TEDDY LOSES AND FINDS HIS HOME.
AN hour later, Teddy, leaving behind him the books, papers,
pictures, every thing that Mr. Burroughs had given him, and taking
only the few articles of his clothing which happened to be at the
office, crept out of the door and down the stairs with the look of a
veritable thief.
Choosing the least-frequented streets, and avoiding the recognition
of such of his acquaintance as chanced to meet him, he slunk
homeward, feeling a little less wretched, but infinitely more
degraded, than he had done before his confession.
Burroughs knew, his mother knew, the police-officials knew,--how
could he tell who did not know?-of his shame and guilt. Every pair
of eyes seemed to accuse him; every step seemed to pursue him; every
distant voice seemed to summon him to receive the punishment of his
misdoing; and it was as to a refuge that he at last hurried in at
the door and up the stairs of the tenement-house.
At the upper landing, however, he paused. His mother!-oh the sorrow
and the shame that he had brought upon her in payment for all her
love and effort, and the constant sacrifices she had made, ever
since he could remember, to enable him to rise above his natural
station, and to appear as well as his future associates! It came
back to him now,--not a new thought, but one intensified by the more
immediate suffering of the last two hours. He leaned for a moment
against the wall, and wiped his clammy brow, feeling that any sudden
death, any strange chance that could befall him, would be welcome,
so that it swallowed up the coming moment, and spared him the sight
of the misery he had wrought.
Only a moment. Then the desperate courage that had carried him
through his confession to his master gave him strength to open the
door and enter.
The ironing-table was spread, and upon a half-finished shirt lay a
little pile of money. Teddy knew that it was the wages owing him
since the last payment, and turned away his eyes with loathing.
Mrs. Ginniss was lying upon the bed, her face buried in the pillow,
sobbing heavily and wearily, as if exhausted by excessive emotion.
Teddy closed the door softly, and stood looking at her, uncertain
whether she had heard him enter. In the room below, the little child
of the new tenants sung, at her play, an air that Cherry had often
sung.
Teddy listened, and, when the little song was done, cried out,--
"O mother! haven't you a word for me? I believe I'll go mad next."
"Don't be spakin' to me, you bowld, bad b'y! It's niver a word I
have for yees, or wants from yees!" sobbed Mrs. Ginniss.
Teddy looked at her drearily for a moment; then softly seated
himself, his hands folded listlessly in his lap, his eyes wandering
idly about the familiar room, and his mind journeying on and on in
the weary, mechanical manner of a mind over-wrought and stunned by
long-continued or excessive suffering.
From the street below rose the hum and bustle of city life; from the
room that had been Giovanni's, the voice of the child, still singing
at her play. In at the open window streamed the thick yellow
sunshine of the August afternoon, and a great droning blue fly
buzzed upon the pane.
Teddy noted every sound; watched the motes dancing in the sunshine,
the fly bouncing up and down the little window, the movements of the
cat, who, rising from her nap, stretched every limb separately,
yawned, lazily lapped at her saucer of milk, and then, seating
herself in the patch of lurid sunshine, with her tail curled round
her fore-paws, blinked drowsily for a few minutes, and then dozed
off again.
But, whether he listened or whether he looked, it was but ear and
eye that noted these familiar and homely sounds or sights. The mind
still journeyed on and on in that weary journey without beginning or
end; that dull, heavy tramp through black night, with no hope of
ever reaching morning; that vain flight from a pain not for one
moment to be forgotten or left behind; that numb consciousness of an
evil, that, wait as we will, must sooner or later be met and
recognized.
A long hour passed, and Mrs. Ginniss suddenly arose and confronted
her son.
"If iver I larnt ye any thin', ye black-hearted b'y, what wor it?"
Teddy raised his heavy eyes to his mother's face, but made no
answer.
"Worn't it to search iver an' always for the chance to do a good
turn to him as has done all for 'yees that yer own father could, an'
more? Worn't that the lesson I've struv to larn ye this four year
back, Teddy Ginniss?"
"Yes, mother," said the boy in a low voice.
"An' haven't I towld ye, that, so as ye did it, my blessin' was wid
yees, an' so as ye turned yer back on it my cuss 'ud folly yees, an'
the cuss uv God an' all his saints and angels?"
"Yes, mother."
"An it's yersilf that's tuck heed uv me words, an' done yer best to
kape 'em; isn't it, me fine lad?" pursued the mother with bitter
irony.
"I did always, mother, till"-began Teddy humbly; but his mother
angrily interrupted him.
"Alluz till ye got the chance to do contrairy, an' plaze yersilf at
his expense. Sure, an' it wor mighty perlite uv yees to wait that
long, an' it's greatly obleeged to yees he shud be."
She waited a moment, standing before the boy, who, still seated
droopingly in the chair where he had first fallen, his heavy eyes
looking straight before him, offered neither reply nor remonstrance;
while his mother, setting her hands upon her hips, looked scornfully
at him a moment longer, and then exclaimed,--
"An' have ye niver a word to say for yersilf, ye white-livered
coward? Is there niver anudder lie on yer tongue like thim ye found
so handy this twelvemonth back? Git out uv me sight, ye spalpeen,
and out uv me doors! Go find them as'll kape yees to stale rich
folks' children, an' thin lie to the mother as bore yees, and the
kind masther as tried to make a gintleman out uv a thafe. Begone, I
say, Teddy Ginniss, and quit pizenin' the air of an honest woman's
room wid yer prisince!"
Teddy rose, and was leaving the room without a word, but at the door
turned back; looked long and wistfully at his mother, who had turned
away, and affected not to see him; then slowly said,--
"Good-by, mother! It's worse nor you can I'm feeling. Good-by! If
ever I come to any good, I'll let you know; and, if I don't, you're
shut of me for always."
The mother made no answer; and Teddy, lingering one moment on the
threshold to turn his sad eyes for the last time upon the familiar
objects that had surrounded him since childhood, went out, and down
the stairs.
In the street he paused a moment, looking up and down, wondering
where he should first go, and how food and shelter for the coming
night were to be obtained. The question yet unsolved, he was walking
slowly on; when a voice far overhead called,--
"Teddy!-Teddy Ginniss! Come here, I say!"
It was his mother's voice; and, as he looked up, it was his mother's
face and hand summoning him.
In the same forlorn, stunned way that he had come down, Teddy
climbed the stairs again, feeling as if his feet were shod with
lead, or the terrible weight at his heart was too heavy to be
carried a step farther.
He pushed open the door of his mother's room, but never looked up or
spoke, although he knew she stood close behind it. But, indeed,
there could have been no time, had the boy wished to speak; for
already his mother's arms were around his neck, and her head upon
his stout shoulder, while the passionate tears fell like rain upon
his hands.
"Ochone, ochone! An' it's me own an' only b'y yees are, an' must be,
Teddy darlint; an' it's mesilf that 'ud be worse nor a haythin to
turn yees inter the strate, so long as it's a roof an' a bit I have
left for yees. An' sure, if ye've gone astray, it's the heart uv
yees that's bruck wid frettin' afther it; an' there's a many as has
done wuss, and niver a hape it harmed 'em here nor hereafter. An',
if Michael wor here the day, it's himself 'ud say to pass it by; an'
it wor little I should be plazin' his blissid sowl to turn yees off
for one fault. Kiss yer owld mother, honey, an' be her own b'y
again!"
"Thank you, mother," said Teddy, still in the strange, low voice he
had used before; and, putting his arms round her neck, he met and
returned her hearty kiss, and then, without another word, went and
shut himself into the little loft he called his own, and was seen no
more that night.