IN WHICH PHIL STARTS FOR CHICAGO, AND HEARS A FAMILIAR NAME.
My father was gloomy and sad, and I disliked to say anything more on
the painful topic; but I was so thoroughly in earnest that I could not
postpone some decided action. It seemed criminal to permit such a
matter to rest any longer, and I wondered how I had been able to keep
quiet two years with the consciousness that I had a mother whom I had
seen only with my baby eyes. Something seemed to reproach me for my
coldness and neglect, though in fact I had done all I could to solve
the difficulty. My grandfather appeared to be suspicious, and even
heartless; but I knew that my mother was not so.
Far away she was wandering in foreign lands, and though surrounded by
the gayest of friends, and surfeited in luxury, I could not help
thinking that now and then, in the still watches of the night; her
motherly heart recurred to the little one she had lost. What a joy it
would be to her to know that her son, her lost one, was still alive! If
in her maternal heart she had ever pictured that babe as becoming a
stalwart young man, I felt that I could already realize her hope. If
she had ever anticipated the time when her first-born, as his beard
began to grow, would lavish upon her all the tenderness which a mother
has a right to claim, I felt that I could amply reward her desire, and
realize her ambition.
My father was silent. I knew he was considering what more he could do
to gratify the longings of my soul. Perhaps he was weighing my
proposition to go to Chicago, and speak for myself and for him. I could
not say that my plan was the best, or that any good would come of it;
and I mentioned it because I could think of nothing else that looked
like decided action. I glanced at him, and he saw that I was desirous
of resuming the topic.
"Philip, it is my fault that I am separated from your mother, and your
words sound like so many reproaches to me," said he, with emotion. "But
I deserve it all, for though I feel that God has forgiven me, he will
not spare me from all the consequences of my folly and sin."
"Do not say that, father. Far be it from me to utter a reproach for
anything you have done," I replied, disturbed by his words and his
manner. "Let the past go--'let the dead bury their dead.'"
"But the dead will not bury their dead, Philip. Your mother left me
when she could no longer live with me. I do not blame her. It was my
fault alone."
"I only wish to let my mother know what has happened; that you are now
a good and true man. I am sure, if she knew this, she would hasten to
us without a single day's delay."
"Of course she is under the influence of her father and her brothers. I
do not even know where she is. If I did I would write to her. She will
return one of these days, and then I will try to see her."
"It may be years before she returns, father. They say it will be three
years at least."
"What can we do?"
"I will go to Chicago."
"What good can that possibly do? Will you force yourself into the
presence of your grandfather, and then tell him that you are the son of
his daughter? He would not believe you; he would kick you out of his
house."
"I shall not be rash or indiscreet."
"But what will you do? What can you do?" demanded my father, earnestly.
"I don't know; that will depend upon circumstances. In spite of my
mishaps, fortune has favored me in the long run," I replied; but I had
no plan whatever for my future action.
"You do not know your grandfather."
"I never even saw him."
"He is not a bad man, by any means; on the contrary, he is upright and
liberal. But he is eminently solid and practical. He is old-fashioned,
full of dignity and self-respect. He believes that the world and all
the affairs of mankind move in deep-worn ruts. He follows only
legitimate and recognized channels. He rejects anything that is strange
and out of the common course, and for that reason your story would find
no favor with him. I doubt whether he ever read a novel in his life. If
you should take all the public officers in St. Louis to Chicago with
you, and let them swear in court that you were the long-lost son of
Edward and Louise Farringford, he would not believe them. He may be
convinced, but not by anything you can say or do."
"Nevertheless, father, I wish to go to Chicago. I have seen but little
of the world, and I have heard a great deal about that city."
"I have no objection to your going to Chicago--not the least; but I
hope you will not flatter yourself that you can produce an impression
upon the mind of Mr. Collingsby, or his son Richard, who is as near
like his father as one pea is like another pea. I should even like to
have you travel for two or three months. It would do you good. You
might go east--to New York and Philadelphia."
"I don't care about going farther than Chicago."
"Go, by all means; but don't get into a quarrel with your grandfather."
"I'm not quarrelsome, father."
"But Mr. Collingsby would be if you went to him with your story, though
every word of it is true."
And so it was settled that I should go to Chicago. I intended at least
to find out who and what my grandfather was. I wanted to see him with
my own eyes, though he was evidently what is regarded as "a hard
customer." The fact that he was so afforded me a new sensation, and I
began to glow with an unwonted excitement. It was my mission to see and
convince Mr. Collingsby that I was his grandson, unless he should be
able to prove that I was not so; and one cannot reasonably be required
to prove a negative. It was a problem, a difficulty; and I felt, as I
had in the field and forest, a new life and vigor when there was a real
obstacle to be overcome.
My father was certainly very considerate towards me, and was willing to
trust me anywhere that I pleased to go. I had not many preparations to
make; a small valise held my wardrobe, and on Monday morning I crossed
the river and took the train for Chicago. A journey of two hundred and
eighty miles, accomplished in about twelve hours, was not a very great
event, even a dozen years ago; but somehow, I do not know why, I felt
as though I was setting out in a new career of existence. I expected to
return in a week, or in two weeks, at the most; yet, in spite of my
exertion to make myself believe that the trip was quite a commonplace
affair, it continued to thrust itself upon me as one of great
importance.
I had taken a few short trips with my father on holidays by railroad,
so that a train of cars was not quite a new thing to me. However, I was
no traveller then, and being of an inquiring mind, I was disposed to
examine minutely everything I saw, and to understand the use of every
new object. I bought my ticket, and stepping back, I amused myself in
watching the ticket-seller, anxious to solve the mystery of a stamping
machine he continually used. Before I had solved the problem to my
satisfaction, I heard the bell ring.
"All aboard for Chicago and way stations!" shouted the conductor.
That meant me, and I hastened to obey the summons, but rather vexed
that I had not penetrated the working of the stamping machine. I was
rather late, and I found the car I entered quite full; indeed, there
was only a single vacant seat, and that was by the side of an old woman
whose company did not appear to be particularly desirable. However, I
had made up my mind that it is not best to be too particular in this
world, and I walked up the aisle with the intention of taking the seat.
I found it was already appropriated to the old lady's numerous bundles.
"Is this seat taken, madam?" I ventured to ask.
"Well, yes; don't you see it's taken?" said she, rather sourly.
"I don't see any other vacant seat in the car," I added.
"I can't move all them things," snapped the matron.
"I will place them in the rack above your head," I suggested.
"I've fixed 'em all once, and I don't want to move 'em agin. You are a
young feller, and you can find a seat in some other car," added the old
lady, very decidedly.
Some of the passengers laughed at the answers of the old lady. I did
not care to get up a quarrel with her, and I decided to stand up, in
deference to the old lady's bundles, until the train stopped at the
first station, when I could safely look for a seat in some other car.
After this exhibition of rudeness, I did not think my seat at her side
would be comfortable; I was afraid her bristles would annoy me, and it
was more comfortable to stand. The train moved off; but it had gone
only a very short distance before the conductor appeared, followed by a
very dignified-looking gentleman, for whom he was evidently seeking a
seat; and this assured me that the cars were all full forward.
"Here is just one seat," said the gentlemanly conductor, as he stopped
beside the vacant place, and began to pick up the old lady's bundles.
"Don't you tech them things," interposed their legal owner.
"This gentleman wants a seat," added the polite official.
"He can find one somewhere else. I don't want my bundles tipped round,
as though they didn't cost nothing."
"But we must have the seat, madam," insisted the conductor. "I believe
you pay for only one seat."
"Sakes alive! Can't a body have a place to put her things?"
"I will put them in the rack for you."
"I don't want them put in the rack."
"Well, madam, you can put them where you please, but this gentleman
must have the seat."
"I don't think much of them gentlemen that want to go a pestering a
poor lone woman like me. You let them things alone, sir!" snapped the
old lady.
"I will wait a reasonable time for you to dispose of them; but if you
don't take care of them, I shall put them in the baggage-car."
"I should like to see you do it! Hain't you got nothin' better to do
than tormenting an unprotected woman?"
Finding that he had a hard subject to deal with, the gentlemanly
conductor packed up the bundles, and tossed them into the rack,
heedless of the protest of the indignant owner. I confess that I rather
enjoyed the discomfiture of the old lady, who had compelled me to stand
for the accommodation of her bundles. She was unreasonable, and utterly
selfish, and I thought she deserved the defeat to which she was
compelled to submit.
"Here is a seat for you, Mr. Collingsby," continued the conductor, with
a great deal of deference in his tone and manner.
Mr. Collingsby! I straightway forgot all about the old lady in the
interest awakened by this name. The snaps, snarls, and growls with
which the woman saluted her new seat-mate were lost upon me, whether
they were or not upon the unfortunate subject of them. The name was not
a very common one, and I jumped to the conclusion that the dignified
gentleman was my uncle.
"Thank you," replied the traveller, rather coldly, after the hard
battle the official had fought for his sake.
"There will be plenty of seats when we reach the next station," added
the conductor, as he passed me.
For my own part, I was glad I had no seat, for I could now choose my
own position to study the features of Mr. Collingsby.