Part 8

"Go away, Master Richard," she commanded. "I am not your mother."

"Oh, please, Mrs. Harcourt," Dick wailed. "Oh, please, Mrs. Harcourt, let me call you mother!"

But my mother was inexorable. She pushed away his hands, and walked out of the room, leaving him behind. They all went away, she, and grandmother, and Norah, and even little Trixie. I was the only one who remained.

I was very sorry for Dick, and I wanted to hug him badly. But I did not quite dare. Dick never liked anybody to hug him, and it was very seldom that he cried. He dug his fists into his eyes for a moment, and then he took them away, and looked at me, gloomily.

"All right," he said. "If she ain't my mother I ain't her little boy!"

Then he walked into the next room which was his own, and went down into the bottom bureau drawer, and got out a box with a red lining. In it was his Waterbury watch. That was the most valuable thing that Dick possessed. He always took it to bed with him at night, and he wound it up in the mornings, and sometimes, when he didn't mean to play very hard, sometimes he wore it. He put it on now, and he put two clean handkerchiefs in his pocket, and his knife, and a red ball, and the knob off the machine drawer, and two rubber bands, and a wish-bone, and the little box out of a doll that makes her cry, and the stopper of a cologne bottle. And he opened his missionary box, and fished out ten pennies,--the ones which he was saving to educate a native child in India. When I saw that I knew that things were very serious. I went up close to him and touched him.

"Dick," I said. "Dick! What are you going to do? Oh, Dick!"

I said it timidly, for although little brother Dick was only six, and I was nine, he was nearly as big as I was. And he was always masterful. But he didn't repulse me this time, so I kissed him on his ear, and rubbed my head against his shoulder, just to let him know that I loved him. Somehow I thought that he would like to be loved just then. And wonder of wonders he rubbed back!

"When I come home--" Dick said. "When I'm a rich man, sister, I'll buy you some nice things. I'll buy you some candy, and a pretty dress. And I'll buy you some guinea-pigs! I guess you'd like to have some guinea-pigs, wouldn't you, sister?"

I didn't care a rap for guinea-pigs, but I nodded at him just to comfort him. I felt that I should like an elephant if Dick bought it.

"And we'll build a nice house for them in the backyard," Dick went on, evidently cheering up at the prospect. "Under the walnut-tree. And there'll be fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers, and little weany, weany ones, all white and pink!"

"But where are you going, Dick?" I demanded.

His face fell.

"I'm going through the Green Door," he said, doggedly.

"Oh!" I breathed, in alarm.

Now there was a long, high fence behind our house where the morning-glory vines climbed up and still up, and then fell in beautiful showers of purple and pink blossoms, and just in the very center of the fence where the vines were the thinnest there was a door,--a bright, green door, with a massive lock, and a huge key, and two great iron hinges. None of us children knew what lay on the other side; but there was something secret-looking about that door, as if it might lead into Bluebeard's house, or out into fairy lanes and meadows. Once, a good while ago, little Dick had climbed up to the top and looked over. Then he came down again in a scramble.

"What did you see, brother?" I quavered.

"The black people!" he replied, in a whisper.

He caught hold of my apron, and we both stood listening. It seemed to me that I could hear some one singing in the distance, a queer, elfish sort of a song, and once a step passed along outside the gate,--a loitering step.

"Run, sister, run!" Dick cried.

He caught me by the hand in sudden panic, and we both fled back to the house together, and we never went near the Green Door for whole days and days.

I remembered all this now, and I felt sorry for Dick. I think that Dick felt sorry for himself, for he looked around the bedroom almost wistfully when he went away. And he didn't slide down the banisters as he usually did, but walked downstairs, step by step, very slowly, and paused by the sitting room door. My mother was talking inside in quite a happy fashion. There was the buzz of the sewing-machine, and a murmur of conversation between her and grandmother, and once when she came to the end of a seam, once the machine stopped, and my mother laughed. When Dick heard that he went on down the hall with his head up; but he came to a halt in the dark corner to hug the hobby-horse, and he cut off a bit of its white mane, and put the piece carefully away in his pocket. Dick was always very fond of the hobby-horse.

"Good-bye, old fellow, good-bye," he said. "Don't forget me, Alcibiades."

Alcibiades pranced a little, but he did not say anything.

I was the one who spoke. I had been feeling pretty bad for sometime; but now I couldn't stand it any longer. To see dear little brother Dick go out into the world alone! Never to have any brother any more! I threw my arms about him from the other side of the hobby-horse.

"Dick," I cried, tearfully. "Oh, please, Dick, don't go away! Take me with you, won't you, Dick?"

"Will you go, too, sister?" Dick demanded, eagerly.

I nodded at him.

"We won't never come back," he cautioned.

I stole a look down the hall, the dear, familiar hall.

"All right, Dick," I said, with a gulp.

Nobody noticed us as we slipped down the path to the Green Door, not even Norah, who was singing in the kitchen. The hinges squeaked, and the gate came open with a rumble. It almost seemed as if my mother must know! We pulled it to behind us in a hurry, and stepped out into the world. We held each other tight.

It was very different on the other side of the wall from our side. There were no flowers there, and no vines. There was a street with small, mean houses, and great piles of clam shells, and a goat or two running about at a distance, and some very dirty ducks going home in single file. Away down the square there was a great red building, with smoke pouring out of its many chimneys, and here and there walking about the street, and standing at the doors, were the black people--not black in any true sense of the word, but grimed with the smut of those who labor in iron works.

It was a dreadful place. We stood outside the gate, flattened against the fence, looking into the street, and afraid to venture any farther.

Almost, however, in the first moment we found a friend. She was quite a small woman, with an anxious expression, and she gazed at us in a hungry way. She had an old plaid shawl drawn loosely over her head, and a little bundle of shoe-strings dangled from her hand. She had the prettiest, brightest red cheeks that I had ever seen, and her hair was a wonderful yellow color, like a doll's. But somehow there was something about her that I did not quite like.

She had been walking along the street, but when she saw us she stopped suddenly.

"How do you do, ma'am?" she said. "And how do you do, master?"

We clung together a little tighter, and answered her politely.

"Pretty well, I thank you," we said in a chorus, just as our mother had taught us to do to strangers.

"Wouldn't you like to take a little walk with me?" she asked, pleasantly. "Just a block or two? To see my house? And my little girl?"

We were not dressed to go visiting. I had on a brown gingham apron to play in, and Dick had on one, too, over his knickerbockers. I began to tell her about it, but she cut me short.

"As if that mattered!" she cried. "My God! And my baby! Come, dears. Come! My little girl is sick. It would be a Christian charity to come to see her."

She looked at us almost beseechingly.

"Oh, what can I say to get them to come!" she exclaimed, in a piteous fashion.

Dick unclasped my hand and went up to her sturdily.

"I'm not afraid," he said. "I'll go with you. Come, sister."

Of course if Dick went I had to go, too, for he was the smaller. I started with a reluctant step.

"That's the little lady!" the woman cried, exultingly.

Our way lay down the block, and then straight away to the right through a network of dirty lanes where the houses were crowded together, leaning up against one another as though for support. In some places the rain had dripped from the roofs into sloppy pools on the ground, and the path was rough with fallen bricks and mortar. The woman was very careful of us. She showed us the cleanest way, and when the goats came too near she stood in between them and us, and shooed them off. And, at last, we came to a house, old and battered, with very rickety front steps and windows stuffed with rags; that was her home.

There was a stout woman going up the steps with a pail of soapy water in her hand who stopped to regard us.

"Where did you get them kids, Becky Dean?" she demanded.

"That's my business," our new friend cried, fiercely.

She seemed to bristle with rage.

"Well, I hope there's no harm in it," the other replied, curtly, continuing on her way.

We went up and up three flights of long, shaky steps to a little room under the eaves. It was very dark there,--so dark that at first I did not notice a bed in a dim corner, and a child lying on it looking at us with a pair of beautiful large eyes. She did not say a word, but just lay and looked and looked.

The woman sat down on the bed, and gathered the child to her tenderly.

"See what I've brought you," she said, almost in a whisper, her cheek pressed close against the cheek of the child. "See the nice little lady and gentleman come to play with you. Come to play with my own little Amy. Ain't you pleased with your mama, Amy? Ain't they nice?"

The child lay and looked at us, and, at last, very slowly, she smiled. Dick and I were both very bashful, but we smiled back at her from where we stood by the side of the bed. The mother seemed greatly relieved. She hunted about under her faded shawl, and brought out some sticks of candy, the kind that taste of peppermint, and have beautiful red streaks that run zigzag around them. She generously gave each of us one, and one to the child. We all sucked in happy unison. But the child soon tired. The stick of candy rolled out of her hand, unregarded, and she lay back upon her mother with a faint, wailing cry.

"Maybe she could play a game, if you know one," the mother urged, anxiously. "Oh, for the love of heaven, think of a game!"

"I know 'Little Sallie Waters,'" Dick declared, speaking for the first time.

So Dick and I played "Little Sallie Waters" together. It was hard work, there being only two of us, but we went around and around in a solemn circle, and sang the words earnestly, and when we came to the lines,

"Rise, Sallie, rise, Wipe out your eyes, Fly to the East, Fly to the West, Fly to the very one That you love best,"

we both kissed little Amy Dean, and she smiled at us again from her mother's arms, where she had been watching us with her great, mysterious, melancholy eyes.

"Sure she's better," the woman cried, in a tone between laughter and tears. "My own darlint! She's better! She's better already! They've done her more good than the doctor. Sure, she was lonesome for the likes of her own!"

Her face shone. She looked as if she could hug us both from gratitude.

"I've got a doll at home whose name is Amy," I announced, bashfully, trying to make conversation.

"That you have," the woman agreed, heartily. "And without doubts you'll be bringing it for my little girl to see."

"I'll bring her to-morrow," I promised.

"Do you hear that, Amy?" the mother commented, happily.

"And I've got a horse named Alcibiades," Dick added, in his turn. "He's got red nostrils and a bushy tail. He prances. Like this."

He gave a spirited portrayal of Alcibiades all around the room, ending with a great whinny of delight.

"Would you let wee Amy take a ride on the pretty horse?" the mother inquired, persuasively.

"Yes," Dick promised, with eager gallantry. "Dozens and dozens of rides."

"See there now!" the woman exclaimed. "Won't my Amy have a grand time playing with the little lady and gentleman!"

The child seemed pleased. She laid one little wasted arm about her mother's neck in a loving way, and stretched out the other to us. I almost thought that she tried to speak. Then she settled back again, and her eyes gazed off far beyond us, through the roof of the mean house, higher and higher, perhaps at greater joys and glories that were to be hers forever.

The woman caught the little form to her quickly.

"Sing something else!" she cried, wildly. "Sing--"

She hesitated a moment, rocking herself to and fro on the edge of the bed with the child in her arms.

"Couldn't you sing a hymn?" she whispered. "Couldn't you, dears?"

Dick and I knew lots and lots of hymns. We always learned them on Sundays to please our grandmother. We stood closer together, and sang with full hearts, our voices rising up, clearly, shrilly, with childish emphasis:

"There's a Home for little children, Above the bright blue sky, Where Jesus reigns in glory, A Home of peace and joy; No home on earth is like it, Nor can with it compare, For everyone is happy, Nor can be happier there."

There was a sound of weeping in the room, but we sang on, earnestly, line after line, just as we had played.

Suddenly a hand was laid on each of our heads, and we looked up to see an old priest standing by us. He motioned for us to be silent, and went on to the corner where the child lay on the bed with the woman on her knees beside her, her face buried in the tiny dress.

"My daughter?" he said, inquiringly.

The pretty gay head came up with a start. The red cheeks were disfigured with weeping.

"She's gone, father!" the woman cried.

She dragged herself around, still on her knees, and laid her head against his hand.

"I've tried so hard to be good, father. Ever since you talked to me I've tried and I've tried. You know I have. But it's no use. No use. Everything goes wrong with me. And now my Amy's gone!"

She burst into tears again, her words becoming incoherent from grief, and sobbed wildly, her head falling back against the bed.

"Where did these children come from?" the priest demanded, sternly.

She explained through her tears.

"I brought them here for Amy to play with. I thought-- You know how they all look down on her here, father. She never had a playmate. I thought if she were happier, if there were little friends of her own age about her, that I might coax her back again, get her to stay with me for awhile. I saw the two children standing at their gate. I only borrowed them. Sure, I didn't mean them any harm."

Her voice broke off again into sobs.

It was Dick who created a diversion at this moment. He had been hunting through his pockets, and now he brought out all his precious things,--the knob off the machine drawer, the stopper of the cologne bottle, the ten missionary cents that were to educate the native child in India, even the Waterbury watch,--and laid them in a little pile on the bed. He pulled the old priest's hand to attract his attention.

"They're for her," he explained, with a nod at the bed.

He half touched the watch, and drew his hand away again.

"To keep," he persisted, bravely. "Tell her not to cry. Oh, tell her not to cry!"

But the woman cried only the harder.

The old priest took us home very carefully, down the rickety steps, and through the dirty courts and lanes, straight to the Green Door. All the ferocious-looking black men whom we met stopped to speak to him, and he ordered them about, with an air of authority, like so many small children. On the way he asked us many questions, and I confided the whole story to him, of how little brother Dick had been naughty, and had eaten the gingerbread and had been disowned, and how we had started out into the wide world together. Somehow I was glad that we hadn't gone any farther. Somehow home seemed a nicer place now. It was so quiet and so safe, with pleasant rooms, and a peaceful, sunny garden, and white, comfortable beds, where we slept through the long nights, and kind faces to smile on us, and love to surround us always. I cried a little as I told him about it.

"There is only one home, and one father and mother," the old priest said, seriously. "Remember that. And be good children. The holy grace of God be upon you, my dears."

His kind hands hovered over our heads for a moment.

He took us back into the yard, and locked the Green Door himself, and went into the house to see my mother. He stayed a long, long while.

Afterwards my mother came out into the garden, and kissed us both, with all her old affection. Her face was very gentle, as if she, too, had been crying.

"Where is my little son?" she asked, breathlessly.

But she had her arms around me as well as around Dick.

IX

THE HIDDEN TALENT

CLOSE in a sheltered corner in our parlor there stood a bookcase. It had two glass doors, and a brass key, and rows and rows of books that looked out invitingly on the world, and seemed to say, "Come, read me." On the bottom shelf of all there were children's books,--"The Child's History of England," "Plutarch's Lives" in brown and gold, a green "Ivanhoe," a red "Alice in Wonderland," and a fat blue book, "The Child's Own Book of Fairy Tales," with rubbed corners, and loose leaves, and a crooked signature on the front page that read, painstakingly, "Rhoda Harcourt." These were my books, my dear, dear books, and with them comes a memory of hours spent in a window-seat, of dusky evenings when the firelight lit an absorbing page, and of elderly comment heard over my head.

"How she reads!" my father said, enviously. "I was just like that when I was a boy."

"The child will have no eyes," my grandmother complained.

"She must know them by heart," my mother added.

I did know them pretty thoroughly, but when I tired of old friends I had only to climb up a shelf higher to find new ones. "Japheth in Search of a Father," "The Mill on the Floss," and "Les Miserables," stood just above my head, and there were stories of children in all of these,--the most entrancing stories that opened a window into a glorious golden world of ideality and romance. It was such a wide world! People did things there. They lived and loved, and when they died the event stamped itself on my mind with a pathos that made me cry from sheer pity.

"I wish Rhoda wouldn't read so many books," my mother said. "She excites herself over them. She is so different from other children of her age!"

She said it half complainingly and half exultingly. Somehow I knew that my mother liked me to read, and that she liked me to be a little different from other children. Sometimes she bragged about it in a mild way to chance callers.

"Rhoda reads the oddest things," I heard her tell two ladies. "When I was a little girl I liked to read 'The Wide, Wide World,' but she likes novels and histories."

The older visitor glanced at me up in my corner. It was "Les Miserables" that day, I remember, and their talk played on the surface of my mind while my heart was busy with Cosette.

"Does she go to school?" she asked.

"No," my mother faltered.

The ladies looked at each other.

"What! At her age! Why, who teaches her?" they demanded, in a shocked chorus.

"I do myself--sometimes," my mother answered, still falteringly.

"Take my advice," the visitor with the black eyes said, decisively, "and send that child to school. Why it's a shame! It isn't fair to the child."

"When she grows up she will regret it," the one with the tight mouth added.

"She isn't strong," my mother explained. "We have kept her at home on that account; but I suppose, yes, I suppose, that she ought to go to school."

She looked at me a moment in a worried fashion, and then brightened, a trifle of her old pride returning.

"She has the greatest stock of general information," she confided, whisperingly. "She astonishes me sometimes. She does, indeed."

The two ladies shook their heads.

"I don't approve of children knowing too much," the one with the black eyes cried.

"And novels!" the other breathed, evidently appalled.

After they were gone my mother took the book out of my hand, and read a page or two of it in a frightened way. She smoothed my hair, and looked at me anxiously.

"Why do you like this book, Rhoda?" she asked.

"Because it's about a little girl, mother," I answered.

I crept a little closer to her.

"She hadn't any mother," I explained, eagerly. "And a man gave her a beautiful doll, and one night, just think, he put a gold coin in her shoe! She was so surprised! Oh, mother, how I wish I could have been there! I do! I do!"

"Is that all, Rhoda?"

I nodded.

"I have always been a good mother to you, haven't I, Rhoda?"

I rubbed my head against her arm, and kissed her hand.

"At least I've tried to be!" my mother cried. "And now I am going to do something that perhaps you won't like; but you may understand some day, dear. I am going to put this book back into the bookcase, and I am going to lock the door. It is not to be opened until I give you leave."

"It isn't my fault, is it, mother?" I asked, perplexed.

"No, it is not your fault. It's only that I want to keep my little girl just the same in heart and mind as she has always been."

She put the book back on the shelf, and she locked the door; but she did not take away the brass key. She knew and I knew that I would never touch it.

But, oh, how I longed for my dear books! I used to creep to the door and look in at them, and it seemed to me that they appeared lonesome. I finished out the story of Cosette to suit myself, and I made stories likewise for the books which I did not know. There was one remarkable thing about my stories, and that was that nobody ever died; but they all lived happy forever and ever. Even when my mother read the Bible to me on Sunday nights after I was in bed I used to sit up anxiously, and pray her to end the stories in my way.

"Oh, don't let the lions eat poor Daniel!" I would cry. "Oh, mother, mother, don't let them eat him up!"

"Why it happened centuries ago, dear," my mother answered, half laughing.

"But I can see it," I protested. "I can see it right now!"

It was so hard to see things going wrong, and not to be able to help!

It was about this time that my mother and I did a great many lessons together, and she would offer me odd bits of useful information at unexpected moments.

"Rhoda is not very well grounded," she told my father, "but I do think, Robert, that she knows a great deal for a child of ten."

She was darning stockings as she spoke, and she turned over a very ragged one of Dick's with a little sigh.

"I would like her to go to school. Not to the public school, but to a young ladies' seminary as I did. Don't you think, Robert, if I were to do without a new winter coat, and we made the old carpet on the stairs last a little longer, that we might send Rhoda to Mrs. Garfield's?"

Her face was brightening as she thought it out.

"And there's the money in her bank," she cried, "her gold pieces that dad has given her on her birthdays and on Christmas. I don't suppose, Robert, you'd want dad to pay for it all? He would, willingly."

"No," my father answered.

My mother's face fell, and then lit up again.

"You are a ridiculously proud boy," she declared, fondly. "Well, at any rate, we can save my coat and the carpet."

I wanted to go to school very badly. Every day at half past ten there was a procession past our house of thirty little girls walking two and two. They all looked happy and important, and I thought how wonderful it might be if I should join their ranks.

Norah, who was always sympathetic, read my fortune in a teacup out in the kitchen that night to see what might be going to happen.