CHAPTER XLVIII.

JOSEY WEST LAMENTS HER CROOKED LEGS.

Exactly three weeks had passed since Mr. Glover's departure, and I here take the opportunity of mentioning that, although I have seen the gentleman subsequently on two or three occasions, we have avoided each other by mutual consent--a state of things with which I am perfectly contented. The connection between him and Turk West is also completely severed, so that he has, as it were, dropped out of our lives. During the above-mentioned interval, nothing of importance transpired; my mind was busy with possibilities, but I saw no clear way of playing an active part in their development. My mother during this time, and especially during the past week, had been out a great deal. I guessed that she was still searching for uncle Bryan, and I should have been happy to learn from her lips that she had been successful in finding him. Within a few days of the time of which I am writing, I entertained a suspicion that she had found a clue, for when she came home her eyes were bright, and there was an expression of great happiness in her face; but I said nothing to her. I knew that I should soon hear good news if she had any to tell. The special direction of my thoughts may easily be understood by an observation I made to my mother one afternoon at the end of the three weeks.

'Mother,' I said, 'I think you ought to go and see Jessie.'

She looked up with glad eyes.

'Some feeling with regard to myself,' I continued, 'may prevent Jessie from coming to you here, and I think it would be a good thing for you to go to her. I know she loves you and would be glad to see you, and you may be able to counsel and advise her. Turk West knows where she lives, and, although he would not tell me if I asked him, I believe he would tell you readily.'

'Do you think so, dear child?' she asked. 'Then I will go to him, and tell him what you say.'

The voice is a great tell-tale, and I knew by the tune in which my mother spoke that my suggestion had given her pleasure.

'There is no time like the present,' I said.

My mother rose immediately, and put on her bonnet.

'I shall leave off work at eight o'clock,' I said, so that she might understand I did not wish her to hurry back, and then I shall go round to Josey West for an hour.'

She nodded, and stood looking over my shoulder as I worked.

'If I see Jessie,' she said, and paused.

'Yes, mother, if you see her---- I hope you will see her.'

'I hope so too, dear child. Shall I give her any message from you?'

'Not unless she asks after me, mother; then you may give her my love.'

There was the merest trembling in my voice as I said this, but it was sufficient to agitate my mother's soul. I laid my graver aside, and said,

'You see how it is, mother; I cannot do or act otherwise. Jessie could not know more about me and my feelings if I stood at her door all day long. I never loved her more than I do now, and I believe I shall never love her less; it would not be true if I said I was happy, but I am far happier than I deserve to be. My mother is still left to me, thank God!'

'Dear child! dear child!' she murmured, with tender caresses.

'And you must not think it strange, mother, if I don't ask you questions when you come back. You will tell me whatever is worth telling. Now, one other word, and then you must run away, for I have work to finish. Should you meet with uncle Bryan----'

'Would you wish me to, my dear?' she asked wistfully.

'Yes,' I answered; I should like you to find him. If you do, give him my love also, and say that I should like to come to see him, if he will not come to us. And, remember, mother, if he wants for anything, all that I have is his; but for him I should not have been in my present position. As for the past, let bygones be bygones. As Americans would say, I should be truly happy to shake hands with him on that platform.'

My mother kissed me, and went out of the room. I thought she had started on her errand, but she returned in a quarter of an hour, with a bunch of wallflowers in her hand.

'I only came in to show you these, my dear,' she said; 'smell them--they are very sweet. You have not studied the language of flowers, have you, my dear?'

'No, mother.'

'Then you don't know what wallflowers stand for,' she said, with a bright smile. 'Now this is for you, my dear; it is the first rose I have seen;' and placing on my table a small rose embedded in moss, she left the room again. I watched her from the window as she walked down the street; she walked almost like a girl.

On my way to Josey West in the evening, I passed the house in which I had first made her acquaintance. The door being opened, I entered, and found the place in an unusual bustle. Florry and her younger sisters were dusting and cleaning up, and putting the rooms in order. In explanation, Florry told me that their eldest brother, Sheridan, was coming to live there with his wife and children.

'They come in next week,' said Florry; and I daresay Clarance and his family will follow them; they have always lived together, and they won't like to be parted now. There's plenty of room for them all.'

'The place will look like its old self again,' I said to Josey West, a few minutes later on; and I added, with a sigh, 'and you'll be having the jolly old times over again, I shouldn't wonder.'

'I shouldn't wonder, either,' replied the little woman briskly. 'Do you know, Chris, there's one thing I do miss--the Sunday evenings we used to have in the old house. Now that Sheridan is coming, we'll revive the Sunday-night suppers. You'll come, won't you, and bring your dear mother. She's never been to one of our parties. Upon my word, I feel quite happy only in thinking of them. There's Sheridan and his seven youngsters, and Clarance with his five--another one added, Chris, a fortnight ago--the sweetest little thing! Well, I do love to have a lot of children about me. When I die, an old woman--I shall be the queerest little old woman _you_ ever set eyes on, Chris!--well, when I die, an old, old woman, I should like to see heaps of children round me, so that I might take the memory of their bright little faces away with me. It isn't often that I talk seriously, but I've got that fancy.'

'You ought to have children of your own, Josey.'

Josey was stitching and mending some of the youngsters' clothes, and, at my remark, she paused and looked at me pensively; but the next moment she gave such a vicious dig with her needle that she broke it, and cried,

'Ought to have! Ought to have! Me, with my crooked legs! No, my dear, never, never, never! Little witches don't have children. Never, never, never!' And for the first time in my experience of her, Josey West burst out crying. Her passion did not last long; she conquered it within a couple of minutes, and, as she wiped her eyes, exclaimed,

'There! A nice little fool you'll think me now, Chris!'

I gave her a kiss, and in a little while she was herself again, rattling away as usual.

'I'm going to sleep in the old house every night,' she said, until Sheridan takes possession; and Turk is coming here to sleep, and to mind the shop, if I want to get away a bit earlier. I wish Turk would marry. I should like to take care of his children. He's a real good sterling fellow is Turk, and deserves a happy home. Your mother was here this afternoon, Chris. She told me all that you said to her.'

'You guess, I daresay, what my reason is in wishing her to see Jessie.'

Josey West laughed. 'I guess, you daresay! Well, yes, I can guess, although I am not in love.'

I shook my head. 'I don't think you have guessed, Josey. It is not for myself that I want mother and Jessie to come together again.'

'What other reason can you have, my sweet sensitive child?'

'Oh, I don't mind your bantering me, Josey. Do you remember sending me a letter from uncle Bryan addressed to mother, when we were away at Hertford?'

'Yes; and I wondered at the time what such a thick letter could be all about.'

'It contained a great secret, Josey, and a very wonderful story concerning Jessie.'

'Indeed!' said Josey, with a cautious look at me.

'I think there is no harm in telling you, especially as you'll not speak of it.'

'Oh, you may trust me, Master Chris.'

'It is a story concerning Jessie and her father.'

'Indeed! So Jessie has a father.'

'You would never guess who her father is, Josey.'

'Then I won't break my head over it; but I shall know if you tell me.'

Uncle Bryan is her father; so that you see Jessie and I are cousins.'

Josey did not express the surprise I expected she would; an expression of thoughtfulness was in her face.

'Go on, Chris; I am waiting to hear more.'

'Well, neither Jessie nor uncle Bryan knew of the relationship existing between them until the day that Jessie went away from this house, and then it came upon them both like a thunderbolt. It was because Jessie discovered that uncle Bryan was her father that she ran away from him.'

'That sounds very dreadful, Chris.'

'There is a dreadful story attached to it--which I mustn't tell you nor anybody, Josey. They are both very much to be pitied; but I am not sure that I don't pity uncle Bryan more than I do Jessie. However, there it is; they are father and daughter, and they are separated. Never mind what has passed, I ask you is this right--is it natural? Uncle Bryan is an old man, and cannot have many years to live. That he repents many things he has been unconsciously guilty of in the past, I am certain.'

'That's a curious phrase,' interrupted Josey, with her thoughtful manner still upon her. 'Unconsciously guilty.'

'It is a correct one. His has not been conscious guilt; what was bad in his character was stamped in him, and was almost forced to take root by the unfortunate circumstances in his early life; what was good never had a chance. We all have good and bad in us, Josey, and surrounding circumstances have much to do in making one or the other predominate in our characters. What is that thought that crossed your eyes just now, Josey?'

'I was thinking that you have grown into a perfect philosopher, Chris. Go on.'

'Say that uncle Bryan had been blessed with such a mother as my mother is--he would have been a different man; he couldn't have helped being a better man. He would have believed in God, in goodness; he would not have grown into a misanthrope. Josey, if there is anything good in me--and I hope I am not all bad--I have mother only to thank for it. It makes me tremble to think that I was so nearly losing her, and that her love for me was very nearly her death; and I know, to my sorrow, that for a long time I repaid her affection with indifference. Well, but that is all over now, thank God. If uncle Bryan had had a good, tender, considerate mother, many unhappy things would not have occurred to him, and it might have been better for Jessie also. As I said, it is dreadful to think of father and daughter being separated as they are, and to think that uncle Bryan might die without a word of affection passing between them. Well, that was the thought in my mind when I said to mother to-day that she ought to go to Jessie; for if mother finds uncle Bryan--and I have an idea that she will--no one but she can bring him and Jessie together.'

'But you didn't tell your mother this, Chris?'

'No; mother did not need telling. She knew my meaning well enough. Words are not required between us now, Josey, to make us understand one another.'

'And so, and so, and so,' said Josey, with tender gaiety, when I had concluded, 'everything having been made right, they lived happily together for ever afterwards.'

It was with sadness I remembered that those were the very words which Jessie had spoken to me in the little parlour in which Josey and I were now conversing.

'Now I'm a witch,' cried Josey, 'and I'll give you three wishes. What are they?'

I looked at her reproachfully, but she did not heed me. She hobbled about as witches are in the habit of doing on the stage, and waved the poker over my head, and conducted herself generally in a ridiculous manner.

'Halo!' cried Turk, poking his head in at the door. 'What are you about with your pokers? What a pity I didn't come in a minute later! There's an account I could have written for the papers! "The first thing that met Our Correspondent's view was the distended"--distended is good, Chris, my boy; I've seen it used so--"was the distended form of the unfortunate victim on the ground, winking his last gasp. Over him stood the infuriated figure of a woman, who, with glistening eyes and rage in her countenance, was brandishing the murderous weapon--an enormous crowbar, weighing fifty-three pounds--preparatory to giving a last fell stroke to the prostrate form at her feet." That's the style, Chris; a penny a line. Spin it out--_must_ have at least two columns. "Upon inquiry among the neighbours, who stood in clusters about the building in which the murderous deed was perpetrated, Our Correspondent learned that jealousy was the cause of the fatal assault. It appears that thirteen years ago there lived in a certain street, called et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." Now, after that, Chris, if you start an illustrated paper, and don't employ me as Special Correspondent, I shall have a bad opinion of your judgment.'

I was relieved by this diversion, and upon Turk proposing that we should pay a visit to the Royal Columbia Theatre, in which he had played the first villain for so long a time, I gladly assented.

I left a message for my mother, desiring her to wait with Josey until I returned, and Turk and I strolled to the theatre. I found not the slightest alteration either in the theatre, the audience, or the performance; they were all the same--the same atmosphere, the same fashions, the same pieces with different names. The very dresses were the same; but I was bound to confess that the First Villain was vastly inferior to Turk, who, I learned, had left a reputation behind him which would last while the walls held together. We did not stay longer than an hour, and then, as we had done on the occasion of my first visit to the Royal Columbia, we visited a neighbouring bar, and over our pewter pots listened and took part in a precisely similar conversation to that which I had listened to with such respectful admiration and attention after the performance of the thrilling drama of _The Knight of the Sable Plume_. The decadence of the drama, the low ebb of dramatic literature, the glorious days of Garrick and Kemble, the inferior parts which men and women of genius were compelled to play upon the mimic stage, the false positions which pretenders were puffed into by venal critics who ignored real talent--these were the themes touched upon; and I began to reflect whether this state of things was chronic in the profession, and whether, when the golden age of the drama is in its full meridian, the decadence of the drama will not be spoken of as mournfully as it is in the present day.

My mother was waiting for me when I returned; but although she was exceptionally bright and happy, and although there was a tenderly joyous significance in her words and manner towards me, she said nothing of the result of her visit to Jessie.