Chapter 3

"Speaking of courage," said my friend Tom Barton, as we met one day after a long separation, "reminds me of an incident that happened at the doctors' school the first winter after you left.

"It was during the Christmas holidays, and all of the boys had gone home except two brothers, named Fred and Albert Kobb, and myself. They were obliged to stay during the vacation because their parents were spending the season in Florida, and I,--well, as you know, my home was at a distance, and we were poor, so I remained at school.

"The brothers were very unlike, both in appearance and character. Fred, the elder of the two, was a large, muscular, ruddy-faced boy, not much in love with books. He was of an over-bearing disposition, and had a great deal of conceit.

"Albert, on the contrary, was pale and slender. He was very quiet and studious, and had such a love of honesty and truth, and such detestation of meanness and wrong, that we boys had dubbed him the 'Parson.'

"It was the Saturday night between Christmas and New Year's. We three boys were hugging the stove in the little room adjoining the doctor's study. Doctor was in the study writing a sermon for the following day, as he had to preach at Milltown.

"We could hear his pen scratching over the paper during the lulls in our conversation. Occasionally that 'ahem!' of his would come through the partially opened door; but somehow his 'ahems' seemed to lose their ominous character during holidays.

"The subject of our conversation was a robbery that had been perpetrated at Squire Little's store the previous night.

"Robberies, as you know, were unusual occurrences in the little village of Acme. Of course this one furnished a topic for abundance of talk.

"Wherever we had been that day we had found some groups of men and boys talking about robberies in general, and this one in particular.

"It was but natural that in the evening we boys should discuss the same subject, and each of us offered various speculations as to who the robber was, where he had gone, and whether he would be captured or not.

"Then we told stories of all the daring burglaries of which we had ever heard or read, and finally described such as had happened in our own houses.

"In the descriptions of our personal experiences Fred gave a glowing account of an incident that had occurred in his father's family. One night he said the coachman thought he saw a man prowling in the chicken-yard. He fired a pistol at him, and had summoned the other servants to go in pursuit of the robber. He told us how the brave men, armed with lanterns, pokers, and blunderbusses, had reached the chicken-yard, and there found traces of blood, which they followed up for a few yards, and found, lying in the last throes of death, the victim of the coachman's prowess,--a fine black Spanish rooster!

"At length said I, 'What would you do if you should hear a burglar some night trying to enter your house?'

"Fred straightened himself and squared his shoulders. 'I wouldn't hesitate a moment to shoot him,' said he, valiantly. 'I tell you, it would be a good burglar that could get away from me.'

"Al rested his chin in his hands, and gazed thoughtfully into the glowing coals.

"'Well,' said he slowly, 'it is hard to tell what a fellow might do under such circumstances. I rather believe, though, I would take good care to keep out of his way. What would you do, Tom?'

"'Me?" I exclaimed. 'Very likely I'd cover my head with the bedclothes and leave him to carry off house and all if he could.'

"Fred was about to make another remark, but was prevented by the doctor, who appeared in the doorway. 'Well, boys,' said he, 'don't you think we've had enough talk about robberies for one evening? It is getting late now, and your continual talking has bothered me so that I have only written one page during the last half hour, and on that page I have written four times the word "burglar" instead of "bravery."'

"Bidding him good-night we went up stairs, and were soon fast asleep.

"About midnight I awoke with the consciousness of having been aroused by some unusual noise. Slightly raising my head I listened, and heard a scraping sound at the back hall window.

"We three boys occupied the front room on the third floor, the same that you and Atkinson had at one time. It was a bright moonlight night. Glancing towards the Kobbs' bed, I saw them both sitting up. The noise had aroused them also.

"'There's some one trying to get in that hall window,' said Al, in a whisper. 'I'm going to see.'

"'Wait and listen awhile,' urged Fred.

"'And give the fellow a chance to get in?' exclaimed Al. 'No; we better stop him where he is.'

"'Let's call the doctor,' said Fred.

"'There isn't time for that. Don't you hear him unfastening the window-bolt? Come, hurry! I'm going to take the old-musket; you take the bat.'

"'The gun isn't loaded,' said Fred; and his voice actually trembled. Whether he was shivering from cold or fright, I don't know.

"'It will scare him just the same,' said Al; and taking down the rusty firearm, he hurried out into the hall, followed at a little distance by his brother, armed with the base-ball bat.

"I was never very brave, and therefore I took good care to keep as far behind Fred as he was behind his brother; in fact to be more honest, I merely ventured as far as the door, and there peeped into the hall.

"A man's form was crawling through the window, but he seemed to be so occupied by keeping the sash up that he had not as yet noticed the two boys. As he threw one leg over the sill, he thrust his hand into his breast pocket and drew out a small, dark object.

"'Murder! he's drawing a pistol!' roared Fred in terror; and turning hastily to fly, he ran against me in the doorway, and we both fell sprawling upon the floor.

"'Robbers! fire!' shrieked Fred. 'Here's another one!' and darting into an opposite room, he crawled under the bed there.

"'Move another inch and I'll fire!' cried Al, pointing the musket at the man's breast.

"Och!--murther! Masther Al, don't be afther a-shootin' me!' came a familiar voice in broad Hibernian accents.

"It was Pat, the doctor's man.

"'What! is that you, Pat?' exclaimed Al, lowering the weapon.

"'Sorra the day for me an' it wur,' said the Irishman, as he carefully deposited on the floor the pistol Fred had seen him draw, which was simply a small, flat bottle. He then leisurely lifted his other ponderous foot over the window-sill, shook himself, as if to ascertain whether he had a whole skin, and shut the window. Then he picked up the bottle, and carefully replaced it in his coat pocket.

"Meanwhile, Al had been quietly laughing, and I was still on the floor laughing and rubbing the bruises on my legs, which had been caused by Fred's collision.

"'What's the meaning of this?' whispered Al. 'How is it, Pat, that you come into the house in this way instead of by the door?"

"'Well, you see,' said Pat, 'I just wint the night to say me cousin, who is a-workin' at the Smit's, an' not moindin' to disturb the docther an' his wife, sure didn't I put the long laddher forninst the windew, intindin' to tak out that new pane of glass that was raycintly tacked in, an' inter in as nate an' quiet as ye plaze: but the lad was scared a bit. Where is he?'

"'Who? Fred?' asked Al.

"'Ay, it's Fred I mane,' said Pat.

"Having by this time rubbed my bruises sufficiently and picked myself up, I led them to Fred's place of concealment. His feet and legs were in plain sight, for, ostrich-like, he seemed to have imagined that if his head alone were covered, he was perfectly safe. Pat grasped him by the ankle, and despite of his kicking hauled him out.

"'Oh,' cried Fred, in abject terror, supposing it was the burglar who had caught him, 'don't kill me! don't kill me! My money is all in the trunk in the opposite room!'

"'Do keep still, and don't make such a fool of yourself! It's only Pat,' said Al, with suppressed laughter, while Pat and I indulged in laughter that was far from suppressed.

"In the midst of this racket we heard a door open below, and the doctor's voice called,--

"'What is the matter up there?'

"'Nothin', sur,' replied Pat, with Irish readiness, 'only the lads got freighted as I was comin' to bed.'

"'Tell them to be quiet, or I shall come up,' said doctor.

"'D'ye hear that, b'ys?' said Pat. 'Get to bed now; ye'll tak' your death runnin' round in the cowld widout your clothes on.'

"In our excitement we had forgotten that the mercury outside was nearly down to zero, and had not noticed the cold; but Pat's words quickened our sensitiveness, so we hastened shivering to bed, and the house was again quiet.

"Monday morning the doctor summoned us all to his study, and there instituted one of his usual courts of inquiry. He was judge, jury and counsel. Pat was the principal witness, and we boys were there in order to corroborate or refute Pat's testimony, and also to sustain somewhat the respectability of the court I suppose.

"'Patrick,' said the doctor, in opening the case, 'what was the cause of that noise up stairs Saturday night?'

"'Well, Your Riverence,' began Pat, and his small gray eyes twinkled as he cast a sly glance at me, 'Sathurday noight I fought I'd call on me cousin, who has just coom from the ould counthry, an' is workin' in the village'--

"'At Smith's,' put in Al, by way of explanation."

The doctor was not very strict when he held court during holidays, otherwise he might have told Al to remain silent until he was questioned.

"'At Smit's,' repeated Pat, 'an' moindin' not to disturb yez by comin' in late, sure I just climbed up to the hall winder, an' as I wur half t'rough, an' wur' takin' somethin' from me pocket'--

"'A flat bottle,' interposed Al.

"'A bottle, eh? And what was in it?' asked the doctor, suspiciously, in an unprecedented manner beginning the cross-examination before the direct was concluded.

"'Only a wee dhrap of medicine, sur,' said Pat. 'Me cousin was afeared I had the influenzys, an' gave it to me for it.'

"'Go on,' said doctor, with a smile.

"'As I wur a-sayin', sur, I dhrew forth the bottle, whin there came wan yell from Masther Fred in the back part of the hall, an' says he, "Och! murther! he's dhrawin' his pistol!" an' thin' he run like--like'--

"'Ay, ay!' exclaimed doctor, warningly.

"'Like a deer,' said Pat; 'an' as I wur a-sayin', sur, I looked up and saw Masther Al fornist me, with a gun dhrawed up to his shoulder an' pintin' at me, an' says I, "Don't murther me!"

"'An' sure, sir, he did not, an' thin we wint an' pullt Fred out from under the bed, where he'd crawled wid his two legs stickin' out in the moonlight, an' Tam an' messel' wur smilin' quiet like, an' Your Riverence towld us to shut up, an' we wint to bed, sur.'

"'And how did Tom act?' said the doctor. 'Eh, Tom, you young rogue, what are you snickering and giggling at behind Pat's back? Are you laughing at him or me?'

"'Neither,' I replied; 'but the truth is, doctor, that Pat told me he might be out late Saturday night, and that I needn't be frightened if I heard any unusual noise. But I forgot to tell the boys, and was so startled and confused in waking from a sound sleep, that I at first thought it was a burglar, and after I did recollect that it was only Pat, I concluded not to say anything, but test their courage, as I supposed there was no danger in it.'

"'Well, Pat,' said doctor, 'when you visit your cousin again, don't climb through the window on your return. And, boys, the next time you hear any suspicious sound at midnight, come and call me the first thing you do.'

"So having brought in a verdict of 'not guilty of any evil intentions,' the doctor adjourned the court.

"Poor Fred was never heard to boast of his bravery, or even to mention the word 'burglar,' after that. So true it is that boasters usually prove cowards when put to the test."

C. S. SLEIGHT.

LADY FERRY.

We have an instinctive fear of death; yet we have a horror of a life prolonged far beyond the average limit: it is sorrowful; it is pitiful; it has no attractions.

This world is only a schoolroom for the larger life of the next. Some leave it early, and some late: some linger long after they seem to have learned all its lessons. This world is no heaven: its pleasures do not last even through our little lifetimes.

There are many fables of endless life, which in all ages have caught the attention of men; we are familiar with the stories of the old patriarchs who lived their hundreds of years; but one thinks of them wearily, and without envy.

When I was a child, it was necessary that my father and mother should take a long sea-voyage. I never had been separated from them before; but at this time they thought it best to leave me behind, as I was not strong, and the life on board ship did not suit me. When I was told of this decision, I was very sorry, and at once thought I should be miserable without my mother; besides, I pitied myself exceedingly for losing the sights I had hoped to see in the country which they were to visit. I had an uncontrollable dislike to being sent to school, having in some way been frightened by a maid of my mother's, who had put many ideas and aversions into my head which I was very many years in outgrowing. Having dreaded this possibility, it was a great relief to know that I was not to be sent to school at all, but to be put under the charge of two elderly cousins of my father,--a gentleman and his wife whom I had once seen, and liked dearly. I knew that their home was at a fine old-fashioned country-place, far from town, and close beside a river, and I was pleased with this prospect, and at once began to make charming plans for the new life.

I had lived always with grown people, and seldom had had any thing to do with children. I was very small for my age, and a strange mixture of childishness and maturity; and, having the appearance of being absorbed in my own affairs, no one ever noticed me much, or seemed to think it better that I should not listen to the conversation. In spite of considerable curiosity, I followed an instinct which directed me never to ask questions at these times; so I often heard stray sentences which puzzled me, and which really would have been made simple and commonplace at once, if I had only asked their meaning. I was, for the most of the time, in a world of my own. I had a great deal of imagination, and was always telling myself stories; and my mind was adrift in these so much, that my real absent-mindedness was mistaken for childish unconcern. Yet I was a thoroughly simple unaffected child. My dreams and thoughtfulness gave me a certain tact and perception unusual in a child; but my pleasures were as deep in simple things as heart could wish.

It happened that our cousin Matthew was to come to the city on business the week that the ship was to sail, and that I could stay with my father and mother to the very last day, and then go home with him. This was much pleasanter than leaving sooner under the care of an utter stranger, as was at first planned. My cousin Agnes wrote a kind letter about my coming, which seemed to give her much pleasure. She remembered me very well, and sent me a message which made me feel of consequence; and I was delighted with the plan of making her so long a visit.

One evening I was reading a story-book, and I heard my father say in an undertone, "How long has madam been at the ferry this last time? Eight or ten years, has she not? I suppose she is there yet?"--"Oh, yes!" said my mother, "or Agnes would have told us. She spoke of her in the last letter you had, while we were in Sweden."

"I should think she would be glad to have a home at last, after her years of wandering about. Not that I should be surprised now to hear that she had disappeared again. When I was staying there while I was young, we thought she had drowned herself, and even had the men search for her along the shore of the river; but after a time cousin Matthew heard of her alive and well in Salem; and I believe she appeared again this last time as suddenly as she went away."

"I suppose she will never die," said my mother gravely. "She must be terribly old," said my father. "When I saw her last, she had scarcely changed at all from the way she looked when I was a boy. She is even more quiet and gentle than she used to be. There is no danger that the child will have any fear of her; do you think so?"--"Oh, no! but I think I will tell her that madam is a very old woman, and that I hope she will be very kind, and try not to annoy her; and that she must not be frightened at her strange notions. I doubt if she knows what craziness is."--"She would be wise if she could define it," said my father with a smile. "Perhaps we had better say nothing about the old lady. It is probable that she stays altogether in her own room, and that the child will rarely see her. I never have realized until lately the horror of such a long life as hers, living on and on, with one's friends gone long ago: such an endless life in this world!"

Then there was a mysterious old person living at the ferry, and there was a question whether I would not be "afraid" of her. She "had not changed" since my father was a boy: "it was horrible to have one's life endless in this world!"

The days went quickly by. My mother, who was somewhat of an invalid, grew sad as the time drew near for saying good-by to me, and was more tender and kind than ever before, and more indulgent of every wish and fancy of mine. We had been together all my life, and now it was to be long months before she could possibly see my face again, and perhaps she was leaving me forever. Her time was all spent, I believe, in thoughts for me, and in making arrangements for my comfort. I did see my mother again; but the tears fill my eyes when I think how dear we became to each other before that first parting, and with what a lingering, loving touch, she herself packed my boxes, and made sure, over and over again, that I had whatever I should need; and I remember how close she used to hold me when I sat in her lap in the evening, saying that she was afraid I should have grown too large to be held when she came back again. We had more to say to each other than ever before, and I think, until then, that my mother never had suspected how much I observed of life and of older people in a certain way; that I was something more than a little child who went from one interest to another carelessly. I have known since that my mother's childhood was much like mine. She, however, was timid, while I had inherited from my father his fearlessness, and lack of suspicion; and these qualities, like a fresh wind, swept away any cobwebs of nervous anticipation and sensitiveness. Every one was kind to me, partly, I think, because I interfered with no one. I was glad of the kindness, and, with my unsuspected dreaming and my happy childishness, I had gone through life with almost perfect contentment, until this pain of my first real loneliness came into my heart.

It was a day's journey to cousin Matthew's house, mostly by rail; though, toward the end, we had to travel a considerable distance by stage, and at last were left on the river-bank opposite my new home, and I saw a boat waiting to take us across. It was just at sunset, and I remember wondering if my father and mother were out of sight of land, and if they were watching the sky; if my father would remember that only the evening before we had gone out for a walk together, and there had been a sunset so much like this. It somehow seemed long ago. Cousin Matthew was busy talking with the ferry-man; and indeed he had found acquaintances at almost every part of the journey, and had not been much with me, though he was kind and attentive in his courteous, old-fashioned way, treating me with the same ceremonious politeness which he had shown my mother. He pointed out the house to me: it was but a little way from the edge of the river. It was very large and irregular, with great white chimneys; and, while the river was all in shallow [Transcriber's note: shade?], the upper windows of two high gables were catching the last red glow of the sun. On the opposite side of a green from the house were the farm-house and buildings; and the green sloped down to the water, where there was a wharf and an ancient-looking storehouse. There were some old boats and long sticks of timber lying on the shore; and I saw a flock of white geese march solemnly up toward the barns. From the open green I could see that a road went up the hill beyond. The trees in the garden and orchard were the richest green; their round tops were clustered thickly together: and there were some royal great elms near the house. The fiery red faded from the high windows as we came near the shore, and cousin Agnes was ready to meet me; and when she put her arms round me as kindly as my mother would have done, and kissed me twice in my father's fashion, I was sure that I loved her, and would be contented. Her hair was very gray; but she did not look, after all, so very old. Her face was a grave one, as if she had had many cares; yet they had all made her stronger, and there had been some sweetness, and something to be glad about, and to thank God for, in every sorrow. I had a feeling always that she was my sure defence and guard. I was safe and comfortable with her: it was the same feeling which one learns to have toward God more and more, as one grows older.

We went in through a wide hall, and up stairs, through a long passage, to my room, which was in a corner of one of the gables. Two windows looked on the garden and the river; another looked across to the other gable, and into the square, grassy court between. It was a rambling, great house, and seemed like some English houses I had seen. It would be great fun to go into all the rooms some day soon.

"How much you are like your father!" said cousin Agnes, stooping to kiss me again, with her hand on my shoulder. I had a sudden consciousness of my bravery in having behaved so well all day; then I remembered that my father and mother were at every instant being carried farther and farther away. I could almost hear the waves dash about the ship; and I could not help crying a little. "Poor little girl!" said cousin Agnes: "I am very sorry." And she sat down, and took me in her lap for a few minutes. She was tall, and held me so comfortably, and I soon was almost happy again; for she hoped I would not be lonely with her, and that I would not think she was a stranger, for she had known and loved my father so well: and it would make cousin Matthew so disappointed and uneasy if I were discontented; and would I like some bread and milk with my supper, in the same blue china bowl, with the dragon on it, which my father used to have when he was a boy? These arguments were by no means lost upon me, and I was ready to smile presently; and then we went down to the dining room, which had some solemn-looking portraits on the walls, and heavy, stiff furniture; and there was an old-fashioned woman standing ready to wait, whom cousin Agnes called Deborah, and who smiled at me graciously.

Cousin Matthew talked with his wife for a time about what had happened to him and to her during his absence; and then he said, "And how is madam to-day? you have not spoken of her."--"She is not so well as usual," said cousin Agnes. "She has had one of her sorrowful times since you went away. I have sat with her for several hours to-day; but she has hardly spoken to me." And then cousin Matthew looked at me, and cousin Agnes hesitated for a minute. Deborah had left the room.