THE END AND AFTER
Nowhere is an error forgotten so readily, or more kindness shown to the
erring one when in trouble, than in a small place, and Merivale was not
an exception. The payment of the smaller debts had done much towards
restoring good feeling among a certain class of creditors. The dresses
intended for Narragansett Pier had been returned to Boston. The milkman
had his range and winter coal and Johnny’s overcoat. Other Johnnies
would be clothed and warmed through the coming winter. The back rent on
the bank was paid, the judge smacking his lips as he received the money
and saying, “them women folks are trying to do the square thing.” The
woman with the thirty dollars was rejoicing in her new teeth, while
Nancy Sharp had been paid in full, part of the payment consisting of the
identical twenty silver dollars which had gone round so many times on
the day of the run, and nothing could exceed her fidelity to the Greys
or the bitterness of her tongue if aught was said against them. Others
of higher degree than Nancy followed her example, and words of sympathy
and offers of help, if needed, were daily left at the house where the
master lay dying.
Mrs. Grey had recovered sufficiently to be in the sick-room a part of
the time, but it was Louie who bore the burden and whispered comfort to
the repentant man, who, in his anguish, often cried out:
“God have mercy upon me, a miserable sinner.”
“He will; He will. He knows how sorry you are. Don’t be afraid. He has
said that whoever comes to Him He will not cast out, and though your
sins are as scarlet He will make them white as snow,” Louie would say to
him at intervals, and cheered by her words, hope came at last, and
though he did not talk much, there was a look of peace upon his face
which deepened as the great change came, and when Louie bent over him
and asked, “Father, do you know me? And is it well with you?” he
answered, “Yes, all is well,” while his old-time smile settled around
his mouth and made his face more natural in death than it had been
during his illness.
The first intimation the judge had of his death was in church, where
prayers were said for a family in affliction. He felt sure it was for
Mrs. Grey and Louie, and his amen was so loud as to make his wife start
and glance sideways at him. The next morning he said to her:
“We’d better drive to the Greys and leave cards of condolence. Which
corner do we turn down? Hanged if I know.”
Mrs. White didn’t know, either, but ventured a guess that it used to be
the lower left-hand; so the cards bearing the names of Judge White and
Mrs. White, with the lower left-hand corner turned down, were left at
the Greys, where other cards were received as the day wore on, and words
of sympathy were spoken and offers of help made and accepted.
Mrs. Grey had collapsed again, and everything was left to Louie, who,
with white face and dry eyes saw everybody, even to Godfrey Sheldon, who
came to her and said:
“You’ll want a carriage for the grave, and I thought mebby you’d like
your old one with Jack and Jill and the driver. I’ll put a knot of crape
on his arm.”
Louie thanked him and accepted his offer, and then hurried from him to
read a note from Herbert, who wrote:
“Dear Louie: I have just heard of your father’s death, and am awfully
sorry for you. I wish I could be there; but as I cannot, I shall send
some flowers, which are for you as much as for your father.
“HERBERT.”
He sent the flowers—a pillow of pansies—with “Father,” in the center,
and the first tears Louie had shed fell upon the floral offering, which
was followed by many more, until on the day of the funeral the house was
like a garden and filled with the perfume of roses and lilies and pinks.
So many flowers seemed out of place for a man who had wrought so much
mischief as Mr. Grey, but the memory of his misdeeds was forgotten for
the time in sympathy for his wife and daughter. Nancy Sharp was not
behind with her gift, and one of the silver dollars which Mr. Blake had
paid her, and which she had kept tied up in a stocking, was spent for a
bouquet which she laid upon the coffin, with a rather soiled card,
bearing the words, “Nancy Sharp, Her flours. Rest your sole.”
It was a very large funeral, for nearly every creditor was present, with
many who had never done business with the dead man. Judge White came
early, and when he saw Jack and Jill, he said to the undertaker: “Take
my carriage. Yes, sir—take mine for the mourners.”
There were only two real ones, Louie and her mother, but many went to
the grave; Nancy Sharp, with a black ribbon on her bonnet and a black
shawl on her shoulders, riding in state in Judge White’s carriage, with
three more of her companions. As the preferred creditor, she felt
herself entitled to a prominent place, and when the White carriage came
up she was the first to get in, saying to her friends who stood near
her:
“Come in, girls. It’s your only chance to ride on satin cushions.”
As the judge had given up his carriage he decided to walk into town and
wait for it. Standing aside to let the procession pass he caught sight
of Nancy her face radiant with triumph, although she tried to look
solemn, as befitted the occasion. For a moment the judge stood
speechless. Then he began with his favorite expression, “By the Lord
Harry,” but remembering that was hardly the time for an explosion, he
bottled his wrath till he reached home, which he did on foot, without
waiting in town.
“What do you think?” he said to his wife, “I gave up the carriage,
thinking the widder might go in it, and was padding along in the dirt
and dust—and such a dust and heat for October—when who should come
riding by in my carriage—on my cushions—but old Nancy Sharp and three
more fishwomen like her. I tell you I won’t stand it. Who knows what
catching thing they had in their clothes? I’ll have it fumigated with a
sulphur candle, by the Lord Harry, I will! Nancy Sharp riding in my
carriage! mine! to Tom Grey’s funeral! and such a funeral! Why, you’d
s’pose ’twas the Governor they was burying. Yes, sir! the Governor!
Everybody was there but you. House full—yard full—ten carriages full,
besides the hearse and clergyman and bearers—and honorary bearers—and
more’n a hundred dollars worth of flowers, I’ll bet. Why, _they_
couldn’t do any more for _me_, than they’ve done for Tom Grey; and Nancy
Sharp in my carriage! _Mine!_ and bobbing at me as she passed! I won’t
stand it! No, sir!”
Just what he did to his carriage is not known. Probably nothing, as his
mind was diverted into another channel by a letter David brought him
when he came from the burial, after having deposited each of the
fishwomen at her door in White’s Row. The letter was from Herbert,
asking his father to interest himself a little in Mrs. Grey and Louie,
now that they were left alone.
“I don’t know what they have to live on as I hear they are paying debts
with the money received for the house, and I don’t suppose they would
take anything from me,” he wrote; “but you and mother can help them, and
you owe them something for what Louie did for us.”
“Great guns! Why is he everlastingly harping on that?” the judge
exclaimed. “And he is fool enough to s’pose that a girl who threw him
over would accept help from me? No, sir! Proud as Lucifer, but it won’t
do to let ’em starve. I’ll sound Blake, and find how the land lays, and
maybe I’ll start a subscription. I’ll head it with ten dollars.”
The judge felt himself a very generous man after this decision, but his
ten dollars were never needed. Other forces were at work for Mrs. Grey
and Louie, and within three weeks after Mr. Grey’s death there came a
letter from Miss Percy, urging Louie to come abroad at once with her
mother, who would be greatly benefited by the sea voyage.
“I have pleasant apartments,” she wrote, “where you will be welcome as
my guests; and, when you are rested, we will see about that voice. Don’t
hesitate for any scruples whatever, but come. I want you, and when I
want a thing, I want it, and generally get it. Come.”
It took Louie some little time to make up her mind with regard to going
abroad. For herself there was no hesitancy. It was her mother’s health
which troubled her. Could she endure the voyage and the change; she
seemed so feeble and lifeless? She could endure both, Mrs. Grey said,
evincing an eagerness to go which surprised Louie. They could not stay
where they were, Mrs. Grey argued. It would be wrong to trespass upon
the kindness of a stranger much longer. They must make a change soon.
They had money enough to pay their passage, which would be second-class.
She had heard that many respectable people went that way on the big
steamers and were very comfortable. They could live inexpensively in
Paris until Louie was able to earn something, either by her voice or
teaching English.
This was Mrs. Grey’s reasoning, while, although Louie’s better judgment
told her how unfit her mother was for the undertaking, her whole soul
went out for the chance offered her to begin her life work—the paying of
her father’s debts.
A second letter from Miss Percy, more urgent than the first, finally
decided her, and a bleak, dreary November day found her and her mother
on board the “Teutonic,” as second-class passengers. Everything which
kind wishes at home could do for her had been done, and she had
thankfully accepted the gifts brought to them—the warm sea hoods made by
loving hands, the afghan and cushions for the deck, the basket of
delicacies which the table would not furnish, and the bed-shoes Nancy
Sharp had knit, and presented with hot tears suffusing her hard face.
Mrs. White sent them a cure specific for sea-sickness, which Louie
packed in a box with half a dozen more specifics, each warranted to
cure.
Jack and Jill carried them to the station, where a large number of
people were assembled to bid them good-by. Nancy Sharp’s voice was the
loudest of all, and her hands waving her red shawl, the last image which
stamped itself on Louie’s tear-blurred vision as the train shot through
the deep cut in the hill and hid the station from view.
When she decided to leave Merivale she had begged Mr. Blake to tell her
the name of the stranger who had so kindly given them the use of the
house. But the old lawyer shook his head. The man didn’t want his right
hand to know what his left had done. He had money enough, and the little
rent they would have paid was only a drop in the bucket, he said,
adding, “I can’t say that he isn’t something of a crank; but I promised
to keep dark, and I have. You can write to him if you like. I haven’t
sworn not to send him a letter, and I think maybe it would please him.”
“I wonder I never thought of that,” Louie said, and that night she
wrote:
“My Dear Unknown Friend: We are going away from Merivale—from our home,
where you have been so kind as to let us stay. I don’t know who you are,
but I want to tell you how much I thank you for myself and mother and
dear father, who died in his old home through your great kindness to us,
entire strangers. Every day I ask God to bless you, and I am sure He
will. Written words seem so inadequate to express all I feel, but some
time I hope I may meet you face to face, and perhaps repay you for all
you have done for us. God bless you, whoever you are; and if there is
any good thing you desire more than another, may He give it to you. Very
truly and gratefully yours,
“LOUIE GREY.”
This letter Mr. Blake directed, laughing to himself as he dropped it
into the mail box, and thought, “I shouldn’t wonder if it went with her
across the sea, and maybe she’ll hear from it personally.”
This was the day before Louie left Merivale, and now she was on the
great ship and feeling inexpressibly lonely as she watched the people
around her receiving the good-bys from friends, while she had no one to
speak to—no one in all that crowd who knew or cared who she was—a
second-class passenger, jostled from side to side and once nearly run
down as she turned to go back to her mother, whom she had seen in her
berth before she came across to the first-class deck.
“I am better there,” she thought, just as some one said to her, “Louie!
Louie!”
It was Herbert, and he soon had her hands in his and was saying to her:
“I’ve found you at last, when I had nearly given you up. I couldn’t let
you go without seeing you; and as it is Saturday, I ran over from New
Haven to say good-by. There are some friends of mine on the ship—Mr. Le
Barron and his sisters. I want to present you to them, and to the
doctor. I have met him at a club dinner. He is a good fellow, and may be
more attentive to you if he knows you are my friend; and you are sure to
need him, or your mother is. Where is she? I have been all over the ship
and peered into nearly every state-room, hoping to find her or you.”
He had talked rapidly, and as he talked they had gone to a part of the
vessel a little removed from the crowd.
“Oh, Herbert,” Louie said, when he gave her a chance to speak, “I am so
glad you came. It is dreadful to be here all alone, with no one to say
good-by.”
“Of course I’d come,” he replied: “but where is your mother I must see
her.”
Louie hesitated a moment, and then replied, “We are second-class
passengers and she is with them. I left her and came over here where I
do not belong. I shall only stay a few minutes.”
“Second-class! Heavens and earth! You second-class!” and Herbert leaped
to his feet and stared at Louie as if she had told him she was guilty of
a crime.
“Yes, second-class,” she answered. “We cannot afford the high price of
the first, and really we are very comfortable, and the voyage will be
short. We shall be divided from the first, like goats from sheep, you
know; but that doesn’t matter. There are ever so many respectable people
second-class with us—professors and clergymen and students. We shall do
very well.”
“Yes, but I don’t like it, and if I could I’d pay the difference and
have you moved,” Herbert said.
“I should not allow it,” Louie replied. “We might have gone first-class,
for the people in Merivale were very kind and offered to send us that
way, but I could not take anything from them. They have lost too much by
us. We have paid some of them, though—all the poor depositors and some
of the others who were needing the money. The sale of the house and
horses and carriage and diamonds did that. We had, of course, to keep
enough to live upon. I have never heard who the man was who bought the
house of Mr. Blake and let us live there free. I have written to him and
thanked him.”
She was talking rapidly, for time was passing and she had much to say,
while Herbert listened with his eyes fixed on her face, which was
flushed with excitement as she talked.
“You have written to him?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she replied. “Mr. Blake was to direct and mail the letter, and
some time I hope to see or hear from him. Do you think I ever shall?”
“I think you will,” Herbert answered, half resolved to tell her his
suspicions, and wondering if she did not know that Fred Lansing was
abroad, and probably in Paris. But he merely said, “I suppose you still
have the stage in mind?”
“Yes, if it will help pay father’s debts. I am pledged to that, you
know,” she replied.
“Oh, Louie,” Herbert went on, “I’d almost rather see you dead than a
public singer. You can’t know what it involves. Don’t do it. Let the
debts go. Other people do and are just as well respected.”
He did not know what he was saying in his excitement. The crowd was
moving toward the gangway. The signal for visitors’ departure had been
given, and he must go and leave behind the girl who never seemed dearer
to him than now, when he was losing her forever—not on the stage, but
with Fred Lansing. He was sure of it, and felt that he could not give
her up. Had he had the money for his passage, he would have gone with
her—second-class, if necessary—and as it was, there passed through his
mind the wild idea of making himself a stowaway and going at all
hazards, paying after he reached Liverpool and could send to his father.
There was a great rush for the gangway, and he was in the midst of it,
holding Louie’s hand, when some one called to him.
“Why, Mr. White, you here? Are you going? I’m so glad.”
It was a tall young girl, and at the sound of her voice Herbert dropped
Louie’s hand, and with a “God bless you; good-by,” lost himself in the
crowd nearest the young girl.
When Louie next saw him he was on the wharf, waving his hat first to her
and then to a group of three who were presumably Mr. Le Barron and his
sisters. Herbert had not presented her to them, nor to the doctor, who
was to be more attentive to her because of the presentation.