Part 7

Finally he halted before a toy-shop whose windows looked into a narrow court, and was glancing over the display of balls, dolls, and fishing-rods, when a delicious odor of cooked food greeted him from behind. Samuel faced about so sharply that he almost sent a baker's boy sprawling, who chanced to be turning into the court with a huge basket on his shoulder.

"Look out! Look out! Would you try to upset a hard-workin' cove?" bawled the white-capped 'prentice; but Samuel allowed him to pass unanswered, for with the whiff of meaty fragrance his stomach gave a furious lurch, and his head seemed about to swim off his shoulders. He swayed unsteadily, caught blindly at the window ledge, and leaned his forehead against the dripping stone as he struggled to regain his self-command.

"Blue Coat!"

The name was shouted into his ear, and Samuel was dizzily conscious of being collared from behind, while a strong arm pulled him smartly erect.

"I beg your pardon, sir," quavered the boy, alarmed at the gruff tone and iron hand. Twisting his head about, he got a glimpse of a very fat man with a round red face and protruding blue eyes.

"What made ye look so hard at my baker's boy? Anything wrong?"

"No-o!"

"Must ha' been. You glared after him like a tiger."

"Nothing was the matter except I was so hungry,--and--when I smelled the bread and meat--I couldn't help it, I suppose."

For the first time since he had become a pupil at Christ's Hospital, Samuel gave voice to his privations, and, unmanned by sheer want and exhaustion, the truth came out, while tears of misery rained down his pallid cheeks.

"Hungry!" The ejaculation came like the report of a small cannon.

Samuel could only nod in speechless, desperate assent.

"Come in here!" roared the captor, enforcing his order with a ferocious tug at the blue collar.

Samuel feared that he had somehow trespassed upon the big man's rights, and that punishment was likely to follow. He longed vaguely to run, but weakness held him chained, and he felt himself being pushed before his jailer through the toy-shop and into a small parlor at the rear.

"Mother! This Blue Coat is so hungry that he nearly devoured our dinner through his eyes as the baker brought it in."

"Hungry?" echoed a piping feminine voice, and from the farther corner of the parlor a little woman approached with a napkin thrown over her arm.

"Sakes alive, ain't you had no dinner over to the school?" she asked in a motherly tone that set Samuel's heart beating.

"No. We don't have any dinner on Saturdays. They give us a little supper when we go back," and Samuel explained the holiday system.

"What, then, did you have for breakfast?"

"A slice of bread and a cup of beer."

"How perfectly outraging! Our dinner is just ready, so sit up to the table as quick as you can. 'Tain't a fancy meal, but it's good enough to fill up a hollow, faintin' stomach. How perfectly outraging!"

Before Samuel could consent or object, he was thrust into a chair at the small round table, where several steaming dishes awaited the pleasure of the party. Host and hostess took their places, and a heaped-up plate was speedily set before the astonished guest.

"Eat that slice of hot mutton," adjured the woman pleasantly; "and after that, you'll find those potatoes and beans pretty satisfyin'."

The substantial repast seemed a kingly banquet to Samuel, and he ate with almost wolfish appreciation. His plate was like the widow's cruse of oil, which was promptly refilled as soon as emptied; and the fat man and the little woman looked on, the while, with benevolence shining from their faces.

"Now," said the hostess, when Samuel could take no more, not even a second slice of currant pudding, "while we sip our tea, we'll tell each other who each other is. My husband over there is Mr. Crispin, and I'm Mrs. Crispin. He has the toy-shop that you came through, and he is a shoemaker, besides. We never had any children, and we just live along here, contented with what good things we have. Now Mr. Crispin is the best man in the world--"

"Hush, hush, my dear!" burst out the big man, a tremendous blush spreading over his honest face.

"He is, so there! He talks loud and kind o' scary, but he couldn't say 'no' to a kitten. Now, little Blue Coat, tell us who you are."

Samuel had quite regained his usual bright manner under the spell of their hospitality, and he gladly told them of the home and loved ones he had left behind in Devonshire. Pleased to see the Crispins interested, he described many droll adventures of the boys at school, and these set the worthy pair laughing mightily.

After dinner, Mr. Crispin showed his young visitor all the glories of the toy-shop and the shoemaking den. Mrs. Crispin with much pride exhibited four canaries, a yellow patchwork quilt, and a coral breastpin; and Samuel was warmed to the heart by their simple kindliness.

The afternoon wore away all too soon, and when he was leaving, Samuel held Mrs. Crispin's hand tightly in both of his, as he tried to thank her for the blessed visit.

"'Tain't nothing at all!" protested she earnestly. "Who wouldn't give a nice-spoken lad a bite when he was faintin' with hungriness on the very doorstep, an' him a Blue Coat, too? Now listen, Sammy; you are to come here every Saturday. If we shouldn't be to home, you'll find the key under the rubber door-mat, an' you can come right in an' help yourself in the pantry. 'T ain't just that we feel sorry to see you starvin', but we like children, we always did, 'specially nice ones, an' you seem so gentlemanly mannered, an' we'd feel honored to have you here. Remember, every Saturday, now, rain or shine."

His acquaintance with the shoemaker and his wife proved the greatest relief to Samuel. Not only did a toothsome dinner await him every leave-day in their modest parlor, but the whole-souled friendliness of their innocent welcome cheered him through all the following days. The Crispins looked forward to the Saturday visits as eagerly as did Samuel himself, and this assurance gave the boy courage to come with regularity.

During the springtime Mr. Crispin and Samuel even planned that the boy should gain permission from the head master to leave Christ's Hospital altogether and learn the shoemaking trade under Mr. Crispin's direction. It was arranged that the shoemaker, instead of Samuel, should approach Mr. Bowyer with the request, it being thought that his age and size would carry more influence with the head master; but on the day set for the interview Mr. Bowyer chanced to wear his "passy wig," and he disposed of the subject by shouting violently,--

"'O'ds my life, man, what d'ye mean?" and pushing the astounded Crispin bodily out of the room.

Samuel was so disappointed at the failure of the dazzling scheme, and so mortified at the treatment his friend had received, that he was rushing past Mr. Bowyer with the intention of apologizing to Mr. Crispin for having drawn him into his own petty troubles, when the head master stopped him.

"Some one is waiting to see you in my lower office, Master Coleridge."

"To see me, sir?"

Samuel was taken aback, for never before had any one paid him a call at Christ's Hospital.

"Who can it be, I wonder. Surely Mrs. Crispin would not come here."

Crossing the threshold of the office, he descried a stalwart manly form at the window.

The first glance seemed to stupefy the lad. He halted abruptly in the doorway, his hands fell limply at his sides, and he seemed unable to advance or retreat. It only needed a slight movement on the visitor's part to break the tension, when Samuel bounded forward with a great cry, and threw himself into the stranger's arms.

"Luke, Luke, my brother, my Luke, my Luke!"

"Here I am, little fellow. I wanted to surprise you, so I didn't write."

"Oh, Luke, you won't go away again and leave me here, will you? Please, please tell me that you won't!"

"I shan't leave you alone in the city for a day," declared the young man warmly. "I have come up to walk the London Hospital, so I shall be within easy reach hereafter. Your holidays you shall spend with me, and I have already arranged with the master to make you comfortable here at school. Bless you, little fellow, you mustn't quite suffocate me with your hugging, for I want to live and take good care of you. I have waited and worked for this ever since you came to London, and now you're going to have fair weather all round. Come along; I've just begged a holiday for you. What should you like to do?"

"Introduce you to the Crispins."

"Very well. We'll get the Crispins, and go for a ride on the good old river Thames."

"A boat ride! A boat ride! Luke, do you care if I ask Charles Lamb to go with us?"

"Not a bit. This is the day when we are going to do just as we please, you know."

"Oh, Luke, you're so good, and you'll like the Crispins, and Charles 'll like you--and--and--isn't the world beautiful to-day, Luke?"

In a cosy little parlor, at the top of a London stair, a dozen persons were chatting together. The sounds of wind and rain upon the casement only served to increase the warmth and brightness of the snug apartment.

Everybody seemed in the highest spirits, and finally one of the guests, a man whom the others called "Southey," turned gayly to the hostess and inquired with the ease of old friendship,--

"My good lady, when are we to have our supper? Please remember that Wordsworth and I have journeyed all the way from Keswick solely for the delight of supping with you. Do you realize that eleven o'clock has come and gone?"

Mary Lamb laughed merrily, but shook her head with decision.

"Fifteen minutes more you must wait, so curb your hunger as best you can. The guest of honor has not yet arrived, and when he comes, you will all agree, I am sure, that it would be worth while to delay supper until to-morrow, if only we might have him with us."

"A mystery! A mystery!" cried the visitors, and thereupon they began to ply Miss Mary's brother with questions as to who the expected personage might be.

To all these, the young host gave jovial but vague replies, exchanging with his sister frequent nods and smiles over their heads.

Presently there sounded a quick step on the stair, and Charles Lamb threw open the door, shouting joyfully,--

"Welcome, Samuel, my blessed old friend! Welcome, a thousand times!"

At his words, the guests sprang up with a single impulse, crying in astonishment,--

"Coleridge!"

Then for an instant they turned their eyes away from the two who stood clasping one another's hands in wordless, heartfelt greeting.

The silence endured but a moment; then the new-comer was quickly surrounded, and the room rang with the hearty good-will of his reception.

Charles hastened to relieve him of his travelling cloak and hat, Mary summoned the party to the table, temptingly laid, and the guests sat down to the enjoyment of the viands and the company of their unexpected friend.

Samuel Coleridge had just returned after a two years' absence from England, and the tales he related of his visit, the accounts he gave of his adventures abroad, captivated the company. Every word that fell from his lips was received with keen attention, and whether his mood was grave or gay, serious or sprightly, his hearers sat enthralled.

"To be sure, Coleridge is a wonderful poet," whispered Southey to the lady next him, "but in my judgment he talks even better than he writes."

"He holds us with his expressive eyes," mused Mary.

"I can see," decided Charles, "that his power lies in his magnetic voice, the voice that charmed us all in the old school-days."

Whatever was the source of his singular influence, hours passed as the visitors sat under the spell of Samuel's presence, and morning was stealing across the threshold when they rose from the table and took their departure.

Coleridge was the last to go, and when about to descend the stair, he again clasped the hand of his host with a warm and fervent pressure.

"I am fond of them all," he said slowly, indicating those whose footfalls still sounded in the passage below; "I am fond of them all: Southey, Wordsworth, Lovell, and the rest; but you, Charles Lamb, you are to me as though you had been born my younger brother."

THE LION THAT HELPED

[CANOVA]

"Tonin, Tonin, come out with us to the River! Luigi has built a raft, and we're going to pole it down to the second bridge."

Five boys, bareheaded, barefooted, dirty-faced, and joyful, grouped themselves before a mud-walled Alpine cabin, the last of a quaint village row, while Pablo, their leader, hailed some one within.

Instantly there appeared in the doorway a boy of their own age, clad as roughly and lightly as themselves. His blouse was loosened comfortably at the throat, his trousers were rolled well above the knee, and over these cool garments he wore a hempen working-apron which was held in place by a stout cord attached to its upper corners and passing about his neck. In one hand he held a small steel hammer, in the other a chisel.

"Come on, Tonin," repeated Pablo, pointing excitedly toward the brook.

The lad in the doorway shook his head and lifted his chisel meaningly, as though no additional explanation were needed.

"Oh, do, do!" urged the new-comers. "Leave your old stone-chipping for an hour and come with us. We'll let you pole all the time if you will."

"I can't," returned the other briefly.

"Please come! Come along!" insisted four alluring voices, but Pablo turned away impatiently.

"Leave that sullen Tonin alone! He'd rather bang away at his grandfather's stones than go with us on the jolliest jaunt we could name. Come on, and let him stay by himself."

Thereupon the boys ran swiftly down the adjoining slope, and Tonin Canova stepped into the house with a shrug, as though glad to be rid of them and their invitations. He did not tarry in the cleanly sunlit cabin, but hurried out to the rear garden, where an old man wearing an apron similar to his was busily tapping and chipping at a block of stone erected upon wooden supports.

"Why didn't you go with the others?" inquired the stone-cutter, looking up from his work. "You needn't have come back, because I have finished the urn for the terrace of the Villa d'Asolo, and it is too late in the afternoon to begin on the Monfumo altar ornaments. Besides, you have stood by your work pretty hard lately, and I think every boy needs a holiday once in a way."

"I don't want a holiday, grandfather."

"Bless us! What are you talking about? Who ever heard of a boy who didn't want a holiday every day in the week, if he could get it?"

"I'd like to be free from working on your things, of course, but I don't want to pole a raft. I'd rather carve my cherries, if you can do without me the rest of the afternoon."

"Ho, ho!" chuckled the old man fondly; "you're just like me, Tonin: work is play when it happens to be stone-work. Do your cherries, if you have the mind."

"Hurrah! I can finish them to-day, and I'll do a pear next, and--see, grandfather, by carnival-time I'll have plenty to sell," and throwing open the door of a small rude cupboard set in the branches of a stunted acacia, Tonin proudly displayed a collection of peaches, apples, and grapes which his skilful fingers had wrought out of fragments of stone left from old Pasino's cuttings. Next autumn, when all the villagers and country folk of the province would assemble at Asolo for their carnival and yearly frolic, Tonin would peddle his pretty fruit among the pleasure-seekers, confident of filling his purse-bag with coins in exchange for his wares. As he stood reviewing his handiwork, he smiled slyly at thought of the gifts he would buy for the two old people who adored him, and who had freely shared with him their roof and bread, from his earliest infancy.

The stone-cutter's earnings were necessarily small, and for two years Tonin had assisted him regularly at his work, cutting, carrying, measuring, and delivering day by day. He seconded Pasino's efforts so intelligently, and labored through the long hours with such manly patience, that the scanty comforts in the Alpine cabin visibly increased, and all the while the boy was learning the use of the cunning edged tools which his grandfather wielded so dexterously. The lad's name, as it appeared on the parish register, was Antonio, but to the guileless aged pair who cared for him he was simply and always _Tonin_.

Hoof-beats, accompanied by a shout from the roadway, caused the stone-cutter and the boy to hurry quickly to the hedgerow before the cabin.

A mounted horseman wearing the livery of the Duke d'Asolo called out, as with difficulty he brought his spirited steed to a standstill,--

"Pasino, you are wanted at the villa. Something in the picture gallery needs to be done, and you are the only one to do it. The duke gives a great banquet to-night, and the room must be in readiness. Vittori sent me, and bids you to hurry as fast as you can."

"I'll follow you at once. Come, Tonin, mayhap you can be of service at the villa also."

Off galloped the messenger, and down the road marched Pasino Canova, bearing his tool-box upon his shoulder, while his barefooted grandson, similarly equipped, trudged cheerily by his side.

The stone-cutter was frequently in demand at the Villa d'Asolo, for besides the craft of his trade, the old man understood something of the uses of plaster, stucco, and even marble. No other workman in this remote hill country was so skilled, and for many years he had received the friendly patronage of Giovanni Falier, Duke d'Asolo.

On the way, Pasino stopped for an instant before the entrance of a gentleman's country residence. "This'" said he, "is the home of Toretto, the great, great sculptor."

"Oh, grandfather, let's go in and look at his wonderful statues," begged Tonin. "Please, grandfather! Surely he wouldn't care, for I came once with Giuseppe Falier, and he allowed us to look at everything. Do, grandfather!"

"Not to-day," objected the old man, hastily resuming his onward way; "we have work to do, and have promised to hurry to the Villa d'Asolo as fast as we can."

Tonin slowly followed Pasino down the road, looking backward over his shoulder as long as the tall chimneys of Toretto's palace could be seen.

"Grandfather," said he thoughtfully, as a turning of the way shut the sculptor's house from sight, "I'd rather be able to make a statue as beautiful as the ones Toretto showed us that day than do anything else in the whole world."

"Ah, that you might!" burst out the old man emphatically; "but, Tonin, for such work the eyes, the fingers, the mind must be taught--taught, Tonin, and--well, you know the rest: poor folk like us mustn't be gloomy because we can't do fine works. Chances to learn such things cost so much that none but gentlemen with bulging purses can afford them."

"I'm not gloomy, grandfather! You can teach me all that you know, and when I am a man, I will take care of you and grandmother." Here the boy began to whistle gayly, seeking to banish the look of sadness that had rested for a moment on the old man's features.

Presently they reached the Villa d'Asolo, whose pillared gates were thrown open to them by retainers. Across the terraces they took their way, past arbors, gardens of blossoms, and plashing fountains, reaching at last a postern door of the many-storied castle.

In the passage they were confronted by Giuseppe Falier, the duke's youngest son, a handsome lad no older than Tonin. A serving-man attended him, carrying a glass aquarium that contained numerous brilliant goldfish. Boy and groom were preparing to depart through the door by which the Canovas had entered, but at sight of the new-comers Giuseppe halted.

"Hello, Tonin," he exclaimed; "come with me up to my cousin's house. This is David's birthday, and I forgot all about it until this minute. I didn't have any present to give him, so I decided I'd take the goldfish out of the conservatory. He likes such things. I don't, myself. Come on, and we'll have some fun. David has a new boat, and we'll make him take it out."

Giuseppe's invitation was so frankly cordial that Tonin would have joined him readily had he had no duties to perform. Giuseppe was a lad of jovial spirit who chose his friends wherever he found good comrades, quite regardless of rank and riches, and many were the half-days that he and Tonin had spent together, exploring the hills and valleys round about Asolo.

"I can't go to-day, Giuseppe," replied Tonin; "grandfather has something to do in the picture gallery before the banquet to-night, and he is likely to need me."

"My eye, but there will be a crowd of people here! One reason I'm going up to David's is because I'm not allowed to stay up for the fun. Good-by. I'll take you up to see the boat some day next week," and beckoning the servant to follow with the aquarium, the young patrician disappeared through the outer door, and the Canovas made their way up a stately marble stair, and through a winding corridor until they came to a long narrow apartment whose walls were hung with canvases.

Here they were greeted by Vittori, the stout and hoary seneschal of the palace. He wore his crimson robe of office, and a stupendous bunch of keys hung by a chain from his girdle, clanking as he walked.

He bustled up to the Canovas hurriedly, puffing and panting as from some undue exertion.

"Ha, Pasino, you are the very man I most need to see. Those four deep niches in the walls, two at either end of this gallery, are to be filled with the statues which Toretto has just finished. The beastly things were delivered yesterday, and Toretto himself promised to come to see that they were set up properly, but instead, a message was brought from him two hours ago saying that he had sprained his silly ankle and could not stir from the house. The duke will be furious if his marble doll-babies are not on view to-night, and as I wouldn't touch them myself for fear of harming them with my clumsy fingers, I called you for the business. There, in that further ante-room, you will find Toretto's beauties inside the packing cases, and you are to get them safely into these niches. My-o! My-o! What a load of care falls on a poor old man who is keeper of a palace where one hundred noble guests are expected for a feast! Nobody in all Venetia has more worries and responsibilities. You may have as many men as you want, Pasino, and if your eye spies out any need for decorations in this chamber, send for what you wish. My-o! My-o! The carriages are beginning to arrive, and I must make eleven more arrangements before the feast is ready. You have plenty of time, for this room is not to be used until the ladies come up at the end of the banquet, to drink their Persian coffee," and the seneschal departed, accompanied by the sounds of his labored breathing and jangling keys.

Pasino's task was a delicate one, and though Vittori sent four strong men to aid him, the evening was nearly spent by the time the glistening statues were released from their temporary prisons and lifted to their pedestals in the gallery niches.

While they worked, sounds of music and subdued laughter floated up to them, and fragrances and appetizing odors were continually wafted from the banquet-hall below.