Part 6

One pair of eyes, at least, had watched Harvey’s unostentatious retreat from the clamorous throng about the table. And no sooner had Madeline noted his departure than she quietly slipped into the vacant place beside his sister, who welcomed her with a smile as generous as the absorbing intensity of the moment would permit. Madeline’s cheeks were still rosy with the flush of angry resentment that Cecil’s cruel words had started. Twice had he taken his place beside her at the table, and twice she had moved away; even now his eyes seemed to follow her, casting conciliatory glances that found no response.

The picnic feast was finally concluded—but not till sheer physical inability proclaimed a truce—and Madeline and Jessie withdrew together.

"Let’s go down into the gully, Jessie," Madeline suggested, pointing towards a slight ravine a little way in the distance; "I think we’d find flowers there, perhaps."

Jessie was agreed. "But I wish Harvey would come," she said; "I wonder where he is—he went away just when we began our dinner."

"Oh, he’s all right," replied the older girl. "I saw him going away—he’ll be back in a little."

"An’ I didn’t see—I didn’t see the rhubarb tarts mother made," Jessie continued, her mind still busy with the missing. "You don’t suppose Cecil Craig threw them away, do you?" she asked, suddenly fearful; "he’s so mean."

"Don’t let’s speak about him at all," Madeline interrupted. "The tarts are all right," she went on consolingly. "I saw one boy very—very busy with them," she concluded dexterously. "Besides," she added, the connection not so obvious as her tone would indicate, "I’ve got something to say to you, Jessie—sit down; sit down beside me here."

Jessie obeyed and they sank together on a mossy mound, a few stately oaks and maples whispering welcome; for they were jealous trees, and had begrudged the central grove its throng of happy children, the merry scene just visible from their topmost boughs.

"I’ve got awful good news for you, Jessie," Madeline began ardently, after a momentary struggle as to how she should introduce the subject.

"What’s it about?" Jessie asked, her eyes opening wide.

"It’s about your mother," answered Madeline.

Jessie looked gravely at the other.

"Anything about the tarts?" she enquired earnestly, her mind still absorbed with the tragedy.

"No, no—of course it’s not about anything like that. It’s about her eyes—I’m pretty sure they’re going to get well."

Jessie’s own were dancing. "Who said so? Why? Tell me quick."

"Well, I know all about everything," Madeline replied, importantly. "I know about you wanting to take her to the doctor in the city—and she’s going to go," she affirmed conclusively.

"When?" Jessie demanded swiftly.

"Any time—to-morrow, if you like," Madeline returned triumphantly, withdrawing her hand from her bosom and thrusting the crisp notes into Jessie’s; "my father gave me all that money to-day—and it’s to pay the doctor—it’s to pay everything," she amended jubilantly. "Only father doesn’t want any one to know who did it—when do you think she’ll go, Jessie?" she asked, a little irrelevantly, for matters had taken a rather unexpected turn.

Jessie was staring at her through swimming eyes, the import of the great moment too much for her childish soul. Her mother’s face passed before her, beautiful in its tender patience; and all the pathos of the long struggle, so nearly over now, broke upon the little mind that knew not what pathos meant except by the slow tuition of a sorrow-clouded life. Poor child, she little knew by what relentless limitations even great city doctors may be bound.

"Is it because you’re glad, Jessie?" Madeline enquired in a reverent sort of voice, dimly diagnosing the paradox of human joy. But Jessie answered never a word; her gaze was fixed downward now upon the money, such a sum of it as she had never seen before in her poor meagre life. And the big tears fell on the unconscious things lying in her lap, the poor dead symbols baptized and quickened by the living tokens of human love and feeling.

"Oh, yes," she sobbed at last, "it’s ’cause I’m glad—mother’ll be able to see the flowers now, an’ the birds, an’ everything—she loves them so. An’ poor Harvey won’t have to spend his raspberry money; he hasn’t any winter coat, but now—I’m nearly as glad for Harvey as I am for mother," she broke off, suddenly drying her eyes, the ever-ready smile of childhood returning to the playground from which the tears had driven it.

"What makes you so glad about Harvey?" Madeline broke in, hailing the returning smile with one no less radiant of her own.

"Because—because mother was sorrier about Harvey than anything else. You see, he’s nearly ready to—to be a scholar. An’ mother always said she’d be able to do everything for Harvey—everything like that, you know—if she could only see. Our Harvey’s goin’ to be a great man—if he gets a chance," she prophesied solemnly, looking straight into Madeline’s face, the bills quite forgotten now, one or two of them having fallen among the leaves upon the grass.

"Mind you, our Harvey isn’t always goin’ to be poor—mother says there’s lots of rich people gets poor, an’ lots of poor people gets rich. An’ that’s what Harvey’s goin’ to be—an’ mother an’ me’s goin’ to help him," the little loyalist proclaimed, her face beaming with confidence.

This opened up quite a vein of conversation, to which the youthful minds addressed themselves for a serious season. Finally, forgetting all philosophic matters, Jessie exclaimed: "I wonder where Harvey is—he doesn’t often leave me alone like this. Won’t he be glad though?—I’m goin’ to find Harvey."

Little did either of them dream how the object of their wonderings had been employed while they were sequestered in their peaceful nook.

Having left the table, Harvey loitered about till varying sounds assured him that the meal he had abandoned was completed. Then he strode along till he stood beside the drowsy sorrel, still doing spasmodic battle with the flies. Unbuttoning his coat, he removed the tarts and hid them in a hollow log; their confinement had not improved them much. Then he stood a while, pondering. A relieved and purposeful expression at length indicated that his mind was formed. But considerable time elapsed before a wandering urchin hove in sight—and such a being was absolutely necessary. The boy who thus suddenly appeared was evidently bent on an inspection of the animal, looking even from afar with the critical eye that universal boyhood turns upon a horse. The youngster drifted nearer and nearer; he was contriving to chew a slab of tamarack gum and eat an apple at one and the self-same time, which tempered his gait considerably.

Harvey nimbly slipped the noose in the bridle rein, the strap dangling free; the horse was quite oblivious, trying to snatch a little sleep between skirmishes.

"Hello there!" Harvey called to the boy, "come here—I want you to run a message."

The boy responded with a slightly quickened pace, and was almost at his side when he suddenly stood still and emitted a dreary howl.

"What’s the matter?" Harvey asked, slightly alarmed, the sorrel waking completely and looking around at the newcomer.

"I bit my tongue," the urchin wailed, disgorging his varied grist as he spoke. The dual process had been too complicated for him and he cautiously pasted the gum about a glass alley, storing both away in his breeches pocket. Then he bent his undivided powers upon the apple.

"That’ll soon be all right," Harvey assured him—"rub it with your gums," he directed luminously. "Don’t you see that horse is loose?—well, I want you to run back and tell Cecil Craig his horse has got untied; don’t tell him who said so."

"What’ll you give me?" enquired he of the wounded tongue, extending the injured member with telescopic fluency, squinting one eye violently down to survey it. "Is it bleedin’?" he asked tenderly.

"No—’tisn’t even cut," Harvey responded curtly, examining it seriously, nevertheless, with the sympathy that belongs to boyhood. "Let it back—you look like a jay-bird."

The other withdrew it reluctantly, the distorted eye slowly recovering its orbit till it rested on Harvey’s face. "What’ll you give me?" he asked again, making another savage onslaught on the apple.

Harvey fumbled in his pocket, rather dismayed. But his face lightened as his hand came forth. "I’ll give you this tooth-brush," he said, holding out a sorely wasted specimen. "I found it on the railroad track—some one dropped it, I guess. Or I’ll give you this garter," exposing a gaudy circlet of elastic, fatigued and springless; "I found it after the circus moved away."

The smaller boy’s face lit up a moment at reference to the sacred institution whose departure had left life so dreary.

"Charlie Winter found a shirt-stud an’ half a pair of braces there," he said sympathetically; "he gave the shirt-stud to his sister, but he wears the braces hisself," he added, completing the humble tale.

"Which’ll you take?" Harvey enquired abruptly, fearful lest the sorrel might awaken to his liberty.

"I don’t want that," the younger said contemptuously, glancing at the emaciated tooth-brush; "we’ve got one at home—a better one than that. An’ I don’t wear garters," he added scornfully, glancing downwards at his bare legs, "except on Sundays, an’ I’ve got one for that—the left leg never comes down. Haven’t you got anything else?" he queried, looking searchingly in the direction of Harvey’s pocket.

"No, that’s all I’ve got," returned Harvey as he restored the tooth-brush to its resting-place, still hopeful, however, of the garter. "It’ll make an awful good catapult," he suggested seriously.

"Let me see it," said the bargainer.

Harvey handed it to him. "I’ll hold your apple," he offered.

"Oh, never mind," the other replied discreetly; "I’ll just hold it in my mouth," the memory of similar service and its tragic outcome floating before him. The boy took the flaming article in his hand and drew it back, snapping it several times against the sole of his uplifted foot.

"All right," he said, withdrawing what survived of the apple, "it’s a little mushy—but I’ll take it."

The errand having been repeated in detail, the youngster departed to perform it, an apple stem—but never a core—falling by the wayside as he went. Harvey gazed towards the brow of the hill till he caught the first glimpse of a hurrying form, then slipped in behind the tree, carefully concealed.

Cecil Craig came apace, for he could see the dangling strap at a little distance. Hurriedly retying the horse, he was about to retrace his steps when he suddenly felt himself in the grip of an evidently hostile hand, securely attached from behind to the collar of his coat.

"Now you can ask me those questions if you like," he heard a rather hoarse voice saying; and writhing round he looked into a face flaming with a wrath that was rekindling fast.

Young Craig both squirmed and squealed; but the one was as fruitless as the other. Harvey was bent on dealing faithfully with him; and lack of spirit, rather than of strength, made the struggle a comparatively unequal one. After the preliminary application was completed, he dragged Craig to where he had hidden the rhubarb tarts, still crestfallen from solitary confinement.

"Why don’t you make some more jokes about the tarts my mother made?" Harvey enquired hotly; "you were real funny about them just before dinner." This reference to his mother seemed to fan the flame of his wrath anew, and another application was the natural result.

"Let me go," Cecil gasped. "I was only joking—ouch! I was just joking, I say," as he tried to release himself from Harvey’s tightening grip.

"So’m I," retorted Harvey; "just a piece of play, the same as yours—only we’re kind o’ slow at seeing the fun of it, eh?" shaking the now solemn humourist till his hair rose and fell—"I’d have seen the point a good deal quicker if my mother hadn’t worked so hard," he went on, flushing with the recollection and devoting himself anew to the facetious industry. "Pick up those tarts," he thundered suddenly.

Cecil looked incredulously at his antagonist. One glance persuaded him and he slowly picked up one by the outer edge.

"Take ’em all—the whole three," Harvey directed in a low tense tone. Which Cecil immediately did, not deeming the time opportune to refuse.

"Now give them to your horse," Harvey said; "you know you said you’d a good mind to feed him with them."

"I won’t do it," Cecil declared stoutly. "I’ll fight before I do it."

Harvey smiled. "It won’t do to have any fighting," he said amiably. "I’ll just give them to him myself—you better come along," he suggested, tightening his grip as he saw Cecil glancing fondly towards the brow of the hill, visions of a more peaceful scene calling him to return.

Harvey escorted his captive to the horse’s head; the equine was now wide awake and taking a lively interest in the animated interview; such preparations for mounting he had never seen before. But he was evidently disinclined to be drawn into the argument; for when Harvey held the rhubarb pie, rather battle-worn now, beneath his nose, he sniffed contemptuously and turned scornfully away.

Cecil, somewhat convalescent, indulged a sneering little laugh. "Your little joke don’t work," he said. "Pompey won’t look at "em."

"You’ll wish he had, before you’re through with them," Harvey returned significantly—"you’ve got to eat them between you."

"Got to what?—between who?" Cecil gasped, years of grammatical instruction wasted now as the dread prospect dawned grim and gray; "I don’t understand you," he faltered, turning remarkably white for one so utterly in the dark.

"It doesn’t need much understanding," Harvey returned laconically. "Go ahead."

Then the real struggle began; compared to this difference of opinion, and the physical demonstration wherein it found expression, the previous encounter was but as kittens’ frolic in the sun.

The opening argument concluded after a protracted struggle, Harvey emerged uppermost, still pressing his hospitality upon the prostrate Cecil. "May as well walk the plank," he was saying; "besides, they’re getting dryer all the time," he informed him as a friend.

"Let me up," gurgled Cecil. Harvey promptly released him; seated on a log, the latter began to renew the debate.

"I’ve had my dinner," he pleaded; "an’ I ate all I could."

"A little more won’t hurt you—always room at the top, you know. Anyhow it’s just dessert," responded Harvey, holding out one of the tarts. Whereat Cecil again valiantly refused—and a worthy demonstration followed.

The conquered at last kissed the rod and the solemn operation began, Harvey cheerfully breaking off chunk after chunk and handing them to the weary muncher. "There’s lots of poor children in New York would be glad to get them," he said in answer to one of Cecil’s most vigorous protests.

"Say," murmured the stall-fed as he paused, almost mired in the middle of tart number two, "let me take the rest home an’ eat ’em there—I’ll really eat ’em—on my honour; I promise you," he declared solemnly.

"I’m surprised a fellow brought up like you would think of carryin’ stuff home to eat it—that’s bad form. Here, take it—shut your eyes and open your mouth," commanded his keeper, holding another generous fragment to his lips.

"I say," gulped Cecil plaintively, "give us a drink—it’s chokin’ me."

"Shouldn’t drink at your meals," returned Harvey; "bad for your digestion—but I guess a drop or two won’t hurt you. Here, come this way—put on your cap—an’ fetch that along," pointing at the surviving tart; "the exercise’ll do you good," and he led the way downwards to a little brook meandering through the woods. No hand was on the victim’s collar now; poor Cecil was in no shape for flight.

"Give us your cap," said Harvey, thrusting it into the sparkling water and holding the streaming receptacle to Cecil’s lips; "that’s enough—that’ll do just now; don’t want you to get foundered."

"I’ve had enough," groaned the guest a minute later, as if the moment had only come; "I’ve got it nearly all down—an’ I hate crusts. I won’t; by heavens, I tell you I won’t," bracing himself as vigorously as his cargo would permit.

"I’m the one to say when you’ve had enough," Harvey retorted shortly, throwing himself into battle array as he spoke, "an’ you bet you’ll eat the crusts—I’ll teach you to eat what’s set before you an’ make no remarks about the stuff—specially when it’s not your own," he said, reverting to the original offense and warming up at the recollection. "You’d make a great fight, wouldn’t you—fightin’ you’d be like fightin’ a bread-puddin’," he concluded scornfully.

Cecil munched laboriously on. "There," Harvey suddenly interrupted, "now you’ve had enough—that wasn’t rhubarb you were eatin’," he flung contemptuously at him; "’twas crow—an’ that’ll teach you to make sport of folks you think beneath you. You’ll have some food for thought for a while—you’d better walk round a bit," he concluded with a grin as he turned and strode away, leaving the inlaid Cecil alone with his burdened bosom.

*XII*

_*THE ENCIRCLING GLOOM*_

Real boyhood, with its cheerfulness amid present cares and its oblivion to those that were yet to come, was almost past. Such at least would have been the opinion of any accurate observer if he had noted Harvey’s face that summer morning as he pressed along the city street. A deeper seriousness than mere years bestow looked out from the half-troubled, half-hopeful gaze; not that it was ill-becoming—the contrary rather—for there was something of steady resoluteness in his eyes that attested his purpose to play some worthy part in this fevered life whose stern and warlike face had already looked its challenge to his own.

How pathetic were many a poor procession—and how romantic too—if we could but see the invisibles that accompany the humblest trudgers on the humblest street!

For Memory and Hope and Fear and Sorrow and silent Pain—Death too, noiselessly pursuing—and Love, chiefest of them all, mute and anguished often-times, crowding Death aside and battling bravely in the shadowy struggle; how often might all these be seen accompanying the lowly, had we but the lightened vision!

Thus was it there that summer day. The careless noticed nothing but a well developed lad, his poor clothes as carefully repaired and brushed as faithful hands could make them for his visit to the city; and they saw beside him only a white-faced woman, her whole mien marked by timidity and gentleness, as if she felt how poor and small was the part she played in the surging life about her. Both made their way carefully, keeping close in under the shadow of the buildings, as if anxious to escape the jostling throng. The woman’s hand was in her son’s; she seemed to be trusting altogether to his guidance and protection, and very tenderly he shielded her from the little perils of the street. Timidly, yet right eagerly, they made their way—for the quest was a great one; and all the years to come, they knew, were wrapped in the bosom of that anxious hour.

"Hadn’t we better get on one of those street cars, mother?" the boy asked, glancing wistfully at a passing trolley. "I’m sure you’re tired."

"How much does it cost, Harvey?" the mother asked.

"I’m not very sure, but I think it’s ten cents for us both," he answered, relaxing his pace.

The mother pressed on anew. "We can’t afford it, dear," she said; "it’ll take such a lot to pay the doctor—we’ll have to save all we can; and I’m not very tired," she concluded, taking his hand again.

When, after much of scrutiny and more of enquiry, they stood at length before the doctor’s imposing place, both instinctively stopped and gazed a little, the outlines of the stately house floating but very dimly before the woman’s wistful eyes.

"Will we ask him how much it costs before we go in?" Harvey’s mother asked him anxiously.

The boy pondered a moment. "I don’t think so," he said at length; "he mightn’t like it."

"But perhaps we haven’t got enough."

"Well, we can send the rest after we get home—I’ve got the raspberry money left."

The woman sighed and smiled together, permitting herself to be led on up the steps.

Harvey’s hand was on the bell: "You don’t suppose he’ll do anything to you, will he, mother? He won’t hurt you, will he?"

"No, no, child, of course not; he’ll make me well," his mother said reassuringly. In a moment the bell was answered and the excited pair were ushered in.

Nothing could have been more kindly than their reception at the hands of the eminent doctor; nor could the most distinguished patient have been more carefully and sympathetically examined. Almost breathless, Harvey sat waiting for the verdict.

But the doctor was very vague in his conclusions. "You must use this lotion. And—and we’ll hope for the best," he said; "and whenever you’re in the city you must come and see me—don’t make a special trip for that purpose, of course," he added cautiously.

"Why?" Harvey asked acutely.

The doctor made an evasive reply. Harvey’s face was dark.

"How much is it?" he said in a hollow voice, his hand going to his pocket as he spoke.

"Oh, that’s not important—we’ll just leave that till you’re in the city again," said the kindly doctor, shaking Harvey playfully by the shoulder.

"I’d sooner pay it now, sir; I’ve got—I’ve got some money," declared the boy.

"Well, all right," returned the physician; "let me see—how would a dollar appeal to you? My charge will be one dollar," he said gravely.

Harvey was busy unwinding his little roll. "It’s not very much," he said without looking up; "I thought ’twould be a lot more than that—I haven’t got anything smaller than five dollars, sir."

"Neither have I—what a rich bunch we are," the doctor answered quickly; "I tell you—I’m liable to be up in Glenallen some of these days for a bowling match; I’ll just collect it then," leading the way towards the door as he spoke, his farewell full of cordial cheer.

Neither mother nor son uttered a word till they were some little distance from the doctor’s office. Suddenly the former spoke.

"The world’s full of trouble, Harvey—but I believe it’s fuller of kindness. It’s wonderful how many tender-hearted folks there are. Wasn’t it good of him?"

Harvey made no answer, but his hand loosened itself from hers. "I believe I—I forgot something," he said abruptly. "Just wait here, mother; I’ll be back in just a minute—you can rest here, see," leading her to a bench on the green sward of a little crescent not much more than half a stone’s throw away.

A minute later he was back in the doctor’s office, the surprised physician opening the door himself. "What’s the matter, boy—forgotten something?" he queried.

"No," Harvey answered stoutly, his face very white; "but I knew you didn’t tell me everything, sir—and I want to know. I want you to tell me now, quick—mother’s waiting."

"Why do you want to know, laddie?"

"Because she’s my mother, sir. And I’ve got a little sister at home—and I’m going to take care of them both; and I want to know if mother’s eyes are going to get better, sir," he almost panted, one statement chasing the other as fast as the words could come.