JOSEY WEST LAMENTS HER CROOKED LEGS.
Exactly three weeks had passed since Mr. Glover's departure, and I
here take the opportunity of mentioning that, although I have seen the
gentleman subsequently on two or three occasions, we have avoided each
other by mutual consent--a state of things with which I am perfectly
contented. The connection between him and Turk West is also completely
severed, so that he has, as it were, dropped out of our lives. During
the above-mentioned interval, nothing of importance transpired; my
mind was busy with possibilities, but I saw no clear way of playing an
active part in their development. My mother during this time, and
especially during the past week, had been out a great deal. I guessed
that she was still searching for uncle Bryan, and I should have been
happy to learn from her lips that she had been successful in finding
him. Within a few days of the time of which I am writing, I
entertained a suspicion that she had found a clue, for when she came
home her eyes were bright, and there was an expression of great
happiness in her face; but I said nothing to her. I knew that I should
soon hear good news if she had any to tell. The special direction of
my thoughts may easily be understood by an observation I made to my
mother one afternoon at the end of the three weeks.
'Mother,' I said, 'I think you ought to go and see Jessie.'
She looked up with glad eyes.
'Some feeling with regard to myself,' I continued, 'may prevent Jessie
from coming to you here, and I think it would be a good thing for you
to go to her. I know she loves you and would be glad to see you, and
you may be able to counsel and advise her. Turk West knows where she
lives, and, although he would not tell me if I asked him, I believe he
would tell you readily.'
'Do you think so, dear child?' she asked. 'Then I will go to him, and
tell him what you say.'
The voice is a great tell-tale, and I knew by the tune in which my
mother spoke that my suggestion had given her pleasure.
'There is no time like the present,' I said.
My mother rose immediately, and put on her bonnet.
'I shall leave off work at eight o'clock,' I said, so that she might
understand I did not wish her to hurry back, and then I shall go round
to Josey West for an hour.'
She nodded, and stood looking over my shoulder as I worked.
'If I see Jessie,' she said, and paused.
'Yes, mother, if you see her---- I hope you will see her.'
'I hope so too, dear child. Shall I give her any message from you?'
'Not unless she asks after me, mother; then you may give her my love.'
There was the merest trembling in my voice as I said this, but it was
sufficient to agitate my mother's soul. I laid my graver aside, and
said,
'You see how it is, mother; I cannot do or act otherwise. Jessie could
not know more about me and my feelings if I stood at her door all day
long. I never loved her more than I do now, and I believe I shall
never love her less; it would not be true if I said I was happy, but I
am far happier than I deserve to be. My mother is still left to me,
thank God!'
'Dear child! dear child!' she murmured, with tender caresses.
'And you must not think it strange, mother, if I don't ask you
questions when you come back. You will tell me whatever is worth
telling. Now, one other word, and then you must run away, for I have
work to finish. Should you meet with uncle Bryan----'
'Would you wish me to, my dear?' she asked wistfully.
'Yes,' I answered; I should like you to find him. If you do, give him
my love also, and say that I should like to come to see him, if he
will not come to us. And, remember, mother, if he wants for anything,
all that I have is his; but for him I should not have been in my
present position. As for the past, let bygones be bygones. As
Americans would say, I should be truly happy to shake hands with him
on that platform.'
My mother kissed me, and went out of the room. I thought she had
started on her errand, but she returned in a quarter of an hour, with
a bunch of wallflowers in her hand.
'I only came in to show you these, my dear,' she said; 'smell
them--they are very sweet. You have not studied the language of
flowers, have you, my dear?'
'No, mother.'
'Then you don't know what wallflowers stand for,' she said, with a
bright smile. 'Now this is for you, my dear; it is the first rose I
have seen;' and placing on my table a small rose embedded in moss, she
left the room again. I watched her from the window as she walked down
the street; she walked almost like a girl.
On my way to Josey West in the evening, I passed the house in which I
had first made her acquaintance. The door being opened, I entered, and
found the place in an unusual bustle. Florry and her younger sisters
were dusting and cleaning up, and putting the rooms in order. In
explanation, Florry told me that their eldest brother, Sheridan, was
coming to live there with his wife and children.
'They come in next week,' said Florry; and I daresay Clarance and his
family will follow them; they have always lived together, and they
won't like to be parted now. There's plenty of room for them all.'
'The place will look like its old self again,' I said to Josey West, a
few minutes later on; and I added, with a sigh, 'and you'll be having
the jolly old times over again, I shouldn't wonder.'
'I shouldn't wonder, either,' replied the little woman briskly. 'Do
you know, Chris, there's one thing I do miss--the Sunday evenings we
used to have in the old house. Now that Sheridan is coming, we'll
revive the Sunday-night suppers. You'll come, won't you, and bring
your dear mother. She's never been to one of our parties. Upon my
word, I feel quite happy only in thinking of them. There's Sheridan
and his seven youngsters, and Clarance with his five--another one
added, Chris, a fortnight ago--the sweetest little thing! Well, I do
love to have a lot of children about me. When I die, an old woman--I
shall be the queerest little old woman _you_ ever set eyes on,
Chris!--well, when I die, an old, old woman, I should like to see
heaps of children round me, so that I might take the memory of their
bright little faces away with me. It isn't often that I talk
seriously, but I've got that fancy.'
'You ought to have children of your own, Josey.'
Josey was stitching and mending some of the youngsters' clothes, and,
at my remark, she paused and looked at me pensively; but the next
moment she gave such a vicious dig with her needle that she broke it,
and cried,
'Ought to have! Ought to have! Me, with my crooked legs! No, my dear,
never, never, never! Little witches don't have children. Never, never,
never!' And for the first time in my experience of her, Josey West
burst out crying. Her passion did not last long; she conquered it
within a couple of minutes, and, as she wiped her eyes, exclaimed,
'There! A nice little fool you'll think me now, Chris!'
I gave her a kiss, and in a little while she was herself again,
rattling away as usual.
'I'm going to sleep in the old house every night,' she said, until
Sheridan takes possession; and Turk is coming here to sleep, and to
mind the shop, if I want to get away a bit earlier. I wish Turk would
marry. I should like to take care of his children. He's a real good
sterling fellow is Turk, and deserves a happy home. Your mother was
here this afternoon, Chris. She told me all that you said to her.'
'You guess, I daresay, what my reason is in wishing her to see
Jessie.'
Josey West laughed. 'I guess, you daresay! Well, yes, I can guess,
although I am not in love.'
I shook my head. 'I don't think you have guessed, Josey. It is not for
myself that I want mother and Jessie to come together again.'
'What other reason can you have, my sweet sensitive child?'
'Oh, I don't mind your bantering me, Josey. Do you remember sending me
a letter from uncle Bryan addressed to mother, when we were away at
Hertford?'
'Yes; and I wondered at the time what such a thick letter could be all
about.'
'It contained a great secret, Josey, and a very wonderful story
concerning Jessie.'
'Indeed!' said Josey, with a cautious look at me.
'I think there is no harm in telling you, especially as you'll not
speak of it.'
'Oh, you may trust me, Master Chris.'
'It is a story concerning Jessie and her father.'
'Indeed! So Jessie has a father.'
'You would never guess who her father is, Josey.'
'Then I won't break my head over it; but I shall know if you tell me.'
Uncle Bryan is her father; so that you see Jessie and I are cousins.'
Josey did not express the surprise I expected she would; an expression
of thoughtfulness was in her face.
'Go on, Chris; I am waiting to hear more.'
'Well, neither Jessie nor uncle Bryan knew of the relationship
existing between them until the day that Jessie went away from this
house, and then it came upon them both like a thunderbolt. It was
because Jessie discovered that uncle Bryan was her father that she ran
away from him.'
'That sounds very dreadful, Chris.'
'There is a dreadful story attached to it--which I mustn't tell you
nor anybody, Josey. They are both very much to be pitied; but I am not
sure that I don't pity uncle Bryan more than I do Jessie. However,
there it is; they are father and daughter, and they are separated.
Never mind what has passed, I ask you is this right--is it natural?
Uncle Bryan is an old man, and cannot have many years to live. That he
repents many things he has been unconsciously guilty of in the past, I
am certain.'
'That's a curious phrase,' interrupted Josey, with her thoughtful
manner still upon her. 'Unconsciously guilty.'
'It is a correct one. His has not been conscious guilt; what was bad
in his character was stamped in him, and was almost forced to take
root by the unfortunate circumstances in his early life; what was good
never had a chance. We all have good and bad in us, Josey, and
surrounding circumstances have much to do in making one or the other
predominate in our characters. What is that thought that crossed your
eyes just now, Josey?'
'I was thinking that you have grown into a perfect philosopher, Chris.
Go on.'
'Say that uncle Bryan had been blessed with such a mother as my mother
is--he would have been a different man; he couldn't have helped being
a better man. He would have believed in God, in goodness; he would not
have grown into a misanthrope. Josey, if there is anything good in
me--and I hope I am not all bad--I have mother only to thank for it.
It makes me tremble to think that I was so nearly losing her, and that
her love for me was very nearly her death; and I know, to my sorrow,
that for a long time I repaid her affection with indifference. Well,
but that is all over now, thank God. If uncle Bryan had had a good,
tender, considerate mother, many unhappy things would not have
occurred to him, and it might have been better for Jessie also. As I
said, it is dreadful to think of father and daughter being separated
as they are, and to think that uncle Bryan might die without a word of
affection passing between them. Well, that was the thought in my mind
when I said to mother to-day that she ought to go to Jessie; for if
mother finds uncle Bryan--and I have an idea that she will--no one but
she can bring him and Jessie together.'
'But you didn't tell your mother this, Chris?'
'No; mother did not need telling. She knew my meaning well enough.
Words are not required between us now, Josey, to make us understand
one another.'
'And so, and so, and so,' said Josey, with tender gaiety, when I
had concluded, 'everything having been made right, they lived happily
together for ever afterwards.'
It was with sadness I remembered that those were the very words which
Jessie had spoken to me in the little parlour in which Josey and I
were now conversing.
'Now I'm a witch,' cried Josey, 'and I'll give you three wishes. What
are they?'
I looked at her reproachfully, but she did not heed me. She hobbled
about as witches are in the habit of doing on the stage, and waved the
poker over my head, and conducted herself generally in a ridiculous
manner.
'Halo!' cried Turk, poking his head in at the door. 'What are you
about with your pokers? What a pity I didn't come in a minute later!
There's an account I could have written for the papers! "The first
thing that met Our Correspondent's view was the distended"--distended
is good, Chris, my boy; I've seen it used so--"was the distended form
of the unfortunate victim on the ground, winking his last gasp. Over
him stood the infuriated figure of a woman, who, with glistening eyes
and rage in her countenance, was brandishing the murderous weapon--an
enormous crowbar, weighing fifty-three pounds--preparatory to giving a
last fell stroke to the prostrate form at her feet." That's the style,
Chris; a penny a line. Spin it out--_must_ have at least two columns.
"Upon inquiry among the neighbours, who stood in clusters about the
building in which the murderous deed was perpetrated, Our
Correspondent learned that jealousy was the cause of the fatal
assault. It appears that thirteen years ago there lived in a certain
street, called et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." Now, after that,
Chris, if you start an illustrated paper, and don't employ me as
Special Correspondent, I shall have a bad opinion of your judgment.'
I was relieved by this diversion, and upon Turk proposing that we
should pay a visit to the Royal Columbia Theatre, in which he had
played the first villain for so long a time, I gladly assented.
I left a message for my mother, desiring her to wait with Josey until
I returned, and Turk and I strolled to the theatre. I found not the
slightest alteration either in the theatre, the audience, or the
performance; they were all the same--the same atmosphere, the same
fashions, the same pieces with different names. The very dresses were
the same; but I was bound to confess that the First Villain was vastly
inferior to Turk, who, I learned, had left a reputation behind him
which would last while the walls held together. We did not stay longer
than an hour, and then, as we had done on the occasion of my first
visit to the Royal Columbia, we visited a neighbouring bar, and over
our pewter pots listened and took part in a precisely similar
conversation to that which I had listened to with such respectful
admiration and attention after the performance of the thrilling drama
of _The Knight of the Sable Plume_. The decadence of the drama, the
low ebb of dramatic literature, the glorious days of Garrick and
Kemble, the inferior parts which men and women of genius were
compelled to play upon the mimic stage, the false positions which
pretenders were puffed into by venal critics who ignored real
talent--these were the themes touched upon; and I began to reflect
whether this state of things was chronic in the profession, and
whether, when the golden age of the drama is in its full meridian, the
decadence of the drama will not be spoken of as mournfully as it is in
the present day.
My mother was waiting for me when I returned; but although she was
exceptionally bright and happy, and although there was a tenderly
joyous significance in her words and manner towards me, she said
nothing of the result of her visit to Jessie.