CHAPTER VII.
THE PRINCE OF LIFE.
In the new life which had now fairly begun for Oliver, it was partly ashe had foreseen; he was apt to forget many things, and he had a frettingconsciousness of this forgetfulness. When he was in the house playingwith Dolly, or reading to her, the shop altogether slipped away from hismemory, and he was only recalled to it by the loud knocking or shoutingof some customer in it. On the other hand, when he was sitting behind thecounter looking for news from India in the papers, news in which he wasalready profoundly concerned, though it was impossible that Susan couldyet have reached it, he grew so absorbed, that he did not know how thetime was passing by, and both he and his little grand-daughter werehungry before he had thought of getting ready any meal. He tried allkinds of devices for strengthening his failing memory; but in vain. Heeven forgot that he did forget; and when Dolly was laughing andfrolicking about him he grew a child again, and felt himself the happiestman in London.
The person who took upon himself the heaviest weight of anxiety andresponsibility about Dolly was Tony, who began to make it his dailycustom to pass by the house at the hour when old Oliver ought to be goingfor his morning papers; and if he found no symptom of life about theplace, he did not leave off kicking and butting at the shop-door untilthe owner appeared. It was very much the same thing at night, when thetime for shutting up came; though it generally happened now that the boywas paying his friends an evening visit, and was therefore at hand to putup the shutters for Oliver. Tony could not keep away from the place.Though he felt a boy's contemptuous pity for the poor old man's decliningfaculties as regarded business, he had a very high veneration for hislearning. Nothing pleased him better than to sit upon the old box nearthe door, his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, whileOliver read aloud, with Dolly upon his knee, her curly hair and smallpretty features making a strange contrast to his white head and withered,hollow face. Tony, who had never had anything to love except a stray curor two, which he had always lost after a few days' friendship, felt as ifhe could have suffered himself to be put to death for either of thesetwo; while Beppo came in for a large share of his unclaimed affections.The chief subject of their reading was the life of the Master, who was sointimately dear to the heart of old Oliver. Tony was very eager to learnall he could of this great friend who did so much for the old man, andwho might perhaps be persuaded some day or other to take a little noticeof him, if he should fail to get a crossing for himself. Oliver, in hislong, unbroken solitude of six years, had fallen into a notion, amountingto a firm belief, that his Lord was not dead and far off, as most of theworld believed, but was a very present, living friend, always ready tolisten to the meanest of his words. He had a vague suspicion that hisfaith had got into a different course from that of most other people; andhe bore meekly the rebukes of his sister Charlotte for theunwholesomeness of his visions. But none the less, when he was alone, hetalked and prayed to, and spoke to Tony of this Master, as one who wasalways very near at hand.
"I s'pose he takes a bit o' notice o' the little un," said Tony, "when hecomes in now and then of an evening."
"Ay, does he!" answered Oliver, earnestly. "My boy, he loves every childas if it was his very own, and it is his own in one sense. Didn't I readyou last night how he said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me,and forbid them not.' Why, he'd love all the young children in the world,if they weren't hindered from coming to him."
"I should very much like to see him some day," pursued Tony,reflectively, "and the rest of them,--Peter, and John, and them. I s'posethey are getting pretty old by now, aren't they?"
"They are dead," said Oliver.
"All of 'em?" asked Tony.
"All of them," he repeated.
"Dear, dear!" cried Tony, his eyes glistening. "Whatever did the Masterdo when they all died? I'm very sorry for him now. He's had a manytroubles, hasn't he?"
"Yes, yes," replied old Oliver, with a faltering voice. "He was called aman of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. Nobody ever bore so manytroubles as him."
"How long is it ago since they all died?" asked Tony.
"I can't rightly say," he answered. "I heard once, but it is gone out ofmy head. I only know it was the same when I was a boy. It must have beena long, long time ago."
"The same when you was a boy!" repeated Tony, in a tone ofdisappointment. "It must ha' been a long while ago. I thought all alongas the Master was alive now."
"So he is, so he is!" exclaimed old Oliver, eagerly. "I'll read to youall about it. They put him to death on the cross, and buried him in arocky grave; but he is the Prince of Life, and he came to life againthree days after, and now he can die no more. His own words to Johnwere, 'I am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, I am aliveforevermore.' What else can it mean but that he is living now, and willnever die again?"
Tony made no answer. He sat with his sharp, unboyish face gazing intentlyinto the fire; for by this time autumn had set in, and the old man waschilly of an evening. A very uncertain, dim idea was dawning upon himthat this master and friend of old Oliver's was a being very differentfrom an ordinary man, however great and rich he might be. He had grown tolove the thought of him, and to listen attentively to the book which toldthe manner of life he led; but it was a chill to find out that he couldnot look into his face, and hear his voice, as he could Oliver's. Hisheart was heavy, and very sad.
"I s'pose I can't see him, then," he murmured to himself, at last.
"Not exactly like other folks," said Oliver. "I think sometimes thatperhaps there's a little darkness of the grave where he was buried abouthim still. But he sees us, and hears us. He himself says, 'Behold, I amwith you always.' I don't know whatever I should do, even with my littlelove here, if I wasn't sure Jesus was with me as well."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Tony, after another pause. "I'm goingto ask him to give me somethink, and then if he does, I shall know hehears me--I should very much like to have a broom and a crossing, and getmy living a bit more easy, if you please."
He had turned his face away from Oliver, and looked across into thedarkest corner of the room, where he could see nothing but shadow. Theold man felt puzzled, and somewhat troubled, but he only sighed softly tohimself; and opening the Testament, he read aloud in it till he wascalmed again, and Tony was listening in rapt attention.
"My boy," he said, as the hour came for Tony to go, "where are yousleeping now?"
"Anywhere as I can get out o' the wind," he answered. "It's cold now,nights--wery cold, master. But I must get along a bit farder on. Lodgingsis wery dear."
"I've been thinking," said Oliver, "that you'd find it better to havesome sort of a shake-down under my counter. I've heard say thatnewspapers stitched together make a coverlid pretty near as warm as ablanket; and we could do no harm by trying them, Tony. Look here, and seehow you'd like it."
It looked very much like a long box, and was not much larger. Two orthree beetles crawled sluggishly away as the light fell upon them, anddusty cobwebs festooned all the corners; but to Tony it seemed somagnificent an accommodation for sleeping, that he could scarcelybelieve he heard old Oliver aright. He looked up into his face with asharp, incredulous gaze, ready to wink and thrust his tongue into hischeek, if there was the least sign of making game of him. But the oldman was simply in earnest, and without a word Tony slipped down upon aheap of paper shavings strewed within, drew his ragged jacket up abouthis ears, and turned his face away, lest his tears should be seen. Hefelt, a minute or two after, that a piece of an old rug was laid overhim, but he could say nothing; and old Oliver could not hear the sobwhich broke from his lips.