take charity though we need help; but we can get along now, sir--for, I
suppose I must keep it, as you say you didn't send it, and use it for
the children's sake, and thank God for his good mercy--since I don't
know, and never shall, where it came from, now."
"Mrs. Miller," he said quickly, "you spoke in this way before; and I
don't know what you refer to. What do you mean by--_it_?"
"Oh! I forgot sir: it puzzles me so. You see, sir, I was sitting here
after I got home from your house, thinking what I should do, when Mrs.
Flanagan came up-stairs with a letter for me, that she said a strange
man left at the door for Mrs. Miller; and Mrs. Flanagan couldn't
describe him well, or understandingly; and it had no direction at all,
only the man inquired who was the landlord, and if Mrs. Miller had a
sick child, and then said the letter was for me; and there was no
writing inside the letter, but there was fifty dollars. That's all, sir.
It gave me a great shock, sir; and I couldn't think who sent it, only
when you came to-night, I thought it was you; but you said it wasn't,
and I never shall know who it was, now. It seems as if the hand of God
was in it, sir, for it came when everything was darkest, and I was in
despair."
"Why, Mrs. Miller," he slowly answered, "this is very mysterious. The
man inquired if I was the owner of the house--oh! no--he only inquired
who was--but then he knew I was the--oh! bother! I'm getting nowhere.
Let's see. Why, it must be some one you know, or that knows your
circumstances."
"But there's no one knows them but yourself; and I told you," she
replied; "no one else but the people in the house. It must have been
some rich person, for the letter was a gilt-edge sheet, and there was
perfume in it, sir."
"Strange," he murmured. "Well, I give it up. All is, I advise you to
keep it, and I'm very glad some one did his duty by you in your hour of
need, though I'm sorry it was not myself. Here's Mrs. Flanagan."
There was a good deal done, and a great burden lifted off an humble
heart--nay, two! before Dr. Renton thought of going home. There was a
patient gained, likely to do Dr. Renton more good than any patient he
had lost. There was a kettle singing on the stove, and blowing off a
happier steam than any engine ever blew on that railroad, whose
unmarketable stock had singed Dr. Renton's fingers. There was a yellow
gleam flickering from the blazing fire on the sober binding of a good
old Book upon a shelf with others, a rarer medical work than ever
slipped at auction from Dr. Renton's hands, since it kept the sacred
lore of Him who healed the sick, and fed the hungry, and comforted the
poor, and who was also the Physician of souls.
And there were other offices performed, of lesser range than these,
before he rose to go. There were cooling mixtures blended for the sick
child; medicines arranged; directions given; and all the items of her
tendance orderly foreseen, and put in pigeon-holes of When and How, for
service.
At last he rose to go. "And now, Mrs. Miller," he said, "I'll come here
at ten in the morning, and see to our patient. She'll be nicely by that
time. And--(listen to those brutes in the street!--twelve o'clock,
too--ah! there's the bell),--as I was saying, my offence to you being
occasioned by your debt to me, I feel my receipt for your debt should
commence my reparation to you; and I'll bring it to-morrow. Mrs. Miller
you don't quite come at me--what I mean is--you owe me, under a notice
to quit, three months' rent. Consider that paid in full. I never will
take a cent of it from you--not a copper. And I take back the notice.
Stay in my house as long as you like; the longer the better. But, up to
this date, your rent's paid. There. I hope you'll have as happy a
Christmas as circumstances will allow, and I mean you shall."
A flush of astonishment--of indefinable emotion, overspread her face.
"Dr. Renton, stop, sir!" He was moving to the door. "Please, sir, _do_
hear me! You are very good--but I can't allow you to--Dr. Renton, we are
able to pay you the rent, and we _will_, and we _must_--here--now. Oh!
sir, my gratefulness will never fail to you--but here--here--be fair
with me, sir, and _do_ take it!"
She had hurried to a chest of drawers, and came back with the letter
which she had rustled apart with eager, trembling hands, and now,
unfolding the single bank-note it had contained, she thrust it into his
fingers as they closed.
"Here, Mrs. Miller"--she had drawn back with her arms locked on her
bosom, and he stepped forward--"no, no. This shan't be. Come, come, you
must take it back. Good heavens!" he spoke low, but his eyes blazed in
the red glow which broke out on his face, and the crisp note in his
extended hand shook violently at her--"Sooner than take this money from
you, I would perish in the street! What! Do you think I will rob you of
the gift sent you by some one who had a human heart for the distresses I
was aggravating? Sooner than--here, take it! O my God! what's this?"
The red glow on his face went out, with this exclamation, in a pallor
like marble, and he jerked back the note to his starting eyes; Globe
Bank--Boston--Fifty Dollars. For a minute he gazed at the motionless
bill in his hand. Then, with his hueless lips compressed, he seized the
blank letter from his astonished tenant, and looked at it, turning it
over and over. Grained letter-paper--gilt-edged--with a favorite perfume
in it. Where's Mrs. Flanagan? Outside the door, sitting on the top of
the stairs, with her apron over her head, crying. Mrs. Flanagan! Here!
In she tumbled, her big feet kicking her skirts before her, and her eyes
and face as red as a beet.
"Mrs. Flanagan, what kind of a looking man gave you this letter at the
door to-night?"
"A-w, Docther Rinton, dawn't ax me!--Bother, an' all, an' sure an' I
cudn't see him wud his fur-r hat, an' he a-ll boondled oop wud his co-at
oop on his e-ars, an' his big han'kershuf smotherin' thuh mouth uv him,
an' sorra a bit uv him tuh be looked at, sehvin' thuh poomple on thuh
ind uv his naws."
"The _what_ on the end of his nose?"
"Thuh poomple, sur."
"What does she mean, Mrs. Miller?" said the puzzled questioner, turning
to his tenant.
"I don't know, sir, indeed," was the reply; "she said that to me, and I
couldn't understand her."
"It's thuh poomple, docther. Dawn't ye knoo? Thuh big, flehmin poomple
oop there." She indicated the locality, by flattening the rude tip of
her own nose with her broad forefinger.
"Oh! the pimple! I have it." So he had. Netty, Netty!
He said nothing, but sat down in a chair, with his bold, white brow
knitted, and the warm tears in his dark eyes.
"You know who sent it, sir, don't you?" asked his wondering tenant,
catching the meaning of all this.
"Mrs. Miller, I do. But I cannot tell you. Take it, now, and use it. It
is doubly yours. There. Thank you."
She had taken it with an emotion in her face that gave a quicker motion
to his throbbing heart. He rose to his feet, hat in hand, and turned
away. The noise of a passing group of roysterers in the street without,
came strangely loud into the silence of that room.
"Good night, Mrs. Miller. I'll be here in the morning. Good night."
"Good night, sir. God bless you, sir!"
He turned around quickly. The warm tears in his dark eyes had flowed on
his face, which was pale; and his firm lip quivered.
"I hope He will, Mrs. Miller--I hope He will. It should have been said
oftener."
He was on the outer threshold. Mrs. Flanagan had, somehow, got there
before him, with a lamp, and he followed her down through the dancing
shadows, with blurred eyes. On the lower landing he stopped to hear the
jar of some noisy wrangle, thick with oaths, from the bar-room. He
listened for a moment, and then turned to the staring stupor of Mrs.
Flanagan's rugged visage.
"Sure, they're at ut, docther, wud a wull," she said, smiling.
"Yes. Mrs. Flanagan, you'll stay up with Mrs. Miller to-night, won't
you?"
"Dade an' I wull, sur."
"That's right. Do. And make her try and sleep, for she must be tired.
Keep up a fire--not too warm, you understand. There'll be wood and coal
coming to-morrow, and she'll pay you back."
"A-w, docther, dawn't noo!"
"Well, well. And--look here; have you got anything to eat in the house?
Yes; well; take it up-stairs. Wake up those two boys, and give them
something to eat. Don't let Mrs. Miller stop you. Make her eat
something. Tell her I said she must. And, first of all, get your bonnet,
and go to that apothecary's--Flint's--for a bottle of port wine, for
Mrs. Miller. Hold on. There's the order." (He had a leaf out of his
pocket-book in a minute, and wrote it down.) "Go with this, the first
thing. Ring Flint's bell, and he'll wake up. And here's something for
your own Christmas dinner, to-morrow." Out of the roll of bills, he drew
one of the tens--Globe Bank--Boston--and gave it to Mrs. Flanagan.
"A-w, dawn't noo, docther."
"Bother! It's for yourself, mind. Take it. There. And now unlock the
door. That's it. Good night, Mrs. Flanagan."
"An' meh thuh Hawly Vurgin hape blessn's on ye, Docther Rinton, wud a-ll
thuh compliments uv thuh sehzin, for yur thuh--"
He lost the end of Mrs. Flanagan's parting benedictions in the moonlit
street. He did not pause till he was at the door of the oyster-room. He
paused then, to make way for a tipsy company of four, who reeled
out--the gaslight from the bar-room on the edges of their sodden,
distorted faces--giving three shouts and a yell, as they slammed the
door behind them.
He pushed after a party that was just entering. They went at once for
drink to the upper end of the room, where a rowdy crew, with cigars in
their mouths, and liquor in their hands, stood before the bar, in a
knotty wrangle concerning some one who was killed. Where is the keeper?
Oh! there he is, mixing hot brandy punch for two. Here, you, sir, go up
quietly, and tell Mr. Rollins Dr. Renton wants to see him. The waiter
came back presently to say Mr. Rollins would be right along. Twenty-five
minutes past twelve. Oyster trade nearly over. Gaudy-curtained booths on
the left all empty but two. Oyster-openers and waiters--three of them in
all--nearly done for the night, and two of them sparring and scuffling
behind a pile of oysters on the trough, with the colored print of the
great prize fight between Tom Hyer and Yankee Sullivan, in a veneered
frame above them on the wall. Blower up from the fire opposite the bar,
and stewpans and griddles empty and idle on the bench beside it, among
the unwashed bowls and dishes. Oyster trade nearly over. Bar still busy.
Here comes Rollins in his shirt sleeves, with an apron on. Thick-set,
muscular man--frizzled head, low forehead, sharp, black eyes, flabby
face, with a false, greasy smile on it now, oiling over a curious,
stealthy expression of mingled surprise and inquiry, as he sees his
landlord here at this unusual hour.
"Come in here, Mr. Rollins; I want to speak to you."
"Yes, sir. Jim" (to the waiter), "go and tend bar." They sat down in one
of the booths, and lowered the curtain. Dr. Renton, at one side of the
table within, looking at Rollins, sitting leaning on his folded arms, at
the other side.
"Mr. Rollins, I am told the man who was stabbed here last night is dead.
Is that so?"
"Well, he is, Dr. Renton. Died this afternoon."
"Mr. Rollins, this is a serious matter; what are you going to do about
it?"
"Can't help it, sir. Who's a-goin' to touch _me_? Called in a watchman.
Whole mess of 'em had cut. Who knows 'em? Nobody knows 'em. Man that was
stuck never see the fellers as stuck him in all his life till then.
Didn't know which one of 'em did it. Didn't know nothing. Don't now, an'
never will, 'nless he meets 'em in hell. That's all. Feller's dead, an'
who's a-goin' to touch _me_? Can't do it. Ca-n-'t do it."
"Mr. Rollins," said Dr. Renton, thoroughly disgusted with this man's
brutal indifference, "your lease expires in three days."
"Well, it does. Hope to make a renewal with you, Dr. Renton. Trade's
good here. Shouldn't mind more rent on, if you insist--hope you
won't--if it's anything in reason. Promise sollum, I shan't have no more
fightin' in here. Couldn't help this. Accidents _will_ happen, yo'
know."
"Mr. Rollins, the case is this: if you didn't sell liquor here, you'd
have no murder done in your place--murder, sir. That man was murdered.
It's your fault, and it's mine, too. I ought not to have let you the
place for your business. It _is_ a cursed traffic, and you and I ought
to have found it out long ago. _I_ have. I hope _you_ will. Now, I
advise you, as a friend, to give up selling rum for the future: you see
what it comes to--don't you? At any rate, I will not be responsible for
the outrages that are perpetrated in my building any more--I will not
have liquor sold here. I refuse to renew your lease. In three days you
must move."
"Dr Renton, you hurt my feelin's. Now, how would you--"
"Mr. Rollins, I have spoken to you as a friend, and you have no cause
for pain. You must quit these premises when your lease expires. I'm
sorry I can't make you go before that. Make no appeals to me, if you
please. I am fixed. Now, sir, good-night."
The curtain was pulled up, and Rollins rolled over to his beloved bar,
soothing his lacerated feelings by swearing like a pirate, while Dr.
Renton strode to the door, and went into the street, homeward.
He walked fast through the magical moonlight, with a strange feeling of
sternness, and tenderness, and weariness, in his mind. In this mood, the
sensation of spiritual and physical fatigue gaming on him, but a quiet
moonlight in all his reveries, he reached his house. He was just putting
his latch-key in the door, when it was opened by James, who stared at
him for a second, and then dropped his eyes, and put his hand before his
nose. Dr. Renton compressed his lips on an involuntary smile.
"Ah! James, you're up late. It's near one."
"I sat up for Mrs. Renton and the young lady, sir. They're just come,
and gone up stairs."
"All right, James. Take your lamp and come in here. I've got something
to say to you." The man followed him into the library at once, with some
wonder on his sleepy face.
"First, put some coal on that fire, and light the chandelier. I shall
not go up stairs to-night." The man obeyed. "Now, James, sit down in
that chair." He did so, beginning to look frightened at Dr. Renton's
grave manner.
"James"--a long pause--"I want you to tell me the truth. Where did you
go to-night? Come, I have found you out. Speak."
The man turned as white as a sheet, and looked wretched with the whites
of his bulging eyes, and the great pimple on his nose awfully distinct
in the livid hue of his features. He was a rather slavish fellow, and
thought he was going to lose his situation. Please not to blame him, for
he, too, was one of the poor.
"Oh! Dr. Renton, excuse me, sir; I didn't mean doing any harm."
"James, my daughter gave you an undirected letter this evening; you
carried it to one of my houses in Hanover street. Is that true?"
"Ye-yes, sir. I couldn't help it. I only did what she told me, sir."
"James, if my daughter told you to set fire to this house, what would
you do?"
"I wouldn't do it, sir," he stammered, after some hesitation.
"You wouldn't? James, if my daughter ever tells you to set fire to this
house, do it, sir! Do it. At once. Do whatever she tells you. Promptly.
And I'll back you."
The man stared wildly at him, as he received this astonishing command.
Dr. Renton was perfectly grave, and had spoken slowly and seriously. The
man was at his wits' end.
"You'll do it James--will you?"
"Ye-yes, sir, certainly."
"That's right. James, you're a good fellow. James, you've got a
family--a wife and children--hav'n't you?"
"Yes, sir, I have; living in the country, sir. In Chelsea, over the
ferry. For cheapness, sir."
"For cheapness, eh? Hard times, James? How is it?"
"Pretty hard, sir. Close, but toler'ble comfortable. Rub and go, sir."
"Rub and go. Ve-r-y well. Rub and go. James, I'm going to raise your
wages--to-morrow. Generally, because you're a good servant. Principally,
because you carried that letter to-night, when my daughter asked you. I
shan't forget it. To-morrow, mind. And if I can do anything for you,
James, at any time, just tell me. That's all. Now, you'd better go to
bed. And a happy Christmas to you!"
"Much obliged to you, sir. Same to you and many of 'em. Good-night,
sir." And with Dr. Renton's "good-night" he stole up to bed, thoroughly
happy, and determined to obey Miss Renton's future instructions to the
letter. The shower of golden light which had been raining for the last
two hours, had fallen, even on him. It would fall all day to-morrow in
many places, and the day after, and for long years to come. Would that
it could broaden and increase to a general deluge, and submerge the
world!
Now the whole house was still, and its master was weary. He sat there,
quietly musing, feeling the sweet and tranquil presence near him. Now
the fire was screened, the lights were out, save one dim glimmer, and he
had lain down on the couch with the letter in his hand, and slept the
dreamless sleep of a child.
He slept until the gray dawn of Christmas day stole into the room, and
showed him the figure of his friend, a shape of glorious light, standing
by his side, and gazing at him with large and tender eyes! He had no
fear. All was deep, serene, and happy with the happiness of heaven.
Looking up into that beautiful, wan face--so tranquil--so radiant;
watching, with a child-like awe, the star-fire in those shadowy eyes;
smiling faintly, with a great, unutterable love thrilling slowly through
his frame, in answer to the smile of light that shone upon the phantom
countenance; so he passed a space of time which seemed a calm eternity,
till, at last, the communion of spirit with spirit--of mortal love with
love immortal--was perfected, and the shining hands were laid on his
forehead, as with a touch of air. Then the phantom smiled, and, as its
shining hands were withdrawn, the thought of his daughter mingled in the
vision. She was bending over him! The dawn--the room, were the same. But
the ghost of Feval had gone out from earth, away to its own land!
"Father, dear father! Your eyes were open, and they did not look at me.
There is a light on your face, and your features are changed! What is
it--what have you seen?"
"Hush, darling: here--kneel by me, for a little while, and be still. I
have seen the dead."
She knelt by him, burying her awe-struck face in his bosom, and clung to
him with all the fervor of her soul. He clasped her to his breast, and
for minutes all was still.
"Dear child--good and dear child!"
The voice was tremulous and low. She lifted her fair, bright
countenance, now convulsed with a secret trouble, and dimmed with
streaming tears, to his, and gazed on him. His eyes were shining; but
his pallid cheeks, like hers, were wet with tears. How still the room
was! How like a thought of solemn tenderness, the pale gray dawn! The
world was far away, and his soul still wandered in the peaceful awe of
his dream. The world was coming back to him--but oh! how changed!--in
the trouble of his daughter's face.
"Darling, what is it? Why are you here? Why are you weeping? Dear child,
the friend of my better days--of the boyhood when I had noble aims, and
life was beautiful before me--he has been here! I have seen him. He has
been with me--oh! for a good I cannot tell!"
"Father, dear father!"--he had risen, and sat upon the couch, but she
still knelt before him, weeping, and clasped his hands in hers--"I
thought of you and of this letter, all the time. All last night till I
slept, and then I dreamed you were tearing it to pieces, and trampling
on it. I awoke, and lay thinking of you, and of ----. And I thought I
heard you come down-stairs, and I came here to find you. But you were
lying here so quietly, with your eyes open, and so strange a light on
your face. And I knew--I knew you were dreaming of him, and that you saw
him, for the letter lay beside you. O father! forgive me, but do hear
me! In the name of this day--it's Christmas day, father--in the name of
the time when we must both die--in the name of that time, father, hear
me! That poor woman last night--O father! forgive me, but don't tear
that letter in pieces and trample it under foot! You know what I
mean--you know--you know. Don't tear it, and tread it under foot!"
She clung to him, sobbing violently, her face buried in his hands.
"Hush, hush! It's all well--it's all well. Here, sit by me. So. I
have"--his voice failed him, and he paused. But sitting by him--clinging
to him--her face hidden in his bosom--she heard the strong beating of
his disenchanted heart!
"My child, I know your meaning. I will not tear the letter to pieces and
trample it under foot. God forgive me my life's slight to those words.
But I learned their value last night, in the house where your blank
letter had entered before me."
She started, and looked into his face steadfastly, while a bright
scarlet shot into her own.
"I know all, Netty--all. Your secret was well kept, but it is yours and
mine now. It was well done, darling--well done. Oh! I have been through
strange mysteries of thought and life since that starving woman sat
here! Well--thank God!"
"Father, what have you done?" The flush had failed, but a glad color
still brightened her face, while the tears stood trembling in her eyes.
"All that you wished yesterday," he answered. "And all that you ever
could have wished, henceforth I will do."
"O father!"--She stopped. The bright scarlet shot again into her face,
but with an April shower of tears, and the rainbow of a smile.
"Listen to me, Netty, and I will tell you, and only you, what I have
done." Then, while she mutely listened, sitting by his side, and the
dawn of Christmas broadened into Christmas-day, he told her all.
And when he had told all, and emotion was stilled, they sat together in
silence for a time, she with her innocent head drooped upon his
shoulder, and her eyes closed, lost in tender and mystic reveries; and
he musing with a contrite heart. Till at last, the stir of daily life
began to waken in the quiet dwelling, and without, from steeples in the
frosty air, there was a sound of bells.
They rose silently, and stood, clinging to each other, side by side.
"Love, we must part," he said, gravely and tenderly. "Read me, before we
go, the closing lines of George Feval's letter. In the spirit of this
let me strive to live. Let it be for me the lesson of the day. Let it
also be the lesson of my life."
Her face was pale and lit with exaltation as she took the letter from
his hand. There was a pause--and then upon the thrilling and tender
silver of her voice, the words arose like solemn music:
"_Farewell--farewell! But, oh! take my counsel into memory on Christmas
Day, and forever. Once again, the ancient prophecy of peace and
good-will shines on a world of wars and wrongs and woes. Its soft ray
shines into the darkness of a land wherein swarm slaves, poor laborers,
social pariahs, weeping women, homeless exiles, hunted fugitives,
despised aliens, drunkards, convicts, wicked children, and Magdalens
unredeemed. These are but the ghastliest figures in that sad army of
humanity which advances, by a dreadful road, to the Golden Age of the
poets' dream. These are your sisters and your brothers. Love them all.
Beware of wronging one of them by word or deed. O friend! strong in
wealth for so much good--take my last counsel. In the name of the
Saviour, I charge you, be true and tender to mankind! Come out from
Babylon into manhood, and live and labor for the fallen, the neglected,
the suffering, and the poor. Lover of arts, customs, laws, institutions,
and forms of society, love these things only as they help mankind! With
stern love, overturn them, or help to overturn them, when they become
cruel to a single--the humblest--human being. In the world's scale,
social position, influence, public power, the applause of majorities,
heaps of funded gold, services rendered to creeds, codes, sects,
parties, or federations--they weigh weight; but in God's
scale--remember!--on the day of hope, remember!--your least service to
Humanity, outweighs them all!_"