ANOTHER CHASE.
If Tim had meant to revenge himself for all Berty’s crossness, he
could not have chosen any means more certain than his parting-words
to do it. In the tumult of her thoughts, and her anxiety to get rid
of Gottlieb’s questions about the basket and broom, which in her
haste she had left unheeded upon the sidewalk, Berty had hurried
herself and the children into bed without remembering her usual
devotions. But those words of Tim’s, “Say your prayers before you
go to sleep,” brought the remembrance, and somehow it was strangely
unwelcome. She sat down upon the bedside, after Tim was gone, to
think it over. If the pocket-book had been sent, as she tried to
persuade herself, in answer to her prayers, she ought at least to be
willing to thank her Father in Heaven for such great and unexpected
kindness; and yet for her life she dared not have done it. If it
was God’s gift, it should fill her heart with love and thankfulness.
Whence came, then, this anger and terror? Berty would not let herself
understand,—would not allow herself to answer,—but crept into bed
again with the _Vaterunser_ still unsaid, though not forgotten.
But the sleep which settled so sweetly over Tim’s hard couch held
aloof from the straw bed in the attic. Berty tossed and tumbled in
feverish unrest,—or lay in silent terror listening to the footsteps
of the late lodgers coming in, and fancying they were policemen
seeking for her,—or magnifying the rats in the ceiling into robbers,
breaking in to steal her treasure. She tried to put the pocket-book
out of her head, but it lay there like a leaden weight in her bosom,
and would not be forgotten; she tried to think of her Christmas tree,
but the shining tapers were all gone out and would not be relighted.
The face of the strange gentleman would come up in their stead; but
the cheery smile which had warmed her heart so, burned into it now
like a red-hot iron. And Tim’s words, too,—those bad, cruel words,
“It’s no better than stealing, not a bit; and you would not be a
thief, Berty,”—came back again and again. And so the night wore
on,—the most wretched night which, with all her troubles, poor Berty
had ever known.
Towards morning she fell into an uneasy slumber, and dreamed that
the strange gentleman, in a policeman’s dress, with the cheery smile
still upon his face, hunted her up and down through crowded streets
and lonely alleys, while Tim and all the people cried “Stop thief!”
and woke to find it morning, and Lieb calling her to get up and
asking again those weary questions about the basket and the broom.
She put him off with a story of Tim’s taking care of them, gave him
his breakfast, and sent him away to his work; then dressed little
Fritz, and, leaving Lina and Rose to take care of him and put the
room to rights, started out, with not much notion where she was
going,—only somewhere to get away from herself. Tim was waiting for
her at the bottom of the stairs, with his new basket full of apples
in one hand, and his own old rag-basket and broom in the other. The
faithful little sentinel had waked with the first peep of day, and
gone out to the earliest market-stall to purchase his little store
before Berty was stirring.
“Good morning, Berty,” said he, pleasantly. “You left your basket
and broom in the street yesterday. I forgot all about it till just
now; and they’re quite gone before this. You can take mine, though. I
sha’n’t want ’em any more, you know.”
Berty nodded, and took them without speaking. It seemed that she
scarcely needed such tools now, rich as she was; but she should feel
lost without them, and they might help to occupy her mind until she
had decided what to do with all that money. So she set off for the
crossing, while Tim followed close at her heels, very uncomfortable,
but quite determined to keep her in sight. He had gotten no farther
through his puzzle, poor boy, than this first determination; and this
playing the policeman upon Berty was not at all to his taste.
And Berty liked it as little as he; for more than anything else
she dreaded to meet those eyes, the only ones which had seen her
hidden treasure,—more than anything else she wished to avoid a talk
with their owner, the only person in all New York who knew her
uncomfortable secret. She thought perhaps he would leave her at the
crossing, and go on to the ferry if she took no notice; so she began
to hunt very carefully among the rubbish in the gutter, as if she had
eyes and thoughts for nothing else; but she could not help looking
round slyly at last, and there was Tim posted at the corner with his
basket, though there could be very little chance for customers among
the few early passers-by. Presently, when the crowd began to thicken,
she began to sweep the crossing with her back towards the sidewalk;
but, ever and anon, as she glanced over her shoulder, she would catch
sight, between the flitting figures, of her little policeman, never
looking for customers at all, never speaking, never coming nearer,
but watching, watching still.
It was very provoking. What could Tim mean by it? She would not
have him watching there; she would send him away. But if she once
spoke to him, what might he not say to her? what might he not do? It
was a new feeling, this being afraid of Tim, and not by any means
a pleasant one; but one thing was certain: she could never come to
any decision,—she could never do anything with the money while Tim
was watching there. Berty was just thinking of running away herself,
when a stage stopped at the crossing directly in front of her, and
out stepped the pleasant-looking gentleman, with the old cheery
smile upon his face. That decided her; she dropped her broom in a
twinkling, and scampered away up the street.
On and on she ran, passing through street after street, turning
corner after corner, till at last, quite breathless and spent, she
ventured to look behind, and seeing she was not pursued, took courage
to slacken her pace. Still she dared not go back to the crossing;
she was even afraid to return to Mrs. Flanagan’s, lest the gentleman
should be seeking her there; and so she wandered on, the streets
growing less and less familiar, till she had lost her way entirely,
and then sat down, quite wearied out, upon the curb-stone, to rest
herself a little and determine what to do. It was a handsome street,
clean, and well paved, and lined with stately brownstone houses, not
at all like any part of the city where Berty had ever been before.
Though it was nearly noon, the people on the sidewalks were few and
far between, and, but for the stages and the handsome carriages, the
street would have seemed very lonely and quiet. Berty thought to
herself it could not be a very good place for the rag-pickers and the
crossing-sweepers. But who was that skulking behind the area railing
yonder, and peeping out at her? Berty started up in alarm, but she
was too tired to run away now; and, after all, it was only Tim. Tim
could not do her any great harm; upon the whole, she would be rather
glad to see him than otherwise, for he would know the way home. So
she sat down again and waited for him to come.
But Tim did not come. He stayed behind the railing, only peeping
out now and then to make sure that his charge did not steal away
unperceived. He had taken it for granted that Berty was running away
from him, for he knew nothing about the strange gentleman; and so he
had been skulking behind things and people all the way up in such a
sly fashion that any one who noticed him at all must have taken him,
poor honest fellow, for the culprit, instead of Berty.
Berty waited, as I said, and wondered; and when she found Tim was not
coming to her, plucked up courage at last to go to him. Tim could
scarcely believe his eyes; but he did not run away from Berty, you
may be sure. He made room for her upon the stone step beside him, and
received her with a very pleasant smile.
“What made you run away, Berty?” said he. “Sure, you knew I’d never
harm you.”
Berty was very glad Tim had put this construction upon her flight,
for she dreaded, of all things, letting him know about the gentleman.
“What made you watch me so, then, Tim?” said she.
Tim was not quite prepared with an answer to this question, so, in
true Irish fashion, he turned it off with a joke. “A cat may look
at a king, Berty,” he answered; “and you’re no better than a king,
sure.”
“And you’re no better than a cat, Tim,” answered Berty, sharply. “You
looked just like one, I’m sure. But I don’t want to talk about that
now,” she added, decidedly; “and if you begin, I shall run away. I
want you to show me the way home.”
“You’re too tired to go home now, Berty,” said Tim, with a pitying
glance at the pale, anxious face. “Sit down here, and rest a bit,
and eat an apple. You’re hungry, I’m sure. I’ll never say a word you
don’t like, honey,—see if I do.”
Berty _was_ very tired, and not a little hungry; so, having
confidence in Tim’s promise, she sat down beside him; while Tim,
having made up his mind that his best chance of influencing her was
by removing her fear of him, set himself to entertain her to the best
of his ability.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]