Part 2

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.

“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 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.

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.

It was the very week of the examination, at last. Helen felt satisfied with herself in all but her French. If _she_ could only have that key for one little half-hour, she knew she would have no weak spot in her armor.

She brooded over the idea until the temptation possessed her like an evil fate. In her passionate girl’s heart she said to herself that she wanted to _die_ if Laura triumphed over her at school. Laura had every thing else; why _should_ she have that, also?

She had said at first, “If only it were _right_ to have the key!” Then she said, “if only she could _chance_ on the key, somehow!” Then, “if only she could get at her aunt’s desk and _find_ the key!” At last it was,--

“I _will_ get at the key, somehow!”

This last was the very morning before the examination. She rose from her bed in the dainty blue-hung room her aunt had taken such pains to make pretty for her, and went softly downstairs, in the young spring morning.

Her bare feet made no sound on the thick stair-carpet. She looked like a little white-clad ghost that had forgotten to flee away at the first cock-crowing, as an orthodox ghost ought; but no ghost ever had such glowing cheeks, crimson with excitement, such great wide-opened gray eyes with green depths in them.

She held in her hand a large bunch of keys belonging to her mother. It was just a chance whether one of them would fit her aunt’s desk.

She fairly trembled with excitement. She had lost all thought of the wrong she was doing--of the shame and meanness of this act, which must be done in silence and mystery; she thought only of the triumph which success would mean.

She stood before the desk, and tried key after key with her shaking fingers.

At last one fitted. In a moment more the key to the French method was in her hand.

In desperate haste she compared her own work with it, and made corrections here and there.

She was so absorbed that she quite failed to see another white-clad figure which had followed her noiselessly down the stairs, and stood in the doorway long enough to see what she was doing, and then went away.

Hurriedly Helen went through her evil task, and then stole back to bed, with her glittering eyes and burning cheeks.

Meantime Laura had gone, full of excitement, to her mother. Mr. Mason was away on business, and Laura crept into the empty half of her mother’s great bed.

“Mamsie,” she said, “wake up quickly, and listen.”

Patient Mrs. Mason rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and turned over. Then followed Laura’s breathless story.

“Of course she’ll win, now,” Laura said, in conclusion, “unless I tell Mademoiselle what she has done; and I suppose you wouldn’t like that, would you, mamsie?

“But it was her French that was the shakiest of any thing. Oh, _did_ you ever see any thing quite so mean? Think of getting into your desk with her keys, and then slying off all those corrections!”

“Yes, I _do_ think,” Mrs. Mason answered, with almost a groan.

“And she is Laura’s child--my poor Laura, who was honor and honesty itself!

“You don’t know, dear, what a bitter thing this is to me. Poor Laura! what if she knows?”

“But what shall we do, mamsie, dear? Are we just to keep still, and let her win the medal, and let every one think she has beaten fairly, or will you tell her what we know?”

“Will you go away now,” Mrs. Mason said, “and come back again before breakfast? I don’t want to say any thing until I am quite sure what it is best to do.”

When Laura came again, Mrs. Mason had settled upon her course of action, or rather of inaction.

“Don’t be vexed, girlie,” she said to Laura; “I know it will seem hard to you to be beaten unfairly; but there are things of more consequence even than that. The thing that seems to me most important, just now, is to know what Helen’s character really is. If she is not utterly unworthy of her mother, she will repent before the thing comes to an end. If she does not, it will be time enough to think what to do next.”

“And I must let her beat unfairly, and never say one word?” Laura asked, with a little strain of rebellion in her voice.

“Yes, if you are the obedient and generous Laura I like to believe you.”

“Mamsie, you have a flattering tongue, and you always get your way.”

“And who is pretty sure always to admit, in the end, that it was the best way?” asked Mrs. Mason, laughing.

“Mamsie, you are getting spoiled. See if I say yours was the best way this time!”

French came on the first of the two examination-days. Laura and Helen led their class. Laura did very well, but Helen acquitted herself triumphantly, and sat down amid a little buzz of congratulations and praises.

But somehow the triumph left a bitter taste in her mouth. She did not look at Laura, and even if she had she would not have understood the scorn on Laura’s face, since she was quite unaware that her raid on her aunt’s desk had been observed.

Still she was not happy. She needed no scorn from outside, she had already begun to feel such bitterness of self-contempt scorching her soul. It seemed to her that up to this moment she had been as one under an evil spell.

She had thought of no single thing except her triumph over her cousin--quite careless as to the means to this hotly desired end. Now she began to realize how base those means had been, and to long to exchange her success for any direst possible failure.

Mrs. Mason was watching her, and when they started to go home, she found an instant in which to whisper to Laura,--

“Be gentle to her, girlie; she will suffer enough to-night.”

At supper Helen’s place was vacant. She sent word that her head ached too much to come.

Her aunt despatched to her room tea and strawberries and bread-and-butter enough for the hungriest of girls, and then left her to herself.

The poor, lonesome, miserable girl lay upon her bed and thought. It was not quite a year since she had lain in her mother’s arms and heard her say,--

“Try to live nobly for my sake.”

Those had been almost her mother’s last words; after them there was only the low sigh, faint as if it came already from far-off worlds,--

“Good-by, darling.”

The low sun-rays stole in softly, and touched her sad, pale face, and then went away; and after a while some cold, far-off stars looked down into the window, and saw the girl lying there still, fighting her battle with herself.

One thing her conscience told her,--that she must undo this wrong, at whatever cost of shame.

Once she started up, half-resolved to go to her aunt and tell her the whole story, and seek her help and counsel. But she lay down again, without the courage to confess her shame.

Through the long night she scarcely slept; but before morning she had resolved what to do. In public she had taken the wages of her sin; in public she would make atonement, and eat the bitter bread of humiliation.

When she had once settled on her course of action, sleep touched her weary eyes, and soothed her into a forgetfulness from which only the breakfast-bell awoke her.