Yes, indeed, it was a very crest-fallen youth who accompanied Arthur
Ripley back to New York that bright summer afternoon, and who toward
bed-time that evening stole quietly into Mr. Finkelstein's shop. It was
hard work under the circumstances to return to Mr. Finkelstein's. I
had to swallow my pride in doing so, and it proved to be an exceedingly
unpalatable dose. I had expected to return a young prince, in princely
style, to dazzle my plebeian friends with my magnificence, and overwhelm
them with my bounteous generosity; and now, in point of fact, I came
back poorer than I had gone away, a beggar and a dependent, one who
would be homeless and penniless if they should refuse to take him in. It
was a dreadful come-down. I think, if there had been anywhere else for
me to go, I should never have returned to Mr. Finkelstein's at all,
it mortified my vanity so cruelly to have to do it. I felt as though
I should like to seek out some obscure hiding-place in the remotest
quarter of the world, and bury myself there forever from the sight of
men. “O, Rip!” I cried, “I should just like to bag my head.”
Of course, as I opened the shop door, the bell above it must needs
tinkle; and in response to this summons Mr. Finkelstein himself issued
from the parlor.
“What, Kraikory!” he exclaimed at sight of me. “Back so soon? Ach! I
tought it was a customer. Vail, it's you yourself, and no mistake about
it.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, “we came back on the train this afternoon.”
“Ach, so? You came back on de train dis aifternoon? Vail, vail, valk in,
set down, make yourself to home. Vail, Kraik-ory, I'm real glaid to see
you. Vail, it's all right, I suppose? You got de money, hey? Vail, was
it more or less as you expected? Was it fifty tousand, or a hundred, or
maybe only terventy-fife? Vail, set down and tell me all about it.”
“N-no, sir,” I began, rather tremulously; “it--we--there--there was a
mistake. She--I mean to say my grandmother--she didn't leave any money,
after all. She didn't have any to leave. She was quite poor, instead of
rich, and--and my Uncle Peter, he supported her. He owned the house and
everything. He had bought it from her, and she had sent the money to
France. So--I--that is--you see”--I broke down. I could get no further.
“Ach, dere, dere, Kraikory,” cried Mr. Finkelstein, as my emotion
betrayed itself, and he laid his hand caressingly upon my shoulder;
“dere, dere, don't you go feel baid about it, my dear little poy.” Then
he caught himself up. “Excuse me, Kraikory; I didn't mean to call you a
little poy; I forgot. But don't you go feel baid about it, all de
same. You ain't no vorse off as you was before already. Put it down to
experience, Kraikory, sharsh it to experience. It's allright. You got
a comfortable home here by me. You needn't feel so awful about it. Come,
sheer up, Kraikory. Don't tink about it no more. Come along inside mit
me, and Henrietta will get you somedings to eat. We ain't got no faitted
caif to kill in your honor, Kraikory, but we got some of de finest liver
sowsage in de United States of America; and ainyhow, Kraikory, veal is
a fearful dry meat. Ach, dere, dere, for mercy's sake, don't you feel
baid. I get off a shoke shust on purpose to make you laif, and you don't
naifer notice it. Ach, Kraikory, don't feel baid. I simply hate to see
you feel baid, Kraikory; I simply cain't staind it. I give ten tousand
tollars right out of my own pocket sooner as see you feel baid,
Kraikory; I'm so fond of you, don't you understand?”
My heart melted all at once like ice in sunshine. Tears sprang to my
eyes. “Oh! my dear, dear Mr. Finkelstein,” I sobbed, “you are so good
to me. Oh! can--can you ever--for--forgive the--the way I've acted?
I--I'm--I'm so sorry for it.”
“My kracious, Kraikory, don't talk like dot. If you talk like dot, you
make me aict so foolish I be ashamed to show my face. You make me cry
like a raikular old voman, Kraikory; you aictually vill. Ach, dere I go.
Ach, my kracious! Ach! I cain't help it. Ach, what--what an old fool I
am.... Kraikory--my boy--my son--come here, Kraikory--come here to
me. O, Kraikory! I loaf you like a fader. O, Kraikory! you know what
I tought? I tought I loast you foraifer, Kraikory. O, Kraikory! I'm so
glaid to haif you back. Ach, Kraikory, God is good.” The tears rolled
downward from his dear old eyes, and pattered like rain-drops upon my
cheeks. He had clasped me in his arms.
From that hour I took up my old place at Mr. Finkelstein's, in a
humbler, healthier, and, on the whole, happier frame of mind than I
had known for many a long day before. My heart had been touched, and my
conscience smitten, by his loving kindness.
I was sincerely remorseful for the ungrateful manner in which I
had behaved toward him, and for the unworthy sentiments that I had
cherished. I strove honestly, by amending my conduct, to do what I could
in the way' of atonement.
Incidentally, moreover, my little adventure had brought me face to face
with some of the naked facts of life. In a grim and vivid tableau it had
shown me what a helpless and dependent creature I was; how for the sheer
necessities of food, shelter and clothing I must rely upon the charity
of other people. I tried now to make myself of real value to my patron,
of real use in the shop and about the house, and thus in some measure
to render an equivalent for what he did for me. Instead of going off
afternoons to amuse myself with Ripley, I would remain at home to
improve such chances as I had to be of service to Mr. Finkelstein. I
would play the hand-organ for him, or read aloud to him, or take charge
of the shop, while he slept, or enjoyed his game of pinochle with
Mr. Flisch. And in my moments of leisure I would study a dog-eared
fourth-hand copy of Munson's _Complete Phonographer_ that I had bought;
for I had long thought that I should like to learn short-hand, and had
even devoted a good deal of time to mastering the rudiments of that
art; and I fancied that, by much diligent practice now, I might hasten
forward the day when I should be able to earn my own livelihood, and
thus cease to be a burden upon my friends. Indeed, I could already write
as many as sixty words a minute with perfect ease.
Mr. Finkelstein did not altogether approve of my assiduous industry, and
used to warn me, “Look out, Kraikory! It don't naifer pay to run a ting
into de ground; it aictually don't. You study so hart, your head'll get
more knowledge inside of it as it can hold, and den, de first ting
you know, all of a sudden vun day, it'll svell up and bust. Ainy-how,
Kraikory, dere's a proverp which goes, 'All vork and no play makes Shack
a dull poy'; and dot's as true as you're alife, Kraikory; it aictually
does. You better knock off dis aifternoon, Kraikory, and go haif some
fun. It's Saiturday, ain't it? And dere's a maitinee, hey? Vail, why
don't you go to de teayter?... How? You study so hart becoase you vant
to get able to earn your living? Now look at here, Kraikory; don't you
talk foolish. I got plenty money, ain't I? And I got a right to spend
my money so as to get saitisfaiction out of it, hey? Vail, now look at
here; dere ain't no vay of spending my money what'll give me so much
saitisfaiction as to spend it to make you haippy and contented; dot's a
solemn faict. You needn't vorry about earning your living. You ain't
got to earn it for a great mainy years yet already--not till you get all
done mit your education. And ainyhow, Kraikory, you do earn it. You mind
de store, and you read out lout to me, and you keep me company; and, my
kracious, you're such a shenu-wine musician, Kraikory, you got such a
graind tailent for de haind-organ, I don't know how I'd get along midout
you. I guess I haif to raise your sailary next New Years.”
This was-only of a piece with Mr. Fin-kelstein's usual kindness. But I
felt that I had abused his kindness in the past, and I was determined to
abuse it no longer.
I say I was happier than I had been for a long while before, and so I
was. I was happier because I was more contented. My disappointment about
the inheritance, though keen enough at the moment, did not last long. As
Mr. Finkelstein had remarked, I was no worse off than I had been in
the first place; and then, I derived a good deal of consolation from
remembering what Uncle Peter had told me--that the money had gone to
reconstruct the splendor of our house in France. My disappointment
at seeing my meeting with Uncle Florimond again become a thing of the
indefinite future, was deeper and more enduring. “Alas,” I sighed, with
a heart sick for hope deferred, “it seems as though I was never going
to be able to go to him at all.” And I gulped down a big lump that had
gathered in my throat.
Against Rosalind Earle I still nursed some foolish resentment. She had
wished that I might have to eat humble pie. Well, her wish had come to
pass; and I felt almost as though it were her fault that it had done
so. She had said she didn't like me any more, and didn't care to have
me call upon her any more. I took her at her word, and staid away,
regarding myself in the light of a much-abused and injured person. So
three or four weeks elapsed, and she and I never met. Then... Toward six
o'clock one evening I was seated in the parlor, poring over my _Complete
Phonogacipher_, when the door from the shop opened with a creak, and a
light footstep became audible behind my chair. The next instant I heard
Rosalind's voice, low and gentle, call my name.
My heart began to flutter. I got up and turned around, and saw the dear
little girl standing a yard distant from me, with her hand extended for
me to take, and with her beautiful dark eyes fixed appealingly upon my
face. I didn't speak; and I pretended not to see her hand; and I
just stood still there, mute and pouting, like the sulky coxcomb and
simpleton that I was.
Rosalind allowed her hand to drop to her side, and a very pained look
came over her face; and there was a frog in her voice, as she said, “O,
Gregory! you--you are still angry with me.”
“O, no! I'm not angry with you,” I answered, but in an offish tone; and
that was true; I really wasn't angry with her the least bit any more.
All my anger had evaporated at the sight of her face and the sound of
her voice. But I didn't know how to unbend gracefully and without loss
of dignity.
“Then--then why haven't you been to see me?” she asked.
“You said you didn't want me to come to see you any more.”
“But I didn't mean it. You must have known I didn't mean it.”
“But you said it, anyhow. I don't care to go where I'm not wanted. When
people say a thing, how am I to know they don't mean it?”
“But I said it when I was vexed. And what people say when they're
vexed--other people ought not to count it. It isn't fair. And really and
truly, Gregory, I didn't mean it; and I'm sorry I said it; and I'm
sorry I spoke to you the way I did; and--and that's why I've come here,
Gregory; I've come to ask your pardon.”
“Oh! certainly; don't mention it; no apology's necessary,” I said. I
would have given anything to have taken her in my arms, and kissed her,
and begged her pardon; but I was too stiff-necked and self-conscious.
“And then,” she went on, “after you came back from Norwich, and Mr.
Flisch told me what Mr. Finkelstein had told him--about how disappointed
you had been, and everything--I--I felt so sorry for you, Gregory, and
so sorry that I had spoken to you that way; and I wanted to come right
over, and tell you I didn't mean it, and beg your pardon, and ask you to
make up with me; but I thought maybe you mightn't like it, and that you
might be angry with me, and--and not--not--I don't know; but anyway, I
didn't come. And then I just hoped and hoped all the time that maybe
you would come to see me; but you never did. And then at last I just
couldn't wait any longer, I felt so guilty and sorry and everything;
and--and so I stopped in on my way home to day; and, O, Gregory! I
really didn't mean to hurt your feelings, and I hope you'll forgive me,
Gregory, and not be angry with me any more.”
By this time I had gone up, and taken her in my arms; and, “O,
Rosalind!” I cried, “don't talk like that. You--you make me feel so
ashamed. You--you humiliate me so. What you said to me that day--it was
just right. You were just right, and I was wrong. And I deserved to
have you talk to me ten times worse, I was so horrid and stuck-up and
everything. And I--I'm awfully sorry. And I've wanted--I've wanted to go
and see you all the time, and tell you I was sorry; only--only I don't
know--I suppose I was too proud. And I just hope that you'll forgive
me, and forgive the way I acted here to-day a little while ago, and--O,
Rosalind! I'm so glad to be friends with you again.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Finkelstein, entering from the shop. “Hugging and
kissing each udder! Vail, my kracious! Vail, if I aifer! Vail, dot beats
de deck! Oh! you needn't take no notice of me. You needn't stop on my
account. I don't mind it. I been dere myself already, when I was your
age. You needn't bloosh like dot, Rosie; dough it's mighty becoming to
you, dot's a faict. And, Kraikory, you needn't look so sheebish. You
ain't done nodings to be ashamed of. And I'm awful sorry I came in shust
when I did, and inderrubded you; only I didn't know what you was doing,
as you haidn't notified me, and I vanted to speak to Kraikory about
a little maitter of business. Dere's an old feller outside dere in de
store what cain't talk no English; and I guess he was a Frenchman; so I
tought I'd get Kraikory to come along and aisk him what he vants, if you
could spare him, Rosie--hey?” So Rosalind and I followed Mr. Finkelstein
into the shop.
A tall, thin, and very poor-looking old man stood before the counter,
resting his hands upon it--small and well-shaped hands, but so fleshless
that you could have counted the bones in them, and across which the
blue, distended veins stretched like wires. His stove-pipe hat was worn
and lustreless; his black frock coat was threadbare, and whitish along
the seams. His old-fashioned standing collar was frayed at the edge; and
a red mark on each side of his neck, beneath his ears, showed that the
frayed edge had chafed his skin. His face was colorless and emaciated;
his eyes, sunken deep under his brows, had a weary, sad, half-frightened
look in them that compelled your pity. His moustache and imperial
were as white as snow. A very forlorn, pathetic, poor-looking old
man, indeed. Yet there was also something refined, dignified, and even
courtly in his appearance; and I thought to myself that he had seen
better days; and my heart ached for him. It was with an unwonted
gentleness that I inquired: “You are French, Monsieur? I put myself at
your service.”
His sad old eyes fixed themselves eagerly upon mine, and in a quavering
old voice he answered, “_Je cherche un jeune homme qui s'appelle
Grégoire Brace_”--I seek a young man named Gregory Brace. “_C'est ici que
il demeure?_”--It is here that he lives?
“_Mais oui, monsieur: c'est moi_” “--it is I,” I said; and wondering what
in the world he could want with me, I waited for him to go on.
His eyes opened a little wider, and a light flashed in them. He seemed
to be struggling with an emotion that made it impossible for him to
speak. His throat, I could see, gave two or three convulsive swallows.
Then his lips parted, his eyes grew dim with tears, and very huskily,
bending forward, he demanded, “_Et--et vous ne me connaissez pas?_”--And
you do not know me?
I scanned his face carefully. I could not recognize it. I shook my head.
“_Mais non, monsieur_--I do not think that I have ever seen you before.
“No, that is true. But I hoped that you might know me, nevertheless....
Gregory, it is I; it is thy uncle--de la Bourbonnaye.” And he stretched
out his two arms, to embrace me.
[Illustration: 0193]
“What!... Thou!... My--my Uncle--Florimond!... Oh!” I gasped. My heart
bounded terribly. My head swam. The objects round about began to dance
bewilderingly to and fro. The floor under my feet rocked like the deck
of a ship. There was a loud continuous ringing in my ears.... But still
I saw the figure of that sad old man standing there motionless, with
arms outstretched toward me, waiting. A thousand unutterable emotions
were battling in my heart; a thousand incoherent thoughts were racing
through my brain. This poor old man my Uncle Florimond! This poor old
man--in threadbare cloth and tattered linen.... Then suddenly an
impulse mastered me. I rushed forward, and threw myself upon his breast,
and--like a schoolgirl--fell to weeping.
Well, as the French proverb says, everything comes at last to him who
knows how to wait. To me at last had come the moment for which I had
waited so many years; and I stood face to face with my Uncle Florimond,
with the hero of my imagination, the Marquis de la Bourbonnaye. But
in place of the rich and powerful nobleman whom I had dreamed of, the
dashing soldier, the brilliant courtier, I found the poor decrepit aged
man whom you have seen. “Thou knowest, my Gregory,” he explained to me.
by and by, “since the overthrow of the legitimate monarchy by the first
revolution, our family has never been rich. In 1792, upon the eve of the
Terror, my father emigrated from the beautiful France, and sought refuge
in Sweden, where I and my sister were born, and where he remained
until 1815. Upon the restoration we returned to our fatherland; but our
chateaux of which we counted no fewer than three, had been burned, our
hôtel in Paris sacked, our wealth confiscated and dissipated, by those
barbarians, those assassins, those incendiaries, and we possessed
scarcely even the wherewithal to live. It was for that that we consented
to the misalliance made by our Aurore in espousing thy grandfather,
Philip Brace. American and bourgeois that he was, in admitting him to
our connection, our family suffered the first disgrace of its history.
Yet without dowry, my sister could never have married her equal in
France, and would most likely have become a nun. But that excellent
Brace, he loved her so much, her station was so high, his own so low,
he was happy to obtain her hand at any terms. She, too, reciprocated
his affection; he was indeed a fine fellow; and the marriage was
accomplished.... It is now some ten years since, by the goodness of my
beloved sister, I was enabled to amass a sufficient sum to purchase for
myself an annuity of six thousand francs as a provision for my age.
But behold, the other day--it is now about two months ago, perhaps--the
annuity company goes into bankruptcy; and I am left absolutely without
a _sou_. So I am come to America to seek an asylum with my sister's
son, Peter. I am arrived to-day even, aboard the steamship La Touraine.
Figure to thyself that, fault of money, I have been forced to make the
passage second class! To-morrow I shall proceed to Norr-veesh.”
“Have you written to Uncle Peter to expect you?” I inquired.
“_Mais non!_ I have not thought it necessary.”
“It is a man altogether singular, my Uncle Peter,” I went on, “and truly
I think that you will do better to rest here at New York a few days, in
attending a response to the letter which I counsel you to send him. He
loves not the surprises, my Uncle Peter.”
“I shall do all as thou desirest, my good Gregory,” said Uncle
Florimond; and he dispatched a letter to his nephew, Peter Brace, that
very evening, setting forth the state of his affairs, and declaring his
intention to go to Norwich.
That night and the next he slept in Mr. Finkelstein's spare bedroom. On
the evening of the third day an answer came from Uncle Peter, professing
his inability to do anything to assist his mother's brother, and
emphatically discouraging his proposed visit to Norwich. Uncle Florimond
could hardly believe his senses. “Ah! such cruelty, such lack of heart,”
he cried, “it is impossible.”
“Vail, Kraikory,” said Mr. Finkelstein, “de only ting is, he'll haif to
settle down here, and live mit me and you. He can keep dot spare room,
and we'll make him as comfortable as we know how. Tell him I be prout to
haif him for my guest as long as he'll stay.”
“No,” I answered, “I can't let you go to work and saddle yourself with
my relatives as well as with me. I must pitch in and support him.”
“But, my kracious, Kraikory, what can you do? You're only fifteen years
old. You couldn't earn more as tree or four tollars a veek if you vorked
all de time.”
“Oh! yes, I could. You forget that I've been studying short-hand; and I
can write sixty words a minute; and Mr. Marx will get me a position as a
short-hand writer in some office down-town; and then I could earn eight
dollars a week at least.”
“Vail, my kracious, dot's a faict. Vail, dot's simply immense. Vail, I'm
mighty glaid now you kept on studying and didn't take my advice. Vail,
ainyhow, Kraikory, you and him can go on living here by me, and den when
you're able you can pay boart--hey? And say, Kraikory, I always had
a sort of an idea dot I like to learn Frainch; and maybe he'd give me
lessons, hey? Aisk him what he'd sharsh.”
“Ah, my Gregory,” sighed Uncle Florimond, “I am desolated. To become a
burden upon thy young shoulders--it is terrible.”
“I beseech you, my dearest uncle, do not say such things. I love you
with all my heart. It is my greatest happiness to have you near me. And
hold, you are going to gain your own livelihood. Mr. Finkelstein here
wishes to know what you will charge to give him French lessons.”
“Well, I guess I join de class,” said Mr. Marx, when he heard of his
father-in-law's studies.
“So will I,” said Mrs. Marx.
“Well, I guess I come in too,” said Mr. Flisch.
“And I want to learn French ever so much,” said Rosalind.
[Ill 0006]
So a class was formed; and a Marquis de la Bourbonnaye, for the first
time, no doubt, in the history of that ancient family, ate bread that he
had earned by the sweat of his brow. It was a funny and yet a pathetic
sight to see him laboring with his pupils. He was very gentle and very
patient; but by the melancholy expression of his eyes, I knew that the
outrages they committed upon his native language sank deep into his own
soul. He and Mr. Finkelstein became great friends. I think they used
to play cards together quite six hours every day. Uncle Florimond had
studied English as a lad at school; and by and by he screwed his courage
to the sticking place, and began to talk that tongue. It was as good as
a play to hear him and Mr. Finkelstein converse together.
In due time, surely enough, Mr. Marx procured a situation for me as
stenographer in a banking-house down-town. My salary, to start with, was
seven dollars a week. Joining that to what Uncle Florimond earned, we
had enough to support us in comparative comfort and without loss of
self-respect.
And now Mrs. Gregory Brace, who is looking over my shoulder, and whose
first name is Rosalind, and whose maiden-name was Earle, warns me that
the point is reached where I must write
THE END.