HALLAM.
As the stage from the railway station rolled up to Fairacres, Amy was
waiting upon the wide porch. She had put on her daintiest frock, white,
of course, since her father liked her to wear no other sort of dress;
and she had twisted sprays of scarlet woodbine through her dark hair and
about her shoulders. Before the vehicle stopped, she called out
eagerly:--
"Oh! how glad I am you're here! It's been such a long two days! Are you
all well? Is everything right, mother dearest? Did you have a nice
time?"
The father reached her first, remarking, with a fond smile:--
"You make a sweet picture, daughter, with that open doorway behind you,
with the firelight and candlelight, and--Ah! did you speak, Salome?"
turning toward his wife.
"The man is waiting, Cuthbert. Has thee the money for him?"
Mr. Kaye fumbled in one pocket, tried another, frowned, and appeared
distressed.
"Never mind, dear. Hallam can attend to it."
But the crippled lad had already swung himself over the steps upon his
crutches, and the artist remarked, with a fresh annoyance:--
"He must put it in the bill, Salome. Why always bother with such
trifles? If one could only get away from the thought and sound of money.
Its sordidness is the torment of one's life."
Mrs. Kaye sighed, as she paid the hackman from her own purse, then
followed her husband into the house.
His face had already lost all its expression of annoyance, and now
beamed with satisfaction as he regarded Amy's efforts to celebrate the
home-coming.
"Good child. Good little girl. Truly, very beautiful. Why, my darling,
you'll be an artist yourself some day, I believe."
"The saints forbid!" murmured a voice from the further side the room,
where Cleena had appeared, bearing a tray of dishes.
Nobody heard the ejaculation, however, save Hallam, and he didn't count,
being of one and the same opinion as the old serving-woman. All the
lad's ambitions lay toward a ceaseless activity, and the coloring of
canvases attracted him less than even the meanest kind of manual labor.
Nor did Amy share in her father's hope, though she loved art for his
sake, and she answered, with conviction:--
"Never such an one as you are, father dear."
But all this while the daughter's eyes had been studying her mother's
face, with the keen penetration of sympathy, and the whispered advice:--
"Be especially gentle with Hallam to-night, my child," but confirmed the
answer she had already found in that careworn countenance.
Yet Hallam showed no need of consolation as he sturdily stumped across
the room and exclaimed, cheerfully enough:--
"Fetch on the provender, Goodsoul. We're all as hungry as bears. What's
for us?"
"What should be? save the best rasher of bacon ever blessed eyesight,
with tea-biscuits galore. For second course--My! but that pullet was a
tender bird, so she was. An' them east-lot petaties would fain melt in
your mouth, they're so hot-foot to be ate."
"The pullet? Not the little brown one you have cared for yourself,
Cleena?"
"What for no? Eat your victuals askin' no questions, for that's aye bad
for the appetite."
Both Amy and Cleena knew, without words, that this last city trip had
been a failure, like so many that had preceded it. Once more had the too
sanguine father dragged his crippled son to undergo a fresh examination
of his well-formed though useless limbs; and once more had an adverse
verdict been rendered.
This time the authority was of the highest. A European specialist, whose
name was known and reverenced upon two continents, had come to New York
and had been consulted. Interested more than common by the boy's fair
face and the sweet womanliness of the mother, the surgeon had given
extra attention to Hallam, and his decision had been as reluctantly
reached as it was final.
"Only a miracle will ever enable him to walk. Yet a miracle may occur,
for we live in an age of them, and nothing seems impossible to science.
However, in all mortal probability, he is as one dead below his knees.
My lad, take your medicine bravely and be a man in spite of it all. Use
your brain, thanking God for it, and let the rest go."
"That's an easy thing for you to say, but it is I who have to bear it!"
burst forth the unhappy boy, and was at once ashamed of his rude speech,
even if it in no wise offended the sympathetic physician.
The return journey had been a sad and silent one, though Hallam had
roused at its end with the sort of bravado that Amy had seen, and which
deceived her no more than it did any of the others; but she loyally
seconded his assumed cheerfulness, and after they had gathered about the
table, gave them a lively description of her afternoon's outing, ending
with:--
"For, mother dear, you hadn't said just where I might or might not ride,
and I'd never seen the carpet mills, though I now hope to go there
often; and, indeed, I think I would like to work in that busy place,
among all those bright, active girls."
Then her enthusiasm was promptly dashed by her father's exclamation:--
"Amy! Amy Kaye! Never again say such a thing! Let there be no more of
that mill talk, not a word."
Mr. Kaye's tone was more stern than his child had ever heard, and as if
he recognized this he continued, more gently:--
"But I am interested in that silly Bonaparte. I almost wish you had kept
him till I came."
Amy happened to glance at Cleena, who had warned her not to mention the
fact of the strange gentleman calling; nor had she known just when
Fayette went away, though she supposed he had done so after so suddenly
leaving the dining room.
"Why, Goodsoul, you are as beaming as if you had found a treasure."
"Faith, an' I have. Try a bit of the chicken, mistress, now do;" and she
waved the dish toward the lady, with a smile that was more than
cheerful.
"Well, Cleena, it's heartening to see anybody so bright. The work must
have gone finely to-day, and thee have had plenty of time for scrubbing.
No, thank thee; nothing more. Not even those delicious baked apples. The
best apples in the world grow on that old tree by the dairy door, I
believe," replied the mistress, with another half-suppressed sigh.
As she rose to leave the table, she turned toward her husband:--
"I hope thee'll soon be coming upstairs, Cuthbert."
It was noticeable that Cleena paused, tray in hand, to hear the answer,
which was out of common, for the old servant rarely presumed upon the
fact that she was also the confidential friend of her employers.
"Well, after a little, dear; but, first, I must go over to the studio."
"Arrah, musha, but, master! The painting's all right. What for no?
Indeed, then, it's the mistress herself needs more attention this minute
nor any picture ever was drawed."
"Why, Cleena!" exclaimed the lady, in surprise. Such an interference had
never been offered by the devoted creature to the head of the house.
"Asking pardon, I'm sure; though I know I know. I've lighted a fire in
the sittin' room above, an' it's sure for the comfort of both that yous
make yourselves easy the night."
"That's true, husband. Do leave the picture till morning. We're all
tired and needing the rest."
Always easily persuaded where physical comfort was at stake, the artist
acquiesced, and with his arm about his wife's slender waist he gently
led her from the room.
Cleena heard him murmuring tender apologies that he had not before
observed how utterly fatigued she looked; and a whimsical smile broke on
the Irishwoman's face as she cleared the table and assured the cups and
saucers, with a vigorous disdain, that:--
"Them two's no more nor a couple of childer still. But, alanna! Never a
doubt I doubt there'll be trouble with old Cleena when the cat leaps the
bag. Well, he's in it now, tied fast and tight."
Whereupon, there being nobody to see, the good woman executed a sort of
jig, and having thus relieved her feelings departed to the kitchen,
muttering:--
"It wasn't for naught Miss Amy fetched a simpleton home in her pocket.
Sure, I scared the life clean out of _him_, so I did, an' he'll stay
where he's settled till he's wanted, so long as I keep fillin' his
stummick with victuals like these. Will I carry a bit o' the fowl to the
lib'ry--will I no? Hmm. Will I--nill I?"
Having decided, Cleena passed swiftly from the house into the darkness
and in the direction of the distant library.
Meanwhile, up in the little chamber which had once been their nursery
and was still their own sitting room, Amy had drawn a lounge before the
grate, and, after his accustomed fashion, Hallam lay upon it, while his
sister curled upon the rug beside him.
But she did not look at him. She rested her chin in her palms and gazed
at the dancing flames, as she observed:--
"Even a king might envy us this fire of pine cones, mightn't he? Isn't
it sweet and woodsy? and so bright. I've gathered bushels and bushels of
them, while you were away, and we can have all the fun we want up here.
So now--can't you just begin and tell, Hal dear? Part of it I guess, but
start as you always do: 'I went from here--' and keep right on till you
get back again to me and--this."
She purposely made her tone light, but she was not surprised when her
answer was a smothered sob. Indeed, there was such a lump in her own
throat that she had to swallow twice before she could say:--
"No, darling, you needn't tell one word. I know it all--all--all; and I
can't bear it. I won't--I will not have it so!"
Then she turned and buried her face in the pillow beside her brother's,
crying so passionately that he had to become comforter himself; and his
thin fingers stroked her hair until she grew ashamed of her weakness and
looked up again, trying to smile.
"Forgive me, brotherkin. I'm such a baby, and I meant to be so brave! If
I could only take your lameness on myself, and give you my own strong,
active legs!"
"Don't, Amy! Besides, how often have you said that very same thing? Yet
it isn't any use. Nothing is of any use. Life isn't, I fancy."
Even the vehement Amy was shocked by this, and her tears stopped,
instantly.
"Why, Hal!"
"Sounds wicked, doesn't it? Well, I feel wicked. I feel like, was it Job
or one of his friends? that it would be good to 'curse God and die.'
Dying would be so much easier than living."
The girl sprang up, clinching her brown hands, and staring at her
brother defiantly.
"Hallam Kaye, don't you talk like that! Don't you dare! Suppose God
heard you? Suppose He took you at your word and made you die just now,
this instant? What then?"
Hallam smiled, wanly, "I won't scare you by saying what then, girlie. If
He did, I suppose it would all be right. Everything is right--to the
folks who don't have to suffer the thing. Even the doctor--and I liked
him as much as I envied him--even he preached to me and bade me not to
mind, to 'forget.' Hmm, I wish _he_ could feel, just for one little
minute, the helplessness that I must feel always, eternally."
Hallam was dearer to his sister than any other human being, and the
despair in her idol's tone promptly banished her anger against his
irreverence. She went down on her knees and caught away the arm with
which he had hidden his face, kissing him again and again.
"Oh! there will be some way out of this misery, laddie. There must be.
It wouldn't be right, that anybody as clever and splendid as you should
be left a cripple for life. I won't believe it. I won't!"
"How like father you are!"
Amy's head tossed slightly, and a faint protest came into her eyes, but
was banished as soon because of its disloyalty.
"Am I? In what way? and why shouldn't I be?"
"You never know when you're down nor why you shouldn't have all that you
want."
"Isn't it a good thing? Would it help to go moping and unbelieving?"
"I suppose not. Anyway, it makes things easier for you and him, and so,
maybe, for the rest of us."
The sister dropped back into her favorite attitude upon the rug and
regarded her brother curiously.
"Hal, you're as queer as can be, to-night. Seems as if there was
something the matter with you, beyond what that know-nothing doctor
said. Isn't there?"
"Don't call the poor man hard names, girlie. He was fine, and I was
impertinent enough for the whole family. Only, I reckon he was too high
up to feel anything we could say. But there _is_ something. Something I
must tell you, and I don't know how to begin. Promise that you won't get
into a tantrum, or run and disturb the little mother about it."
"Hallam Kaye! Do I ever?"
"Hmm! Sometimes. Don't you? Never mind. Sit closer, dear, and let me get
hold of your hand. Then you'll understand why I am so bitter; why this
disappointment about my lameness is so much worse than any that has gone
before. And I've been disappointed often enough, conscience knows."
Amy crept up and snuggled her dark head against Hallam's fair one,
remarking, with emphasis:--
"Now I'm all ready. I'll be as still as a mouse, and not interrupt you
once. What other dreadful trouble has come? Is it a grocery bill, or
Clafflin's for artists' stuff?"
"Something far worse than that."
"What?"
"Did you ever think we might have--might have--oh, Amy! I can't tell you
'gently,' as mother bade--all it is--well, we've got to go away from
Fairacres. _Its not ours any longer._"
"Wh-a-at?" cried the girl, springing up, or striving to do so, though
Hallam's hold upon her fingers drew her down again.
"I don't wonder you're amazed. I was, too, at first. Now I simply wonder
how we have kept the place so long."
"Why isn't it ours? Whose is it?"
"It belongs to a cousin of mother's, Archibald Wingate. Did you ever
hear of him?"
"Never. How can it?"
"I hardly understand myself, though mother's lawyer tried to explain.
It's something about indorsing notes and mortgages and things. Big boy
as I am, I know no more about business than--you do."
"Thanks, truly. But I do know. I attended to the marketing yesterday
when the wagon came. Cleena said that I did very well."
"Glad of it. You'll have a chance to exercise your talents in that
line."
"But, Hal, mother will never let anybody take away our home. How could
she? What would father do without his studio that he had built expressly
after his own plan? or we without all this?" sweeping her arm about to
indicate the cosiness of their own room.
"Mother can't help herself, dear. She was rich once, but she's
desperately poor now."
"I knew there was trouble about money, of course. There never seems to
be quite enough, but that's been so since I can remember. Why shouldn't
we go on just as we have? What does this cousin of our mother's want of
the place, anyway?"
"I don't know. I don't know him. I hate him unseen."
"So do I. Still, if he's a cousin, he should be fond of mother, and not
bother."
"Amy, we're all a set of simpletons, I guess, as a family, and in
relation to practical matters."
"'Speak for yourself, John.'"
"That isn't all. There's something--something wrong with father."
"Hallam Kaye! Now I do believe you're out of your head. I was afraid you
were, you've talked and acted so queerly. I'm going for Cleena. Is your
face hot? Do you ache more than usual?"
"Don't be silly. I'm as right as I ever shall be. Listen. I found it
all out in the city. Father had gone to some exhibition, and mother and
I were waiting for the time to go to the doctor. A gentleman called, and
I never saw anybody look so frightened and ill as mother did when she
received him, though I knew it wasn't about me. She hadn't hoped for
anything better in that line. She called the man 'Friend Howard Corson,'
and he was very courteous to her; but all of a sudden she cried out:--
"'Don't tell me that the end has come! I can't bear both sorrows in one
day!' And then she looked across at me. I smiled as bravely as I could,
and, Amy, I believe our mother is the very most beautiful woman in this
world."
"Why, of course; and father's the handsomest man."
"Certainly," agreed the lad, with rather more haste than conviction.
"Well, what next?"
Before the answer could be given, there burst upon their ears an
uproarious clamor of angry voices, such as neither had ever heard at
Fairacres; and Amy sprang up in wild alarm, while Hallam groped blindly
for the crutches he had tossed aside.