CHAPTER XI.
IN WHICH I TAKE PART IN SOME LAWLESS EXPEDITIONS.
In his letter which offered us a home, uncle Bryan had stated, truly enough, that he was a poor man. Although he purchased his stock in very small quantities, he often had as much as he could do to pay his monthly bills. I remember well a certain occasion when he was seriously perplexed in this way. My mother, who had been attentively observant of him during the day, said in the evening:
'You are troubled, Bryan.'
'I am short of money, Emma,' he replied; and he went on to say that he had to pay Messrs. So-and-so and So-and-so to-morrow; and that his last week's takings were two pounds less than he had reckoned upon.
How much short are you, Bryan?'
He adjusted his horn spectacles, and brought forward his account-book, and his file of bills, and every farthing the till contained. In a few minutes he had his trouble staring him in the face in black and white, in the shape of a deficit of two pounds eighteen shillings--a serious sum. My mother, with a grateful look in her eyes, produced the stone money-box, in which he had said she might put by anything she was able to save out of the money he gave her to keep house with. She shook it; what was in it rattled merrily. It was a hard job to get the money out, the slit in the box was so narrow; but it was managed at last by means of the blade of a knife, and a little pile of copper and silver lay on the table. I think the three of us seated round the table would not make a bad picture; but then you could not put in my mother's delicious laugh. She had saved more than three pounds. I could scarcely tell whether uncle Bryan was sorry or pleased. He bit his lips very hard, but said never a word; and, taking the exact sum he required, put the balance back into the box.
The chief difficulty uncle Bryan had to contend with in keeping his stock properly assorted was brown sugar. Indeed, brown sugar may be said to have been the bane of his life; to me, it was a most hateful commodity, and I often wished there was not such an article in the world. Uncle Bryan had to pay ready money for sugar, and he could not purchase at the warehouse less than a bag at the time--about two hundredpounds weight, I believe. Sometimes he had not the money to go to the sugar market with, and the stock on the shelves had dwindled down almost to the last quarter of a pound. Then commenced a series of dreadful expeditions which I remember with comical terror. One of the first instructions given by uncle Bryan to my mother had been, never, under any pretext, to serve even the smallest quantity of sugar to a strange customer unless he or she purchased something else at the same time. The reason for this was that there was no profit on sugar; it was what was called a leading article in the trade, and by some mysterious trade machinations, arising probably out of the fever of competition, had come to be sold by the large grocers at exactly cost price. The small grocers, of course, were compelled to follow in the wake of the large ones; if they had not, their customers would have deserted them. Not only, indeed, did the small grocers make no profit on the sugar they sold, but, taking into consideration the draft necessary to turn the scale ever so little when weighing out quarter and half pounds, there was an absolute loss; even the paper in the scale would not make up for it, for it cost as much per pound as the sugar. Hence the necessity for not serving strangers with sugar by itself, and hence it was that I not unnaturally came to look upon it as a desperate crime for any stranger to attempt to purchase sugar over uncle Bryan's counter without asking at the same time for a proper quantity of tea or coffee, or some other article upon which there was a profit. My feelings, then, can be imagined when uncle Bryan (being short of sugar, and not having sufficient funds to purchase a bag at the warehouse), bidding me carry a fair-sized market basket, took me with him one dark night--and often afterwards on many other dark nights--to purchase brown sugar, and nothing else, in pounds, half pounds, and quarters. The plan of operation was as follows: uncle Bryan, selecting a likely-looking grocer's shop (an innocent-looking fly, he being the spider), would station me at some distance from it, bidding me wait until he returned. Then he would enter the shop boldly, and come out, with the air of one who resided in the neighbourhood, holding in his hand a quarter or half pound of feloniously-acquired moist. This he would deposit in the basket (which had a cover to it, to hide our villainy), and we would wander to another street, in which he pounced upon another grocer's shop, where the operation would be repeated. Thus we would wander, often for two or three miles, until the basket was filled with packages of sugar, with which we would return stealthily, like burglars after the successful accomplishment of daring and unlawful deeds. When the basket was too heavy for me to carry, uncle Bryan carried it, and would place me in a convenient spot--always at the corner of two streets, so that in case of pursuit we could make a rapid disappearance--with the basket on the ground. While thus stationed, I have trembled at the very shadow of a policeman, and have often wondered that we were not marched off to prison. Uncle Bryan was not always successful. On occasions he would pause suddenly in the middle of a street, and wheel sharply round. 'Can't go into that shop,' he would say; 'was turned out of it the week before last;' or, 'They know me there; swore at me when they served me the last time; mustn't show my face there for another month;' or, with a laugh, 'Come away, Chris, quick! That woman wanted to know what I meant by imposing on a poor widow who was trying to get an honest living.' These remarks, of themselves, would have been sufficient to convince me that we were committing an offence against law and morality. At first I was a passive accomplice in these unlawful operations, but in time I became an active agent.
'Chris, my boy,' said uncle Bryan to me one night, in an insinuating tone; he was out of spirits, having met with a number of continuous failures; 'do you think you could buy a quarter of a pound in that shop?'
'I'll try to, uncle,' I said, with a sinking heart, for I had long anticipated the dreaded moment.
'Go into the shop in an offhand way, as if you were a regular customer. I'll wait at the corner for you.'
Go into the shop in an offhand way! Why, if I had been the greatest criminal in the world, I could not have been more impressed with a sense of guilt. I showed it in my face when I stepped tremblingly to the counter, and I was instantly detected by the shopkeeper.
'Do you want anything else besides sugar?' he demanded sternly.
'N-no, sir,' I managed to answer.
'Do you know, you young ruffian, that there's a loss on sugar!' I knew it well enough--too well to convict myself by answering. 'What do you say to two ounces of our best mixed at two-and-eight,' he then inquired, with satirical inquisitiveness, 'or half a pound of our genuine mocha at one-and-four?'
As I did not know what to say except, 'Guilty, if you please, sir!' and as I suspected him of an intention to leap over the counter and seize me by the throat, I fled precipitately, with my heart in my mouth, and the next minute was running away, with uncle Bryan at my heels, as fast as my legs would carry me. When we were well out of danger's reach, uncle Bryan indulged in the only genuine laugh I had heard from him; but he soon became serious, and we resumed our unlawful journey. This first attempt was not the last; I tried again and again; but practice, which makes most things perfect, never made me an adept in the art. Dark nights were always chosen for our expeditions, and sometimes so many streets and thoroughfares were closed to uncle Bryan, that he was at his wits' end which way to turn to fill the basket.
Things went on with us in the same way until I was fourteen years of age. Long before this, I had learned all my schoolmaster had to teach me, and I was beginning to be distressed by the thought that I was doing a wrong thing by remaining idle. It was time that I set to work, and tried to help those who had been so good to me. I spoke about it, and uncle Bryan approved in a few curt words.
'I'm afraid he's not strong enough,' said my mother.
'Nonsense!' exclaimed uncle Bryan; and I supported him.
'I want to work,' I said; 'I should like to.'
'A good trade would be the best thing,' said my mother.
Weeks passed, and I was still idle. My mother had been busy enough in the mean while, but her efforts were unsuccessful. She learnt that a good trade for me meant a good premium from my friends; and that of course was out of the question. It would have been a hard matter to scrape together even so small a sum as five pounds, and the lowest premium asked was far above that amount. I thought it behoved me to look for myself; and I began to stroll about the streets, and search in the shop windows for some such announcement as, 'Wanted an apprentice to a good trade: no premium required; liberal wages;' followed by a description which fitted me exactly as the sort of lad which would be preferred. But no such announcement greeted my wistful gaze. I saw bills, 'Wanted this,' Wanted that,' and now and then I mustered sufficient courage to go in and offer myself; but at the end of a month's experience I could come to no other conclusion than that I was fit for neither this nor that. My manner was against me; I was shy and timid, and sometimes could scarcely find words suitable for my application; but I had that kind of courage which lies in perseverance, and my aspirations were not of an exalted nature; I was willing to accept anything in the shape of work. I know now that I applied for many situations for which I was totally unfitted, but I was not conscious of it at the time; and I know also that for a few days I was absurdly and supremely reckless in my estimate of my fitness for the employers who made their wants public. It was during this time that I found myself standing before one of those exceedingly small offices which squeeze themselves by the force of impudence and ingenuity into the very midst of really pretentious buildings which frown them down, but cannot take the impudence out of them. In the front of this office was a large black board, on which were wafered, in the neatest of round-hand, the most amazing temptations to persons in search of situations. The first temptation which assailed me was, 'Wanted a Gardener for a Gentleman's Family. Must have an Unexceptionable Moral Character. Apply within.' The doubt I had with reference to this announcement was not whether I would do for a gardener (this was during my reckless days, remember), but whether my moral character was unexceptionable. I had never before been called to answer a declaration of this description, and now that it was put to me in bold round-hand, I was stung by the share I took in the lawless sugar expeditions. Not being able to resolve the doubt as to my moral character (although sorely tempted by the exigences of my position to give myself the benefit of it), I laid aside the gardener for future consideration. The next temptation was, 'Wanted a Cook. High Church.' I discarded the cook. Reckless as I was, it exceeded the limits of my boldness to declare myself a High-Church Cook. I was not even aware that I had ever tasted food cooked in that way; the very flavour was a mystery to me. The next was, 'Wanted a Groom, Smart and Active. Seven Stone. Apply within.' I debated for some time over seven stone before I decided that it must apply to the weight of the groom. A stone was fourteen pounds. Seven fourteens was ninety-eight (I did the sum on a dead wall with a bit of brick I picked up in the road.) That I was perfectly ignorant of the duties of a groom did not affect me in the slightest degree; my only trouble was, did I weigh ninety-eight pounds? I immediately resolved to ascertain. I strolled into a by-street, and discovering a mysterious-looking recess wherein was exhibited a small pile of coals and a large pair of scales to weigh them in, I considered it a likely place to solve the problem. I had two halfpennies in my pocket, and I thought I might bargain to be weighed for one of them. So I walked into the recess, and tapping upon the scales with a halfpenny, as a proof that I meant business, waited for the result. The result came in the shape of a waddling woman with a coaly face and an immense bonnet, who said, 'Now then?' Timidly I replied, 'I want to be weighed, ma'am; I'll give you a halfpenny.' I was not prepared for the suddenness of what immediately followed. Without the slightest warning the woman lifted me in her arms with great ease, and laid me across the scales, which were shaped like a scuttle, with great difficulty, although I tried honestly to suit myself to the peculiarity of the case. Presently she threw me off as if I were a sack of coals, and tossing the weights aside, one after another, as if they were feathers, said, 'There you are!' Her words did not enlighten me. 'Am I seven stone, ma'am?' I asked, as I handed her the coin. 'About,' was her reply. I retired, dubious, in a very grimy and gritty condition, and walking to the little office where the black board was, I boldly entered, and asked the young man behind the counter (there was only room for him and me) if he wanted a groom. His reply was, 'Half a crown.' This was perplexing, and I asked again, and received a similar answer. I soon understood that I should have to pay the sum down before I could be accommodated with particulars, and as a halfpenny was the whole of my wealth, I was compelled to retire, much disheartened.
However, I was successful at length. I obtained a situation as errand-boy, sweeper, and whatnot, at a wood-engraver's, the wages being three shillings a week to commence with. How delighted I was when I told my mother, and with what pride I brought home my first week's wages, and placed them in her hand! In the duties of my new position, and in endeavouring, not unsuccessfully, to pick up a knowledge of the business, time passed rapidly. My steady attention to everything that was set me to do gradually attracted the notice of my employer, and he encouraged me in my efforts to raise myself. I was fond of cleanliness for its own sake, and my mother's chief pleasure was to keep my clothes neat and properly mended. I can see now the value of the difference between my appearance and that of other boys of my own age in the same position of life as myself, and I can more fully appreciate the beauty of a mother's love when it is deep and abiding--as my mother's love was for me.
And here I must say a word, lest I should be misunderstood. Some kindly-hearted readers may suppose that my life and its surrounding circumstances call for pity and commiseration. I declare that they are mistaken, and that I was perfectly happy, contented in the present, hopeful in the future. What more could I desire? Poor as our home was, it was decent and comfortable; the anxieties which invaded it were not, I apprehend, of a more bitter nature than the anxieties which reign in the houses of really well-to-do and wealthy people. Well, I had a home which contented and satisfied me; and dearer, holier, purer, than anything else in life there was shed upon me a love which brightened my days and sweetened my labour. Life was opening out to me its most delightful pages. Already had I learned to love books for the good that was in them; I was also learning to draw, and every hour's leisure was an hour of profitable enjoyment. I began to see things, not with the eyes of a soured and discontented mind, but with the eyes of a mind which had been, almost unconsciously, trained to learn that sorrow and adversity may bring forth much for which we should be truly and sincerely grateful, and which, but for these trials, might be hidden from us. And all this was due to the influence of Home, and of the love which life's hard trials had strengthened. Sweet indeed are the uses of adversity. But for it, the milk of human kindness would taste like brackish water.
CHAPTER XII.
A SINGULAR EPISODE IN OUR QUIET LIFE.
At this point I am reminded that I have not described uncle Bryan. A few words will suffice. A tall spare man, strongly built, with no superfluity of flesh about him; iron-gray hair, thick and abundant; eyebrows overlapping most conspicuously, guarding his eyes, as it were, which lurked in their caverns, as animals might in their lairs, on the watch. He wore no hair on his face, his cheeks were furrowed, and his features were large and well formed. He possessed the power of keeping himself perfectly under control; but on rare occasions, a nervous twitching of his lips in one corner of his mouth mastered him. This always occurred when he was in any way stirred to emotion, and I knew perfectly well, although he tried to disguise it from me, that it was one of his greatest annoyances that he could not conquer this physical symptom of mental disturbance. He was not only scrupulously just in his dealings as a tradesman; he exercised this moral sentiment with almost painful preciseness in his intercourse with my mother and me. He had no intimates, and he determinedly rejected all overtures of friendship. His habits were regular, his desires few, his tastes simple. He appeared to be contented with everything, and grateful for nothing. If love resided in his nature, it showed itself in a fondness for flowers; in no other form.
I was nearly eighteen years of age, and the days--garlanded with the sweet pleasures which spring naturally from a mother's love--followed one another calmly and tranquilly. Nothing had occurred to disturb the peaceful current of our lives. Uneventful as the small circumstances of my past life were in the light of surrounding things, each scene in the simple drama which had thus far progressed was distinctly defined, and seemed to have no connection with what preceded it or followed it. The first, which had occurred in the house where I was born, and which ended with my father's death; the second, in which my mother had taken so mournful a part, and which contained so strange a mingling of joy and sorrow; the third, which was now being played, and which up to this period had been the least eventful of all. A certain routine of duties was got through with unvarying regularity. Uncle Bryan's trade yielded, with careful watching, sufficient profit for our wants; but I, also, was earning money now, and it was with an honest feeling of pride that I paid my mother so many shillings a week--I am almost ashamed to say how few--towards the expenses of my living. And so the days rolled on.
But in the web of our lives a thread was woven of which no sign had yet been seen, and chance or destiny was drawing it towards us with firm hand--a thread which, when it was linked to our hearts, was to throw strong light and colour on the tranquil days.
A very pleasant summer had set in, and uncle Bryan's flowers were at their brightest. It had grown into a custom with my mother to come for me two or three times a week during the fine weather, in the evening, when my day's work was done. She would wait at the corner of the street which led to my place of business, and we generally had a pleasant walk, arriving home at about half-past nine o'clock, in time for supper, a favourite meal with uncle Bryan. Now, my mother and I had been for some time casting about for an opportunity to present uncle Bryan with a token of our affection in the shape of a pipe and a tobacco-jar; he was so strange a character that it was absolutely necessary we should have a tangible excuse for the presentation. My mother found the opportunity. With great glee she informed me that she had found out uncle Bryan's birthday, and that the presentation should take the form of a birthday gift. 'It will be an unexpected surprise to him, my dear,' she said, 'and we will say nothing about it beforehand.' On a fine morning in August I rose as usual at half-past five, and made my breakfast in the kitchen; I slept now in the little back-room on a line with the shop and parlour. Eight o'clock was the hour for commencing work, and I generally had a couple of hours' delightful reading in the kitchen before I started. Sometimes, however, when we were busy, I was directed to be at the office an hour or so earlier, and on this morning I was due at seven o'clock. I always wished my mother good-bye before I went to work. Treading very softly, so as not to disturb uncle Bryan, and with my dinner and tea under my arm--invariably prepared the last thing at night, and packed in a handkerchief by my mother's careful hands--I crept upstairs to her room. She called me in, and I sat by her bedside, chatting for a few minutes. This was the anniversary of uncle Bryan's birthday, and our purchases were to be made in the evening.
'I must be off, mother,' I said, starting up; 'I shall have to run for it.'
'Good-morning, dear child,' she said; 'I shall come for you exactly at eight o'clock.'
I kissed her, and ran off to work. My mother was punctual in the evening, and we set off at once on a pilgrimage to tobacconists' windows. Any person observing us as we stood at the windows, debating on the shape of this pipe and the pattern of that tobacco-jar, would at once have recognised the importance of our proceedings. At length, after much anxious deliberation, our purchases were made, and we walked home to Paradise-row. My mother had suggested that I should present uncle Bryan with the birthday gifts, and in a vainful moment I had consented, and had mentally rehearsed a fine little speech, which I prided myself was perfect in its way. But, as is usual with the amateur, and sometimes with the over-confident, on such occasions, my fine little speech flew clean out of my head when the critical moment arrived, and resolved itself into about a dozen stammering and perfectly incomprehensible words. Covered with confusion, I pushed the pipe and tobacco-pouch towards uncle Bryan in a most ungraceful manner. My mother saw my difficulty.
'We have brought you a little birthday present, Bryan,' she said, 'with our love.'
He made a grimace at the last three words, and I thought at first that he was about to sweep the things from him; but if he had any such intention, he relinquished it.
'How did you know it was my birthday?'
'I found it out.'
'How?'
'Oh,' replied my mother, with a coquettish movement of her head, which delighted me, but did not find favour with uncle Bryan, 'little birds come down the chimney to tell me things.'
'Psha!' he muttered impatiently.
'Or perhaps I put this and that together, and found it out that way. You can't hide anything from a woman, you know.'
Her gay manner met with no sympathetic response from uncle Bryan. On the contrary, he gazed at her for a moment almost suspiciously, but the look softened in the clear light of my mother's eyes. Then, in a careless, ungracious manner, he thanked us for the present. I was hurt and indignant, and I told my mother a few minutes afterwards, when we were together in the kitchen, that I was sorry we had taken any notice of uncle Bryan's birthday.
'He would have been much better pleased if we hadn't mentioned it,' I said.
'No, my dear,' said my mother, 'you are not quite right. Your uncle will grow very fond of that pipe by and by.'
My mother always won me over to her way of thinking, and I thought the failure might be due to the bungling manner in which I had presented the birthday offerings. I walked about the kitchen, and spoke to myself the speech I had intended to make, with the most beautiful effect. It was a masterpiece of elegant phrasing, and every sentence was beautifully rounded, and came trippingly off the tongue. Of course I was much annoyed that the opportunity of impressing uncle Bryan with my eloquence was lost. When we reëntered the room, uncle Bryan's head was resting on his hand, and there was an expression of weariness in his face, which had grown pale and sad during our brief absence. My mother's keen eyes instantly detected the change.
'You are not well, Bryan,' she said, in a concerned tone, stepping to his side.
'There are two things that disagree with me, Emma,' he replied, with a grim and unsuccessful attempt at humour; 'my own medicine is one, memory is another. I've been taking a dose of each. There, don't bother me. I have a slight headache, that's all.'
But although he tried to turn it off thus lightly, he was certainly far from well; for he asked my mother to attend to the shop, and leaning back in his chair, threw a handkerchief over his face, and fell asleep. My mother and I talked in whispers, so as not to disturb him. Uncle Bryan was not a supporter of the early-closing movement, for he kept his shop open until eleven o'clock every night. Very dismal it must have looked from the outside in the long winter nights, lighted up by only one tallow candle; but it had always a home appearance for me, from the first day I entered it. The shop-door which led into the street was closed, and so was the door of the parlour in which we were sitting. The upper half of this door was glass, to enable us to see into the shop. My mother's hearing was generally very acute, and the slightest tap on the counter was sufficient to arouse her attention; but the tapping was seldom needed, for the shop-door, having a complaining creak in its hinges, never failed to announce the entrance of a customer. On this night, customers were like angels' visits, few and far between. It was nearly ten o'clock; uncle Bryan was still sleeping; my mother, whose hands were never idle, was working as usual; I was reading a volume of Chambers's Traits for the People, from which many a young mind has received healthy nourishment. I was deep in the touching story of 'Picciola, or the Prison Flower,' when an amazing incident occurred--heralded by a tap at the parlour-door.
Whoever it was that knocked must not only have opened the street-door, but must have silenced its watch-dog creak (by bribery, perhaps); or else my mother's hearing must have played her very false. Again, it was necessary to lift the ledge of the counter and creep under it, before the parlour-door could be reached.
My mother started to her feet; and opened the door. A young girl, with bonnet and cloak on, stood before us. I thought immediately of the fairy in the cotton-print dress; but no, it was not she who had thus mysteriously appeared. The girl looked at us in silence.
'You should have tapped on the counter, my dear,' said my mother.
'What for?' was the answer, in the most musical voice I had ever heard. 'I don't want to buy anything.'
This was a puzzling rejoinder. If she did not want to buy anything, why was she here?
'This is Mr. Carey's? asked the girl.
'Yes, my dear.'
'Who are you?'
Now this was so manifestly a question which should have come from us, and not from her, that I gazed at her in some wonder, and at the same time in admiration, for her manner was very winning. She returned my gaze frankly, and seemed to be pleased with my look of admiration. Certainly a perfectly self-possessed little creature in every respect. Uncle Bryan still slept.
'Who are you?' repeated our visitor, to my mother.
'My name is Carey,' said my mother.
'Oh, indeed!' exclaimed the girl. 'That is nice. And who is he?' indicating uncle Bryan.
'That is my brother-in-law, Bryan.'
'Mr. Bryan Carey. I've come to see him.' And she made a movement towards him. My mother's hand restrained her.
'Hush, my dear! You must not disturb him.'
'Oh, I am not in a hurry. But I think you ought to help me in with my box.' This to me. 'If I was a man, I wouldn't ask you.'
Her box! Deeper and deeper the mystery grew. When the girl thus directly addressed me, my heart beat with a feeling of intense pleasure. Hitherto I had been mortified that she had evinced no interest in me.
'Come along!' she exclaimed imperiously.
I followed her to the door, like a slave, and there was her box, almost similar in appearance to the box we had brought with us. It was altogether such an astounding experience, and so entirely an innovation upon the regular routine of our days, that I rubbed my eyes to be sure that I was awake. My mother had closed the door of the room in which uncle Bryan was sleeping, and now stood by my side. I stooped to lift the box, and found it heavy.
'What is in it?' I asked.
'Books and things,' our visitor replied. 'I'll help you. Oh, I'm strong, though I am a girl! I wish I was you.'
'Why?'
'Then I should be a boy. There! You see I am almost as strong as you are.'
The box was in the shop by this time. My mother was perfectly bewildered, as I myself was; but mine was a delightful bewilderment The adventure was so new, so novel, so like an adventure, that I was filled with excitement.
'How did the box come here?' I asked.
'Walked here, of course,' she said somewhat scornfully.
'Nonsense!' I exclaimed; although if she had persisted in her statement, I was quite ready to believe it, as I would have believed anything from her lips.
'Oh, you don't believe in things!'
'Yes, I do; but I don't believe that thing. How did it come?'
'A boy carried it. A strong boy--not like you. Isn't that candied lemon-peel in the glass bottle?'
'Yes.'
'I should like some. I'm very fond of sweet things.'
Quite as though the little girl were mistress of the establishment, my mother went behind the counter, and cut a slice of the lemon-peel.
'What a small piece!' exclaimed the girl, sitting on the box, and biting it. 'I could put it all in my mouth at once; but I like to linger over nice things.'
And she did linger over it, while we looked on. When she had finished, she said:
'I suppose I am to sit here till he wakes.'
'No, my dear,' said my mother, who had been regarding her childlike ways with tenderness; 'you had better come inside. It will be more comfortable. But, indeed, indeed, you have bewildered me!'
The girl laughed, soft and low, and my mother's heart went out to her. The next minute we were in the parlour again. My mother motioned that she would have to be very quiet, and pointed to a seat. Before our visitor sat down, she took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them aside. The presence of this slight graceful creature was like a new revelation to me; the common room became idealised by a subtle charm. But how was it all to end? An hour ago she was not here; and I wondered how we could have been happy and contented without her. She was exceedingly pretty, and her face was full of expression. That, indeed, was one of her strongest charms. When she spoke, it was not only her tongue that spoke. Her eyes, her hands, the movements of her head, put life and soul into her words, and made them sparkle. Her hair was cut short, and just touched her shoulders; its colour was a light auburn. Her hands were small and white; I noticed them particularly as she took from the table the book I had been reading.
Are you fond of reading?' she asked, in a low tone.
'Yes,' I answered. It really seemed to me as if I had known her for years. 'Are you?'
'I love it. I like to read in bed. Then I don't care for anything.'
Soon she was skimming through 'Picciola;' but looking up she noticed that my mother's eyes were fixed admiringly upon her. She laid the book aside and approached my mother, so that her words might not be lost.
'It makes it strong to cut it, does it not?' was the first question.
'Makes what strong?' My mother did not know to what it was our visitor referred. I made a shrewd guess, mentally, and discovered that I was right.
'The hair. To cut it when one is young, as mine is cut, makes it strong?'
'Yes, my dear. It will be all the better for being cut.'
'Why do you call me your dear?'
My mother replied gently, with a slight hesitancy: 'I won't, if you don't like me to.'
'Oh, but I like it! And it sounds nice from you. It will be all the better for being cut! That's what I think. It was nearly down to my waist. Do you like it?'
'It is very pretty.'
'And soft, is it not? Feel it. When I was a little child, it was much lighter--almost like gold. I used to be glad to hear people say, "What beautiful hair that child has got!"'
'It will get darker as you grow older.'
'I don't want it to. I'll sit in the sun as much as ever I can, so that it sha'n't grow darker.'
'Why, my----'
'Dear. Say it, please!'
'My dear, have you been told that that is the way to keep hair light?'
'No, but I think it is. It must be the best way.' This with a positive air, as if contradiction were out of the question.
'If you are so fond of your hair, what made you say just now that you wished you were a boy?'
'Because I do wish it. I think it is a shame. Persons ought to have their choice before they're born, whether they would be boys or girls.'
'My dear!'
'Yes, they ought to have, and you can't help agreeing with me. Then I should have been a boy, and things would have been different. All that I should have wanted would have been to grow tall and strong. Men have no business to be little. But as I am a girl, I must grow as pretty as I can.'
And she smoothed her hair from her forehead with her small white hands, and looked at us and smiled with her eyes and her lips. All this was done with such an utter absence of conscious vanity that it deepened my admiration of her, and I was ready to take sides with her against the world in any proposition she might choose to lay down. That she saw this expressed in my face, and that she, in an easy graceful way, received the homage I paid her, as being naturally her due, and did her best--again without conscious artifice--to strengthen it, were as plainly conveyed by her demeanour towards me as though she had expressed it in so many words. It struck me as strange that my mother did not ask her any questions concerning herself, not even her name, nor where she lived, nor what was her errand; and although all of these questions, and especially the first, were on the tip of my tongue a dozen times, I did not have the courage to shape them in words. My mother not saying anything more to her, she turned towards me.
'Are you generally rude to girls--I mean to young ladies?'
'No,' I protested warmly, ransacking my mind for the clue.
'You were to me just now. You said that I spoke nonsense.'
'I am very sorry,' I stammered; I beg your pardon; but when you said your box walked here----'
'You shouldn't have asked foolish questions. Never mind; we are friends again.' She gave me her hand, quite as though we had had a serious quarrel, which was now made up. Then she nestled a little closer to me, and proceeded with 'Picciola.'
Nothing further was said until the scene assumed another aspect. I was looking over the pages of the story with her, when, raising my eyes, I saw that uncle Bryan was awake. His eyes were fixed on the girl, with a sort of bewilderment on his face as to whether he was asleep or awake. He looked neither at my mother nor me, but only at the girl. Her head was bent over the book, and he could not see her face. I plucked her dress furtively under the table, and she looked up, and met my uncle's gaze. Then I noticed his usual sign of agitation, the twitching of his lips.
'What is this, Emma? he demanded, presently, of my mother.
My mother had been waiting for him to speak. 'This young----'
'Lady,' added the girl quickly, as my mother slightly hesitated, and rising with great composure. 'Say it. I like to hear it. This young lady----'
Completely dominated by the girl's gentle imperiousness, my mother said, 'This young lady has come to see you.'
He glanced at her uncovered head; then at her bonnet and mantle. A flush came into her cheeks, and she exclaimed,
'Oh, I don't want to stop, if you're not agreeable. I only like agreeable people. But if you turn me out to-night I don't exactly know where to go to; and there's my box----'
'Your box!'
'Yes, with all my things in. It's in the shop. You can go and see if you don't believe me. But if you do go, I sha'n't like you. You have no right to doubt my word.'
Her eyes filled with tears, and these and the words of helplessness she had spoken were sufficient for my mother. She drew the girl to her side with a protecting motion.
'Are you a stranger about here, my dear?'
'I don't know anything of the place,' replied the girl, in a more childlike tone than she had yet used. 'I have no idea where I am--except that this is Paradise-row. I shouldn't like to wander about the streets at this time of night.'
'There is no need, my dear, there is no need. There, there! don't cry.'
'But of course,' continued the girl, striving to restrain the quivering of her lips, 'I would sooner do that than stop where I am not wanted.' She would have said more, but I saw that she was fearful of breaking down, and thus showing signs of weakness. I looked somewhat angrily towards uncle Bryan; my mother's arm was still around the girl's waist. With a quick comprehension he seized all the points of sentiment in the picture.
'Ah,' he growled, this is more like a leaf out of a story-book than anything else. You'--to the girl--'are injured innocence; you'--to my mother--'are the good genius of the oppressed; and I am the dragon whom St. George here'--meaning me--'would like to spit on his lance.'
'I am sure, Bryan--' commenced my mother, in a tone of mild remonstrance; but uncle Bryan interrupted her.
'Don't be sure of anything, Emma. Let me understand matters first. How long have I been asleep--days, weeks, or years?'
'Nearly two hours, Bryan.'
'So long! There was a man once who, at the bidding of a magician, but dipped his head into a bucket of water----' he paused moodily.
'Yes, yes!' exclaimed the girl eagerly, advancing a step towards him, with a desire to propitiate him. 'Go on. Tell me about him. I'm fond of stories about magicians.'
He stared at her. 'Injured innocence,' he said, 'speak when you're spoken to.' She tossed her head, and retreated, and uncle Bryan again questioned my mother. 'How long has this little----'
'Young lady,' interposed the girl, with rather a comical assertion of independence.
--'This little girl--how long has she been here?'
'About an hour, Bryan.'
'Long enough, I see, to make herself quite at home.' He seemed to be at a loss for words, and sat drumming his fingers on the table, moving his lips as if he were holding converse with them, and with his eyes turned from us.
In the silence that ensued, the girl stole towards him. My mother's footstool was near his chair, and she sat upon it, and resting her hand timidly on his knee, said, in a sweet pleading voice,
'I wish you would be kind to me.'
Her face was upturned to his. He looked down upon it, and placing his hands on her shoulders, said in a tone which was both low and bitter, which was harsh from passion and tender from a softer emotion which he could not control,
'For God's sake, child, tell me who you are! What is your name?'
'My name is Jessie Trim.'
CHAPTER XIII.
A SUDDEN SHOCK.
'Emma,' said my uncle, 'can you find something to do for a few minutes? Chris can shut up the shop.'
We went out of the parlour together, and I put up the shutters, and bolted them. Then my mother and I went downstairs to the kitchen, and my mother set light to the fire, and warmed up what remained of the day's dinner. Our usual supper was bread-and-cheese.
'She must be hungry,' said my mother, and I think it will please your uncle.'
'I am glad she is going to stay, mother. Do you think she will stop altogether with us?'
'I have no idea, child.'
'Jessie Trim! It's a pretty name, isn't it? Jessie, Jessie! Mother, why didn't you ask her her name when she came in?'
'She came to see your uncle, Chris. We must never forget one thing, my dear. This is his house, and he has been very kind to us.'
'He would be angry if he heard you say so.'
'That is his nature, and I should not say it to him. The least we can do in return for all his goodness is to study him in every possible way in our power. To have asked her all about herself might have been like stealing into his confidence. He may have secrets which he would not wish us to know.'
'Secrets! Do you think she is one of them?'
'How can she be? But let you and me make up our minds, my dear--I made up mine a long time ago, Chris--not to be too curious concerning anything your uncle does. If he wished us to know anything, he would tell us of his own free will.'
'I don't suppose he has anything to tell,' I said, with not the slightest belief in my own words.
'Perhaps not. Anyhow, we'll not say anything--eh, Chris?'
'Very well, mother. She is very pretty, isn't she?'
'Very, very pretty.'
'Such beautiful hair--and such white hands!'
I was proceeding with my raptures, when my mother tapped my cheek merrily, which brought the blood into my face strangely enough. 'At all events,' I said, I hope she will stay with us always.'
'You stupid Chris! What has got into your head? I really don't suppose she will stay very long.'
'But she has brought her box--and--and--'
My mother suddenly assumed a look of perplexity. 'Really, really now,' she said, sitting down, and holding me in front of her, 'I know every mark upon you. You have got a brown mole on your left side, and a little red spot like a currant on the back of your neck, and another one just here----' and then she paused.
'Well, mother?'
'Well, Chris, I really cannot remember that I have ever seen a note of interrogation anywhere about you. Have you got one, my dear? And where is it?'
'But, mother,' I said, laughing, and kissing her, 'I must be inquisitive and I must ask questions.'
'Only of me, dear child.'
'Well, then, only of you. Now wouldn't you grow quite fond of her?'
'I am sure I should, dear.'
'Well, wouldn't it be too bad, directly you got fond of her, for her to go away? Now wouldn't it?'
'But life is full of changes, my dear!'
'That's not an answer, mother. You're fond of me;'--an endearing caress answered me--'very, very fond, I know, and I am of you. Now, supposing I was to go away!'
'Child, child!' cried my mother, kneeling suddenly before me and clasping me in her arms. If I were to lose you, my heart would break!'
I was frightened at the vehement passion of her words, and at the white face upon which my eyes rested; but she grew more composed presently. Then the voice of uncle Bryan was heard at the top of the stairs, calling to us to come up.
'What can we do with our visitor to-night, Emma?' he said, thus indicating that matters had been arranged during our absence.
'She can sleep with me. You won't mind, my dear?'
'I shall like to,' replied Jessie. He's ever so much nicer than he was, although I can't say that he's at all polite.' This referred to uncle Bryan, who made a grimace. 'I couldn't help coming.'
'The least said,' observed uncle Bryan, with all his usual manner upon him, 'the soonest mended, young lady.'
She pursed up her lips: Young lady! That was all very well when we were distant. You may call me something else now, if you like.'
'Indeed! Well, then, Miss Trim.'
She laughed saucily. How funny it sounds as you say it! Miss Trim! I think we are quite intimate enough for you to call me Jessie.'
'You think!' retorted uncle Bryan, with some sense of enjoyment.
'You are given to thinking, I have no doubt.'
'Oh, yes; I think a good deal.'
'Upon my word What about?'
'All sorts of things that wouldn't interest you.'
I quite believe you, young lady.'
'Oh, if you like to call me that,' she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, you can. 'But I think it's a pity when people try to make themselves more disagreeable than they naturally are.'
For the life of him, uncle Bryan could not help laughing. This little play of words was to him what the world is always looking out for nowadays--a new sensation.
'Then I am naturally disagreeable, you think?'
She did not reply.
'What else do you think about me?'
'I think it must be uncomfortable for the others for you to go to sleep every night, with a handkerchief over your face.'
'If I had known you were coming----' he said, with mock politeness; but she interrupted him with wonderful quickness.
'Don't say unkind things. I feel when they are coming; my flesh begins to creep.'
'Do you think anything else about me?'
'Yes; I think you might give me some supper. You can't know how hungry I am; and I have always a good appetite.'
My mother was so intent upon this unusual dialogue, and was probably so lost in wonder (as I myself was) at the appearance of uncle Bryan in a new character, that she had entirely forgotten the supper; but at Jessie Trim's mention of it she ran downstairs, and it was soon on the table.
'Ah,' exclaimed Jessie, with approving nods; 'that smells nice.'
Uncle Bryan stared at the unexpected fare.
'You see what it is to be a young lady,' he said; hitherto we have always been contented with bread-and-cheese.'
'This is much nicer,' said Jessie, beginning to eat; 'are you not going to have some?'
'No. Give me some bread-and-cheese, Emma.'
The girl was too much occupied with her supper to bandy words with him; she ate heartily, and when she had finished, asked uncle Bryan if he did not feel in a better humour.
'I always do,' she remarked, 'after meals. There is only one thing I want now to make me feel quite amiable.'
'Then,' said uncle Bryan sententiously, 'all the trouble in the world would come to an end.'
She nodded acquiescently.
'And that one thing is----' he questioned.
'Something I sha'n't get. I see it in your face; it is really too much to ask for.'
'To put an end to all the trouble in the world, I would make a sacrifice.'
'No,' she said, shaking her head, I really haven't courage to ask.'
'What is it?' demanded uncle Bryan impatiently.
Then ensued a perfect piece of comedy-acting on the part of Jessie Trim; who, when she had worked uncle Bryan almost into a passion, made the prettiest of curtseys, and said that the only thing she wanted to make her feel quite amiable was a piece of candied lemon-peel.
'I always,' she added, with the oddest little twinkle in her eyes, 'like something sweet to finish my meals with.'
The expression on uncle Bryan's face was so singular that I did not know if he was going to laugh or storm. But Jessie got her piece of candied lemon-peel, and chewed it with great contentment, and with many sly looks at uncle Bryan.
'Now, then,' he cried, 'it is time to go to bed.'
'It isn't healthy,' observed Jessie, who seemed determined to upset all the rules of the house, 'to go to bed the moment after one has eaten a heavy supper.' She spoke with perfect gravity, and with the serious authority of a grown-up woman.
'Then we are to sit up after our time because you have over-eaten yourself.'
'I have not over-eaten myself: I have had just enough. I wish you wouldn't say disagreeable things; you would find it much nicer not to. If you think I am not right in what I say about going to bed immediately after supper, of course I will go. You are much older than I, and ought to be much wiser.'
'But I think you are right,' he growled.
'Why do you make yourself disagreeable then?' she asked, sitting down on the stool at his feet.
Not a word was spoken for half an hour; at the end of which time our visitor rose, just as if she were the mistress of the house, and remarked that now she did think it time we were all in bed.
'Good-night,' she said, giving him her hand; 'I hope I haven't vexed you.' She held up her face to him to be kissed, but he did not avail himself of the invitation, and retired to his room.
'He is a very strange man,' she said to us, and I don't quite know whether I like him or whether I don't. Good-night, Chris.'
'Good-night, Jessie.'
My mind was full of her and her quaint ways as I undressed myself, and I found myself unconsciously repeating, 'Good-night, Jessie! Jessie! Jessie!' Her name was to me the sweetest of morsels. 'I am glad she has come,' I thought; 'I hope she will stop.' I had not been in my room two minutes before I heard her knocking at the door of the room in which uncle Bryan slept. I crept to the wall to listen.
'Do you hear me?' she said. 'You can't be asleep already.'
But no response came from uncle Bryan.
'Do answer me!' she continued. 'If you think I have been rude to you, I am very sorry. I shall catch my death of cold if I stand here long. Say, good-night, Jessie!'
'Good-night.'
'Jessie!' she called out archly.
'Good-night, Jessie. Now go to bed, like a good--little girl.'
And then the house was quiet, and I fell asleep, and dreamt the strangest and sweetest dreams about our new friend.
The following morning when I rose I moved about very quietly, and I debated with myself whether I ought to bid my mother good-morning as usual. I stole softly upstairs, and put my ear to the door.
'Good-morning, mother.'
I almost whispered the words, but the reply came instantly, in clear sweet tones,
'Good-morning, dear child.'
She must have been listening for my step.
Is that you, Chris?' inquired a voice which, if I had not known the speaker, I should have imagined had proceeded from a little child.
'Yes, Jessie,' I answered, with a thrill of delight.
'Where are you going?'
'I am going to work.'
'Good-morning.'
'Good-morning.'
I had never been so happy in my work as I was during this day, and yet I wanted the hours to fly so that I might be home again. When eight o'clock struck, I whipped off my apron eagerly, and ran out of the office. My mother was at the gate.
'I didn't expect you, mother.'
'No, dear child. I wished to leave your uncle and Jessie together for a little while. She wanted to come with me, but I thought it best to leave her at home. Shall we take a walk, my dear?'
'Yes, but not a long one. Mother, who is she?'
'I do not know, my dear; and your uncle hasn't said a word--neither has she.'
'Not a word! Why, mother, she couldn't keep quiet!'
'I don't think she could, dear,' said my mother, with a smile. 'I mean not a word as to who she is. I think she gave your uncle a letter, for he has been writing to-day with one before him; but I am not sure.'
'I have been thinking about her all day, and I can't make her out. Anyhow, I hope she will stop with us. The house is quite different with her in it. Don't you think so? She is as light-hearted and as sparkling as a--a sunbeam.' I thought it a very happy simile. 'She couldn't be anything else.'
'My dear,' said my mother gravely, she was sobbing in her sleep last night as if her heart would break.' I looked so grieved at this that my mother quickly added, But she has been talking to your uncle to-day just as she did last night. She is like an April day; but then she is quite a child.'
'A child! Why, mother, she must be--how old should you think?'
'About fifteen, I should say, Chris.'
'So how can she be quite a child? And she doesn't talk like a child.'
'She does and she doesn't, my dear. I shouldn't wonder,' she said, with her sweet laugh, that because you are nearly eighteen, you think yourself quite a man.'
'I am growing, mother, am I not?' And I straightened myself stiffly up. Why, I am taller than you!'
'You will be as tall as your father was, my dear.'
'I am glad of that. She said men had no business to be little.'
'She said!' repeated my mother, laughing; and she tapped my cheek merrily, as she had done on the previous night, and again I blushed. Jessie ran into the shop to welcome us when we arrived home.
The evening passed very happily with me, Jessie entertaining us with her light talk. Her marvellous ingenuity, in twisting a few simple words so as to make them bear sparkling meanings, afforded me endless enjoyment. Uncle Bryan said very little, and notwithstanding the many challenges she slyly threw out to him, declined to be drawn into battle; but now and then she provoked him to answer her. He needed all his skill to hold his own against her, and he spoke rather roughly to her once or twice. On those occasions she became grave, and edged closer to my mother, having already learned that nothing but what was gentle could emanate from her tender nature. When Jessie went to bed with my mother, she did not hold up her face to be kissed, as she had done on the previous night. I do not think she debated the point with herself, whether she should do so; she gave him a rapid look when she wished him good-night, and decided on the instant--as she would have decided the other way had she seen anything in his face to encourage her. A week passed, and no word of explanation fell from uncle Bryan's lips as to the connection that existed between these two opposite beings; but I could not help observing that he grew more and more reserved, more and more thoughtful. In after days I recognised how strange a household ours really was during this period, but it did not strike me at the time, so entirely was I wrapped up in the new sense of happiness which Jessie Trim had brought into my life. Of the four persons who composed the household only Jessie and I were really happy. My mother was distressed because of uncle Bryan's growing moroseness; with unobtrusive gentleness she strove, in a hundred little ways, to break through the wall of silence and reserve which he built around himself, as it were, but she could scarcely win a word from his lips. It did not trouble me; my mind, was occupied only with Jessie. What Jessie did, what Jessie said, how Jessie looked and felt and thought--that was the world in which I moved now. A second week passed, and there was still no change. One night my mother said that she would come for me on the following evening.
'And bring Jessie,' I suggested, taking advantage of the opportunity which I had been waiting for all the week; 'a walk will do her good.'
Jessie's eyes sparkled at the suggestion.
'I should like to come,' she said, with a grateful look; 'I haven't had a walk since I came here. What are you thinking about?' to my mother.
'I am thinking,' replied my mother, 'whether there will be any objection to it.'
'On whose part?' I asked. 'Uncle Bryan's? Why, what objection can he have?'
'I am sure,' said Jessie, he won't care, one way or another; he doesn't care about anything, and especially about me. Why, how many words do you think he has spoken to me all this day, Chris?'
'I can't guess, Jessie.'
She counted on her fingers. One, two, three--sixteen. "I don't know anything about it! Be quiet! You're a magpie--nothing but chatter, chatter, chatter!" and he didn't speak them--he growled them. So he can't care. I shall come, Chris,'--pressing close to my mother coaxingly--'and we'll take a nice long walk.'
'Very well, my dear,' said my mother, with a smile; 'but I must ask your uncle, Chris.'
I mapped out in my mind the pleasantest walk I knew, and on the following night, when work was over, I hastened into the street; but neither my mother nor Jessie was there. I looked about for them, and waited for a quarter of an hour, and then raced home. Only my mother was in the house.
'Why didn't you come, mother?' I asked. 'I've been waiting ever so long. And where's Jessie?'
'My dear,' replied my mother, with her arm around my waist, 'Jessie has gone.'
'Gone! Oh, for a walk with uncle Bryan, I suppose?'
'No, my dear; she has gone away altogether.'