Part 5

“The river flowing through our town is a mischievous river, sometimes, especially in spring, when the snow is melting, and, overfed by the streams from the hills, it comes rushing along, sweeping away dams and bridges, and tearing about generally, in a very unreasonable fashion. Yet farther on, at Factoryville, where it plunges over the rocks, it keeps the mills going all the year round. In fact, there would be no mills there if it were not for our brave little river ‘putting its shoulder to the wheel.’ Besides, we must admit, it is quite an important feature in the landscape, winding among the woods and fields, flashing and shimmering in the sunlight. And how often you and I have stopped to listen to the plash and ripple of its waters as we walked along the banks. I remember what company that music was to me, one dark night, a good while ago, when I was returning from a long tramp up the valley. Just so, since the loss of my eyesight has made for me continual night, you scarcely would believe, Harry, how many times I have been cheered by your merry flow of spirits. As sister says, we have missed you. It is no small thing to be missed by one’s friends when he is away from them. Nor is such a good-for-nothing, stove-up piece of humanity as myself the only one you can find to cheer, if you will look about you. Life is full of shadows. It is a sorrowful sort of night to multitudes of people. Such natures as yours were meant to make the darkness less dreary, and when you come to the mill-wheels to turn them.”

“But the mill-wheels? I don’t exactly understand about that.”

“Well, for instance, the weather is growing cold; winter is not far off. We sit here by a fire and find it very comfortable. There are a good many to-night who haven’t any fire. We have had our supper. There are a good many who must go without. If you will notice in the streets to-morrow, you will see little feet shoeless, stockingless. People who go without food, and fire, and sufficient clothing, get sick, have fevers, diphtheria, what not? But, unfortunately, the fevers, and so forth, won’t stay shut up in alleys and tumble-down tenements; they creep out, out into the broad streets, into the fine mansions of brick and stone, and all over the city, hunting for the cunning little Ediths, the pretty Maries.”

“Oh, I never thought of that!”

“People who haven’t food, and fire, and warm clothing, often attempt to steal them, or the wherewithal to pay for them. People who steal, if they are caught at it, go to prison. When they come out again nobody will trust them or employ them. Since they cannot find work, and have got to live somehow, what must they do? Steal. So it comes about that a great many people steal for a living. And where did all this crime commence? Like the fevers, with the lack of food, and fire, and clothing. As Tennyson’s ‘Northern Farmer’ says:—

“‘’Tisn’ them as ’as munny as breäks into ’ouses an’ steäls, Them as ’as coäts to their backs and taäks their regular meäls. Noä, but it’s them as niver knaws wheer a meäl’s to be ’ad.’”

“That puts me in mind of the fellow that broke into our house.”

“This is the first I have heard of it.”

“Why, you see, one night last winter I thought I heard somebody in the dining-room. So down I went. There ’e was at the sideboard. He’d got it open, and was taking the silver out. Well, I pitched at ’im—you know I’m some on the muscle—and got hold of his revolver, and there I had ’im. But my! he looked so starved, and kind of forlorn, and hollow-eyed, I opened the front door for ’im and let ’im go. Expect I ought to ’ave handed ’im over to the police. Guess I never told of it before. It might scare the women-folks, you know. But wouldn’t it give Aunt Sophi the fidgets? After that I used to sleep with one ear open. She didn’t know she was sending away her watch-dog when she hustled me off to school in such a hurry.”

The Lieutenant reflects. Here is a boy who does not hesitate to cope with a burglar, who has been known to risk his own life to rescue a drowning companion, and yet is loth to enter his home from dread of an Aunt Sophia’s tongue.

“Then turning the mill-wheels,” Harry resumes, “that means helping the poor?”

“Partly, yes. Though, as one thinks about it, it seems to imply much more.”

“But where’s a body to begin? There’s poverty enough, I suppose; but some are so proud you can’t get at ’em, and some, but they’ve got the cheek! dogging you and sticking their paws out for a penny every turn you take. I always think they’re sham.”

“It might be a good way to exercise one’s ingenuity finding out. As for the pride, you’ve read in the story-books of the needfuls that found their way mysteriously to empty cupboards. It sounds rather fanciful; yet there are people who take great delight in putting romance into real life, and a generous deed is none the worse for being delicately done.”

“But that _would_ be jolly, now! Jinks! I’d go at it to-morrow if I only knew where to begin.”

“Sister could give you more information on that subject than I can. You two will have to put your heads together and talk it over. Ah, yes! and I have in mind a little newsboy to whom you can be of service. I really believe our rollicking Harry would be better satisfied with himself for using some of his extra energy and pocket-money in these ways. Come, let him give the Tabbies, and Old Williamses, as he calls them, a rest. There’s something better for him to do than worrying them. As I heard said once: ‘There is so much to be done in this world! There are so few to do it.’ You are going to be one of those few, surely. A rich man’s son has it in his power to set a great many wheels in motion. You see the Lieutenant is quite a sermonizer when he gets fairly started. But I have taken this opportunity to be earnest, for once, and before it is too late.”

Before it is too late! Harry, who has been wondering, the while, at this serious language, so uncommon from his genial friend, wonders still more at that expression. What does he mean? He asks, finally.

“I’m half sorry I let the words escape me; but now that I have aroused your curiosity, and since you trust me with your secrets, well, yes, I will tell you. You know one mustn’t expect to engage in battles and come out whole and sound. One day a small, round piece of lead discharged from a rifle took lodgings in my shoulder, and has since been slowly working its way down towards my heart. So it seems that a bullet is to be the death of me after all.”

Harry stares at the Lieutenant in mute amazement. Death! He suddenly becomes aware how strong are the cords of love which bind him to the blind man. To lose him, his best friend! No more confidential talks, him no more to come to in trouble, and doubt, and perplexity, and lay open all one’s thoughts! he who first discovered good in the wayward nature—a little, tender plant, so covered by the dust that others could not see, and helped it to grow and thrive in spite of the trampling that else would have destroyed it.

“Oh, Lieutenant! it isn’t true! Something can be done!”

No, it appears from the reply, nothing can be done.

“Nobody knows? Katy doesn’t know?” the boy asks, at length, in a husky, tremulous voice.

“The surgeon and Lem have known of it only. It was on sister’s account that I wished the matter to be kept quiet. I wanted to spare her the sadness as long as possible. But I must tell her very soon. It will not do for it to come upon her too suddenly. Ah, my Katy!” and another voice is low and tremulous.

“Is it painful ever?”

“Sometimes.”

“And you’ve kept it to yourself all these years! We didn’t know!”

From the chimney corner where he has been lounging Harry gazes once more at the patient face, pallid from silent, secret suffering, at the empty sleeve, at the eyes which cannot see; then he throws himself flat upon the carpet in a fit of weeping—he who so rarely sheds a tear—and his surprise, and grief, and anger, take expression in one passionate outcry against the war which caused all this—that brothers’ war!

But as he lies there sobbing, listening to some calm and soothing words, there comes to him—even to Harry—a remembrance of a face he has somewhere seen pictured. That, too, was a pallid face and patient. It drooped from a cross; and the brow was encircled by thorns; and underneath was written:

IT IS FINISHED.

CONSOLATION.

“It’s lonesome without _him_!”

You may have noticed those high walls which some build about their houses and grounds, so high you can get but a glimpse of the tree-tops above them; the shady walks, and gushing fountains, and green grass-plats, and bright flowers are entirely hidden from view.

A certain great man died, and the tidings was carried swiftly and far, for his name was known to many nations. All over the land there were public demonstrations of mourning, and numberless and eloquent were the eulogies pronounced. Thus he who, living, had been laden with honors and distinctions, went in pomp and honor to his burial. Yet somehow we do not hear that any one was really very sorry because of his death, much less that any little children wept because of it. Had his greatness been like a high wall, concealing whatever was sunny and winsome in his nature? On the same hillside where that great man was laid to rest there is a new-made grave beneath the cedars, and not very many people know anything about it; but among those who do there is a void, as when the fire goes out upon the hearth-stone, and all is cold and desolate. “It is no small thing to be missed by one’s friends when he is away from them.” Little did he consider, who spoke thus, how truly those words would soon apply to himself. And here one might pause to ponder. Which is preferable—to be so great and renowned that when one dies the news will be told abroad in the world, or to be so genial and lovable that even a little child will weep at the sight of his vacant chair?

When we are sleeping in our graves so still, When we are sleeping in our graves so low, Ah, who will care to know? Ah, who will?

A wee bird made its nest out in the porch last May, and lived there the summer long. But the summer is gone, and the winter is come again, and the bird has flown away, and the nest is empty, and the snow is on it and on the ground, and the clouds are gray and threatening, and again the wind wails at the casements, moans down the chimney. Lem, coming in to replenish the fire, sees the form shivering over it in spite of the warmth, sees the wide, tearless eyes, with the new, strange look in them, sees the carpet strewn with remnants of a rare and fragrant bouquet, Harry’s gift, torn to bits by nervous fingers.

“Miss Katy,” and he lays his hand gently on her head, “try to think of something else; jess try. Think of all the poor folks you an’ Mr. Harry’s got on the dockit, an’ what’ll become of ’em if you don’t pick up sperrits an’ help ’im look after ’em a little. Come, they’s no time to be settin’ here idle!” You would hardly guess his voice was choking, and that tears were streaming down his black face.

“Oh, Lem,” she answers drearily, “I’m tired; I’m tired of living. I can’t care for anything any more.”

“But you _must_ care, honey. What’ll become of poor old ’Liza an’ me if Katy goes off an’ leaves us too?”

But she only hovers more closely over the fire, staring at it vacantly. And the wind moans and wails down the chimney.

Lem returns to the kitchen to consult with his wife, Eliza, as to what shall be done for her in whose welfare they have felt such a tender interest since, years ago, she and her brother were left orphans. Not all the heartfelt sympathy of young and old, and the loving little attentions of the children, seem to be of any avail. Eliza advises to go for Edith. “She used to ’muse Master Wallie.”

But once in the room, her toys about her, Edith soon ceases to play. There is a change. Somebody is gone who used to be here. She may somewhat have forgotten all that has been passing of late, scarcely can have understood what has been told her; but whether she thinks about it or not, or remembers, even, she feels a want. “It’s lonesome without _him_!” Ah, that is it; and she begins to sob, creeping close to Kate. But what new thing is this? Katy doesn’t notice her! Those queer, staring eyes, that do not turn and smile upon her, they are not Katy’s eyes. That white, stony face, that is not like Katy, either. And all the while the wind is moaning and wailing, and the gloomy clouds grow gloomier, making the day dreary and the room dreary. Everything is dreary and lonesome, and not as it used to be. She flies into the hall, crying and calling to Lem, below.

“Take me home! I’m afraid! Katy isn’t Katy any more!”

“Oh, come back, Edie!” calls Kate, arousing at that pitiful little cry and holding out her hands to the child. “Don’t go away and leave Katy all alone! She’ll be good now. She’s sorry she scared Edie; she didn’t mean to.”

“_Are_ you all alone?” Edith has stopped crying suddenly. There is a peculiar earnestness in her look as she questions.

“Yes, Edie, all alone! all alone!” and the answer ends almost in a wail.

“Then it’s there—there, behind the book—the paper that he did write on. I must give it to you when you was all alone, he said—my captain. He said, would I ’member? Ha, ha! I _did_ ’member, didn’t I?”

Kate opens the book-case, and finds, as the child said, a folded paper behind one of the encyclopædias. It contains some lines written with pencil, so running together, lines and words, as to be almost unreadable. As she recognizes that handwriting and slowly deciphers it, the tears come at last like rain. Edith, no longer afraid, wipes them away with her little white apron, murmuring, the while, all sorts of baby talk.

About two hundred years ago there lived a blind man who was the author of what many think to be the greatest of poems. But wherever that wonderful work is read and admired, there, too, it is told how his daughters, with one exception, were unkind to him and undutiful, refusing even the task of committing to paper those immortal verses. However, it may be he was a trifle to blame, himself. (For we have seen, as in that other case, how greatness does sometimes build for itself a barrier, a high, impassable wall.) Suppose day after day little eyes looked up wistfully, and he did not see—gazing far off into other worlds and other ages; little voices whispered timidly, and he did not hear—listening to the converse of angels; little hands clung caressingly, but unheeded. Ah, that was asking for bread and getting a stone. Suppose it made some little hearts ache, some little people were “afraid,” finally, like Edith, awhile since. So when they grew up and he grew old and sightless, what came of it all? _Paradise Lost_, to be marveled at as long as the English language is known and studied, and there in shadowy background, the mighty genius, poor and blind, with his unloving daughters.

And now, girl readers, here is that writing which to her, so sorrowful, is like a consoling message from the Beyond.

FOR MY SWEET SAINT CATHERINE.

_There was once a blind, crippled, helpless hulk of humanity who had a sister. And such a sister! All the women who ever wrote books, or painted pictures, or spoke or sang to gaping crowds, weren’t worth her little finger. At least, so he thought—this selfish fellow—and with good reason. For he owed it to her that life was not a burden; rather, he owed it to her that life was a pleasure. Ah, what could she have done that she did not do for him? Like a good fairy she hovered about him, studying and scheming for his comfort and diversion from morning till night. Would he be read to? She would read to him by the hour. Did some rhyme or foolish fancy escape him? She was only too eager to preserve it. She was eyes for him, she was his good right hand, she was everything! Ah, how unmindful of self, how thoughtful of him always! even striving to forget some sorrows of her own, lest her sadness might make him sad! And now that he is gone, and she has nothing to regret—not one impatient word or act—and to remember only unwearied, loving care, ceaseless devotion, let her be comforted. Surely “she hath done what she could.” Oh, my sister, my sister, be comforted! and let us dare hope that of those who watch over thee, unseen, he who writes this may be one._

Daylight slowly fades from the wintry sky, the firelight flickers up and down the wall, and, as night descends, little Edith falls to sleep in Kate’s arms. But are these two alone? For though there is seen no shape among the shadows, nor is heard the sound of any voice, what is that something that like a radiance suddenly overspreads the bowed face? “The peace which passeth all understanding.”

JULIE, JULIEN AND ONCLE LE CAPITAINE

I.

Who could she be—the little stranger asleep in the cabin?

Nobody could tell.

She must have come aboard unnoticed, hours ago, at the French port where the vessel had been lying for repairs. Had she wandered away from her home, and innocently lain down here to rest? In that home there would be grief, and anxiety, and long waiting, or ever she would return; for the ship was now many leagues out at sea, and the child had just been discovered.

The sound of voices talking the matter over wakened the little girl, and she shrank timidly from all the eyes fixed inquiringly upon her. So the captain sent every one away, and sat down by her, and in her own language questioned:

“How came you here, little one?”

“Is not this, then, the ship which goes to America? There was a man in the street who told me it should go to America. Is it, then, a mistake?”

“No, not a mistake. And you wish to go to America?”

“Oui, monsieur. I go to Julien.”

“And who is Julien?”

“He is my brother.”

“But how does it happen that you go alone?”

“I have none to accompany me.”

“Have you neither father nor mother?”

“Non, monsieur.”

“Does your brother know you are coming?”

“Non, monsieur, he does not know it. It will be a surprise.”

“But what put it into your head, little—what shall I call you? What is your name?”

“Julie Leblanc.”

“Well, then, my little Julie, how is it that you happen to be going to America? America is a long way off, do you know it?”

“But no! is it, then? It cannot be far away where Julien is. Is it farther than Paris?”

“A good deal farther, Julie.”

“But what to do! No home, no friend. Only Julien.”

“No home, no friend!” repeated the captain, stroking the dark hair, pityingly. “Did the father fall in battle?”

“Yes, monsieur, many years ago, before I can remember.”

“And how long is it that little Julie has been without home or friends?”

“Since they took my dear mamma away to the burial,” answered the child, her eyes brimming with tears.

After awhile the captain asked:

“Julie, do you know just where your brother is, in what part of America?”

“In what part, monsieur? Is it then so great a city? But, without doubt, there will be one who can tell me where he lives. In our village one knew everybody.”

“Whew!” exclaimed the captain, twirling his thumbs.

“Or I will stand at the corner of the street until he passes by. I shall know him, without doubt, he is so handsome. Oh, monsieur, I would know him anywhere. I knew him instantly the last time I saw him, although he wore the clothes of Jacques, the mason.”

As the captain seemed interested, Julie explained:

“I awoke in the night. It was the dear mamma who stood by my bed with a candle in the hand, and one with her like Jacques until I meet his beautiful eyes. Then I laugh gaily and cry, ‘Ah, behold thee, my brother, covered with plaster! and thy coat too large for thee! Didst thou think to fool me?’ But our mother lays the finger upon her lip, and her face is very pale; and Julien kisses and embraces me without ceasing, and with tears, and I know not what to make of it. Soon they go out and I fall again to sleep. Oh, monsieur, he came that same night to America! It was not an hour after, while I slept—mamma has told me it—that the wicked gendarmes came and searched the house for him!”

“Ah! the gendarmes! and why?”

“Because—mamma said—he had written something in the journals which meant that the Emperor was not a good Emperor; and for _that_ the wicked gendarmes would have put my poor brother in prison.”

“Go on, my pretty one,” said the captain, smiling, “thou knowest how to talk. Thou art more entertaining than a book. How old art thou?”

“Ten years.”

“You are small for that age. Have you ever been to school?”

“Never, monsieur. It was the governess who taught me.”

“The governess—bah! Did she ever see a geography?”

“Geography, monsieur? What is that? Is it an animal?”

“Bah! What did she teach you?”

“The dance, and the drawing, and the embroidery, and the music—”

“The music?—can you sing?”

“A little, monsieur.”

“Sing me, then, a little song.”

So Julie sang a little song. It was the “Farewell.”

Adieu! ne m’oublie pas, etc.

“Bravo!” applauded the captain when she had finished. Then he went up on deck.

Julie recollected something as he passed out. She carefully drew a small package from the folds of her dress and ran after him. The rolling of the ship made her dizzy. She reeled and would have fallen, had not a sailor caught her hand.

“Merci” (thank you), she said.

That brought another to the rescue.

“Merci, merci!” she repeated.

Half a dozen of the crew came to learn the cause of alarm.

“Merci, merci, merci!” she screamed. Would they never understand?

The captain did, and laughed heartily.

“And what can I do for mademoiselle?” he asked as she approached, smiling at sight of his bronzed and furrowed face—already that of an old friend among this crowd of seamen—strangers, from a country where “mercy!” is a frequent exclamation.

“Good monsieur, are you the man who takes the moneys? Because this, mamma said, must pay for my voyage.” She gave to him the little parcel.

The captain opened it, and found therein a beautiful cross of solid gold, curiously wrought and thickly studded with precious stones.

“Will it not do, monsieur? There was nothing else. No money. The woman demanded so much for the room and all! Poor mamma was so long sick! Oh, monsieur, monsieur, but for that—if she had not been sick, she also would have come to America—to Julien! ‘Take it,’ she said—all so slow—she whispered it all so slow—‘Take it and go to Julien. It will pay the passage.’ And she whispered still a little more. I could not hear. But I thought she went to sleep. When the morning came, and I could see her face—so pale! so cold! so still—”

“Here, my little Julie,” interrupted the captain, pressing his hand an instant over his eyes, “take thy cross. Keep it. Thou shalt have it to remember her by. And I—I am very well pleased to have a little passenger.”

“Oh, mon oncle! how good you are!” and the child covered his great brown hand with kisses.

The captain stooped to rub her soft cheek with his grizzled beard.

He had no reason to be surprised; for wherever he went, the wide world over, did not all children call him “Uncle?”

II.

“When was it your brother went away, Julie?—how long ago? can you remember?” the captain asked one day as the little girl paced the deck at his side, her slender hand in his.

“It is a very long time, monsieur mon oncle,” she answered; and after thinking, “it is a year.”

“Now try to remember, if you can, something about the place where he lives. Did he never tell you about it?—did he write no letters?”

“Oh, yes, mon oncle; often to our mother, and for me, one time, a little letter—all in an envelope by itself. Always I carry it with me. Behold it!” she said, drawing it from her pocket.

“Ah! a letter!” cried the captain, greatly relieved, “that will help us.”