them, why not give up the struggle? He did not wish for a carriage or a
palace; he wished to give up his vagrant life for some labour by which
he could maintain himself and give his child a start towards honest
womanhood. That was not extravagant, surely, and if God were indeed in
His heaven, and all were indeed right with the world, it seemed to
Pierre that it was none too much to ask.
He finished "Love's Young Dream," and began the "Boulanger March." A
young girl of eighteen or nineteen, with an open book in her hand,
joined the children at the window. She had a beautiful, rather serious
face, and it brightened into amusement, and then into earnestness, as
she caught sight of the quaint vehicle, of the child under the faded
umbrella, and of the empty sleeve of the musician. Pierre ground on
mechanically; it was "I dreamt that I dwelt in Marble Halls" now, and he
hoped that a dime would be flung from the window before he came to
"Within a Mile of Edinboro' Town," for that was the weakest part of his
repertoire. The group still stayed at the window, and the crisis could
not be delayed. The piano jerked through several bars, stopped and
repeated, wheezed and returned to the "Boulanger March," then bounded
again to "Edinboro' Town," and, after several ineffectual attempts to
finish it, made an asthmatic dash into "No One to Love." Pierre looked
anxiously under the _porte-cochere_ for the resentful butler; but the
children shrieked with renewed delight, and the young girl, going away
from the window, presently appeared, running down the drive-way, and
slipping on her jacket as she came. She approached the edge of the
side-walk, for there was no group about the piano, and, after a brief
interview with Pierre, she left a piece of silver with him, and went
upstairs to her mother.
Janet Gordon was a great anxiety to her family. She was possessed of the
most extraordinary ideas, and no one could tell whence they came, unless
she became infected by them in some mysterious fashion, as one is by
microbes; at all events, she had never inherited them in the legitimate
way. At present, it is true, she had not been introduced to society, but
unless a great change of heart should make itself apparent in a few
months, she threatened to be no ornament to her set, and no source of
pride to an ambitious mother.
[Illustration]
"Please look out of the window, mama," she said, bringing a breath of
raw air into her mother's flower-scented sitting-room.
Mrs. Gordon rose languidly, her tea-gown trailing behind her. "What is
it? Anything more than an organ-grinder who has been rasping my nerves
for five minutes? Oh, I see what you mean; what an extraordinary
combination--a child in one end of the machine! Tell Heloise to give the
man a dime, dear."
"I have given him a quarter myself, and have had a little talk with him;
he is quite different from the ordinary organ-grinder, mama."
"Oh, of course," said Mrs. Gordon good-naturedly; "all your geese are
swans, dear; a dime was quite enough for him."
"But he has only one arm, you see, mama."
"Of course, they never have; that is one of the tricks of the trade.
They bind one arm down to the side, and then slip the coat over it. If
you notice the man to-morrow he will have the left sleeve hanging empty,
and be playing with the right arm--it is more effective."
"I'm sure there is no deception in this case, mama."
"Well, have it your own way, child; but pray don't take off his coat to
investigate, or you'll be catching some dreadful disease. It does seem
strange that poor people should always be so odiously dirty, when water
costs nothing."
"This man is as clean as possible, and so is the baby. Her name is
Fleur-de-lis; is it not quaint?"
"Just what I should expect; the dirtier and commoner they are, the more
regal and fanciful are the names they give their children. I suppose
your Fleur-de-lis is redolent of garlic, like the Pansies and Violets of
her class."
"No, she is not. She is as sweet as a rose; but her face is almost blue
with cold."
"Of course; what can the man expect if he trundles her about in this
weather? But I suppose he does it to enlist public sympathy. I wonder
why foreigners choose this particularly obnoxious way of getting a
living; and, if they must do it, why they go about with a decrepit old
instrument like that."
[Illustration]
"Yes, his piano is very old, but he cannot afford to rent a better one
just at present. He said, in his broken English, 'I had not the "Marche
Boulanger," neither "Comrades," ma'mselle; it was then I had what you
call bad luck, and now, _mon Dieu!_ it is that I have not
"Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay."' And, as for the child, he does not allow her to
take the money. I was dropping the quarter into her hand, when he
touched his cap, and said, '_Pardon_, give it to me, ma'mselle, _s'il
vous plait_. You see, if ze monees keep putting in her hand she will
grow up one leetle beggair; she does not make ze muzeek, she does not
push ze piano--_bien_, she s'all not take zee monees."
"Extraordinary!" murmured Mrs. Gordon satirically, as she fitted the
cushions to her back more luxuriously; "you must repeat that speech to
your father. I actually believe that a new order of philosophic
mendicant is springing up to match the new charity. The new charity does
not wish to pauperise poverty, and the new poverty does not wish to be
pauperised; it is really very amusing."
"He is forced to take the child with him, because she has no mother,"
explained Janet.
"Of course she has no mother; they make it a point to have no mother,
or, if they have, they say they never knew who she was nor where she
is."
"They know where this mother is," said Janet gravely, "for she died a
year ago to-day."
[Illustration]
"Really, Janet, you exasperate me beyond measure, talking with these low
people, and allowing them to fill your mind with their falsehoods. What
is it you wish to do? You have given the man a quarter already; that
will quench his thirst for the present--Heloise, don't take Fifine out
without her blanket; she has been shivering on the rug before the fire.
Go back to your books, Janet. There will always be poor organ-grinders,
and most of them will have lost some of their arms or legs, and all of
them will have motherless, or worse than motherless, children. It's the
way of the world, and if you had the wealth of the Indies you could
never set things right--and, Heloise, come back a moment; tell Madame
Labiche that all three gowns must be sent home to-morrow; and that I
shall give her no more orders if she copies any detail of my costumes
for her other customers; and don't forget the American Beauties, two
dozen, the longest stems, and give that piano-child at the gate ten
cents more as you pass--I know it is not right, Janet, but you are so
insistent. The societies tell you never to bestow alms without first
looking into the case and finding whether it is really deserving; but I
am too weakly benevolent, and too lazy, besides, ever to
restrain--Janet, are you mad? Close that window at once!" And Mrs.
Gordon almost shrieked as she held down her frizzes with both hands to
shield them from the raw wind that rushed in from outside. She would not
have spoken so peremptorily had it not been for the effect of the damp
air on her coiffure. When her front hair was crimped and protected from
the assaults of the atmosphere she was an amiable woman and could
discuss any subject with calmness; but, deprive her of twenty little
gold-wire hair-pins daintily darned into her auburn frizzes, and the
invisible hair-net that Heloise pinned on with such nicety, and she
would not have listened to any argument in the world, even if it
concerned the salvation of her own soul.
"I was only going to speak a word to the man, mama," said Janet
apologetically.
"I believe you've been reading Tolstoi," returned her mother, going to a
mirror to repair damages. "Heavens! what a fright you've made me! I wish
those Russians would keep their universal brotherhood ideas, and their
cholera germs, at home."
"Dear mama, I scarcely know who Tolstoi is, except that he wrote a novel
about Anna somebody that you will not let me read. I do not know what
Tolstoi thinks about the wrong in the world, or how he means to right
it. I am not as sentimental as you and papa seem to fancy. I am not
certain that I ought to wrap that cold little child in my new seal
jacket, and run bare-headed by the side of the organ collecting pennies
for the poor one-armed man. I know that if I should go down into the
slums I should find a thousand others, and that if I worked from year's
end to year's end, and spent papa's entire fortune, I could not make
them all comfortable. But don't you believe, mama, when, once in a
while, need, poverty, and sorrow seem to come directly in contact with
plenty and riches and happiness, that it means something, and that we
ought to stop and think out something special?"
"Oh, I'm sure I don't know, child; you confuse me so with your
persistence, and I can't think of anything while he sticks fast in the
middle of 'Edinboro' Town.' Give him half a dollar, if you
like--anything to get rid of him, though he succeeds wonderfully in
amusing the children."
"I don't want to give him any more money, mama," said Janet, with a
sigh. "I only feel as if I must not lose sight of the child--there they
are going!"
Pierre covered his piano, pinned the rubber-cloth more tightly round
Fleur-de-lis's throat, and was preparing to move off in the direction of
home, when Janet darted into the nursery, and, flinging open the window
in front of the children, called impetuously in her clear young voice;
"Bon soir, Fleur-de-lis! Bon soir, monsieur! Revenez bientot, je vous
prie!"
[Illustration]
Pierre's face lighted with surprise and pleasure, and, as he took off
his cap he stammered excitedly, "Dis bon soir, bebe! Je vous remercis
mille-fois, ma'mselle; je reviendrai!"
He wheeled his piano to the shed where he kept it under cover at night,
and carried Fleur-de-lis home on his arm. After he had undressed her and
laid her in her crib, he took a crucifix from a drawer where, in a
moment of bitterness, he had hidden it the day before, and, kissing it,
restored it to its accustomed place above the head of his bed.
And the anniversary of Marie's death did not go out in utter blackness
after all; nor was it entirely because of the two pieces of silver that
had unexpectedly swelled the day's receipts. He had felt the magic of a
friendly voice; the beautiful little lady had spoken to him in his
native tongue; she had drawn a fragment of his story from him, and thus
relieved the weight at his heart; she had smiled on the child, and
kissed her; she had asked him to come again. And as he fell asleep he
whispered, "Merci, mille-fois, ma'mselle; je reviendrai."
[Illustration]
_Published by Hodder & Stoughton, St. Paul's House,
Warwick Square, London, B.C., and printed in Great
Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and
Aylesbury. Ten Colour Plates engraved and printed by
Henry Stone & Son, Ld., Banbury and London, and four by
the Bushey Colour Press._
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 56, "abear" changed to "bear" (I can't bear)
Page 125, "their" changed to "there" (there is only our)
Page 125, "Barbette" changed to "Babette" (Babette, the elderly)
Page 138, "air" changed to "hair" (her front hair was)
FOOTNOTES:
FOOTNOTES: