Celia discovered that the firm of lawyers who had written her, had their
office in a building not many blocks from Dobson and Co.’s store. She
felt anxious to find out what they wanted of her, and so the next
morning she obtained permission for a few minutes’ extra time at the
lunch hour and hastened there.
She reached the number at last, and searched the dirty sign board for
the names “Rawley and Brown.” There it was almost the last one on the
list, “Fourth floor, back.” She climbed up the four flights of stairs,
for the elevator was out of order and arrived panting before the dingy
office. When she entered the room, two elderly men sat at desks on which
were piled many papers, and each was talking with a client who sat near
his desk. They did not cease their talking with these men until Celia
had stood for some moments by the door. Then the elder of the two looked
over his glasses at her, and she ventured to say she was Miss Murray
come in response to their letter. She was given a chair and asked to
wait until Mr. Rawley was at leisure, and in the course of a few minutes
both the clients had withdrawn, and she was left alone with the two
lawyers. Over in the corner behind a screen, she could hear the click of
a typewriter and see the top of a frizzy head which she knew must belong
to the operator, probably the one who had written the letter to her.
Mr. Rawley at last turned to her and began a list of questions. Celia
answered everything she could, wondering when this mystery would be
explained. As soon as she had finished telling Mr. Rawley the names of
her different living relatives, he cleared his throat and looked at her
sharply and yet thoughtfully:
“Miss Murray,” said he, as if about to ask something very important,
“did you ever hear your father speak of having a great uncle?”
Celia paused to think a moment. She had been but ten years old when her
father died. She could remember some conversations between her father
and mother about relatives whom she had never seen. She searched her
mind.
“I’m not sure about the ‘_great_’ part of it. He might have been a great
uncle, but I know there was one father called uncle Abner. He must have
died long ago. He was a very old man then. I can remember father saying
laughingly to mother one day that he would never see anybody prettier
than she was, not if he lived to be as old as uncle Abner.”
“A-ahem!” said Mr. Rawley, uncrossing his feet and recrossing them again
and putting his two thumbs together as he looked at them seriously under
his bushy eyebrows. “Yes. Ah! Well, and did that uncle have
any—ah—heirs?”
Celia wanted to laugh. She had already begun to plan how she would make
aunt Hannah laugh by a letter she would write describing this interview
with the lawyers, but she kept her face straight and answered steadily.
“I do not know.”
“Well, I must say, my dear young lady,” remarked Mr. Rawley, after a
somewhat prolonged pause, “that your evidence is somewhat—that is to
say,—inadequate. You could hardly expect us, with so little to go
upon—that is to say, without more investigation, you could hardly
expect us——”
“You forget, sir,” said Celia, really laughing now, “that I have not the
slightest idea what all this is about. I expect nothing. I came here to
be informed.”
The old lawyer gave her another searching look and then seemed to
conclude that she was honest.
“Well, young lady, I think I may safely tell you this much. There was
property of Mr. Abner Murray’s, which naturally descended to his only
son. This son had been in India for years. He did not return at his
father’s death, and in fact his whereabouts was not definitely known,
until a very short time ago, when positive information of his death
without heirs was received. The property would then revert to Mr. Abner
Murray’s next of kin, and his heirs. Mr. Abner Murray had a brother, who
is supposedly your father’s father. If this should prove to be the case,
through his death and your father’s, his only heir, you being the only
living child of your father, the property would naturally fall to you.
Do you follow me closely?”
Celia looked at Mr. Rawley respectfully now and very gravely. The matter
had taken on a different aspect. It was a complete surprise. She had not
even in her wildest dreams allowed herself to hope for any such thing.
Fortunes only fell to girls in books, not to flesh-and-blood, hard
working, everyday girls.
She looked at the lawyer in silence a minute and then she smiled gravely
and said:
“That would be very nice if it’s true. I wish it might be. And now I
suppose you are done with me for the present, until you have
investigated the truth of my statements.”
Mr. Rawley seemed surprised that she took it so coolly and asked no more
questions. She rose as if to go. The truth was she had caught a glimpse
of the clock and she saw that she had barely time to reach her counter
before the limit of her nooning would be over, and she had had no lunch.
Her position might be forfeited if she exceeded her time. That was worth
to her at present all the mythical fortunes that the future might hold
for her. So, without more ado, she hurried away, and, not even stopping
for a single bite to eat, laid aside her wraps and was in her place
behind the counter when the minute hand pointed just one minute after
the time allotted her.
It was a very busy afternoon. She had not much time to think. Everybody
seemed to want ribbons. “Perhaps I shall be in a position to buy some of
these yards myself, instead of measuring them off for other people, some
time, if that old Mr. Rawley ever finds out whether _I_ am _I_,” she
thought to herself as she skillfully clipped off two yards of blue satin
and three yards of pink taffeta.
“Property!” he had said. What did property mean? Had great uncle Abner
left an old house standing somewhere, which would be of no earthly use
to anybody unless sold, and bring nothing then? Or perhaps it was some
musty old library. She had no faith that there was much money. Such
things did not run in their family. It would turn out to be very little.
But oh, what if it should be something worth while? What, for instance,
if it should be a thousand dollars! What might she not do? Why, a
thousand dollars would enable her to do some of the nice things she
longed so to do. She could bring aunt Hannah here to the city, and set
up a tiny home with her in it somewhere. With that much money to start
on, they could surely make their living, she in the store and aunt
Hannah at home sewing. It flashed across her mind that that was just the
sum Mrs. Morris had wished for. She had said if she only had a thousand
dollars she could pay her debts and have enough left to start on and get
out of her uncomfortable life.
How nice it would be if she, Celia, could have money enough to say, “I
have the thousand dollars, Mrs. Morris, and I will give it to you. You
may pay those people and go away to some more quiet, restful life.” Then
how delightful it would be to take that poor miserable boarding-house
and make it over. Make the boarders’ lives cheerful and pleasant, give
them healthful food and clean, inviting rooms to live in! What a work
that would be for a lifetime! If she ever did get rich, she believed she
would do just that thing. Hunt up the most wretched boarding-house she
could find and take it, boarders and all, and make it over. She believed
she could do it with aunt Hannah’s help. Aunt Hannah could cook and
plan, and she could execute and beautify. The thought pleased her so
well that she carried it out into details, during the long walk back to
her boarding-house that night. She even went so far as to think out what
she would give them for dinner the first night, and how the dining-room
should appear—and how their faces would look when they saw it all. What
fun it would be! Miss Burns should have something every night that would
tempt her appetite, and the poor old lady in the third story should be
given the very tenderest cut in the whole steak, so she need not tremble
so when she cut it. And there was that poor young school-teacher, he
needed rich creamy milk. She had heard him decline the muddy coffee
several times and once he asked if he might have a glass of milk, and
Maggie had told him they were all out of milk.
She debated whether she would retain her position in the store and
decided that she would for a time, because that would give her a chance
to carry out some plans without letting the boarders know who was at the
bottom of it all. Things should not be changed much at first, except
that everything should be made entirely clean and wholesome. Then
gradually they would begin to beautify. Perhaps the others would help in
it. Perhaps she could lure the young man from the dry goods store into
spending an evening at home and helping her. She had a suspicion that he
spent his evenings out, and remained late in places which did him no
good, to say the least. It would do no harm for her to try to get
acquainted with him and help him, even if she never got a fortune to
enable her to raise her neighbors into better things. She would begin
the reformation of young Mr. Knowles that very evening, if there came an
opportunity. With these thoughts and plans in mind she completed her
long walk in much shorter time than usual and with a lighter heart. It
did her good to have an interest in life beyond the mere duties of the
hour.
She found Mrs. Morris in much the same state of depression as on the day
before. The doctor had urged again that she go to the hospital for
regular course of treatment. She was as determined as ever that she
would not, or rather _could_ not do it. She wanted Celia to come and sit
with her. She had taken a liking to her new boarder, and she did not
hesitate to say so, and to declare that the others were an unfeeling set
who bothered her and didn’t care if she was sick. Celia tried to cheer
her up. She gave her a flower which one of the other workers in the
store had given her, and told her she would come up after dinner was
over. Then she went down to the table, and found Mr. Knowles seated
before his plate looking cold and coughing. She wondered if her
opportunity would come. His seat was at her left hand. They exchanged
some remarks about the weather, and Celia told him he seemed to have a
bad cold. He told her that was a chronic state with him, and then
coughed again as he tried to laugh. She entered into his mock gaiety,
and told him that if his mother were there she would tell him not to go
out that evening, in such damp weather and with that cough.
His face grew sober instantly, and he said very earnestly:
“I suppose she would.”
“Well, then, I suppose you’ll stay in, won’t you?” said the girl. “It
isn’t right not to take care of yourself. The wind is very raw to-night.
Your cough will be much worse to-morrow if you go out in it. You ought
to stay in for your mother’s sake, you know.”
It was a bow drawn at a venture. Celia stole a glance at him. He looked
up at her quickly, his handsome, gay face sober and almost startled.
“But mother isn’t here,” he said, his voice husky. “She died a year
ago.”
“But don’t you think mothers care for their sons even after they have
gone to heaven? I believe they do. I believe in some way God lets them
know when they are doing right. You ought to take care of yourself just
the same, even if she is not here, for you know she would tell you to do
it, now wouldn’t she?”
“Yes, I know she would,” he answered, and then, after a minute’s pause,
he added, “but it is so hard to stay in here. There is no place to sit
and nothing to do all the evening. Mother used to have things
different.”
“It _is_ hard,” said Celia, sympathizingly, “and this is a dreary place.
I’ve thought so myself, ever since I came. I wonder if you and I
couldn’t make things a little pleasanter for us all, if we tried.”
“How? I’m sure I never thought I could do anything in that line. How
would you go about it?”
“Well, I’m not just sure,” said Celia, thinking rapidly and bringing
forth some of her half made plans to select one for this emergency. “But
I think we ought to have a good light first. The gas is miserable.”
“You’re right; it is that,” responded Mr. Knowles.
“Didn’t I see a big lamp on the parlor table?”
“Yes, I think there is a lamp there, but it smokes like an engine, and
it gives a wicked flare of a light that stares at you enough to put your
eyes out.”
“Well, I wonder if we couldn’t do something to cure that lamp of
smoking. I’m somewhat a doctor of lamps myself, having served a long
apprenticeship at them, and I think if you’ll help me I’ll try. I have
some lovely pink crepe paper upstairs that I got to make a shade for my
room, but I’ll sacrifice that to the store if you can get me a new wick.
What do you say? Shall we try it? I’m sure Mrs. Morris won’t object, for
it will save gas, besides making things pleasanter for the boarders. I
have a book I think you will enjoy, after the lamp is fixed for reading.
If you are going to be a good boy and stay at home to-night I’ll bring
it down.”
The young man entered into the scheme enthusiastically. He was a very
young man, not more than nineteen, or Celia would not have cared or
dared to speak to him in this gay, half-commanding way. But she had been
used to boys, and to winning them to do what she wished, and she won her
way this time surely. The young man was only too glad to have something
to keep him in, and his heart was still very tender toward his lost
mother. Celia saw that he would not be hard to influence. She wished she
were wise and able to help him. Her soul felt with oppression the need
of all these other souls in this house with her, and she wished to be
great and mighty to lift them up and help them. How strange it was that
the way kept opening up before her for daily helping of others. She
seemed to be the only Christian in this house full of people. What a
weight of responsibility rested upon her if that was so. How she ought
to pray to be guided that she might be wise as a serpent and harmless as
a dove; that she might, if possible, bring each one of them to a
knowledge of Jesus Christ. And what was _she_ to do all this? A mere
weak girl, who was discouraged and homesick, and could not get enough
money together to keep herself from need, perhaps, nor grace enough to
keep her own heart from failing or her feet from falling. What was _she_
to think of guiding others? How could she do all this work? She must
shrink back from the thought. She could not do it. It was too much. Ah!
She might leave all that to her gracious Lord. She had forgotten that.
All he wanted her to do was to take the duty of the hour or the minute
and do it for him. What matter whether there were results that showed or
not so long as he was obeyed? When she slipped up to her room for that
pink crepe paper she knelt down and asked that it and the book and the
lamp and her little effort for the evening might be blessed. Then she
went down to conquer that lamp.