Project Gutenberg's New Bed-Time Stories, by Louise Chandler Moulton This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: New Bed-Time Stories Author: Louise Chandler Moulton Release Date: October 3, 2019 [EBook #60418] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW BED-TIME STORIES *** Produced by Sonya Schermann, Nigel Blower and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Day after day Johnny watched.—PAGE 15. New Bed-Time Stories. BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, AUTHOR OF “BED-TIME STORIES,” “MORE BED-TIME STORIES,” “SOME WOMEN’S HEARTS,” AND “POEMS.” WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY, 1907 Copyright, 1880, By Louise Chandler Moulton. Alfred Mudge & Son, Inc., Printers, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. TO MISTRESS BROWN-EYES. At Christmas-tide, by Christmas fire, You’ll read these tales of mine;— I see, above my story-book, Your happy brown eyes shine. Dear eyes, that front the future time So fearlessly to-day, Oh, may from them some kindly Fate Keep future tears away, And give you all your heart desires, My little English maid, For whom, in this far-distant land, My loving prayers are said! I pray for Peace, since Peace is good, For Love, since Love is best: If prayers bring blessings, Brown-eyed Girl, How much you will be blest! L. C. M. August, 1880. CONTENTS. PAGE “All a-Growin’ and a-Blowin’” 5 My Vagrant 20 Helen’s Temptation 35 The Surgeon of the Dolls’ Hospital 56 Pretty Miss Kate 79 A Borrowed Rosebud 94 Tom’s Thanksgiving 106 Finding Jack 124 Her Mother’s Daughter 139 My Quarrel with Ruth 158 Was it Her Mother? 172 The Lady from Over the Way 186 His Mother’s Boy 200 Dr. Joe’s Valentine 217 NEW BED-TIME STORIES. “ALL A-GROWIN’ AND A-BLOWIN’.” It had been such a weary hunt for lodgings. Not that lodgings are scarce in London. There are scores of streets, whole districts, indeed, where the house that did not say “Apartments” in its window would be the exception. But Miss Endell wanted to combine a great deal. She must be economical, for her funds were running low; she must be near the British Museum, for she wanted to consult many authorities for the book about “Noted Irishwomen,” by which she hoped to retrieve her fortunes; she wanted quiet, too, and reasonably pretty things about her. For a week she had spent most of her time in quest of the place where she could settle herself comfortably for a few months. It was the gray March weather. The mornings were dark, and the gloom of coming dusk settled down early; and, during all the hours between, Miss Endell had been busy in that weary work of which Dante speaks, “climbing the stairs of others.” At last, after much consideration, she had decided to make a certain flight of stairs her own. She had taken the drawing- room floor of No. 30 Guilford Street; and with a comfortable feeling of success she had paid her bill at the Charing Cross Hotel, and driven to her new home. The drawing-room floor—that is to say, the suite of rooms up one flight of stairs from the street—is the most important part of a London lodging-house. Whoever is kept waiting, when “the drawing-room”—as it is the fashion to designate the lodger who occupies that apartment—rings, the ring must at once be “answered to.” That floor rents for as much as all the rest of the house put together, and is the chief dependence of anxious landladies. Miss Endell, accordingly, was received as a person of importance. Her boxes were brought upstairs, and her landlady, Mrs. Stone, bustled about cheerfully, helping her to arrange things. At last every thing was comfortably placed, and the tired new-comer settled herself in a low chair in front of the glowing coal-fire, and glanced around her. Mrs. Stone was still busy, wiping away imperceptible dust. The door was open, and in the doorway was framed a singular face, that of a pale, slender child, with a figure that looked too tall for the face, and great eager eyes, with such a wistful, silent longing in them as Miss Endell had never seen before. At the same moment Mrs. Stone also caught sight of the child, and cried out a little crossly,— “Go away, you plague! Didn’t I tell you as you wasn’t to ’ang round the new lady, a-worritin’ her?” The child’s wistful face colored, and the tears sprang to the great, sad eyes; but he was silently turning away, when Miss Endell herself spoke. She was not specially fond of children; but she had a kind heart, and something in the wan, pitiful face of the child touched it. “Don’t send him away, Mrs. Stone,” she said kindly. “Come in, my little man, and tell me what your name is.” The child sidled in, timidly, but did not speak. “Don’t be afraid,” Miss Endell said. “What is your name?” “Bless you, ma’am, he can’t speak!” said Mrs. Stone. “Can’t speak?” “No; he was born with something wrong. Laws, he can hear as well as anybody, and he knows all you say to him; but there’s something the matter. The last ‘drawing-room’ said that there was doctors, she was sure, as could help him, but I haint any money to try experiments. “Johnny was my brother’s child. His father died before he was born, and his mother lived just long enough to ’and over Johnny to me, and ask me to take care of him. “I’ve done my best; but a lodging-house is a worrit. What with empty rooms, and lodgers as didn’t pay, and hard times, I never got money enough ahead to spend on doctors. “But you mustn’t have Johnny a-worritin’ round. You’d get sick o’ that. The last ‘drawing-room’ said it made her that nervous to see him; and I halways thought she went off partly for that.” “I will not let him trouble me, don’t be afraid; but let him sit down here by the fire, and when I find he disturbs me I’ll send him away.” Mrs. Stone vanished, and Johnny took up his station on a stool in a corner of the hearth-rug. Miss Endell busied herself with a book, but from time to time she looked at the boy. His face was pale and wistful still, but a half-smile, as sad as tears, was round his poor silent mouth, and he was gazing at his new friend as if he would fix every line of her face in his memory for ever. [6] [7] [8] [9] For a long hour he sat there; and then Mrs. Stone came to lay the cloth for dinner, and sent him away to bed. The next morning he appeared again; and soon it grew to be his habit to sit, almost all the day through, and watch Miss Endell at her tasks. In spite of her absorption, he occupied a good many of her thoughts. Like him, she was an orphan; and she had few close and vital interests in her life. She got to feel as if it belonged to her, in a certain way, to look after this silent waif of humanity more lonely still than herself. Often she took an hour from her work to read little tales to him, and it was reward enough to see how his eyes brightened, and the color came into his pale little face. She used to think that if her work succeeded, Johnny should also be the better for it. As soon as the first edition of “Noted Irishwomen” was sold, she would have the best medical advice for him; and if there were such a thing as giving those lips language, it should be done. “Should you like to speak to me, Johnny?” she asked one day suddenly. The boy looked at her, for one moment, with eyes that seemed to grow larger and larger. Then came a great rush of sobs and tears that shook him so that Miss Endell was half-frightened at the effect of her own words. She bent over and put her hand on his head. “Don’t, Johnny! Don’t, dear!” she said tenderly. I doubt if any one had ever called the poor little dumb boy “dear” before, in all his eleven years of life. He looked up through his tears, with a glad, strange smile, as if some wonderful, sweet thing had befallen him; and then, in a sort of timid rapture, he kissed the hem of Miss Endell’s gown, and the slippered foot that peeped out beneath it. I think there is an instinct of motherhood in good women that comes out toward all helpless creatures; and it awoke then in Miss Endell’s heart. After that she and Johnny were almost inseparable. Often she took him with her on her walks, and always when she worked he kept his silent vigil on the hearth-rug. Miss Endell had one extravagance. She could not bear to be without flowers. She did not care much for the cut and wired bouquets of the florist, but she seldom came home from her walks without some handful of wall-flowers, or a knot of violets or forget-me-nots. Now and then she bought a tea-rose bud; and then Johnny always noticed how lovingly she tended it—how she watched it bursting from bud to flower. He got to know that this strange, bright creature whom he idolized loved flowers, and loved tea-roses best of all. A wild desire grew in him to buy her tea-roses—not one, only, but a whole bunch. He spent his days in thinking how it was to be done, and his nights in dreaming about it. A penny was the largest sum he had ever possessed in his life, and a penny will not buy one tea-rose, much less a bunch of them. One day Miss Endell took him with her when she went to see a friend. It was a prosperous, good-natured, rich woman in whose house they found themselves. “Go and see the pictures, Johnny,” Miss Endell said; and Johnny wandered down the long room, quite out of ear-shot. Then she told his pathetic little story, and her friend’s careless yet kind heart was touched. When it was time for Miss Endell to go, she summoned Johnny; and then the lady they were visiting gave the boy a half-crown, a whole shining, silver half-crown. Johnny clasped it to his heart in expressive pantomime, and lifted his wistful, inquiring eyes. “Yes, it is all yours,” the lady said, in answer; “and don’t let any one take it away from you.” Small danger, indeed, of that! The piece of silver meant but one thing to Johnny,—tea-roses, unlimited tea-roses. The next day he was taken ill. He had a fever,—a low, slow fever. His aunt was kind enough to him, but she had plenty to do, and Johnny would have been lonely indeed but for Miss Endell. She had him brought each morning into her room, and kept him all day lying on her sofa, giving him now a kind word, now a draught of cold water, and then a few grapes, with the sun’s secret in them. One day Johnny drew something from his bosom, and put it into Miss Endell’s hand. It was the silver half-crown. He made her understand, by his expressive gestures, that she was to keep it for him; and she dropped it into a drawer of her writing-desk. At last Johnny began to get well. June came, with all its summer sights and sounds, and strength came with its softer winds to the poor little waif. One day he stood before Miss Endell, and put out his hand. She understood, and dropped the half-crown into it. He hid it, with a sort of passion, in his bosom, and Miss Endell smiled. Did even this little waif, then, care so much for money? As soon as he could stand, he took up his station on the balcony outside the windows, and watched and watched. His friend thought only that the sights and sounds of the street amused him. She was working on at the “Noted Irishwomen,” which was nearing its conclusion, and it quite suited her that Johnny found the street so interesting. As for the child, he was possessed by only one idea,—tea-roses. He watched to see the hand-barrows come along, flower-laden and tempting. These same hand-barrows are a feature of London street life. They are full of plants growing in pots, and also there are plenty of cut flowers. The venders cry, as they pass along, “All a-growin’ and a-blowin’!” and there is something exciting in the cry. It seems part of the summer itself. [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] Day after day, day after day, Johnny watched and watched. Flowers enough went by,—geraniums glowing scarlet in the sun, azaleas, white heath, violets,—only never any tea-roses. But at last, one morning, he heard the familiar cry, “All a-growin’ and a-blowin’!” and lo! as if they had bloomed for his need, there were tea-roses—whole loads of tea-roses! Miss Endell was busy, just then, with Lady Morgan. She never noticed when the little silent figure left the window, and hurried downstairs. Out into the street that little figure went, and on and on, in hot pursuit of the flower-barrow, which by this time had quite the start of him. Down one street, up another, he ran, and always with the silver half-crown tightly clasped in the palm of his little hand. At last a customer detained the barrow; and Johnny hurried up to it, panting and breathless. He put his hand out towards the tea-roses, and then he held out his silver half-crown. The flower-seller looked at him curiously, “Why don’t you speak, young ’un?” he said. “Are you dumb? You want this ’alf-crown’s wuth o’ them tea-roses?” Johnny nodded vehemently. The man took up a great handful of the pale sweet flowers, and thrust them into the boy’s hands, taking in exchange the half-crown, and putting it away in a sort of pouch, along with many silver mates. As for Johnny, there are in every life supreme moments, and his came then. He held in his hand the flowers that Miss Endell loved, and he was going to give them to her. All his life he had felt himself in every one’s way. She, only, had made him welcome to her side. She had called him “dear,”—and now there was something he could do for her. She had loved one tea-rose: how much, then, would she love a whole handful of tea-roses! His heart swelled with a great wave of pride and joy. He thought of nothing but his flowers,—how should he?—and he never even heard or saw the butcher’s cart, tearing along at such a pace as John Gilpin never dreamed of. And in a moment, something had pushed him down,—something rolled and crunched over him,—and he knew nothing; but he held the flowers tight through it all. “Why, it’s Mrs. Stone’s dumb Johnny!” said the butcher-boy, who had got down from his cart by this time, and was addressing the quickly assembled London crowd. “Gi ’e a hand, and lift un up into my cart, and I’ll carry un home.” An awful inarticulate groan came from the poor child’s dumb lips as they lifted him; but his hold on the tea-roses never loosened. They carried him home, and into the house. Mrs. Stone was shocked and grieved; and she took her troubles noisily, as is the fashion of her class. Miss Endell, still fagging away at Lady Morgan, heard cries and shrieks, and dropped her pen and hastened downstairs. “He’s dead! Johnny’s dead!” cried Mrs. Stone and Miss Endell, white and silent, drew near. But Johnny was not dead, though he was dying fast. The butcher-boy had hurried off for a doctor and the three women, Mrs. Stone, her maid, and her lodger, stood by helplessly. Suddenly Johnny’s wandering look rested on Miss Endell. A great sweet smile of triumph curved his mouth, lighted his eyes, kindled all his face. With one grand last effort, he put out the bunch of tea-roses, and pressed them into her hand. And then, as if death had somehow been more merciful to him than life, and had in some way loosed his poor bound tongue, he stammered out the only words he had ever spoken—was ever to speak,— “For you!” At length the doctor came and stood there, helpless like the rest, for death was stronger than all his skill. The shock and the hurt together had quenched the poor frail life that was ebbing so swiftly. Miss Endell bent and kissed the white quivering lips. As she did so, the tea-roses she held touched the little face. Was it their subtile fragrance, or this kiss, or both together, which seemed for one moment to recall the departing soul? He looked up; it was his last look, and it took in the sweet woman who had been so gentle and so loving to him, and the flowers in her hand. His face kindled with a great joy. A hero might have looked like that who had died for his country, or a man who had given his life joyfully for child or wife. Johnny Stone had loved one creature well, and that creature had loved tea-roses. What could life have held so sweet as the death that found him when he was striving to give her her heart’s desire? [16] [17] [18] [19] MY VAGRANT. We were in pursuit of Laura’s dressmaker, and had just rung the bell at her door, when a little boy presented himself, and, standing on the lower step, uplifted a pathetic pair of blue eyes, and a small tin cup held in a little grimy hand. A large basket was on one arm; and round his neck was one of those great printed placards, such as the blind men wear who sit at the street corners. Laura’s purse was always fuller than mine; and she was extracting a bit of scrip from it, while I bent my near-sighted eyes on the boy’s label. Could it be that I read aright? I looked again. No, I was not mistaken. It read, in great, staring letters— I HAVE LOST MY HUSBAND IN THE WAR. In the war! And those blue eyes had not opened, surely, till some time after the war was ended! His husband! I was bewildered. I bent my gaze on him sternly, and asked, as severely as I could,— “Young man, can you read?” Laura was fumbling away at the unanswered door-bell. The boy looked as if he wanted to run; but I put my hand on his arm. “Can you read?” I repeated gravely. I think he shook in his shabby boots, for his voice was not quite steady as he answered,— “Not much.” “Not much, I should think. Do you know what this thing says that you’ve got round your neck?” “Does it say I’m blind?” he asked, with a little frightened quaver. “No, it says—but do you know what a husband is?” “Yes, he comes home drunk, and beats Mag and me awful.” “Did you ever know a boy of your age to have a husband?” The blue eyes grew so wide open that I wondered if they could ever shut themselves up again; and Laura, who had turned round at my question, looked as if she thought I had suddenly gone mad. The little dressmaker had opened the door, and stood there waiting meekly, with the handle in her hand. But my spirit was up, and I did not care for either of them. I asked again, very impressively, as I thought, with a pause after each word,— “Did—you—ever—know—a—boy—of—your—age—to—have—a—husband?” “No, marm,” he gasped, “husbands belongs to women.” “Then what do you wear this thing for? It says that you have lost your husband in the war.” The imp actually turned pale, and I almost pitied him. “Will they put me in prison?” he asked, an abject little whine coming into his voice. “Will they?” “Did you steal it?” “I didn’t to say steal it—I just took it. I’d seen the rest put them on when they went out begging, and this was old Meg’s. She wasn’t going out to-day, and I thought no harm to borrow.” “Then you can’t read?” “Well, not to say read, marm. I think I could make out a word now and then.” “Do you want to?” The face brightened a moment, and, with the curving lips and eager eyes, was really that of a pretty boy. “Oh, if I could!” half sighed the quivering lips; and then the smile went out, and left blank despair behind it. “It’s no use, marm; she won’t let me.” “Who won’t? Your mother?” “No, Mag’s mother—old Meg. My mother’s dead, and I never had any father that ever I heard of; and since mother died old Meg does for me; and every day she sends me out to beg; and if I don’t get much she whips Mag.” I was growing strangely interested. “Whips Mag, because you don’t get much?” I said doubtfully. “What for?” “I guess there’s a hard place on me, marm. She found that it didn’t seem to hurt much, when she whipped me; and so one night Mag was teasing her to stop, and she turned to and whipped Mag, and that made me cry awful; and ever since, if I don’t get enough money, she whips Mag.” “Are you sure you are telling me the truth?” I don’t know why I asked the question, for I saw honesty in those clear eyes of his. He looked hurt. Yes, you may [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] laugh if you want to, I’m telling you just as it was—the boy looked as hurt as any of you would if I doubted you. There came a sort of proud shame into his manner. He clutched at the placard round his neck, as if he would tear it off, and answered, sadly,— “I s’pose I can’t expect anybody to believe me with this round my neck; but, if you would go home with me, Mag could tell you, and you would believe her.” By this time Laura had gone in, leaving me to finish my interview alone. I reflected a moment. The other day I had heard Tom say he wanted an errand boy. Why should he not have this one? Tom was my brother. I knew just the difficulties he would make,—want of reference, a street beggar, a regular rat of the gutter. I could fancy just how he would talk. I knew, too, that I could overrule his objections. That’s a power women have when a man loves them; whether he be husband or brother or friend. I hated the thought of vice and ignorance and poverty. What if I could save just one small boy from their clutches? I said resolutely,— “Will you go home with me, and have a comfortable home and good food and honest work, and no one ever to beat you, and learn to read?” I had seen no assent in his eyes till I came to this last clause of my sentence. Then he asked shrewdly,— “Who’ll teach me? I can’t go to school and do my work, too.” “I will teach you. Will you go and work faithfully for my brother, and learn to read?” “Won’t I, just?” “Well, then, let me speak to the lady who went in, and I’ll take you home at once.” He shuffled uneasily. “If you please, marm, I can’t go till I’ve been back to Meg’s, and carried her this board.” “But I’ll get a policeman to send a messenger with that. If you go, perhaps she won’t let you come to me.” “Yes, marm, I shall come. But you wouldn’t believe me, sure, if I could steal away, like, and never say good-by to Mag, and let her cry both her eyes out thinking I’d been shut up, or somebody had killed me.” And his own great blue eyes grew pathetic again over this picture of sorrowful possibilities. “Well, you may go,” I said, half reluctantly, for the little vagabond had inspired in me a singular interest. “You may go, and be sure you come to-night or in the morning, to 70 Deerham Street, and ask for Miss May.” He looked at me with a grave, resolved look. “I shall come,” he said; and in an instant he was gone. That night, after dinner, I told Tom. He was mocking, incredulous, reluctant—just as I knew he would be. But it all ended in his promising to try “My Vagrant,” if he ever came. Just as I had brought him to this pass, the bell rang, and I sprang to the dining-room door. The dining-room was the front basement, and the outside door was so near that I opened it myself. It was, indeed, my vagrant. “I want Miss May,” he said, with the air which such a gamin puts on when he speaks to a servant,—an air which instantly subdued itself into propriety when he heard my voice. I took him in to Tom; and I saw the blue eyes softened even the prejudiced mind and worldly heart of Mr. Thomas May. He spoke very kindly to the boy, and then sent him into the kitchen for his supper. “Where do you propose to keep this new acquisition?” he asked me, after the blue-eyed was out of sight. “In this house, if you please. There is a little single bed all ready for him in the attic, and I’ve arranged with cook to give him a bath and then put him into some of the clothes her own boy left behind him when he went away to sea. I mean to rescue this one soul from a starved and miserable and wicked life, and I’m willing to take some pains; and if you aren’t willing to do your part I’m ashamed of you.” Tom laughed, and called me his “fierce little woman,” his “angry turtle-dove,” and half-a-dozen other names which he never gave me except when he was in good humor, so I knew it was all right. Before three days were over Tom owned that my vagrant, as he persisted in calling the boy (though we knew now that his name was Johnny True), was the best errand boy he had ever employed. I myself taught him to read, as I had promised, and brighter scholar never teacher had. In four months he had progressed so fast that he could read almost any thing. There had been a sort of feverish eagerness in his desire to learn for which I was at a loss to account. Sometimes, coming home from some party or opera, I would find him studying in the kitchen at midnight. We grew fond of him, all of us. Cook said he was no trouble, and he made it seem as if she had her own boy back again. He waited on Tom with a sort of dog-like faithfulness; and, as for me, I believe that he would have cut his hand off for me at any time. Yet one morning he got up and deliberately walked out of the house. When his breakfast was ready cook called for him in vain, and in vain she searched for him from attic to cellar. But before it was time for Tom to go to business another boy came, a little older than my vagrant,—a nice, respectable-looking boy,—and asked for Mr. May. He came into the dining-room and stood there, cap in hand. [25] [26] [27] [28] [29] “If you please, sir,” he said bashfully, “Johnny True wants to know if you’ll be so good as to take me on in his place, considering that he isn’t coming back any more, and I have done errands before, and got good reference.” He had made his little speech in breathless haste, running all his sentences together into one. Tom looked at him deliberately, and lit a cigar. “Johnny isn’t coming back, hey?” “No, sir.” “Where is Johnny gone?” “He didn’t tell me, if you please, but he said he should be hurt to death if it troubled you to lose him, and he knew I could do as well as he could.” I saw a refusal in Tom’s eyes, so I made haste to forestall it. “Do take him,” I said in a low tone to Tom, and then I said to the boy that just now he had better go to the store, and Mr. May would see him presently, when he came to business. Tom laughed, a half-amused, half-provoked laugh, when he went out, and said,— “Well, my dear, I don’t think your vagrant has proved to be such a success that you need expect me to let him choose my next errand boy.” “I think, at least, that if he has sent you one as good as himself you will have no fault to find,” I said hotly. But all the time there was a sore place in my own heart, for I had thought that my vagrant would have loved me too well to run away from me in this way. That night Tom said that the new errand boy was doing well, and he had concluded to keep him on. I think Tom missed my vagrant; but not, of course, so much as I missed my bright scholar—my grateful little follower. Of course, the new boy lived in his own home, wherever that might be. I did not concern myself about him, or feel any disposition to put him in the little bed in the front attic. Two or three weeks passed and we heard no word from Johnny True. But at last a rainy day came, and with it Johnny, asking for Miss May. “I guess he’s repented,” cook said, coming upstairs to tell me. I went down to Johnny, resolved to be equal to the occasion—to meet him with all the severity his ungrateful behavior deserved. But, somehow, the wistful look in his blue eyes disarmed me. He was a little thin and pale, too; and my heart began to soften even before he spoke. “I couldn’t stay away, ma’am,” he said, with the clear accent he had caught so quickly from my brief teaching, “and not let you know why I went.” “To let me know when you went would have been more to the purpose,” I answered, with what sternness I could command. “I had thought better of you, Johnny, than that you were capable of running away.” “But you see, ma’am, I was afraid you would not let me go if I told you.” “And why did you want to go? Were you not comfortable?” “Yes, ma’am—that was the worst of it.” “Why the worst of it? Have you any especial objection to be comfortable?” Suddenly the blue eyes filled with tears, like a girl’s; and there was a pitiful sob in the voice which answered me. “Oh, it hurt me so, when I was warm, and had a good supper, and everybody’s kind word, to think of poor Mag there at home, cold and hungry, and with old Meg beating her. I never should have come and left her but for the learning to read. She wanted me to come for that.” “So you could read to her?” “So I could teach her, ma’am. You never in all your life saw anybody so hungry to learn to read as Mag; and when I went home that first day and told her all you said, and told her that after all I couldn’t go and leave her there to take all the hard fare and hard words, she just began to cry, and to tease me to go and learn to read, so I could teach her, until I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I came.” “And how did she know she would ever see you again?” I asked. “It would have been most natural, having learned what comfort was, to stay on here and enjoy it.” “Mag knew me, ma’am,” said my vagrant, as proudly as a prince could speak if his honor were called in question. “Mag knew what I was, and I learned as fast as I could to get back to her—don’t you think so, ma’am?” “You learned faster than any one else could; I know that,” I answered. “But, Johnny, how could you bear to go back to begging again?” “I couldn’t bear it, ma’am, and I didn’t. I had money enough, that Mr. Tom had given me, to buy myself a stock of papers. I’m a newsboy now, and I teach Mag to read out of the papers I have left. And old Meg knows better now than to beat Mag, and we are so much happier. It’s all owing to you; and I came back to thank you,—but I never could [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] forsake Mag for long. I must stay with my own.” “But they are not your own.” “Mag is, ma’am.” He was as resolute to ally himself, for that girl’s sake, with poverty, and, if need were, shame, as ever was a hero to live or die for the land of his birth; and out in the rain, down the desolate street, I watched my vagrant go away from me for ever. But I did not pity him. No soul is to be pitied which has reached life’s crowning good,—the power to love another better than itself. Nor do I know any curled darling of fortune who seems to me happier than was my vagrant. HELEN’S TEMPTATION. The sun was almost setting, but its low light came in at the western windows, and lit up a pale face lying upon the pillows, till it seemed to the watchers beside the bed as if some glory from heaven had already touched the brow of the dying. These watchers were only two,—a girl of fourteen, rather tall of her age, with gray eyes that were almost green sometimes, and dark hair, short like a boy’s, and curling all over her head; and a middle-aged woman, who had tended this girl when a baby, and was half friend, half servant, to the dying mother. Mrs. Ash had been lying all the day, almost in silence. Her husband had brought her, a year before, to California, because she was stricken with consumption, and he hoped the change from the harsh east winds of New England to the balmy airs of the Pacific coast might restore her to health. For a time the result had seemed to fulfil his hope; but, very suddenly, he himself had been taken ill and died; and then the half-baffled disease seized again on the mourning wife, who had now no strength to repel its onset. I think she would fain have lived—even then, when all the joy seemed gone from her life—for her daughter Helen’s sake; but she was too weak to struggle, and so she lay there dying, quite aware of what was before her. All day she had seemed to be thinking, thinking, and waiting till she had settled something in her own mind before she spoke. At last, with the sunset light upon her face, she beckoned to the woman, who bent nearer. “As soon as all is over, Woods,” she said, as tranquilly as if she were speaking of the most ordinary household arrangement, “you will take Helen to my sister’s in Boston. You must make the journey by easy stages, so as not to tire her too much. Fortunately she will not be dependent. She has money enough, and she needs only care and love, which my sister will give her, I know well. “I shall be glad if you can stay with her; but that must of course be as Mrs. Mason will arrange. You will find when my affairs are settled that you have been remembered. You will lay me by my husband’s side, and then take Helen away. “All is arranged so that there can be no trouble, and now, if you please, leave me a little while with my daughter.” The woman went out of the room, and then Mrs. Ash opened her arms, and Helen crept into them and lay there silently, as if she were a baby again whom her mother comforted. She was a strange compound, this Helen Ash, of impulsiveness and self-control. She had an intense nature, and her temptations would grow chiefly out of her tendency to concentrate all her heart on a single object,—to seek whatever thing she wished for with an insistence which would not be denied. This quality has its great advantages certainly, but it has its extreme dangers. Helen had no brothers or sisters or special friends. She had loved only her father and mother, but she had loved them with an almost excessive devotion. When her father died she had borne up bravely, that she might comfort and help her mother, and now she was bearing up still, that she might not sadden that parting soul with the anguish of her own. As she lay there in her mother’s arms, her eyes were wide open and tearless, but they were full of a desperate gloom sadder than tears. She was almost as pale herself as was her mother. “Darling,” the mother said tenderly, “how can I bear to leave you all alone? Promise me one thing only, to open your heart to new love. It would be so like you to shut yourself up in your grief, and to fancy you were loving me less if you let yourself care for your Aunt Helen. “She will love you for my sake, and she must be your second mother now. We were dearer than most sisters to each other, and she is a wise and good woman. “Her daughter, my namesake Laura, is just about your own age, and being her mother’s daughter, she must be worth loving. Try to care for them, my darling. The life which has no love in it is empty indeed. Will you try?” “O mamma,” the girl cried, with a sudden, desperate sob, “I will try because you bid me! I will try; but oh, how can I love them? How can I bear to see another girl happy with her mother, and to know that you will never be with me any more—never in all the world? If I call all day and all night, you will never hear nor answer! O my own mother, must you leave me?” “My darling, yes. I would have lived for your sake if I could. You have been my comfort always. Comfort me a little longer. Let me feel that in all the future you will try to live nobly for my sake.” The last words had been spoken with an evident effort, and it seemed to Helen that the cheek against which her own rested was already colder than it was half an hour ago. She clung closer to the poor wasted form that was her whole world of love, and closed her lips over the bitter cry that was rising to them; and so the two lay, very, very quietly in that last embrace they were ever to know. And the twilight gathered round them, and at last a young moon, hanging low in the western sky, looked in and touched with its pale glory the pale faces on the pillow. [35] [36] [37] [38] [39] [40] The mother stirred a little, and with a last effort clasped her child closer, and said, in a voice like a sigh, faint and sweet and strange, “Good-by, darling!” and then she seemed to sleep. Perhaps Helen slept, also. She never quite knew; but it was an hour afterwards when Woods touched her shoulder, and said, with a kind firmness in her tone,— “You must get up now, Miss Helen, and leave her to me. She went off just as quiet as a lamb, poor dear, and if ever a face was peaceful and happy, hers is now.” No one knew what the few days that followed were to Helen Ash. She shut her lips, as her manner was, over her grief. She turned away, with her great tearless eyes, from the two graves where her father and mother lay side by side, and she helped, with a strange unnatural calmness, in all the preparations for the long journey she was to take. When at last she reached her aunt’s home in Boston, this strained, unnatural composure gave way a little. Her Aunt Helen looked so much like her mother that at first she thought she could not bear it. Then, when her aunt’s arms closed round her almost as tenderly as her mother’s would have done, she shivered a little, and burst into one wild passion of tears, which almost instantly she checked. “I am to love you for her sake,” she said. “Those were almost her last words; and indeed, indeed, I will try, but I think I left my heart all those miles away in her grave.” Mrs. Mason was, as her sister had said, a wise and good woman,—wise enough not to attempt to force the love or the interest of her niece. She contented herself with being exquisitely gentle and considerate towards her, and with trying, in countless little ways, to make her feel that she was at home. Laura Mason had looked forward to Helen’s coming with a feeling that at last she was to find in her the sister she had longed for all her life, but Helen’s cold and self-contained manner disappointed her. She felt the atmosphere of Helen’s reserve almost as tangibly as if her orphan cousin had pushed her away. The summer months passed, and scarcely brought them any nearer together. Try as Helen might, she could not get over the sting of pain when she saw this other girl happy in her mother’s love, or running gayly to meet her father when he came home at night. They had each other, she used to say to herself, but she had only her dead. She had not even Woods to speak to, for Mrs. Mason had decided not to retain her; and since there was no one to whom Helen ever spoke of the past, she pondered it all the more in her heart. Things were a little better when school commenced in the autumn. Helen and Laura were in the same classes, and that brought them somewhat more together; still there was no real intimacy between them. In the spring there was to be a competitive examination, and a medal was to be bestowed on the leading scholar in the class. By midwinter it was quite evident that Helen and Laura led all the rest, and a real spirit of rivalry grew up between the cousins which bade fair to become a passion. Mrs. Mason looked on regretfully, adhering to her difficult policy of non-interference. One day Helen heard Laura say to her mother,— “Mamsie, dear, you know you have the key to that French method locked up in your desk, for you taught us from it last summer. Won’t you be a dear, and lend it to me for a little while? “If I only could have that to help me, I should be sure of success. I would study just as hard. It would only be the difference between knowing when one was right, and floundering on in an awful uncertainty.” Helen was behind the curtain of the library window, and evidently they did not know of her presence. She waited for her aunt’s answer. If Laura had the key, then, indeed, she would be sure of success. Mrs. Mason spoke in a sad voice, with a subtile little thrill of reproach in it. “I did not think you would so much as wish, my dear, to do any thing that was not quite open and straightforward. You know Mademoiselle does not expect you to see the key. The very test of your power is that you should work without its aid, and the examination will prove how far you have succeeded.” “I suppose there’s no use in coaxing, when you say that. I do wish you weren’t such an uncoaxable mamma.” “No, you don’t,—you only fancy that you wish it; but, in your inmost soul, you would rather have me as I am,” Mrs. Mason answered; and Helen heard the sound of a kiss, and felt, for the thousandth time, how bitter it was that this other girl should have home and mother, while she had only a far-off grave. But, at least, she would triumph in this school contest! If Laura came off best there, it would be more than she could bear. The weeks passed on, and the spring came. The deep old garden back of the house—the garden Helen’s mother had played in when she was a child—grew full of bird-songs and blossoms. There was a sweet laughter on the face of nature. The springs bubbled with it; the flowers opened to the light; the sunshine poured down its tender warmth, and the soft coo and call of the birds gave voice to the general joy. But both Laura and Helen were too eager and too tired to be gay. They only studied. They went to sleep with books under their pillows; they woke with the first light, and began to study again. [41] [42] [43] [44] [45]