"Oh—I suppose you have to put in night work, too, then?" he added, after a pause.
This then was the meaning of his call. He wished to know whether I had seen him in Coll McSheen's office the night before. He had delivered himself into my hands. So, I answered lightly.
"Oh! yes, sometimes."
I had led him up to the point and I knew now he was afraid to take a step further. He sheered off.
"Well, tell me something," he said, "if you don't mind. Do you know Mr. Leigh?"
"What Mr. Leigh?"
"Mr. Walter Leigh, the banker."
"I don't mind telling you at all that I do not."
"Oh!"
I thought he was going to offer me a case; but Peck was economical. He already had one lawyer.
"I had a letter of introduction to him from Mr. Poole," I said. "But you can say to Mr. Poole that I never presented it."
"Oh! Ah! Well—I'll tell him."
"Do."
"Do you know Mr. McSheen?"
I nodded "Yes."
"Do you know him well?"
"Does any one know him well?" I parried.
"He has an office in this building?"
I could not, for the life of me, tell whether this was an affirmation or a question. So I merely nodded, which answered in either case. But I was pining to say to him, "Peck, why don't you come out with it and ask me plainly what I know of your conference the other night?" However, I did not. I had learned to play a close game.
"Oh! I saw your nigger, Jeams—ah—the other day."
"Did you? Where is he?" I wanted to find him, and asked innocently enough.
"Back at home."
"How is he getting on?"
"Pretty well, I believe. He's a big rascal."
"Yes, but a pleasant one, and an open one."
Peck suddenly rose, "Well, I must be going. I have an engagement which I must keep." At the door he paused. "By the way, Mrs. Peck begged to be remembered to you."
He had a way of blinking, like a terrapin—slowly. He did so now.
He did not mean his tone to be insolent—only to be insolent himself—but it was.
"I'm very much obliged to her. Remember me to her."
That afternoon I strolled out, hoping to get a glimpse of Miss Leigh. I did so, but Peck was riding in a carriage with her and her father. So he won the last trick, after all. But the rubber was not over. I was glad that they did not see me, and I returned to my office filled with rage and determined to unmask Peck the first chance I should have, not because he was a trickster and a liar, but because he was applying his trickiness in the direction of Miss Leigh.
That night the weather changed and it turned off cold. I remember it from a small circumstance. The wind appeared to me to have shifted when Miss Leigh's carriage drove out of sight with Peck in it. I went home and had bad dreams. What was Peck doing with the Leighs? Could I have been mistaken in thinking he and McSheen had been talking of Mr. Leigh in their conference? For some time there had been trouble on the street-car lines of the city and a number of small strikes had taken place on a system of lines running across the city and to some extent in competition with the West Line, which Mr. Leigh had an interest in. According to the press the West Line, which ran out into a new section, was growing steadily while the other line was falling back. Could it be that McSheen was endeavoring to secure possession of the West Line? This, too, had been intimated, and Canter, one of the richest men of the town, was said to be behind him. What should I do under the circumstances? Would Peck tell Miss Leigh any lies about me? All these suggestions pestered me and, with the loss of Dix, kept me awake, so that next morning I was in rather a bad humor.
In my walk through the poorer quarter on my way to my office I used to see a great deal of the children, and it struck me that one of the saddest effects of poverty—the dire poverty of the slum—was the debasement of the children. Cruelty appears to be the natural instinct of the young as they begin to gain in strength. But among the well-to-do and the well-brought-up of all classes it is kept in abeyance and is trained out. But in the class I speak of at a certain age it appears to flower out into absolute brutality. It was the chief drawback to my sojourn in this quarter, for I am very fond of children, and the effect of poverty on the children was the saddest part of my surroundings. To avoid the ruder element, I used to walk of a morning through the little back street where I had discovered that morning the little school for very small children, and I made the acquaintance of a number of the children who attended the school. One little girl in particular interested me. She was the poorest clad of any, but her cheeks were like apples and her chubby wrists were the worst chapped of all; and with her sometimes was a little crippled girl, who walked with a crutch, whom she generally led by the hand in the most motherly way, so small that it was a wonder how she could walk, much more study.
My little girls and I got to that point of intimacy where they would talk to me, and Dix had made friends with them and used to walk beside them as we went along.
The older girl's first name was Janet, but she spoke with a lisp and I could not make out her name with a certainty. Her father had been out of work, she said, but now was a driver, and her teacher was "Mith Thellen." The little cripple's name was "Sissy"—Sissy Talman. This was all the information I could get out of her. "Mith Thellen" was evidently her goddess.
On the cool, crisp morning after the turn in the weather, I started out rather earlier than usual, intending to hunt for Dix and also to look up Jeams. I bought a copy of the Trumpet and was astonished to read an account of trouble among the employees of the West Line, for I had not seen the least sign of it. The piece went on further to intimate that Mr. Leigh had been much embarrassed by his extension of his line out into a thinly populated district and that a strike, which was quite sure to come, might prove very disastrous to him. I somehow felt very angry at the reference to Mr. Leigh and was furious with myself for having written for the Trumpet. I walked around through the street where the school was, though without any definite idea whatever, as it was too early for the children. As I passed by the school the door was wide open and I stopped and looked in. The fire was not yet made. The stove was open; the door of the cellar, opening outside, was also open, and at the moment a young woman—the teacher or some one else—was backing up the steps out of the cellar lugging a heavy coal-scuttle. One hand, and a very small one, was supporting her against the side of the wall, helping her push herself up. I stepped forward with a vague pity for any woman having to lift such a weight.
"Won't you let me help you?" I asked.
"Thank you, I believe I can manage it." And she pulled the scuttle to the top, where she planted it, and turned with quite an air of triumph. It was she! my young lady of the sunny house: Miss Leigh! I had not recognized her at all. Her face was all aglow and her eyes were filled with light at a difficulty overcome. I do not know what my face showed; but unless it expressed conflicting emotions, it belied my feelings. I was equally astonished, delighted and embarrassed. I hastened to say something which might put her at her ease and at the same time prove a plea for myself, and open the way to further conversation.
"I was on my way to my law-office, and seeing a lady struggling with so heavy a burden, I had hoped I might have the privilege of assisting her as I should want any other gentleman to do to my sister in a similar case." I meant if I had had a sister.
She thanked me calmly; in fact, very calmly.
"I do it every morning; but this morning, as it is the first cold weather, I piled it a little too high; that is all." She looked toward the door and made a movement.
I wanted to say I would gladly come and lift it for her every morning; that I could carry all her burdens for her. But I was almost afraid even to ask permission again to carry it that morning. As, however, she had given me a peg, I seized it.
"Well, at least, let me carry it this morning," I said, and without waiting for an answer or even venturing to look at her, I caught up the bucket and swung it into the house, when seeing the sticks all laid in the stove, and wishing to do her further service, without asking her anything more, I poured half the scuttleful into the stove.
"I used to be able to make a fire, when I lived in my old home," I said tentatively; then as I saw a smile coming into her face, I added: "But I'm afraid to try an exhibition of my skill after such boasting," and without waiting further, I backed out, bringing with me only a confused apparition of an angel lifting a coal-scuttle.
I do not remember how I reached my office that day, whether I walked the stone pavements through the prosaic streets or trod on rosy clouds. There were no prosaic streets for me that day. I wondered if the article I had seen in the paper had any foundation. Could Mr. Leigh have lost his fortune? Was this the reason she taught school? I had observed how simply she was dressed, and I thrilled to think that I might be able to rescue her from this drudgery.
The beggars who crossed my path that morning were fortunate. I gave them all my change, even relieving the necessities of several thirsty imposters who beset my way, declaring with unblushing, sodden faces that they had not had a mouthful for days.
I walked past the little school-house that night and lingered at the closed gate, finding a charm in the spot. The little plain house had suddenly become a shrine. It seemed as if she might be hovering near.
The next morning I passed through the same street, and peeped in at the open door. There she was, bending over the open stove in which she had already lighted her fire, little knowing of the flame she had kindled in my heart. How I cursed myself for being too late to meet her. And yet, perhaps, I should have been afraid to speak to her; for as she turned toward the door, I started on with pumping heart in quite a fright lest she should detect me looking in.
I walked by her old home Sunday afternoon. Flowers bloomed at the windows. As I was turning away, Count Pushkin came out of the door and down the steps. As he turned away from the step his habitual simper changed into a scowl; and a furious joy came into my heart. Something had gone wrong with him within there. I wished I had been near enough to have crossed his path to smile in his face; but I was too distant, and he passed on with clenched fist and black brow.
After this my regular walk was through the street of the baby-school, and when I was so fortunate as to meet Miss Leigh she bowed and smiled to me, though only as a passing acquaintance, whilst I on my part began to plan how I should secure an introduction to her. Her smile was sunshine enough for a day, but I wanted the right to bask in it and I meant to devise a plan. After what I had told Peck, I could not present my letter; I must find some other means. It came in an unexpected way, and through the last person I should have imagined as my sponsor.
XX
MY FIRST CLIENT
But to revert to the morning when I made Miss Leigh's fire for her. I hunted for Dix all day, but without success, and was so busy about it that I did not have time to begin my search for Jeams. That evening, as it was raining hard, I treated myself to the unwonted luxury of a ride home on a street-car. The streets were greasy with a thick, black paste of mud, and the smoke was down on our heads in a dark slop. Like Petrarch, my thoughts were on Laura, and I was repining at the rain mainly because it prevented the possibility of a glimpse of Miss Leigh on the street: a chance I was ever on the watch for.
I boarded an open car just after it started and just before it ran through a short subway. The next moment a man who had run after the car sprang on the step beside me, and, losing his footing, he would probably have fallen and might have been crushed between the car and the edge of the tunnel, which we at that moment were entering, had I not had the good fortune, being on the outer seat, to catch him and hold him up. Even as it was, his coat was torn and my elbow was badly bruised against the pillar at the entrance. I, however, pulled him over across my knees and held him until we had gone through the subway, when I made room for him on the seat beside me.
"That was a close call, my friend," I said. "Don't try that sort of thing too often."
"It was, indeed—the closest I ever had, and I have had some pretty close ones before. If you had not caught me, I would have been in the morgue to-morrow morning."
This I rather repudiated, but as the sequel showed, the idea appeared to have become fixed in his mind. We had some little talk together and I discovered that, like myself, he had come out West to better his fortune, and as he was dressed very plainly, I assumed that, like myself, he had fallen on rather hard times, and I expressed sympathy. "Where have I seen you before?" I asked him.
"On the train once coming from the East."
"Oh! yes." I remembered now. He was the man who knew things.
"You know Mr. McSheen?" he asked irrelevantly.
"Yes—slightly. I have an office in the same building."
I wondered how he knew that I knew him.
"Yes. Well, you want to look out for him. Don't let him fool you. He's deep. What's that running down your sleeve? Why, it's blood! Where did it come from?" He looked much concerned.
"From my arm, I reckon. I hurt it a little back there, but it is nothing."
He refused to be satisfied with my explanation and insisted strongly on my getting off and going with him to see a doctor. I laughed at the idea.
"Why, I haven't any money to pay a doctor," I said.
"It won't cost you a cent. He is a friend of mine and as good a surgeon as any in the city. He's straight—knows his business. You come along."
So, finding that my sleeve was quite soaked with blood, I yielded and went with him to the office of his friend, a young doctor named Traumer, who lived in a part of the town bordering on the working people's section, which, fortunately, was not far from where we got off the car. Also, fortunately, we found him at home. He was a slim young fellow with a quiet, self-assured manner and a clean-cut face, lighted by a pair of frank, blue eyes.
"Doc," said my conductor, "here's a friend of mine who wants a little patching up."
"That's the way with most friends of yours, Bill," said the doctor, who had given me a single keen look. "What's the matter with him? Shot? Or have the pickets been after him?"
"No, he's got his arm smashed saving a man's life."
"What! Well, let's have a look at it. He doesn't look very bad." He helped me off with my coat and, as he glanced at the sleeve, gave a little exclamation.
"Hello!"
"Whose life did he save?" he asked, as he was binding up the arm. "That's partly a mash."
"Mine."
"Oh! I see." He went to work and soon had me bandaged up. "Well, he's all right now. What were you doing?" he asked as he put on the last touches.
"Jumping on a car."
"Ah!" The doctor was manifestly amused. "You observe that our friend is laconic?" he said to me.
"What's that?" asked the other. "Don't prejudice him against me. He don't know anything against me yet—and that's more than some folks can say."
"Who was on that car that you were following?" asked the doctor, with a side glance at my friend. The latter did not change his expression a particle.
"Doc, did you ever hear what the parrot said to herself after she had sicked the dog on, and the dog not seeing anything but her, jumped on her?"
"No—what?"
"'Polly, you talk too d——d much.'"
The doctor chuckled and changed the subject. "What's your labor-friend, Wringman, doing now? What did he come back here for?"
"Same old thing—dodging work."
"He seems to me to work other people pretty well."
The other nodded acquiescingly.
"He's on a new line now. McSheen's got him. Yes, he has," as the doctor looked incredulous.
"What's he after? Who's he working for?"
"Same person—Coll McSheen. Pretty busy, too. Mr. Glave there knows him already."
"Glave!—Glave!" repeated the doctor. "Where did I hear your name? Oh, yes! Do you know a preacher named John Marvel!"
"John Marvel! Why, yes. I went to college with him. I knew him well."
"You knew a good man then."
"He is that," said the other promptly. "If there were more like him I'd be out of a job."
"You know Miss Leigh, too?"
"What Miss Leigh?" My heart warmed at the name and I forgot all about Marvel. How did he know that I knew her?
"'The Angel of the Lost Children.'"
"'The Angel—'? Miss Eleanor Leigh?" Then as he nodded—"Slightly." My heart was now quite warm. "Who called her so?"
"She said she knew you. I look after some of her friends for her."
"Who called her the 'Angel of the Lost Children'?"
"A friend of mine—Leo Wolffert, who works in the slums—a writer. She's always finding and helping some one who is lost, body or soul."
"Leo Wolffert! Do you know him?"
"I guess we all know him, don't we, Doc?" put in the other man. "And so do some of the big ones."
"Rather."
"And the lady, too—she's a good one, too," he added.
I was so much interested in this part of the conversation that I forgot at the moment to ask the doctor where he had known John Marvel and Wolffert.
I, however, asked him what I owed him, and he replied,
"Not a cent. Any of Langton's friends here or John Marvel's friends, or (after a pause) Miss Leigh's friends may command me. I am only too glad to be able to serve them. It's the only way I can help."
"That's what I told him," said my friend, whose name I heard for the first time. "I told him you weren't one of these Jew doctors that appraise a man as soon as he puts his nose in the door and skin him clean."
"I am a Jew, but I hope I am not one of that kind."
"No; but there are plenty of 'em."
I came away feeling that I had made two friends well worth making. They were real men.
When I parted from my friend he took out of his pocket-book a card. "For my friends," he said, as he handed it to me. When I got to the light I read:
"Wm. Langton, Private Detective."
It was not until long afterward that I knew that the man he was following when he sprang on the car and I saved him was myself, and that I owed the attention to my kinsman and to Mr. Leigh, to whom Peck had given a rather sad account of me. My kinsman had asked him to ascertain how I lived.
I called on my new friend, Langton, earlier than he had expected. In my distress about Dix I consulted him the very next day and he undertook to get him back. I told him I had not a cent to pay him with at present, but some day I should have it and then——
"You'll never owe me a cent as long as you live," he said. "Besides, I'd like to find that dog. I remember him. He's a good one. You say you used the back stairway at times, opening on the alley near Mick Raffity's?"
"Yes."
He looked away out of the window with a placid expression.
"I wouldn't go down that way too often at night," he said presently.
"Why?"
"Oh! I don't know. You might stumble and break your neck. One or two men have done it."
"Oh! I'll be careful," I laughed. "I'm pretty sure-footed."
"You need to be—there. You say your dog's a good fighter?"
"He's a paladin. Can whip any dog I ever saw. I never fought him, but I had a negro boy who used to take him off till I stopped him."
"Well, I'll find him—that is, I'll find where he went."
I thanked him and strolled over across town to try to get a glimpse of the "Angel of the Lost Children." I saw her in a carriage with another young girl, and as I gazed at her she suddenly turned her eyes and looked straight at me, quite as if she had expected to see me, and the smile she gave me, though only that which a pleasant thought wings, lighted my heart for a week.
A day or two later my detective friend dropped into my office.
"Well, I have found him." His face showed that placid expression which, with him, meant deep satisfaction. "The police have him—are holding him in a case, but you can identify and get him. He was in the hands of a negro dog-stealer and they got him in a raid. They pulled one of the toughest joints in town when there was a fight going on and pinched a full load. The nigger was among them. He put up a pretty stiff fight and they had to hammer him good before they quieted him. He'll go down for ninety days sure. He was a fighter, they said—butted men right and left."
"I'm glad they hammered him—you're sure it's Dix?"
"Sure; he claimed the dog; said he'd raised him. But it didn't go. I knew he'd stolen him because he said he knew you."
"Knew me—a negro? What did he say his name was?"
"They told me—let me see—Professor Jeams—something."
"Not Woodson?"
"Yes, that's it."
"Well, for once in his life he told the truth. He sold me the dog. You say he's in jail? I must go and get him out."
"You'll find it hard work. Fighting the police is a serious crime in this city. A man had better steal, rob, or kill anybody else than fight an officer."
"Who has most pull down there?"
"Well, Coll McSheen has considerable. He runs the police. He may be next Mayor."
I determined, of course, to go at once and see what I could do to get Jeams out of his trouble. I found him in the common ward among the toughest criminals in the jail—a massive and forbidding looking structure—to get into which appeared for a time almost as difficult as to get out. But on expressing my wish to be accorded an interview with him, I was referred from one official to another, until, with my back to the wall, I came to a heavy, bloated, ill-looking creature who went by the name of Sergeant Byle. I preferred my request to him. I might as well have undertaken to argue with the stone images which were rudely carved as Caryatides beside the entrance. He simply puffed his big black cigar in silence, shook his head, and looked away from me; and my urging had no other effect than to bring a snicker of amusement from a couple of dog-faced shysters who had entered and, with a nod to him, had sunk into greasy chairs.
"Who do you know here?"
A name suddenly occurred to me, and I used it.
"Among others, I know Mr. McSheen," and as I saw his countenance fall, I added, "and he is enough for the present." I looked him sternly in the eye.
He got up out of his seat and actually walked across the room, opened a cupboard and took out a key, then rang a bell.
"Why didn't you say you were a friend of his?" he asked surlily. "A friend of Mr. McSheen can see any one he wants here."
I have discovered that civility will answer with nine-tenths or even nineteen-twentieths of the world, but there is a class of intractable brutes who yield only to force and who are influenced only by fear, and of them was this sodden ruffian. He led the way now subserviently enough, growling from time to time some explanation, which I took to be his method of apologizing. When, after going through a number of corridors, which were fairly clean and well ventilated, we came at length to the ward where my unfortunate client was confined, the atmosphere was wholly different: hot and fetid and intolerable. The air struck me like a blast from some infernal region, and behind the grating which shut off the miscreants within from even the modified freedom of the outer court was a mass of humanity of all ages, foul enough in appearance to have come from hell.
At the call of the turnkey, there was some interest manifested in their evil faces and some of them shouted back, repeating the name of Jim Woodson; some half derisively, others with more kindliness. At length, out of the mob emerged poor Jeams, but, like Lucifer, Oh, how changed! His head was bandaged with an old cloth, soiled and stained; his mien was dejected, and his face was swollen and bruised. At sight of me, however, he suddenly gave a cry, and springing forward tried to thrust his hands through the bars of the grating to grasp mine. "Lord, God!" he exclaimed. "If it ain't de Captain. Glory be to God! Marse Hen, I knowed you'd come, if you jes' heard 'bout me. Git me out of dis, fur de Lord's sake. Dis is de wuss place I ever has been in in my life. Dey done beat me up and put handcuffs on me, and chain me, and fling me in de patrol-wagon, and lock me up and sweat me, and put me through the third degree, till I thought if de Lord didn't take mercy 'pon me, I would be gone for sho. Can't you git me out o' dis right away?"
I explained the impossibility of doing this immediately, but assured him that he would soon be gotten out and that I would look after his case and see that he got justice.
"Yes, sir, that is what I want—jestice—I don't ax nothin' but jestice."
"How did you get here?" I demanded. And even in his misery, I could not help being amused to see his countenance fall.
"Dey fetched me here in de patrol-wagon," he said evasively.
"I know that. I mean, for what?"
"Well, dey say, Captain, dat I wus desorderly an' drunk, but you know I don' drink nothin'."
"I know you do, you fool," I said, with some exasperation. "I have no doubt you were what they say, but what I mean is, where is Dix and how did you get hold of him?"
"Well, you see, Marse Hen, it's dthis way," said Jeams falteringly. "I come here huntin' fur you and I couldn' fin' you anywheres, so then I got a place, and while I wus lookin' 'roun' fur you one day, I come 'pon Dix, an' as he wus lost, jes' like you wus, an' he didn't know where you wus, an' you didn't know where he wus, I tuk him along to tek care of him till I could fin' you."
"And incidentally to fight him?" I said.
Again Jeams's countenance fell. "No, sir, that I didn't," he declared stoutly. "Does you think I'd fight dthat dog after what you tol' me?"
"Yes, I do. I know you did, so stop lying about it and tell me where he is, or I will leave you in here to rot till they send you down to the rockpile or the penitentiary."
"Yes, sir; yes, sir, I will. Fur God's sake, don' do dat, Marse Hen. Jes' git me out o' here an' I will tell you everything; but I'll swear I didn't fight him; he jes' got into a fight so, and then jist as he hed licked de stuffin out of dat Barkeep Gallagin's dog, them d——d policemen come in an' hammered me over the head because I didn't want them to rake in de skads and tek Dix 'way from me."
I could not help laughing at his contradictions.
"Well, where is he now?"
"I'll swear, Marse Hen, I don' know. You ax the police. I jes' know he ain't in here, but dey knows where he is. I prays night and day no harm won't happen to him, because dat dog can beat any dog in this sinful town. I jes' wish you had seen him."
As the turnkey was now showing signs of impatience, I cut Jeams short, thereby saving him the sin of more lies, and with a promise that I would get him bailed out if I could, I came away.
The turnkey had assured me on the way that he would find and return me my dog, and was so sincere in his declaration that nothing would give him more pleasure than to do this for any friend of Mr. McSheen's, that I made the concession of allowing him to use his efforts in this direction. But I heard nothing more of him.
With the aid of my friend, the detective, I soon learned the names of the police officers who had arrested Jeams, and was enabled to get from them the particulars of the trouble which caused his arrest.
It seemed that, by one of the strange and fortuitous circumstances which so often occur in life, Jeams had come across Dix just outside of the building in which was my law office, and being then in his glory, he had taken the dog into the bar-room of Mick Raffity, where he had on arrival in town secured a place, to see what chance there might be of making a match with Dix. The match was duly arranged and came off the following night in a resort not far from Raffity's saloon, and Dix won the fight. Just at this moment, however, the police made a raid, pulled the place and arrested as many of the crowd as could not escape, and held on to as many of those as were without requisite influence to secure their prompt discharge. In the course of the operation, Jeams got soundly hammered, though I could not tell whether it was for being drunk or for engaging in a scrimmage with the police. Jeams declared privately that it was to prevent his taking down the money.
When the trial came off, I had prepared myself fully, but I feel confident that nothing would have availed to secure Jeams's acquittal except for two circumstances: One was that I succeeded in enlisting the interest of Mr. McSheen, who for some reason of his own showed a disposition to be particularly civil and complacent toward me at that time—so civil indeed that I quite reproached myself for having conceived a dislike of him. Through his intervention, as I learned later, the most damaging witness against my client suddenly became exceedingly friendly to him and on the witness-stand failed to remember any circumstance of importance which could injure him, and finally declared his inability to identify him.
The result was that Jeams was acquitted, and when he was so informed, he arose and made a speech to the Court and the Jury which would certainly fix him in their memory forever. In the course of it, he declared that I was the greatest lawyer that had ever lived in the world, and I had to stop him for fear, in his ebullient enthusiasm, he might add also that Dix was the greatest dog that ever lived.
XXI
THE RESURRECTION OF DIX
Still, I had not got Dix back, and I meant to find him if possible! It was several days before I could get on the trace of him, and when I undertook to get the dog I found an unexpected difficulty in the way. I was sent from one office to another until my patience was almost exhausted, and finally when I thought I had, at last, run him down, I was informed that the dog was dead. The gapped-tooth official, with a pewter badge on his breast as his only insignia of official rank, on my pressing the matter, gave me a circumstantial account of the manner in which the dog came to his death. He had attempted, he said, to get through the gate, and it had slammed to on him accidentally, and, being very heavy, had broken his neck.
I had given Dix up for lost and was in a very low state of mind, in which Jeams sympathized with me deeply, though possibly for a different reason. He declared that we had "lost a dog as could win a ten-dollar bill any day he could get a man to put it up."
"Cap'n, you jes' ought to 'a' seen the way he chawed up that bar-keep Gallagin's dog! I was jes' gittin' ready to rake in de pile when dem perlice jumped in an' hammered me. We done los' dat dog, Cap'n—you an' I got to go to work," he added with a rueful look.
It did look so, indeed. A few days later, a letter from him announced that he had gotten a place and would call on me "before long." As he gave no address, I assumed that his "place" was in some bar-room, and I was much disturbed about him. One day, not long after, Dix dashed into my office and nearly ate me up in his joy. I really did not know until he came back how dear he was to me. It was as if he had risen from the dead. I took him up in my arms and hugged him as if I had been a boy. He wore a fine new collar with a monogram on it which I could not decipher. Next day, as I turned into the alley at the back of the building on which opened Mick Raffity's saloon, with a view to running up to my office by the back way, I found Dix in the clutches of a man who was holding on to him, notwithstanding his effort to escape. He was a short, stout fellow with a surly face. At my appearance Dix repeated the man[oe]uvres by which he had escaped from Jeams the day I left him behind me back East, and was soon at my side.
I strode up to the man.
"What are you doing with my dog?" I demanded angrily.
"He's Mr. McSheen's dog."
"He's nothing of the kind. He's my dog and I brought him here with me."
"I guess I know whose dog he is," he said, insolently. "He got him from Dick Gallagin."
Gallagin! That was the name of the man who had put up a dog to fight Dix. A light began to break on me.
"I guess you don't know anything of the kind, unless you know he's mine. He never heard of Gallagin. I brought him here when I came and he was stolen from me not long ago and I've just got him back. Shut up, Dix!" for Dix was beginning to growl and was ready for war.
The fellow mumbled something and satisfied me that he was laboring under a misapprehension, so I explained a little further, and he turned and went into Raffity's saloon. Next day, however, there was a knock at my door, and before I could call to the person to come in, McSheen himself stood in the door. The knock itself was loud and insolent, and McSheen was glowering and manifestly ready for trouble.
"I hear you have a dog here that belongs to me," he began.
"Well, you have heard wrong—I have not."
"Well—to my daughter. It is the same thing."
"No, I haven't—a dog that belongs to your daughter?"
"Yes, a dog that belongs to my daughter. Where is he?"
"I'm sure I don't know. I wasn't aware that you had a daughter, and I have no dog of hers or any one else—except my own."
"Oh! That don't go, young man—trot him out."
At this moment, Dix walked out from under my desk where he had been lying, and standing beside me, gave a low, deep growl.
"Why, that's the dog now."
I was angry, but I was quiet, and I got up and walked over toward him.
"Tell me what you are talking about," I said.
"I'm talking about that dog. My daughter owns him and I've come for him."
"Well, you can't get this dog," I said, "because he's mine."
"Oh! he is, is he?"
"Yes, I brought him here with me when I came. I've had him since he was a puppy."
"Oh! you did!"
"Yes, I did. Go back there, Dix, and lie down!" for Dix, with the hair up on his broad back and a wicked look in his eye, was growling his low, ominous bass that meant war. At the word, however, he went back to his corner and lay down, his eye watchful and uneasy. His prompt obedience seemed to stagger Mr. McSheen, for he condescended to make his first attempt at an explanation.
"Well, a man brought him and sold him to my daughter two months ago."
"I know—he stole him."
"I don't know anything about that. She paid for him fair and square—$50.00, and she's fond of the dog, and I want him."
"I'm sorry, for I can't part with him."
"You'd sell him, I guess?"
"No."
"If I put up enough?"
"No."
"Say, see here." He put his hand in his pocket. "I helped you out about that nigger of yours, and I want the dog. I'll give you $50.00 for the dog—more than he's worth—and that makes one hundred he's cost."
"He's not for sale—I won't sell him."
"Well, I'll make it a hundred." A hundred dollars! The money seemed a fortune to me; but I could not sell Dix.
"No. I tell you the dog is not for sale. I won't sell him."
"What is your price, anyhow?" demanded McSheen. "I tell you I want the dog. I promised my daughter to get the dog back."
"Mr. McSheen, I have told you the dog is not for sale—I will not sell him at any price."
He suddenly flared up.
"Oh! You won't! Well, I'll tell you that I'll have that dog and you'll sell him too."
"I will not."
"We'll see. You think you're a pretty big man, but I'll show you who's bigger in this town—you or Coll McSheen. I helped you once and you haven't sense enough to appreciate it. You look out for me, young man." He turned slowly with his scowling eye on me.
"I will."
"You'd better. When I lay my hand on you, you'll think an earthquake's hit you."
"Well, get out of my office now," I said.
"Oh! I'm going now, but wait."
He walked out, and I was left with the knowledge that I had one powerful enemy.
I was soon to know Mr. Collis McSheen better, as he was also to know me better.
A few days after this I was walking along and about to enter my office when a man accosted me at the entrance and asked if I could tell him of a good lawyer.
I told him I was one myself, though I had the grace to add that there were many more, and I named several of the leading firms in the city.
"Well, I guess you'll do. I was looking for you. You are the one she sent me to," he said doubtfully, when I had told him my name. He was a weather-beaten little Scotchman, very poor and hard up; but there was something in his air that dignified him. He had a definite aim, and a definite wrong to be righted. The story he told me was a pitiful one. He had been in this country several years and had a place in a locomotive-shop somewhere East, and so long as he had had work, had saved money. But they "had been ordered out," he said, and after waiting around finding that the strike had failed, he had come on here and had gotten a place in a boiler-shop, but they "had been ordered out" again, "just as I got my wife and children on and was getting sort of fixed up," he added. Then he had resigned from the union and had got another place, but a man he had had trouble with back East was "one of the big men up here now," and he had had him turned out because he did not "belong to the union." He was willing to join the union now, but "Wringman had had him turned down." Then he had gotten a place as a driver. But he had been ill and had lost his place, and since then he had not been able to get work, "though the preacher had tried to help him." He did not seem to complain of this loss of his place.
"The wagon had to run," he said, but he and his wife, too, had been ill, and the baby had died and the expenses of the burial had been "something." He appeared to take it as a sort of ultimate decree not to be complained of—only stated. He mentioned it simply by way of explanation, and spoke as if it were a mere matter of Fate. And, indeed, to the poor, sickness often has the finality of Fate. During their illness they had sold nearly all their furniture to live on and pay rent. Now he was in arrears; his wife was in bed, his children sick, and his landlord had levied on his furniture that remained for the rent. At the last gasp he had come to see a lawyer.
"I know I owe the rent," he said, "but the beds won't pay it and the loan company's got all the rest."
I advised him that the property levied on was not subject to levy; but suggested his going to his landlord and laying the case before him.
"If he has any bowels of compassion whatever—" I began, but he interrupted me.
"That's what the preacher said." But his landlord was "the Argand Estate," he added in a hopeless tone. He only knew the agent. He had been to him and so had the preacher; but he said he could do nothing—the rent must be paid—"the Argand Estate had to be kept up, or it couldn't do all the good it did"—so he was going to turn them out next day.
He had been to one or two lawyers, he said; but they wouldn't take the case against the Argand Estate, and then the lady had sent him to me.
"What lady?"
"The lady who teaches the little school—Miss Leigh—she teaches my Janet."
McNeil's name had at first made no impression on me, but the mention of Miss Leigh, "the Argand Estate," and of Wringman brought up an association. "McNeil—McNeil?" I said. "Did you have five children; and did your wife bring them on here some months ago—when the train was late, one day?"
"Yes, sorr; that's the way it was."
"Well, I will keep you in longer than to-morrow," I said. And I did. But Justice is too expensive a luxury for the poor. "Law is law," but it was made by landlords. I won his case for him and got his furniture released; I scored the Argand agent, an icy-faced gentleman, named Gillis, "of high character," as the Argand counsel, Mr. McSheen, indignantly declared, and incidentally "the Argand Estate," in terms which made me more reputation than I knew of at the time.
The case was a reasonably simple one, for my client was entitled to a poor debtor's exemption of a few household articles of primary need, and he had not half of what he could have claimed under his exemption. It appeared, however, that in the lease, which was in the regular form used by the Argand Estate, all exemptions were waived, and also that it was the regular practice of the estate to enforce the waiver, and it was alleged at the trial that this practice had always been sustained. It was the fact that this was the customary lease and that a principle was involved which brought Mr. McSheen into the case, as he stated, for a client who was the largest landlord in the city. And it was the fact that Miss Leigh had recommended me and that McSheen was in the case that made me put forth all my powers on it.
On the stand the Argand agent, Gillis, who, it appeared, had begun as an office-boy in the office of Mr. Argand and had then become his private secretary, from which he had risen to wealth and position, a fact I had learned from Kalender, was foolish enough to say that the case was gotten up by an unknown young lawyer out of spite against the Argand Estate and that it was simply an instance of "the eternal attacks on wealth"; that, in fact, there were "only two sides, the man with the dress-coat and the man without."
"You began poor. When did you change your coat?" I asked.
The laugh was raised on him and he got angry. After that I had the case. I was unknown, but Gillis was better known than I thought, and the hardship on my client was too plain. I led him on into a tangle of admissions, tied him up and cross-examined him till the perspiration ran off his icy forehead. I got the jury and won the case. But, notwithstanding my success, my client was ruined. He was put out of the house, of course, and though I had saved for him his beds, every article he possessed soon went for food. The laws established for the very protection of the poor destroy their credit and injure them. He could not give security for rent, and but for a fellow-workman named Simms taking him into his house, and the kindness of the man he had spoken of as "the preacher," his children would have had to go to the workhouse or a worse place.
McNeil's case was the beginning of my practice, and in a little while I found myself counsel for many of the drivers in our section of the city.
Among those whom this case brought me in touch with was a young lawyer, who, a little later, became the attorney for the government. My interest in him was quickened by the discovery that he was related to Mr. Leigh, a fact he mentioned somewhat irrelevantly. He was present during the trial and on its conclusion came up and congratulated me on my success against what he termed "the most powerful combination for evil in the city. They bid fair," he said, "to control not only the city, but the State, and are the more dangerous because they are entrenched behind the support of ignorant honesty. But you must look out for McSheen." As he stood near Coll McSheen, I caught the latter's eye fixed on us with that curious malevolent expression which cast a sort of mask over his face.
I had not hunted up John Marvel after learning of his presence in the city, partly because I thought he would not be congenial and partly because, having left several affectionate letters from him unanswered during my prosperity, I was ashamed to seek him now in my tribulation. But Fate decided for me. We think of our absent friend and lo! a letter from him is handed to us before we have forgotten the circumstance. We fancy that a man in the street is an acquaintance; he comes nearer and we discover our mistake, only to meet the person we thought of, on the next corner. We cross seas and run into our next-door neighbor in a crowded thoroughfare. In fact, the instances of coincidence are so numerous and so strange that one can hardly repel the inference that there is some sort of law governing them.
I indulged in this reflection when, a morning or two later, as I was recalling my carelessness in not looking up John Marvel and Wolffert, there was a tap on the door and a spare, well-built, dark-bearded man, neatly but plainly dressed, walked in. His hat shaded his face, and partly concealed his eyes; but as he smiled and spoke, I recognized him.
"Wolffert! I was just thinking of you."
He looked much older than I expected, and than, I thought, I myself looked; his face was lined and his hair had a few strands of silver at the temples; his eyes were deeper than ever, and he appeared rather worn. But he had developed surprisingly since we had parted at College. His manner was full of energy. In fact, as he talked he almost blazed at times. And I was conscious of a strange kind of power in him that attracted and carried me along with him, even to the dulling of my judgment. He had been away, he said, and had only just returned, and had heard of my success in "defeating the Argand Estate Combination"; and he had come to congratulate me. It was the first victory any one had ever been able to win against them.
"But I did not defeat any combination," I said. "I only defeated Collis McSheen in his effort to take my client's bed and turn him and his children out in the street without a blanket."
"There is the Combination, all the same," he asserted. "They have the Law and the Gospel both in the combine. They make and administer the one and then preach the other to bind on men's shoulders burdens, grievous to be borne, that they themselves do not touch with so much as a finger."
"But I don't understand," I persisted; for I saw that he labored under much suppressed feeling, and I wondered what had embittered him. "Collis McSheen I know, for I have had some experience of him; and Gillis, the agent, was a cool proposition; but the Argand Estate? Why, McSheen strung out a list of charities that the Argand Estate supported that staggered me. I only could not understand why they support a man like McSheen."
"The Argand Estate support charities! Yes, a score of them—all listed—and every dollar is blood, wrung from the hearts and souls of others—and there are many Argands."
"How do you mean?" For he was showing a sudden passion which I did not understand. He swept on without heeding my question.
"Why, their houses are the worst in the city; their tenements the poorest for the rent charged; their manufactories the greatest sweatshops; their corporate enterprises all at the cost of the working-class, and, to crown it all, they sustain and support the worst villains in this city, who live on the bodies and souls of the ignorant and the wretched."
"Whom do you mean? I don't understand."
"Why, do you suppose the Coll McSheens and Gillises and their kind could subsist unless the Argands and Capons of the Time supported them? They have grown so bold now that they threaten even their social superiors—they must rule alone! They destroy all who do not surrender at discretion."
"Who? How?" I asked, as he paused, evidently following a train of reflection, while his eyes glowed.
"Why, ah! even a man like—Mr. Leigh, who though the product of an erroneous system is, at least, a broad man and a just one."
"Is he? I do not know him. Tell me about him." For I was suddenly interested.
Then he told me of Mr. Leigh and his work in trying to secure better service for the public, better tenements—better conditions generally.
"But they have defeated him," he said bitterly. "They turned him out of his directorship—or, at least, he got out—and are fighting him at every turn. They will destroy him, if possible. They almost have him beat now. Well, it is nothing to me," he added with a shrug of his shoulders and a sort of denial of the self-made suggestion. "He is but an individual victim of a rotten system that must go."
My mind had drifted to the conference which I had witnessed in McSheen's office not long before, when suddenly Wolffert said,
"Your old friend, Peck, appears to have gotten up. I judge he is very successful—after his kind."
"Yes, it would seem so," I said dryly, with a sudden fleeting across my mind of a scene from the past, in which not Peck figured, but one who now bore his name; and a slightly acrid taste came in my mouth at the recollection. "Well, up or down, he is the same," I added.
"He is a serpent," said Wolffert. "You remember how he tried to make us kill each other?"
"Yes, and what a fool I made of myself."
"No, no. He was at the bottom of it. He used to come and tell me all the things you said and—didn't say. He made a sore spot in my heart and kept it raw. He's still the same—reptile."
"Have you seen him?" I asked. He leaned back and rested his eyes on me.
"Yes, he took the trouble to hunt me up a day or two ago, and for some reason went over the whole thing again. What's McSheen to him?"
"I shall break his neck some day, yet," I observed quietly.
"You know I write," he said explanatorily. "He wanted me to write something about you."
"About me?"
"Yes."
"What a deep-dyed scoundrel he is!"
"Yes, he wanted to enlist me on the McSheen side, but—" his eyes twinkled. "Where do you go to church?" he suddenly asked me.
I told him, and I thought he smiled possibly at what I feared was a little flush in my face.
"To 'St. Mammon's!' Why don't you go to hear John Marvel? He is the real thing."
"John Marvel? Where is he?"
"Not far from where you say you live. He preaches out there—to the poor."
"In a chapel?" I inquired.
"Everywhere where he is," said Wolffert, quietly.
"What sort of a preacher is he?"
"The best on earth, not with words, but with deeds. His life is his best sermon."
I told him frankly why I had not gone, though I was ashamed, for we had grown confidential in our talk. But Wolffert assured me that John Marvel would never think of anything but the happiness of meeting me again.
"He is a friend whom God gives to a man once in his lifetime," he said, as he took his leave. "Cherish such an one. His love surpasseth the love of women."
"Has he improved?" I asked.
A little spark flashed in Wolffert's eyes. "He did not need to improve. He has only ripened. God endowed him with a heart big enough to embrace all humanity—except—" he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "the Jew."
"I do not believe that."
"By the way, I have a friend who tells me she has met you. Your dog appears to have made quite an impression on her."
"Who is she?"
"Miss Leigh, the daughter of the gentleman we were talking about."
"Oh! yes—a fine girl—I think," I said with a casual air—to conceal my real interest.
"I should say so! She is the real thing," he exclaimed. "She told me you put out her fire for her. She teaches the waifs and strays."
"Put out her fire! Was ever such ingratitude! I made her fire for her. Tell me what she said."
But Wolffert was gone, with a smile on his face.
XXII
THE PREACHER
So, "the preacher" whom my client, McNeil, and my poor neighbors talked of was no other than John Marvel! I felt that he must have changed a good deal since I knew him. But decency, as well as curiosity, required that I go to see him. Accordingly, although I had of late gone to church only to see a certain worshipper, I one evening sauntered over toward the little rusty-looking chapel, where I understood he preached. To my surprise, the chapel was quite full, and to my far greater surprise, old John proved to be an inspiring preacher. Like Wolffert, he had developed. When he came to preach, though the sermon was mainly hortatory and what I should have expected of him, his earnestness and directness held his congregation, and I must say he was far more impressive than I should have imagined he could be. His sermon was as far from the cut-and-dried discourse I was used to hear, as life is from death.
He spoke without notes and directly from his heart. His text, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden." He made it out to be a positive promise of rest for the weary in body, mind and soul, given by One not only able to help, but longing to do so: a pitying Father, who saw His tired children struggling under their burdens and yearned toward them. The great Physician was reaching out His hands to them, longing to heal them, if they but received Him; if they but followed Him. To be converted meant to turn from what they knew to be evil and try to live as they felt He lived. He had come to bring the gospel to the poor. He had been poor—as poor as they. He knew their sorrows and privations and weakness; and their sins, however black they were. All He asked was that they trust Him, and try to follow Him, forgetting self and helping others. Do not be afraid to trust Him, or despair if He does not make Himself known to you. He is with you even until the end—and often as much when you do not feel it as when you do.
God appeared very real to him, and also to his hearers, who hung on his words as simple as they were. I felt a seriousness which I had long been a stranger to. He appeared to be talking to me, and I set it down to tenderness for old John Marvel himself, rather than to his subject.
When the service was over, he came down the aisle speaking to the congregation, many of whom he appeared to know by name, and whose concerns he also knew intimately. And as the children crowded around him with smiles of friendliness, I thought of the village preacher with the children following, "with endearing wile."
His words were always words of cheer.
"Ah! Mrs. Tams! Your boy got his place, didn't he?
"Mrs. Williams, your little girl is all right again?
"Well, Mrs. McNeil" (to a rusty, thinly clad woman who sat with her back to me), "so your husband won his case, after all? His lawyer was an old friend of mine."
I had sat far back, as the church was full when I entered, and was waiting for him to get through with his congregation before making myself known to him; so, though he was now quite close to me, he did not recognize me until I spoke to him. As I mentioned his name, he turned.
"Why, Henry Glave!" Then he took me in his arms, bodily, and lifting me from the ground hugged me there before the entire remnant of his congregation who yet remained in the church. I never had a warmer greeting. I felt as if I were the prodigal son, and, although it was embarrassing, I was conscious that instant that he had lifted me out of my old life and taken me to his heart. It was as if he had set me down on a higher level in a better and purer atmosphere.
I went home with him that night to his little room in a house even smaller and poorer than that in which I had my room—where he lived, as I found, because he knew the pittance he paid was a boon to the poor family who sublet the room. But as small and inconvenient as the room was, I felt that it was a haven for a tired and storm-tossed spirit, and the few books it contained gave it an air of being a home. Before I left it I was conscious that I was in a new phase of life. Something made me feel that John Marvel's room was not only a home but a sanctuary.
We sat late that night and talked of many things, and though old John had not improved in quickness, I was surprised, when I came to think over our evening, how much he knew of people—poor people. It seemed to me that he lived nearer to them than possibly any one I had known. He had organized a sort of settlement among them, and his chief helpers were Wolffert and a Catholic priest, a dear devoted old fellow, Father Tapp, whom I afterward met, who always spoke of John Marvel as his "Heretick brother," and never without a smile in his eye. Here he helped the poor, the sick and the outcast; got places for those out of work, and encouraged those who were despairing. I discovered that he was really trying to put into practical execution the lessons he taught out of the Bible, and though I told him he would soon come to grief doing that, he said he thought the command was too plain to be disobeyed. Did I suppose that the Master would have commanded, "Love your enemies," and, "Turn the other cheek," if He had not meant it? "Well," I said, "the Church goes for teaching that theoretically, I admit; but it does not do it in practice—I know of no body of men more ready to assert their rights, and which strikes back with more vehemence when assailed."
"Ah! but that is the weakness of poor, fallible, weak man," he sighed. "'We know the good, but oft the ill pursue;' if we could but live up to our ideals, then, indeed, we might have Christ's kingdom to come. Suppose we could get all to obey the injunction, 'Sell all thou hast and give to the poor,' what a world we should have!"
"It would be filled with paupers and dead beats," I declared, scouting the idea. "Enterprise would cease, a dead stagnation would result, and the industrious and thrifty would be the prey of the worthless and the idle."
"Not if all men could attain the ideal."
"No, but there is just the rub; they cannot—you leave out human nature. Selfishness is ingrained in man—it has been the mainspring which has driven the race to advance."
He shook his head. "The grace of God is sufficient for all," he said. "The mother-love has some part in the advance made, and that is not selfish. Thank God! There are many rich noble men and women, who are not selfish and who do God's service on earth out of sheer loving kindness, spend their money and themselves in His work."
"No doubt, but here in this city——?"
"Yes, in this city—thousands of them. Why, where do we get the money from to run our place with?"
"From the Argand Estate?" I hazarded.
"Yes, even from the Argand Estate we get some. But men like Mr. Leigh are those who support us and women like—ah—But beyond all those who give money are those who give themselves. They bring the spiritual blessing of their presence, and teach the true lesson of divine sympathy. One such person is worth many who only give money."
"Who, for instance?"
"Why—ah—Miss Leigh—for example."
I could scarcely believe my senses. Miss Leigh! "Do you know Miss Leigh? What Miss Leigh are you speaking of?" I hurriedly asked to cover my own confusion, for John had grown red and I knew instinctively that it was she—there could be but one.
"Miss Eleanor Leigh—yes, I know her—she—ah—teaches in my Sunday-school." John's old trick of stammering had come back.
Teaching in his Sunday-school! And I not know her! That instant John secured a new teacher. But he went on quickly, not divining the joy in my heart, or the pious resolve I was forming. "She is one of the good people who holds her wealth as a trust for the Master's poor—she comes over every Sunday afternoon all the way from her home and teaches a class."
Next Sunday at three P. M. a hypocrite of my name sat on a bench in John's little church, pretending to teach nine little ruffians whose only concern was their shoes which they continually measured with each other, while out of the corner of my eye I watched a slender figure bending, with what I thought wonderful grace, over a pew full of little girls on the other side of the church intent on their curls or bangs.
The lesson brought in that bald-headed and somewhat unfeeling prophet, who called forth from the wood the savage and voracious she-bears to devour the crowd of children who ran after him and made rude observations on his personal appearance, and before I was through, my sympathies had largely shifted from the unfortunate youngsters to the victim of their annoyance. Still I made up my mind to stick if John would let me, and the slim and flower-like teacher of the fidgety class across the aisle continued to attend.
I dismissed my class rather abruptly, I fear, on observing that the little girls had suddenly risen and were following their teacher toward the door with almost as much eagerness as I felt to escort her. When I discovered that she was only going to unite them with another class, it was too late to recall my pupils, who at the first opportunity had made for the door, almost as swiftly as though the she-bears were after them.
When the Sunday-school broke up, the young lady waited around, and I took pains to go up and speak to her, and received a very gracious smile and word of appreciation at my efforts with the "Botany Bay Class," as my boys were termed, which quite rewarded me for my work. Her eyes, with their pleasant light, lit up the whole place for me. Just then John Marvel came out—and it was the first time I ever regretted his appearance. The smile she gave him and the cordiality of her manner filled me with sudden and unreasoning jealousy. It was evident that she had waited to see him, and old John's face bore a look of such happiness that he almost looked handsome. As for her—as I came out I felt quite dazed. On the street whom should I meet but Wolffert—"simply passing by," but when I asked him to take a walk, he muttered something about having "to see John." He was well dressed and looked unusually handsome. Yet when John appeared, still talking earnestly with Miss Leigh, I instantly saw by his face and the direction of his eye that the John he wanted to see wore an adorable hat and a quiet, but dainty tailor-made suit and had a face as lovely as a rose.
I was in such a humor that I flung off down the street, swearing that every man I knew was in love with her, and it was not until ten o'clock that night, when I went to John's—whither I was drawn by an irresistible desire to talk about her and find out how matters stood between them—and he told me that she had asked where I had gone, that I got over my temper.
"Why, what made you run off so?" he inquired.
"When?" I knew perfectly what he meant.
"Immediately after we let out."
"My dear fellow, I was through, and besides I thought you had pleasanter company." I said this with my eyes on his face to see him suddenly redden. But he answered with a naturalness which put me to shame.
"Yes, Miss Leigh has been trying to get a place for a poor man—your client by the way—and then she was talking to me about a little entertainment for the children and their parents, too. She is always trying to do something for them. And she was sorry not to get a chance to speak further to you. She said you had helped her about her fire and she had never thanked you."
It is surprising how quickly the sun can burst from the thickest clouds for a man in love. I suddenly wondered that Miss Leigh among her good works did not continually ask about me and send me messages. It made me so happy.
"What became of Wolffert?" I inquired.
"I think he walked home with her. He had something to talk with her about. They are great friends, you know. She helps Wolffert in his work."
"Bang!" went the clouds together again like a clap of thunder. The idea of Wolffert being in love with her! I could tolerate the thought of John Marvel being so, but Wolffert was such a handsome fellow, so clever and attractive, and so full of enthusiasm. It would never do. Why, she might easily enough imagine herself in love with him. I suddenly wondered if Wolffert was not the cause of her interest in settlement work.
"Wolffert is very fond of her—I found him hanging around the door as we came out," I hazarded.
"Oh! yes, they are great friends. He is an inspiration to her, she says—and Wolffert thinks she is an angel—as she is. Why, if you knew the things she does and makes others do!"
If John Marvel had known with what a red-hot iron he was searing my heart, he would have desisted; but good, blind soul, he was on his hobby and he went on at full speed, telling me what good deeds she had performed—how she had fetched him to the city; and how she had built up his church for him—had started and run his school for the waifs—coming over from her beautiful home in all weathers to make up the fire herself and have the place warm and comfortable for the little ones—how she looked after the sick—organized charities for them and spent her money in their behalf. "They call her the angel of the lost children," he said, "and well they may."
"Who does?" I asked suspiciously, recalling the title. "Wolffert, I suppose?"
"Why, all my people—I think Wolffert first christened her so and they have taken it up."
"Confound Wolffert!" I thought. "Wolffert's in love with her," I said.
"Wolffert—in love with her! Why!" I saw that I had suggested the idea for the first time—but it had found a lodgment in his mind. "Oh! no, he is not," he declared, but rather arguing than asserting it. "They are only great friends—they work together and have many things in common—Wolffert will never marry—he is wedded to his ideal."
"And her name is Eleanor Leigh—only he is not wedded to her yet." And I added in my heart, "He will never be if I can beat him."
"Yes—certainly, in a way—as she is mine," said John, still thinking.
"And you are too!" I said.
"I? In love with—?" He did not mention her name. It may have been that he felt it too sacred. But he gave a sort of gasp. "The glow-worm may worship the star, but it is at a long distance, and it knows that it can never reach it."
I hope it may be forgiven to lovers not to have been frank with their rivals. His humility touched me. I wanted to tell John that I thought he might stand a chance, but I was not unselfish enough, as he would have been in my place. All I was brave enough to do was to say, "John, you are far above the glow-worm; you give far more light than you know, and the star knows and appreciates it."