but just see what a broad, beautiful door you have opened to me, letting me into a glorious new life!"
"Life is what we make of it, professor. To you, who will appreciate and enjoy every good thing in it, no doubt your new life will be very happy," replied Ishmael.
And so conversing they passed through the town and entered the deep forest that lay along the shores of the river between Baymouth and Shelton.
They rode all the morning through the pleasant woods and stopped an hour at noon to rest and refresh themselves and their horses; and then resumed their journey and rode all the afternoon and arrived at Woodside just as the sun was setting.
As before, Reuben, Hannah, Sam, Sally, the children, and the dog, all rushed out to welcome Ishmael.
Much astonished was Hannah to see her old friend, the professor, and much delighted to hear that he was going up to Washington to fill the place of major-domo to Ishmael. For Hannah shared the old woman's superstition, that the young man is never able to take care of himself; and notwithstanding all that had come and gone— notwithstanding that Ishmael had taken care of himself and her too, from the time he was eight years old, for years more, still she thought that he would be all the safer for having "an old head to look after him."
There was plenty of news to tell, too.
As soon as the bounteous supper that Reuben and Hannah always provided for favored guests was over, and they were all gathered around the bright little wood fire that the capricious autumn weather rendered desirable, the budget was opened.
Lord and Lady Vincent were to have an evening reception, atTanglewood.
And on the first of October they were to sail for Europe.
Lady Vincent was going to take three of the servants with her—oldAunt Katie, Jim, and Sally.
Jim was to go as lady's footman; Sally as lady's maid; and old Aunt Katie in no particular capacity, but because she refused to be separated from the two beings she loved the most of all in the world.
She had nursed Miss Claudia, and she was bound to nurse MissClaudia's children, she said.
Lady Vincent had decided to take her, and was rather glad to do it.
Lord Vincent, it was supposed, did not like the arrangement, and stigmatized the black servants as "gorillas," but Lady Vincent, it was confidently asserted, never deigned to consult his lordship, or pay the slightest attention to his prejudices. And so matters stood for the present.
All this was communicated to Ishmael by Reuben and Hannah. And in the midst of their talk, in walked one of the subjects of their conversation—Aunt Katie.
She was immediately welcomed and provided with a seat in the chimney-corner. She was inflated with the subject of her expected voyage and glowing with the importance of her anticipated office. She expatiated on the preparations in progress.
"But don't you feel sorry to leave your native home, Aunt Katie?" inquired Hannah.
"Who, me? No, 'deed! I takes my native home along with me when I takes Miss Claudia and Jim and Sally! For what says the catechism?— 'tis home where'er de heart is!' And my heart is 'long o' de chillun. 'Sides which I don't want to be allus stuck down in one place like an old tree as can't be moved without killing of it. I'm a living soul, I am, and I wants to go and see somethin' of this here world afore I goes hence and bees no more," said Katie briskly.
Evidently Katie was a progressive spirit, and would not have hesitated to emigrate to Liberia or any other new colony where she could better herself or her children, and begin life afresh at fifty.
At last Katie got up to go, and bade them all a patronizing farewell.
Sally, and Jim, who as usual was spending his evening with her, arose to accompany Katie.
And Ishmael took his hat and walked out after them.
Very much embarrassed they were at this unusual honor, which they could in no wise understand, until at length when they had gone some little way into the woods Ishmael said:
"I have something to say to you three."
"Yes, sir," said Katie, speaking for the rest.
"Katie, you are acquainted with that psychological mystery called presentiment, for I have heard you speak of it," said Ishmael, smiling half in doubt, half in derision of his present feelings.
"Ye-es, sir," answered Katie hesitatingly, "I believe in persentiments; though what you mean by sigh-what's-its-name, I don't know."
"Never mind, Katie, you believe in presentiments?"
"Indeed do I! and got reason to, too! Why, law! the month before Mrs. Merlin, as was Miss Claudia's mother, died. I sperienced the most 'stonishing—"
"Yes, I know. You told me all about that before, Katie."
"Why, so I did, to be sure, sir, when you were lying wounded at the house!"
"Yes. Well, Katie, some such feeling as that of which you speak, vague, but very strong, impels me to say what I am about to say to you all."
"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun!" said Katie, in a voice of such awful solemnity that Ishmael again smiled at what he was inclined to characterize as the absurdity of believing in presentiments.
"You three are going to Europe in attendance upon Lady Vincent."
"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun!" again said Katie, keeping her eyes fixed upon Ishmael and nudging her companions right and left with her elbows.
"You will be all of her friends, all of her native country, all of her past life that she will take with her."
"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun!" and another elbow dig, right and left.
"She is going among strangers, foreigners, possibly rivals and enemies."
"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun—now it's a-comin'!"
"She may need all your devotion. Be vigilant, therefore. Watch over her, care for her, think for her, pray for her; let her honor and happiness be the one charge and object of your lives."
"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun! you hears, don't you?"
A sharp reminder right and left brought out the responses "yes" and "yes" from Jim and Sally.
"And when you are far away you will remember all this that I have said to you; for, as I told you before, I feel, deep in my spirit, that your lady will need your utmost devotion," said Ishmael earnestly.
"You may count on me, for one, Mr. Ishmael, sir; not only to devote myself to my lady's sarvice, but to keep the ole 'oman and Sally in mind to go and do likewise," said Jim, with an air of earnest good faith that could not be doubted.
"That is right. I will take leave of you now. Good-by! God bless you!"
And Ishmael shook hands with them all around, and left them and walked back to the cottage.
The next day, being the Sabbath, he went with Hannah and Reuben and the professor to church. He had almost shrunk from this duty, in his dread of meeting Claudia there; but she was not present. Judge Merlin's pew was empty when they entered, and remained empty during the whole of the morning service.
When the benediction had been pronounced, and the congregation were going out, Ishmael was about to leave his pew when he saw that the minister had come down from the pulpit and was advancing straight towards him to speak to him. He therefore stopped and waited for Mr. Wynne's approach.
There was a shaking of hands and mutual inquiries as to each other's health, and then Mr. Wynne invited Ishmael to accompany him home and dine with him.
Ishmael thanked him and declined the invitation, saying that he was with friends.
Mr. Wynne then smilingly shook hands with Hannah and Reuben and the professor, claiming them all as old friends and parishioners, and extending the invitation to them.
But Hannah pleaded the children left at home, and, with many thanks, declined the honor.
And the friends shook hands and separated.
Very early on Monday morning Ishmael and his gray-haired retainer prepared for their departure for Washington.
Ishmael left two commissions for Reuben. The first was to make his apologies and adieus to Judge Merlin. And the second was to send back the horse, borrowed for the use of the professor, to Mr. Brudenell at Brudenell Hall. Both of which Reuben promised to execute.
After an early breakfast Ishmael and his venerable dependent took leave of Hannah, the children and the dog, and seated themselves in the light wagon that had been geared up for their accommodation, and were driven by Reuben to Shelton, where they arrived in time to catch the "Errand Boy" on its up trip. Reuben took leave of them only half a minute before the boat started.
They had a pleasant run up the river, and reached the Washington wharf early on Wednesday morning, where Ishmael took a carriage to convey himself, servant, and his luggage to his lodgings.
As they drove through the streets the professor, seated on the front seat, bobbed about from right to left, looking out at the windows and gazing at the houses, the shops, and the crowds of people. Nothing could exceed the surprise and delight of the intellectual but childlike old man, who now for the first time in his life looked upon a large city. His enthusiasm at the sight of the Capitol was delicious.
"You shall go all through it some day, as soon as we get settled," said Ishmael.
"There is only one thing that I am doubtful about," said the professor.
"And what is that?"
"That I have not years enough left to live to see all the wonders of the world."
"None of us—not the youngest of us have, professor. But you will live to see a great many. And by the time that you have seen everything that is to be found in Washington, I shall be ready to go to Europe; for I expect to see Europe some time or other, professor, and you shall see it with me."
"Oh!" ejaculated the odd-job man, who seemed to think that the millennium was not far off.
And at that moment the carriage drew up before Ishmael's lodgings. And the driver and the professor carried the luggage into the front hall. And when the carriage was paid and dismissed Ishmael conducted the professor to the inner office where the two clerks that were in charge of it arose to welcome their principal.
When he had shaken hands with them, he led his retainer into the bedroom, and showed him a small vacant chamber adjoining that, and told him that the latter should be his—the professor's own sanctuary. Then he showed the old man the pleasant garden, all blooming now with late roses, chrysanthemums, dahlias, and other gorgeous autumn flowers, and told him that there he might walk or sit, and smoke his pipe in pleasant weather. And finally he brought the professor back to the front office, where he found his hostesses, Miss Jenny and Miss Nelly Downey, waiting to welcome him. Nice, delicate, refined-looking old maiden ladies they were—tall, thin, and fair complexioned, with fine, gray hair, and cobweb lace caps and pale gray dresses, and having pleasant smiles and soft voices.
After they had shaken hands with their lodger they turned looks of inquiry upon the tall, gray-haired old man that stood behind him.
"This is a very old friend of mine; I have engaged him to take care of my rooms, his name is Morris, but upon account of his skill in many arts he has received from the public the title of professor," said Ishmael, turning an affectionate look upon the old odd-job man.
"How do you do, Professor Morris? We are very glad to see you, I am sure; and we hope you will find yourself comfortable, and also that you will be a comfort to Mr. Worth, who is a very estimable young gentleman indeed," said Miss Jenny, speaking for herself and sister.
"I cannot fail to be both comfortable and happy under this honored roof, my ladies!" said the professor, in a most reverential tone, laying his hand upon his heart and making a profound bow that would have done credit to the most accomplished courtier of the grave and stately old school.
"A nice, gentlemanly old person," said Miss Jenny, nodding her head to her sister. And Miss Nelly said "Yes," and nodded her head also.
"If you can fit up the little chamber adjoining my bedroom for the professor, I will arrange with you for his board," said Ishmael, aside to Miss Jenny.
"Oh, certainly; it shall be done immediately," replied the old lady. And she left the room, followed by her sister, to give orders to that effect.
And before night the professor was comfortably installed in his neatly furnished and well-warmed little room, and Ishmael's apartments were restored to order, and he himself in full career going over the office business of the last two weeks with his clerks.
He found a plenty of work cut out for him to do, and he resolved to be very busy to make up for his idleness during his holiday.
Ishmael did not really wish to tax his old servant with any labor at all. He wished his office to be as much of a sinecure as possible. And he continually urged the professor to go abroad and see the city sights, or to walk in the garden and enjoy his pipe, or rest himself in his own room, or visit his daughter, the hackman's wife.
The professor obediently did all this for a time; but as the days passed Ishmael saw that the old man's greatest happiness consisted in staying with and serving his master; and so he at length permitted the professor to relieve the chamber-maid of her duties in his rooms, and take quiet possession and complete charge of them.
And never were rooms kept in more perfect order. And, best of all, love taught the professor the mystic art of dusting without deranging papers and dementing their owner.
Ishmael's present position was certainly a very pleasant one. He not only found a real home in his boarding-house, and a faithful friend in his servant, but a pair of aunties in his landladies. Every good heart brought in contact with Ishmael Worth was sure to love him. And these old ladies were no exception to the rule. They had no relatives to bestow their affections upon, and so, seeing every day more of their young lodger's worth, they grew to love him with maternal ardor. It is not too much to say that they doted on him. And in private they nodded their heads at each other and talked of its being time to make their wills, and spoke of young Mr. Worth as their heir and executor.
Ishmael for his part treated the old ladies with all the reverential tenderness that their age and womanhood had a right to expect from his youth and manhood. He never dreamed that the "sweet, small courtesies," which it was his happiness to bestow alike on rich and poor, had won for him such signal favor in the eyes of the old ladies. He knew and was happy to know that they loved him. That was all. He never dreamed of being their heir; he never even imagined that they had any property to bequeath. He devoted himself with conscientious zeal to his profession, and went on, as he deserved to go on, from success to success.