A sad day it had been meantime for the poor lad.
He had gotten up in the morning listless and dull and sick at the sight
of his breakfast. But he had feigned to be quite well that he might
have permission to set off down-town. There was no chance of his being
able to get into the museum, but he was drawn irresistibly thither
for the mere pleasure of standing around and watching the people, and
hoping that something--_something_ would turn up. He was still there
when his dinner-hour came, but he never thought of this. Once, when the
door-keeper was at leisure, he had hobbled up and said to him, with
a desperate effort to smile, "Sir, if I were rich, I'd live in your
museum for about five years."
But the door-keeper had pushed him rudely back, telling him to be off
and not obstruct the sidewalk.
[Illustration: Boys walking through village]
He was still standing near the entrance when the parson came down the
street driving his flock of boys. Ah, if he had only joined that class,
as time after time he had been asked to do! All at once his face lit up
with a fortunate inspiration, and pushing his way to the very side of
the door-keeper, he placed himself there that the parson might see him
and take him with the others; for had he not said that _he_ must be
sure to go? But when the parson came up, this purpose had failed him,
and he had apparently shrunk to half his size behind the bulk of the
door-keeper, fearing most of all things that the parson would discover
him and know why he was there.
He was still lingering outside when the parson reappeared and started
homeward; and he sat down and watched him out of sight. He seemed
cruelly hurt, and his eyes filled with tears.
"_I'd_ have taken _him_ in the very first one," he said, choking down
a sob; and then, as if he felt this to be unjust, he murmured over and
over: "Maybe he forgot me; maybe he didn't mean it; maybe he forgot me."
Perhaps an hour later, slowly and with many pauses, he drew near the
door of the parson's home. There he lifted his hand three times before
he could knock.
"The parson's not at home," the widow Spurlock had called sharply down
to him.
With this the last hope had died out of his bosom; for having dwelt
long on the parson's kindness to him--upon all the parson's tireless
efforts to befriend him--he had summoned the courage at last to go and
ask him to lend him a quarter.
With little thought of whither he went, he now turned back down-town,
but some time later he was still standing at the entrance of the museum.
He looked up the street again. All the Leubas were coming, Tom walking,
with a very haughty air, a few feet ahead.
"Why don't you go in?" he said, loudly, walking up to David and
jingling the silver in his pockets. "What are you standing out here
for? If you _want_ to go in, why don't you _go_ in?"
"Oh, Tom!" cried David, in a whisper of eager confidence, his utterance
choked with a sob, "I haven't got any money."
"I'd hate to be as poor as _you_ are," said Tom, contemptuously. "I'm
going this evening, and to-night, and as often as I want," and he
turned gayly away to join the others.
He was left alone again, and his cup of bitterness, which had been
filling drop by drop, now ran over.
Several groups came up just at that moment. There was a pressure and
a jostling of the throng. As Mr. Leuba, who had made his way up to
the door-keeper, drew a handful of silver from his pocket, some one
accidentally struck his elbow, and several pieces fell to the pavement.
Then there was laughter and a scrambling as these were picked up and
returned. But out through the legs of the crowd one bright silver
quarter rolled unseen down the sloping sidewalk towards the spot where
David was standing.
It was all done in an instant. He saw it coming; the little crutch was
set forward a pace, the little body was swung silently forward, and as
the quarter fell over on its shining side, the dirty sole of a brown
foot covered it.
The next minute, with a sense of triumph and bounding joy, the
poverty-tortured, friendless little thief had crossed the threshold
of the museum, and stood face to face with the Redeemer of the world;
for the picture was so hung as to catch the eye upon entering, and
it arrested his quick, roving glance and held it in awe-stricken
fascination. Unconscious of his own movements, he drew nearer and
nearer, until he stood a few feet in front of the arc of spectators,
with his breathing all but suspended, and one hand crushing the old
blue cloth cap against his naked bosom.
[Illustration: BEFORE THE PICTURE.]
It was a strange meeting. The large rude painting possessed no claim
to art. But to him it was an overwhelming revelation, for he had
never seen any pictures, and he was gifted with an untutored love of
painting. Over him, therefore, it exercised an inthralling influence,
and it was as though he stood in the visible presence of One whom he
knew that the parson preached of and his mother worshipped.
Forgetful of his surroundings, long he stood and gazed. Whether it
may have been the thought of the stolen quarter that brought him
to himself, at length he drew a deep breath, and looked quickly
around with a frightened air. From across the room he saw Mr. Leuba
watching him gravely, as it seemed to his guilty conscience, with
fearful sternness. A burning flush dyed his face, and he shrank back,
concealing himself among the crowd. The next moment, without ever
having seen or so much as thought of anything else in the museum, he
slipped out into the street.
There the eyes of everybody seemed turned upon him. Where should he go?
Not home. Not to Mr. Leuba's music-store. No; he could never look into
Mr. Leuba's face again. And Tom? He could hear Tom crying out, wherever
he should meet him, "You stole a quarter from father."
In utter terror and shame, he hurried away out to the southern end of
the town, where there was an abandoned rope-walk.
It was a neglected place, damp and unhealthy. In the farthest corner
of it he lay down and hid himself in a clump of iron-weeds. Slowly
the moments dragged themselves along. Of what was he thinking? Of his
mother? Of the parson? Of the violin that would now never be his? Of
that wonderful sorrowful face which he had seen in the painting? The
few noises of the little town grew very faint, the droning of the
bumblebee on the purple tufts of the weed overhead very loud, and
louder still the beating of his heart against the green grass as he lay
on his side, with his head on his blue cap and his cheek in his hand.
And then he fell asleep.
When he awoke he started up bewildered. The sun had set, and the heavy
dews of twilight were falling. A chill ran through him; and then the
recollection of what had happened came over him with a feeling of
desolation. When it was quite dark he left his hiding-place and started
back up-town.
He could reach home in several ways, but a certain fear drew him into
the street which led past the music-store. If he could only see Mr.
Leuba, he felt sure that he could tell by the expression of his face
whether he had missed the quarter. At some distance off he saw by the
light of the windows Mr. Leuba standing in front of his shop talking to
a group of men. Noiselessly he drew near, noiselessly he was passing
without the courage to look up.
"Stop, David. Come in here a moment. I want to talk to you."
As Mr. Leuba spoke, he apologized to the gentlemen for leaving, and
turned back into the rear of the shop. Faint, and trembling so that he
could scarcely stand, his face of a deadly whiteness, the boy followed.
"David," said Mr. Leuba--in his whole life he had never spoken so
kindly; perhaps his heart had been touched by some belated feeling, as
he had studied the boy's face before the picture in the museum, and
certainly it had been singularly opened by his good-fortune--"David,"
he said, "I promised when I got rich enough I'd give Tom a new violin,
and give you his old one. Well, I gave him a new one to-day; so here's
yours," and going to a corner of the room, he took up the box, brought
it back, and would have laid it on the boy's arm, only there was no arm
extended to receive it.
"Take it! It's yours!"
"Oh, Mr. Leuba!"
It was all he could say. He had expected to be charged with stealing
the quarter, and instead there was held out to him the one treasure in
the world--the violin of which he had dreamed so long, for which he had
served so faithfully.
"Oh, Mr. Leuba!"
There was a pitiful note in the cry, but the dealer was not the man to
hear it, or to notice the look of angelic contrition on the upturned
face. He merely took the lad's arm, bent it around the violin, patted
the ragged cap, and said, a little impatiently:
"Come, come! they're waiting for me at the door. To-morrow you can come
down and run some more errands for me," and he led the way to the front
of the shop and resumed his conversation.
Slowly along the dark street the lad toiled homeward with his treasure.
At any other time he would have sat down on the first curb-stone,
opened the box, and in ecstatic joy have lifted out that peerless
instrument; or he would have sped home with it to his mother, flying
along on his one crutch as if on the winds of heaven. But now he could
not look at it, and something clogged his gait so that he loitered and
faltered and sometimes stood still irresolute.
But at last he approached the log-cabin which was his home. A rude
fence enclosed the yard, and inside this fence there grew a hedge of
lilacs. When he was within a few feet of the gate he paused, and did
what he had never done before--he put his face close to the panels
of the fence, and with a look of guilt and sorrow peeped through the
lilacs at the face of his mother, who was sitting in the light of the
open door-way.
She was thinking of him. He knew that by the patient sweetness of
her smile. All the heart went out of him at the sight, and hurrying
forward, he put the violin down at her feet, and threw his arms around
her neck, and buried his head on her bosom.