She saw the Third-avenue cars; but how was she to get to them? The street seemed blocked up continually. By and by a policeman piloted her across, and saw her safely deposited in the car.
Charlie paid her fare, and told the conductor to stop at Fourteenth Street; but, after riding a while, she began to look out for herself. What an endless way it was! and wheredidall the people come from? Could it be possible that there were houses enough for them to live in? Ah! here was her corner.
She turned easterly, watching for the number. There was Mrs. Wilcox's frowsy head at the front basement window; and Charlie felt almost afraid to ring at the front-door, so she tried that lowly entrance.
"Come in," said a voice in response to her knock.
It was evident she had grown out of Mrs. Wilcox's remembrance, so she rather awkwardly introduced herself.
"Charlie Kenneth! The land sakes! How you have growed! Why, I'm right glad to see you. How is Granny and all the children, and all the folks at Madison?"
Charlie "lumped" them, and answered, "Pretty well."
"Did you come down all alone? And how did you find us? Mary Jane'll be powerful glad to see you. Ain't you most tired to death luggin' that heavy bag? Do take off your things, and get rested."
Charlie complied. Mrs. Wilcox went on with her endless string of questions, even after she rose to set the supper-table.
"And so Florence is married. Strange you've never heard about her. She's so rich and grand that I s'pose she don't want to remember poor relations. And Hal's been a teachin' school! Why, you're quite gettin' up in the world."
Mary Jane soon made her appearance. A flirting, flippant girl of sixteen, rather good-looking, and trimmed up with ribbons and cheap furbelows. She appeared glad to see Charlie, and all the questions were asked over again. Then Mr. Wilcox came in, washed his hands and face, and they sat down to supper. Before they were half through, Tom and Ed came tumbling in, full of fun and nonsense.
"Boys, be still!" said their father; which admonition they heeded for about the space of ten seconds.
Mary Jane rose from the table as soon as she had finished her supper.
"Charlie'll sleep with me, of course," she said. "Bring your bag and your things up stairs, Charlie."
Charlie followed her to the third story,—a very fair-sized room, but with an appearance of general untidiness visible everywhere.
"You can hang up your clothes in that closet," indicating it with her head. "Did you go to work in the mill, Charlie?"
"Yes."
"Didn't you like it?"
"Not very much," slowly shaking out her clean calico dress.
"I shouldn't, either. What did you earn?"
"Sometimes four dollars and a half."
"I earn six, week in and week out. Then I do a little overwork every day, which gives me Saturday afternoon. Charlie, why don't you stay?"
Mary Jane was taking down her hair, and turned round suddenly.
"I thought I would;" and Charlie blushed. "I've saved up a little money, enough to pay my board for a few weeks, until I can find something to do."
"Flower-making is first-rate. Some of the girls earn ten dollars a week. I've only been at it a year, you see. They pay a dollar a week while you're learning. Shall I try to get you in?"
"I don't know yet," was the hesitating answer.
"What makes you wear your hair short, Charlie?"
"Why—I like it so. It's no trouble."
"But it's so childish!"
Mary Jane was arranging a wonderful waterfall. On the top of this she hung a cluster of curls, and on the top of her head she tied in a bunch of frizettes with a scarlet ribbon.
"Now, that's what I call stylish;" and she turned round to Charlie. "If I was you, I'd let my hair grow; and, as soon as it is long enough to tie in a little knot, you can buy a waterfall."
Charlie was quite bewildered with these manifold adornments.
Then Mary Jane put on a white dress, a red carved ivory pin and ear-rings, and presented quite a gorgeous appearance.
"Charlie, I've been thinking—why can't you board here? I pay mother two dollars a week, and you could just as well have part of my room. Mother wanted me to let the boys have it, because there were two of them; but I wanted plenty of room. Yes: it would be real nice to have you here. I'll ask mother. I know you can find something to do."
A great load seemed lifted from Charlie's heart.
Then they went down to the next floor. The boys had the hall bedroom, and the back room was used by the heads of the family. There were two large pantriesbetween, and then a front parlor. Charlie was quite stunned; for the place appeared fully as gorgeous as Mary Jane. A cheap Brussels carpet in bright colors, the figure of which ran all over the floor; two immense vases on the mantle, where grotesque Chinese figures were disporting on a bright green ground; a rather shabby crimson plush rocker; and some quite impossible sunsets done in oil, with showy wide gilt frames. Mrs. Wilcox had purchased them at auction, and considered them a great bargain.
Then Mary Jane, with a great deal of giggling and blushing, confessed to Charlie that she had a beau. "A real nice young man," clerk in a dry-goods store, Walter Brown by name, and that he came almost every evening.
"You can't help liking him," was the positive assertion. "I wish you didn't have short hair, nor look so much like a little girl; for you are as tall as I am."
Which was very true; but Charlie felt herself quite a child, and very much startled at the idea of beaux.
Mary Jane took out some embroidery, and did not deign to revisit the kitchen. A trifle after eight Mr. Brown made his appearance, looking neat as a pink, and nearly as sweet with perfume. For the first time in her life, Charlie was painfully bashful. When he proposed a walk to an ice-cream saloon, she would fain have remained at home; but Mary Jane over-ruled.
The walk was quite pleasant, and the cream a positive treat. Charlie said some very bright things, which Mr. Brown appeared to consider exceedingly funny. Then they rambled around a while; and when they returned, Mary Jane lingered at the hall-door to have a little private talk, while Charlie ran up stairs. Mrs. Wilcox sat in the parlor fanning herself, and eagerly questioned the child as to where they had been, and how she liked New York.
Tired and excited, Charlie went to bed at last; but she could not sleep. The strange place, the tinkle of the car-bells, the noises in the streets, and, most of all, her own thoughts, kept her wakeful. She could hardly believe that she had achieved her great ambition, and actually run away. On the whole, it was rather comical.
Had they found her letter yet? What did Hal and Granny think? Would they be very much worried?
And if she onlycouldfind out something about pictures, and begin to work in good earnest at the right thing. It was as much to her as the flowers were to dear Hal. God bless and keep them all!
Charlie was really tired on Friday, and did not feel equal to making any effort; so she assisted Mrs. Wilcox with the housework, and tidied up Mary Jane's room until one would hardly have known it. But every thing seemed so strange and new.
Late in the afternoon she gained courage to say,—
"Did Mary Jane tell you, Mrs. Wilcox, that—I'd like to stay?"
"Yes. And so youreallycame to York to get something to do! I s'pose there's such a host of you at home!"
Charlie swallowed over a lump in her throat. Perhaps she was not a little glad that Mrs. Wilcox did not suspect her unorthodox manner of leaving Madison.
"I mean to find something to do. And if you would board me"—
"Now, Charlie Kenneth! first you stay and make a visit, and see what you can find, before you talk ofpayin' board. Thank Heaven! I never begrudged any one a meal's vittles or a night's sleep. Your poor old grandmother's slaved herself half to death for you, and I'm glad to see you have some spunk."
"Then, you'll let me stay?" and a soft flush of relief stole over Charlie's face.
"Stay!" rather indignantly. "No one ever heard of Hannah Wilcox turnin' people out o' doors. Your Granny has done more than one good turn for me."
"But I've saved some money to pay my board"—
"I won't take a cent of it till you get to work, there, now! Jest you never fret yourself a word. It'll all come right, I know."
"I'm very much obliged," said Charlie, feeling as if she would like to cry.
"Mary Jane spoke of a chance of getting you at the flowers. It's light, easy work,—I tell her jest like play. But you must have a visit first."
On Saturday Mary Jane came home at noon.
"I do think Charlie Kenneth's earned a holiday," said Mrs. Wilcox. "I couldn't begin to tell the things that girl's done this mornin'. Swept and dusted, and helped me clean the closet"—
"Then you're in clover, mother;" and Mary Jane laughed. "I never could bear to do housework."
"A great kind of a wife you'll make."
"That will be some one else's look out;" and Mary Jane tossed her head in a curiously satisfied manner.
They took a promenade on Broadway in the afternoon. Charlie was delighted; and the shop-windows entertained her beyond description. They bought some trifles,—a pair of gloves, a collar, and a ribbon or two,—and Charlie found that money absolutely melted away. She had spent four dollars.
She summoned courage to question Mary Jane a little, but found her exceedingly ignorant on the great topic that absorbed her.
"I believe girls do color photographs in some places, but then you'd have to know a good deal to get a situation like that. I guess only rich girls have a chance to learn drawing and painting."
"But when it comes natural," said Charlie slowly.
"Well, I'll askhim;" and Mary Jane smiled, and nodded her head. "Heknows most every thing."
"Are you going to marry him?" Charlie asked innocently, understanding the pronoun.
"Oh, I don't know!" with a toss of the head. "I mean to have some fun first. Some girls have lots of beaux."
Charlie colored. She had not the judgment or the experience to assist her in any sort of analysis; but shefeltthat these Wilcoxes were very different from their household. They had always been poor, lived in an old tumble-down cottage, with a bed in the parlor; were a noisy, frolicksome, romping set; given to slang, Flossy's great abhorrence; and yet—there wasa clean, pure element in them all,—a kind of unconscious refinement. Florence's fine-ladyisms had not been entirely useless or wasted.
Refinement was the idea floating so dimly through Charlie's brain. In after years she understood the force of Hal's example, and the many traits Joe had laughed at as being girlish. But now she could only feel that there was a great gulf between her and Mary Jane; that the latter couldnotenter into her hopes and ambitions.
However, Charlie's drawings were brought to Mr. Brown for inspection.
"Why, you're a regular genius!" he exclaimed in surprise.
Charlie colored with delight, and every nerve seemed to expand with precious hope.
"It is a great pity that you are not a man."
"Why?" and Charlie opened her large eyes wonderingly.
"Because then you could do something with your talent. All these comic pictures in papers are designed by men; and they sometimes travel about, writing descriptions of places, and drawing little sketches to go with them. It is capital business."
"That is what I should like;" and Charlie's face glowed.
"But girls and women never do it. It's altogether out of their sphere. You see, that is one of the disadvantages."
Mr. Brown uttered this dogmatically.
"But if they know how, and can do it"—
"They couldn't travel about alone, running into dangers of all kinds. And it is just here. Now, some of these sketches are as good as you see in the papers; but no one would think of buying them of a woman, because it is men's work."
Charlie winked the tears out of her eyes. The argument was crushing, for she could not refute the lameness of the logic; and she had always felt sore about being a girl.
"They teach women to draw and paint down here at Cooper Institute," he said presently.
"But I suppose it costs a good deal?" and Charlie sighed.
"Yes."
"These things are for rich people," said Mary Jane with an air of authority.
Charlie could not summon heart to question further: besides, she had some ideas in her brain. Maybe shemightsell her pictures to some newspaper. Any how, she would try.
She began the week with this determination. On Monday she dressed herself carefully, and gave her face a rather rigorous inspection. Itdidlook very little-girlish. And somehow she wished her hair wasn't short, and that she could be handsome. Who ever heard of such dark eyes and light hair, such apeculiar tint too,—a kind of Quaker-drab; not golden nor auburn nor chestnut. Well, she was as she grew, and she couldn't help any of it.
By dint of inquiring now and then, she found her way about pretty well. Her first essay was in the office of an illustrated paper.
The man listened to her story with a peculiar sharp business air, and merely said,—
"No: we don't want any thing of the kind."
Charlie felt that she could not say another word, and walked out.
She stood a long while looking in the window of a print-shop, and at last ventured again.
This person was less brusque.
"My little girl," he said, "we never do any thing with such matters. We buy our pictures, printed or painted, or engravings, as the case may be, from all parts of the world. Many of them are copies from different artists well known to fame. It costs a great deal for the plate of a picture."
Which explanation was quite unintelligible to Charlie.
She rambled on until she came to a bookstore. There being only a boy within, she entered.
"Do you ever buy any pictures for books?" she asked.
"Books allus have pictures in 'em," was the oracular reply.
"But who makes them?"
"Why, engravers, of course;" with supreme astonishment at her ignorance.
"And they—do the thinking,—plan the picture, I mean?"
"What?" asked the boy, as if Charlie had spoken Greek.
"Some one must have the idea first."
He could not controvert it, and stared about helplessly.
"Are there any lady engravers?"
"No, I guess not;" scratching his head.
"And who makes these little pictures of children like this girl teaching the dog to read, and this one with the flowers?"
"Oh, I know what you want!" exclaimed the boy. "We gets 'em down in Ann Street. There's some girls working in the place. Do you know where Ann Street is?"
Some of Charlie's old humor cropped out.
"No, nor Polly Street, nor Jemima Street."
The boy studied her sharply, but preserved a sullen silence, strongly suspecting that he was being laughed at.
"Will you please tell me?" quite meekly. "And—the man's name."
The boy found a card, and directed her. Charlie trudged on with a light heart.
The place was up two flights of very dirty steps. Mr. Balcour had gone out to dinner, and she was rather glad of an excuse to rest. In the adjoining room there were three girls laughing and chatting. Now, if she could come here to work!
When Mr. Balcour entered, Charlie found him a very pleasant-looking man. She made known her errand with but little hesitation.
"It is something of a mistake," was the smiling answer. "My business is coloring prints, flower-pieces, and all that. Sometimes they are sent to me, but these little things I buy by the hundred or thousand, and color them; then picture-dealers, Sunday-schools, &c., come in here to purchase."
With that he displayed cases of birds, flowers, fancy scenes, and tiny landscapes.
"Oh, how beautiful they are!" and she glanced them over with delight. "I should like to do them!"
"Do you know any thing about water-coloring?"
"No;" rather hesitatingly, for she was not at all certain as to the precise nature of water-coloring.
"I keep several young ladies at work. It requires taste, practice, and a certain degree of genius, artistic ability."
"I meant the first thought of the picture," said Charlie, blushing. "Some one must know how it is to be made."
"Yes, certainly."
"If you would look at these"—
She opened her parcel, and spread them before him.
"Did you do them?"
He asked the question in astonishment.
"Yes," was Charlie's simple reply.
He studied her critically, which made her warm color come and go, and she interlaced her fingers nervously.
"My child, this first thought, as you call it, is designing. You have a very remarkable genius, I should say. How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"You have had some instruction!"
Charlie concluded it would be wiser to say that she had, for there was the drawing-book and Hal.
"You wish to do this for a living?" he asked kindly.
"Oh, if I could! I like it so much!" and there was a world of entreaty in Charlie's tone.
Mr. Balcour had to laugh over some of the drawings, for the faces were so spirited and expressive.
"I will tell you the very best thing for you to do. Enter the School of Design for women. The arrangements, I believe, are very good; that is, there is a chance to earn something while you are studying."
"Oh!"
Charlie's face was fairly transfigured. Mr. Balcour thought her a wonderfully pretty girl.
"It is at Cooper Institute, Third Avenue and Seventh or Eighth Street. I really do not know any thing about it, except that it does profess to assist young students in art."
"I am so much obliged to you;" and Charlie gave him a sweet, grateful smile.
"I should like to hear a little about you!" he said; "and I hope you will succeed. Come in some time and let me know. Do you live in the city?"
"No; but I am staying with some friends on Fourteenth Street."
"Not far from Cooper Institute, then."
"No, I can easily find it."
They said good-by; and Charlie threaded her way up to City Hall with a heart as light as thistle-down, quite forgetting that she had missed her dinner. Then, by car, she went up to Cooper Institute.
And now what was she to do? I told you that Charlie had a great deal of courage and perseverance. And then she was so earnest in this quest! She inquired in a china-store, and was directed up stairs.
It was very odd indeed. First she stumbled into a reading-room, and was guided from thence to the art-gallery by a boy. The pictures amused and interested her for quite a while. One lady and two gentlemen were making copies.
By and by she summoned courage to ask the lady which was the school, or study-room.
"School of Design?"
"Yes," timidly.
"It is closed."
Charlie's countenance fell.
"When will it be open?"
"About the first of October."
The child gave a great sigh of disappointment.
"Were you thinking of entering?"
"I wanted to see—if I could."
"Have you painted any?"
"No: but I have been drawing a little."
"You are rather young, I think."
Then the lady went on with her work. Charlie turned away with tears in her eyes. A whole month to wait!
Mrs. Wilcox plied her with questions on her return, but Charlie was not communicative.
After a night's rest she felt quite courageous again. She would see what could be done about engraving.
Poor Charlie! There were no bright spots in this day. Everybody seemed cross and in a hurry. One man said coarsely,—
"You needn't tell me you did them things by yourself. You took 'em from some picturs."
So she came home tired and dispirited. Mary Jane had a crowd of gay company in the evening, and Charlie slipped off to bed. Oh, if she could only give Dot a good hug, and kiss Hal's pale face, and hearGranny's cracked voice! Even the horrible tuning of Kit's fiddle would sound sweet. But to be here,—among strangers,—and not be able to make her plans work.
Charlie turned her face over on the pillow, and had a good cry. After all, there never could be anybody in this world half so sweet as "The old woman who lived in a shoe!"
On Wednesday it rained. Charlie was positively glad to have a good excuse for staying within doors. She helped Mrs. Wilcox with her sewing, and told her every thing she could remember about the people at Madison.
"How strange it must look,—and a railroad through the middle of it! There wa'n't no mills in my time, either. And rows of houses, Mary Jane said. She'd never 'a' known the place if it hadn't been for the folks. Dear, dear!"
Mary Jane came home in high feather that night.
"I found they were taking on some girls to-day, Charlie; and I spoke a good word for you. You can come next Monday. I don't believe you'll make out much with the pictures."
"You were very good;" but Charlie's lip quivered a little.
"It will be ever so nice to have company up and down! and you'll like it, I'm sure."
Mary Jane, being of a particularly discursive nature, was delighted to have a constant listener.
"Well, that was better than nothing," Charlie thought. She might work a while, and perhaps learn something more definite about the School of Design.
"For I'll never give it up, never!" and Charlie set her resolute red lips together, while her eyes glanced into the future.
The following morning was so lovely, that she felt as if she must have a walk. She put on her white dress and sacque, and looked as fresh as a rose. She would go over on Broadway, where every thing was clean and lovely, and have a delightful time looking at the shop-windows and the beautiful ladies.
It was foolish to take her pictures along, and yet she did it. They really appeared a part of her life. On and on she sauntered, enjoying every thing with the keenest relish. The mellow sun, the refreshing air that had in it a crisp flavor, the cloudless sky overhead, and the bright faces around, made her almost dance with gladness.
She stood for a long while viewing some chromos in a window,—two or three of children, which were very piquant and amusing, and appealed to her love of fun. Obeying her impulse she entered, and stole timidly around. Two gentlemen were talking, and one of the faces pleased her exceedingly. A large, fair, fresh-complexioned man, with curly brown hair, and a patriarchal beard, snowy white, though he did not appear old.
A young fellow came to her presently, and asked if there was any thing he could show her.
"I should like to see the gentleman—when he is—disengaged."
That speech would have done credit to Florence.
The youth carried the message, and the proprietor glanced around. Not the one with the beautiful beard, and Charlie felt rather disappointed.
They talked a while longer, then he came forward.
"You wished to see me?"
Charlie turned scarlet to the tips of her fingers, and stammered something in an absurdly incoherent fashion.
"Oh! you did not interrupt me—particularly," and he smiled kindly. "What can I do for you?"
"Will you tell me—who made the first design—for—those pictures in the window,—the children, I mean?"
"Different artists. Two, I think, are by ladies."
"And how did they get to do it? I mean, after they made the sketch, who painted it?"
"Those are from the original paintings. The artist had the thought, and embodied it in a sketch."
"But suppose no one wanted to buy it?"
"Thathashappened;" and he smiled again. "Why? Have you been trying your hand at pictures?"
"Yes," answered Charlie in great doubt and perplexity. "Only mine are done in pencil. If you would look at them."
Charlie's eyes were so beseeching, that he could not resist.
She opened her small portfolio,—Hal's handiwork. The gentleman glanced over two or three.
"Did you do these yourself?"
"Yes;" and Charlie wondered that she should be asked the question so frequently.
"Who taught you?"
"My brother, a little; but I think it comes natural," said Charlie in her earnestness, knowing no reason why she should not tell the truth.
"Darol, here is a genius for you!" he exclaimed, going back to his friend.
Charlie watched them with throbbing heart and bated breath. She was growing very sensitive.
"That child!" "Come here, little girl, will you?" said Mr. Darol, beckoning her towards them.
"Who put the faces in these?"
"I did;" and the downcast lids trembled perceptibly.
"How long have you been studying?"
"Oh! I could always do that," answered Charlie. "I used to in school. And some of them are just what did happen."
"This,—Mr. Kettleman's troubles?" and he scrutinized her earnestly.
"There was a man working in the mill whose name was Kettleman, and he always carried a dinner-kettle. But I thought up the adventures myself."
Charlie uttered this very modestly, and yet in a quiet, straightforward manner, that bore the impress of sincerity.
The first picture was Mr. Kettleman purchasing his kettle. A scene in a tin-shop; the seller a round, jolly fellow, about the shape of a beer-cask; and Mr. Kettleman tall and thin, with a long nose, long fingers, and long legs. He was saying, "Will it hold enough?" The faceswerecapital.
In the second Mrs. Kettleman was putting up her husband's dinner. There were piles and piles of goodies; and his cadaverous face was bent over the mass, the lips slightly parted, the nose longer than ever, and asking solemnly, "Can you get it all in, Becky?"
The third showed a group of laughing men round a small table, which was spread with different articles. One fellow held the pail up-side-down, saying, "The last crumb." The head of Mr. Kettleman was just in sight, ascending the stairs.
Lastly the kettle tied to a dog's tail. Mr. Kettleman in the distance, taller, thinner, and exceedingly woebegone, watching his beloved but unfortunate kettle as it thumped over the stones.
There were many irregularities and defects, but thefaces were remarkable for expression. Mr. Darol laughed heartily.
"How old are you?" asked Mr. Wentworth, glancing curiously at the slender slip of a girl.
"Fifteen."
"You don't look that."
"You have a wonderful gift," said Mr. Darol thoughtfully.
"Oh, that is real!" exclaimed Charlie eagerly, as they turned to another. "My brother was in a store once, and sold some pepper for allspice. The woman put it in her pie."
"So I should judge from her husband's face;" and they both laughed again, and praised Charlie to her heart's content.
By degrees Mr. Darol drew Charlie's history from her. She did not conceal her poverty nor her ambition; and her love for her one talent spoke eloquently in every line of her face.
"My child, you have a remarkable genius for designing. The school at Cooper Institute will be just the place for you. Wentworth, I think I shall take her over to Miss Charteris. What is your name, little one?"
"Charlie Kenneth."
"Charlie?" in amaze.
"It was Charlotte, but I've always been called Charlie."
"Just the name for you! Miss Charlie, you have a world of energy and spirit. I know you will succeed. And now it would give me great pleasure to take you to the studio of an artist friend."
The tears came into Charlie's eyes: she couldn't help it, though she tried to smile.
"Oh!" with a tremulous sob, "it's just like a dream. And you are so good! I'd go with one meal a day if I could only draw pictures!"
And Charlie was lovely again, with her face full of smiles, tears, and blushes. Earnest, piquant, and irregular, she was like a picture herself.
It seemed to Charlie that in five minutes they reached Miss Charteris's studio; and she stood in awe and trembling, scarcely daring to breathe. For up to this date she had hardly been able to believe that any woman in the world besides Rosa Bonheur had actually painted pictures.
"I have brought you a new study, Miss Charteris. A romance and a small young woman."
"Well, Paul Darol! I don't believe there is your equal in the world for picking up the lame and the halt and the blind, and the waifs and strays. What now?" and Miss Charteris laughed with such a musical ripple that Charlie turned and answered her with a smile.
"First look at these, and then let me tell you a story."
"Very fair and vigorous sketches;" and Miss Charteris glanced curiously at Charlie.
Then Mr. Darol began with the story, telling his part first, and calling in Charlie to add sundry helps to the other.
"And so, you see, I ventured to try your good temper once more, and bring her to you."
"What shall I do,—paint her? She might sit for a gypsy girl now, but in ten years she will be a handsome woman. What an odd, trustful child! This promises better than some of your discoveries."
"Well, help me to get her into the School of Design, and make a successful genius of her. She is too plucky for any one to refuse her a helping hand."
Miss Charteris began to question Charlie. She had a vein of drollery in her own nature; and in half an hour Charlie was laughing and talking as if she had known her all her lifetime. What pleased Mr. Darol most was her honesty and unflinching truth. She told of their poverty and struggles, of the love and the fun they had shared together; but there was a little tremor in her voice as she said, "We had one sister who was adopted by a rich lady."
The matter was soon settled, being in the right hands. Charlie was registered as a pupil at the school; and Miss Charteris taught her to re-touch photographs, and found her an opportunity to do a little work. It was something of a hardship to go onboarding with Mrs. Wilcox; but they were so fond of her, and so proud of what they could not understand!
So you do not wonder, I fancy, that Charlie's letter should be such a jubilate. Ah, if she could only earn a little money to take back with her!
She saw Miss Charteris and Mr. Darol quite often. He was like a father, but sweeter and dearer than any one's father she had ever known. When she went home, she meant to coax Hal to return with her, just for the pleasure of meeting such splendid people; "for he is the best of all of us," she used to say to Miss Charteris.
Ah, Charlie, if you dreamed of what was happening in the Old Shoe!
The autumn was unusually warm and pleasant, without any frost to injure the flowers until the middle of October. Hal enlarged his green-house arrangements, and had a fine stock of tuberoses. He had learned a good deal by his experiments of the past year.
He had been careful not to overwork; since he was improving, and took every thing moderately. But at last it was all finished,—the cold frames arranged for spring, the plants housed, the place tidy and in order.
The loss of the school had been a severe disappointment to Hal. He was casting about now for some employment whereby he might earn a little. If Mr. Sherman would only give him a few days' work, now and then, they could get along nicely; for Granny was a most economical manager, and, besides, there was eighty dollars in the bank, and a very small family,—only three of them.
Hal came home one day, and found Granny sitting over a handful of fire, bundled in a great shawl. Hereyes had a frightened look, and there was a blue line about her mouth.
"Why. Granny dear, what is the matter?" he asked in alarm, stooping over to kiss the cold wrinkled cheek.
"I d-d-don't know," the teeth chattering in the attempt to speak. "I b-b-lieve I've got a chill!"
"Oh, so you have, poor dear child!" and Hal was as motherly as the old gray hen outside. "You must go to bed at once. Perhaps you had better bathe your feet, and have a bowl of hot tea."
"And my head aches so! I'm not used to having headache, Hal."
She said this piteously, as if she fancied Hal, who could do every thing in her opinion, might exorcise the pain.
"I'm very sorry, dear," stroking the wrinkled face as if she had been a baby. "Now I'll put some water on to heat."
"O Hal, I'm so cold! 'Pears to me I never shall be warm again."
"Yes, when I get you snug in the bed, and make you some nice tea. What shall it be,—pennyroyal?"
"And a little feverfew."
Hal kissed the cold, trembling lips, and went about his preparations. The water was soon hot; and he put a little mustard in the pail with it, carrying it to the bedside in the other room, and leading poor Granny thither.
The place was steaming presently with the fragrance of pennyroyal. Hal poured it off into a cool bowl, and gave Granny a good drink, then tucked her in the bed, and spread the shawl over her; but still she cried in her pitiful voice,—
"I'm so cold, Hal!"
After the rigor of the chill began to abate, a raging fever set in, and Granny's mind wandered a little. Then Hal was rather alarmed. Granny had never been down sick a day in her life, although she was not so very robust.
"Dot, darling, you must run for Dr. Meade," Hal said, as the child came home from school. "Granny is very ill, I am afraid."
Dr. Meade was away, and did not come until eight in the evening.
"I fear it is going to be a run of fever, Hal," he began gravely. "At her time of life too! But we'll do the best we can. There is considerable fever about."
Hal drew a long breath of pain.
"You will be the best nurse in the world, Hal;" and the doctor smiled, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder re-assuringly.
Hal winked away some tears. They lay quite too close to the surface for a man's nature.
"I'll leave her some drops, and be in again in the morning. Don't worry, my dear boy."
Granny could hardly bear to have Hal out of sight, and wanted to keep hold of his hand all the time. Dot prepared the supper, but they could taste nothing beyond a cup of tea.
"Dot," he said, "you must go up stairs and sleep in my bed to-night. I shall stay here to watch Granny."
"But it will be so—lonesome!" with her baby entreaty.
"It is best, my darling."
So Dot kissed him many times, lingering until after the clock struck ten, when Hal said,—
"My birdie's eyes will be heavy to-morrow."
Granny was worse the next day. Indeed, for the ensuing fortnight her life seemed vibrating in the balance. Everybody was very kind, but she could bear no one besides Hal. Just a little delirious occasionally, and going back to the time when they were all babies, and her own dear Joe lay dying.
"I've done my best for 'em, Joe," she would murmur. "I've never minded heat nor cold, nor hard work. They've been a great blessing,—they always were good children."
For Granny forgot all Charlie's badness, Joe's mischief, and Dot's crossness. Transfigured by her devotion, they were without a fault. Ah, how one tender love makes beautiful the world! Whatever others might think, God had a crown of gold up inheaven, waiting for the poor tired brow; and the one angel would have flown through starry skies for her, taking her to rest on his bosom, but the other pleaded,—
"A little longer, for the children's sake."
At last the fever was conquered. Granny was weak as a baby, and had grown fearfully thin; but it was a comfort to have her in her right mind. Still Hal remarked that the doctor's face had an anxious look, and that he watched him with a kind of pitying air. So much so, that one day he said,—
"You think shewillget well, doctor?"
"There is nothing to prevent it if we can only keep up her appetite."
"I always feed her," returned Hal with a smile, "whether she is willing to eat or not."
"You are a born nurse, as good as a woman. Give her a little of the port wine every day."
Then the doctor turned to the window, and seemed to glance over towards the woods.
"Quite winterish, isn't it? When have you heard from Joe?"
"Not in a long time. Letters do not come so regularly as they used. I think we have not had one since August. But he writes whenever he can, dear Joe. The last time we received three."
"Yes," in a kind of absent way.
When Dr. Meade started to go, he kept his hand forseveral minutes on the door-latch, giving some unimportant directions.
"God bless you, Hal!" he said in a strained, husky tone, "and give you grace to bear all the trials of this life. Heaven knows, there are enough of them!"
What did the doctor mean? Hal wondered eagerly.
That evening Mr. and Mrs. Terry dropped in for a friendly call.
"When did you hear from Joe last?" asked Mr. Terry.
"In August."
"Wasn't expecting him home, I suppose?"
"Not until next summer. Has any one heard?" and there was a quiver in Hal's voice.
"I don't know of any one who has had a letter;" and Mr. Terry appeared to be measuring his words. "Joe was a nice bright lad, just as full of fun as an egg is full of meat. Cousin Burton took a wonderful fancy to him; though I suppose he'd have gone off to sea, any way. If it had not been Burton, it would have been some one else."
"Yes. Joe always had his heart set upon it."
"Father and Joe used to get along so nicely. We never had a boy we liked better. He was a brave, honest fellow."
It seemed almost as if Mrs. Terry wiped a tear from her eye. But Granny wanted to be raised in the bed, and some way Hal couldn't think until after they were gone.
He was thankful to see the doctor come in the next morning.
"Oh!" he exclaimed in a low tone, "you were talking of Joe yesterday: has anybody heard from him, or about him?"
The hand that clasped the doctor's arm trembled violently.
"Hal, be calm," entreated the doctor.
"I cannot! Oh, youdoknow,—and it's bad news!"
"My dear boy—O Hal!" and he was folded in the doctor's arms.
"Tell me, tell me!" in a yearning, impatient tone, that seemed to crowd its way over sobs.
"God knows it could not have hurt me more if it had been one of my own! But he was a hero—to the last. There isn't a braver young soul up in heaven, I'll answer for that. Here—it's in the paper. I've carried it about with me three days, old coward that I've been, and not dared to tell you. But it's all over the village. Hush,—for Granny's sake. She must not know."
Hal dropped on the lounge that he and Granny had manufactured with so much pride. He was stunned,—dead to every thing but pain, and that was torturing. The doctor placed the paper in his hands, and went into the other room to his patient.
Yes, there it was! The words blurred before hiseyes; and still he read, by some kind of intuition. "The Argemone" had met with a terrific storm in the Indian Ocean; and, though she had battled bravely, winds and waves had proved too strong. All one night the men had labored heroically, but in vain; and when she began to go down, just at dawn, the life-boats were filled, too few, alas! even if there were safety in them. Nothing could exceed the bravery and coolness of the young second mate. The captain lay sick below; the first mate and the engineer were panic-stricken; but this strong, earnest voice had inspired every one through the fearful night. When it was found that some must be left behind, he decided to stay, and assisted the others with a courage and presence of mind that was beyond all praise. The smile that illuminated his face when he refused to step into the already overladen boat was like the smile of an angel. They who saw it in the light of the gray dawn would never forget. One boat drifted in to Sumatra, the other was picked up by a passing vessel. But the few who remained must have perished in any case, and among them no name so deserving of honor as that of Joseph Kenneth.
Hal read it again and again. Joseph Kenneth! Was that dear, laughing Joe, with his merry eyes, and the sauciest trick of winking in the corner of one; little Joe who had stood on his head, played circus, and, with the aid of a few old shawls, been lion, tiger,elephant, and camel; dear Joe, who had cuddled up in bed cold winter nights and almost smothered him,—Hal; who had made ghosts out of the bolster, and frightened Kit half to death! Why did he think of these foolish things now? Oh, this brave Joseph Kenneth never could be their little Joe! God surely would not give Granny this pain and anguish to bear at the last!
A hand was laid on Hal's shoulder.
"Oh! it can't be true"—
"There's just one chance out of a thousand. Hal, it seems to me the saddest thing I ever heard, and yet so grand. You see what the passengers said of him. Ah, I think he did not need to knock long at St. Peter's gate!"
The doctor wiped his eyes.
"But—never to have him—come back"—
"He has drifted into a better port, my dear boy: that must be our comfort. We shall all cross the river by and by; and it is never so hard for the one who goes, as for those who stay and bear the pain and loneliness. And some time it will be sweet to remember that he gave his brave young life for others."
Hal's eyes were tearless, and there was a hard, strained look in his face.
"Don't tell Granny now. She couldn't bear it."
"No;" and Hal's voice was full of pathetic grief.
"And oh, Hal, be comforted a little! I knowthere is an overwhelming anguish in it; but for the sake of those still left"—
"Yes." Hal's ashen lips quivered.
The doctor brushed away the soft hair tumbled about his forehead, and held the cold hand in his.
"God has some balm for every ache, my boy."
Hal sat there until Granny called for something, every moment growing more incredulous. But a heavy weight hung about his heart, even though he refused to believe. It seemed as if there could not be despairing certainty before to-morrow.
When Kit came home on Saturday night, and just threw his arms around Hal's neck, sobbing as if his heart had broken, it gave a strange reality to the grief and sorrow.
"I heard it on Monday,—the loss of 'The Argemone.' How proud Joe was of her! And my heart's been aching for you every day. The cruel thing of it all is, never to have him come home again."
Dot had to be taken into confidence then; but she was a discreet little thing, and quite to be trusted. She did not suffer so deeply, for Joe was only a pleasant dream to her; and she tried to comfort Hal with her sweet, winsome ways.
Grannydidimprove slowly. She began to sit up in the rocking-chair, walk to the window and look out, and occasionally smile, in her faint, wan fashion. They would never hear the merry chirruping laugh again, Hal thought.
But all the details of life had to be gone through with, as usual. There was the poultry to be prepared for market; for this source of their income could not be overlooked. In fact, Hal and Dot were not quite as economical managers as Granny; and then every thing was very high. They required more luxuries in sickness, and Hal would not stint. But, when this was gone, there would be the money for the flowers, and their little hoard in the bank still remained unbroken.
It was not any fear of want that troubled Hal. The old dreams and ambitions seemed to be slipping away. Sometimes even the idea of attaining to a green-house failed to charm; though he still loved his flowers passionately, and they comforted him as nothing else could have done.
One day Granny thought of Joe.
"Have we had a letter since my illness?" she asked.
"No," answered Hal faintly.
"Not since—let me see,—it was August."
Hal made no reply.
"Why—it's strange! He never did such a thing before! Hasn't any one heard?"
"I believe not." Hal turned his head, and went on with some writing.
"Seems to me you take it pretty easy," said Granny, a little vexed. "Joe never was the one to forget his home folks. Hal, something's happened: mark my words!"
Poor Hal brushed away a tear.
Then Granny gave Dot a mysterious confidence, and asked her to inquire of Mr. Terry.
"He always wrote to them, and they must know."
Dot said, in return, that they had not received a letter.
Granny then began to worry in desperate earnest, and besieged every visitor with questions and surmises. Hal was in a sore strait. Of course she must know sometime.
She made herself so nearly sick, that Dr. Meade saw the danger and harm, and felt that she had better know the truth.
"Will you tell her?" faltered Hal.
He undertook the sorrowful office. Tenderly, kindly, and yet it was a cruel wound.
"Oh, it cannot be!" she cried. "God wouldn't take him from me now that I'm old and sick and helpless! Let me see the paper."
They complied with her request, but the doctor had to read it. Her old eyes could not see a word.
"Oh, oh! Drowned in the sea! And I never wanted him to go! My poor darling! who was always so bright, so happy, and who loved his poor old Granny so well! Let me go back to bed now: I don't want to live. They're all up in heaven,—myJoe, and little Joe, and poor Dora. There is no use of staying here."
Hal soothed her with fondest love and caresses; but nothing could change the longing in her heart, the weary look in the eyes that seemed to be discerning the shore beyond, and the sad voice with its one refrain, "Poor, dear Joe!"
After that she failed rapidly. Hal scarcely left her. She used to ask him to read all the old letters over again, from the first boyish pride that so exulted in the trip to Albany. And she would recall some act of tenderness, or a gay prank at which they all had laughed.
One evening Hal felt unusually weary. There had been a warm rain for two days, with most un-December-like weather. A fire felt absolutely uncomfortable. He generally slept down on the lounge now, to be near if Granny wanted any thing. Before retiring he paid his flower-room a visit. Every thing was doing splendidly. So far business had not been very brisk; but that morning he had received an order for the next week,—Christmastide,—for all the flowers he could cut.
"Dear sweet children," he said, talking softly to himself. "If I could only have put some inhiscoffin, and on his grave! but to think of him lying in the sea, with the endless music over his head, and the shells tangled in his hair. O Joe! it doesn't seem a bit true, and I never can make it so."
Yet he knew in his heart that it was; and he tried toremember that Joe was up in heaven, past all pain and care, ready to welcome them as they came, one by one,—Granny first. It would be easier to give her up, because she was going to be with darling Joe.
He left the door against the hall open, it was so warm; then he took a last look at Granny, and dropped on his couch. It was a long while before he fell asleep, and then he slumbered soundly. Once he awoke with a shiver, and reached out for the blanket he had thrown off earlier in the night.
The light in the window roused him at length. How oddly it looked, and oh, how cold! Why, the panes were frosted with a thousand fairy devices! And then Hal sprang up, hurried into his clothes, and ran to the flower-room. The windows were white with frost, and the thick papers rolled to the top. Worst of all, the fire had gone out!
For a moment Hal stood in blank despair. His beautiful buds that were to be out in a few days, his tender, delicate plants! How had it happened? There must have been more ashes in the bottom of the stove than he thought; and the fire, being weak, had not kindled at all. He tore it out with eager hands. Not a spark remained. The stove was as cold as a stone.
But there was no time to waste in grief. Hal kindled his fire, and then began to drench his plants. Something might be saved.
Presently Dot's little feet pattered up the stairs.
"How we all slept!" she said. "And oh, dear! its as cold as Greenland, after the beautiful summer weather. But Hal, dear, what is the matter?"
"My fire went out."
"Will it hurt the plants?"
"Some of them;" and his voice had a great tremble in it.
"Oh, it is too bad, Hal! doesn't every thing seem to happen to us?" and tears sprang to the fond eyes.
Hal gave a long, pained sigh.
"Can't you save any of them?"
"Yes: some, I think. It might have been worse."
Dot kissed him tenderly,—it was all she could do. Then she ran down, and began to prepare breakfast.
The sun was rising; and Hal dropped the papers to keep it dark for the present, and allowed his fire to come on gradually. At first he began to take hope, for the flowers held up their heads crisply.
Alas! by noon they showed signs of drooping; and before night the buds of the tuberoses began to be slightly discolored. Poor Hal could have cried out of pure sorrow. He loved them all so dearly, and it almost seemed to him as if they suffered as well.
But the next day the ruin was plainly established. He went about with his scissors, clipping here and there. The heliotrope displayed a mass of blackened clusters; but it could be trimmed for new blossoming. Many of the more forward, choice rosebuds were ruinedbut the plants were not deeply injured. The bouvardias were quite spoiled; but the mignonette and alyssum were unharmed.
Hal cut a few the day before Christmas, and sent them over to Mr. Thomas. It was such a sore loss and disappointment, that it hung around him like a heavy burden. They had been counting on the money with so much pleasure.
"Never mind," exclaimed Dot cheerfully. "We will not have any extra Christmas. Granny will not be able to sit up, and there'll be no one home but Kit."
Hal brushed away a tear. To tell the truth, he felt miserably lonesome, and sick at heart. Every day the sense of loss grew upon him. He had given up hope for Granny; though she was no worse, and perhaps had improved a little in appetite. But then she did not care to get well. And the faces lost out of the home group made such a sad break.
They had received two more hopeful little notes from Charlie; but, if she was happy and prosperous, would she not be weaned away, like the one other. Joe, in his deep sea-grave, had always been tender and true.
"Christmas isn't much to us now," Hal answered, recalling the old gayety. "Yet it is too bad to put such black shadows in your life, my darling."
"The sun has never been so bright for me, you know," Dot said, in her sweet, soft voice, in which there was not a touch of complaint. "It seems as ifthe path had grown shady before I came to it, so I don't miss the gayety. And, while I can have you and Granny, I'll be quite satisfied."
"You are a comfort and a treasure. I'm so glad to haveyou, Dot, though you were a wee baby and always sick. Now and then a neighbor used to say,—'What a blessing it would be if that child should die!' But Granny never thought so."
Dot nestled closer.
The morning had been cloudy, and about ten o'clock it commenced snowing. They did their housework, and prepared their simple dinner.
"I had resolved to go to town to-day, and buy some Christmas," said Hal. "I believe we never were quite so blue before."
"I don't suppose Kit will be able to get home this evening," Dot said slowly.
"No."
"Then we'll keep it by ourselves, Hal. It will not be so very bad."
"But to have no little gifts,—and Granny sick in bed"—
"It will not be a merry Christmas for us, dear; but there may be something pleasant in it."
Hal sighed sorrowfully. Oh, for the sweet, lost childhood!