CHAPTER II--I MAKE A FRIEND.
I shall not dwell upon my grief. It would be painful, and it wouldserve no purpose. The spring of 1871 was a very dark and dismal springto me. It was as though a part--the best part--of myself had been takenfrom me. To go on living in the same old house, where everything spoketo me of her, where every nook and corner had its association with her,where every chair and table recalled her to me, yet not to hear hervoice, nor see her face, nor feel her presence any more, and to realizethat she had gone from me forever--I need not tell you how hard it was,nor how my heart ached, nor how utterly lonesome and desolate I felt. Ineed not tell you how big and bleak and empty the old house seemed.
Sometimes, though, I could not believe that it was really true, that shehad really died. It was too dreadful. I could not help thinking that itmust be some mistake, some hideous delusion. I would start from my sleepin the middle of the night, and feel sure that it must have been a baddream, that she must have come back, that she was even now in bed in herroom. Then, full of hope, I would get up and go to see. All my painwas suddenly and cruelly renewed when I found her bed cold and empty.I would throw myself upon it, and bury my face in the coverlet, andabandon myself to a passionate outburst of tears and sobs, calling aloudfor her: “_Grand’-mère, grand’mere, O ma grand’mère chérie!_” I almostexpected that she would hear me, and be moved to pity for me, and comeback.
One night, when I was lying thus upon her bed, in the dark, andcalling for her, I felt all at once the clutch of a strong hand upon myshoulder. It terrified me unspeakably. My heart gave a great jump, andstopped its beating. My limbs trembled, and a cold sweat broke out allover my body. I could not see six inches before my face. Who, or ratherwhat, could my invisible captor be? Some grim and fearful monster of thedarkness? A giant--a vampire--an ogre--or, at the very least, a burglar!All this flashed through my mind in a fraction of a second. Then I heardthe voice of my Uncle Peter: “What do you mean, you young beggar, byraising such a hullaballoo at this hour of the night, and waking peopleup? Get off to your bed now, and in the morning I’ll talk to you.” Andthough I suspected that “I’ll talk to you” signified “I’ll give you agood sound thrashing,” I could have hugged my Uncle Peter, so great wasmy relief to find that it was he, and no one worse.
Surely enough, next morning after breakfast, he led me to his room,and there he administered to me one of the most thorough and energeticthrashings I ever received from him. But now I had nobody to pet meand make much of me after it; and all that day I felt the awfulfriendlessness of my position more keenly than I had ever felt itbefore.
“I have but one friend in the whole world,” I thought, “and he is sofar, so far away. If I could only somehow get across the ocean, toFrance, to Paris, to his house, and live with him! He would be so goodto me, and I should be so happy!” And I looked up at his sword hangingupon my wall, and longed for the hour when I should touch the hand thathad once wielded it.
I must not forget to tell you here of a little correspondence that Ihad with this distant friend of mine. A day or two after the funeral Iapproached my Uncle Peter, and, summoning all my courage, inquired,“Are you going to write to Uncle Florimond, and let him know?”
“What?” he asked, as if he had not heard, though I had spoken quitedistinctly. That was one of his disagreeable, disconcerting ways--tomake you repeat whatever you had to say. It always put me out ofcountenance, and made me feel foolish and embarrassed.
“I wanted to know whether you were going to write and tell UncleFlorimond,” I explained with a quavering voice.
By way of retort, he half-shut his eyes, and gave me a queer, quizzicalglance, which seemed to be partly a sneer, and partly a threat. He keptit up for a minute or two, and then he turned his back upon me, and wentoff whistling. This I took to be as good as “No” to my question. “Yet,” I reflected, “somebody ought to write and tell him. It is only fair tolet him know.” And I determined that I would do so myself; and I did.I wrote him a letter; and then I rewrote it; and then I copied it; andthen I copied it again; and at last I dropped my final copy into thepost-box.
About five weeks later I got an answer from him. In a few simplesentences he expressed his great sorrow; and then he went on: “And, now,my dear little nephew, by this mutual loss thou and I are brought closertogether; and by a more tender mutual affection we must try to comfortand console each other. For my part, I open to thee that place in myheart left vacant by the death of my sainted sister; and I dare to hopethat thou wilt transfer to me something of thy love for her. I attendwith impatience the day of our meeting, which, I tell myself, if theLord spares our lives, must arrive as soon as thou art big enough toleave thy home and come to me in France. Meanwhile, may the good Godkeep and bless thee, shall be the constant prayer of thy Uncle de laBourbonnaye.”
This letter touched me very deeply.
After reading it I came nearer to feeling really happy than I had comeat any time before since she died.
I must hasten over the next year. Of course, as the weeks and monthsslipped away, I gradually got more or less used to the new state ofthings, and the first sharp edge of my grief was dulled. The hardesthours of my day were those spent at table with Uncle Peter--alone withhim, in a silence broken only by the clinking of our knives and forks.These were very hard, trying hours indeed. The rest of my time I passedout of doors, in the company of Sam Budd, our gardener’s son, and theother village boys. What between swimming, fishing, and running thestreets with them, I contrived to amuse myself after a fashion. Yet, forall that, the year I speak of was a forlorn, miserable year for me; Iwas far from being either happy or contented. My first violent anguishhad simply given place to a vague, continuous sense of dissatisfactionand unrest, like a hunger, a craving, for something I could not name.That something was really--love: though I was not wise enough to knowas much at the time. A child’s heart--and, for that matter, a grown-upman’s--craves affection as naturally as his stomach craves food; I didnot have it; and that was why my heart ached and was sick. I wonderedand wondered whether my present mode of life was going to last forever;I longed and longed for change. Somehow to escape, and get across theocean to my Uncle Florimond, was my constant wish; but I saw no means ofrealizing it. Once in a while I would think, “Suppose I write to himand tell him how wretched I am, and ask him to send for me?” But then afeeling of shame and delicacy restrained me.
Another thing that you will easily see about this year, is that itmust have been a very unprofitable one for me from the point of viewof morals. My education was suspended; no more study, no more ‘lessons.Uncle Peter never spoke of sending me to school; and I was too young andignorant to desire to go of my own accord. Then, too, I was without anysort of refining or softening influence at home; Julia, our cook, beingmy single friend there, and my uncle’s treatment of me serving only tosour and harden me. If, therefore, at the end of the year in question Iwas by no manner of means so nice a boy as I had been at the beginningof it, surely there was little cause for astonishment. Indeed, I imaginethe only thing that kept me from growing altogether rough and wild andboisterous, was my thought of Uncle Florimond, and my ambition to be thekind of lad that I believed he would like to have me.
And now I come to an adventure which, as it proved, marked the point ofa new departure in my affairs.
It was early in April, 1872. There had been a general thaw, followed byseveral days of heavy rain; and the result was, of course, a freshet.Our little river, the Yantic, had swollen to three--in some places evento four--times its ordinary width; and its usually placid current hadacquired a tremendous strength and speed. This transformation was thesubject of endless interest to us boys; and every day we used to go andstand upon the bank, and watch the broad and turbulent rush of waterwith mingled wonder, terror and delight. It was like seeing an oldfriend, whom we had hitherto regarded as a quite harmless and rathernamby-pamby sort of chap, and been fearlessly familiar with, suddenlydisplay the power and prowess of a gian
t, and brandish his fists at us,crying, “Come near me at your peril!” Our emotions sought utterancein such ejaculations as “My!” “Whew!” and “Jimminy!” and Sam Budd wasalways tempting me with, “Say, Gregory, stump ye to go in,” which wasvery aggravating. I hated to have him dare me.
Well, one afternoon--I think it was on the third day of thefreshet--when Sam and I made our customary pilgrimage down throughCaptain Josh Abingdon’s garden to the water’s edge, fancy our surpriseto behold a man standing there and fishing. Fishing in that torrent! Itwas too absurd for anything; and instantly all our wonder transferreditself from the stream to the fisherman, at whom we stared with eyesand mouths wide open, in an exceedingly curious and ill-bred manner. Hedidn’t notice us at first; and when he did, he didn’t seem to mindour rudeness the least bit. He just looked up for a minute, and calmlyinspected us; and then he gave each of us a solemn, deliberate wink, andreturned his attention to his pole, which, by the way, was an elaborateand costly one, jointed and trimmed with metal. He was a funny-lookingman; short and stout, with a broad, flat, good-natured face, a thicknose, a large mouth, and hair as black and curling as a negro’s.
He wore a fine suit of clothes of the style that we boys should havecalled cityfied; and across his waistcoat stretched a massive goldenwatch-chain, from which dangled a large golden locket set with preciousstones.
Presently this strange individual drew in his line to examine his bait;and then, having satisfied himself as to its condition, he attempted tomake a throw. But he threw too hard. His pole slipped from his grasp,flew through the air, fell far out into the water, and next momentstarted off down stream at the rate of a train of steam-cars. This was asad mishap. The stranger’s face expressed extreme dismay, and Sam and Ifelt sorry for him from the bottom of our hearts. It was really agreat pity that such a handsome pole should be lost in such a needlessfashion.
But stay! All at once the pole’s progress down stream ceased. It hadgot caught by an eddy, which was sweeping it rapidly inward and upwardtoward the very spot upon the shore where we stood. Would it reach landsafely, and be recovered? We waited, watching, in breathless suspense.Nearer it came--nearer--nearer! Our hopes were mounting very highindeed. A smile lighted the fisherman’s broad face. The pole hadnow approached within twenty feet of the bank. Ten seconds more, andsurely--But again, stay! Twenty feet from the shore the waters formeda whirlpool. In this whirlpool for an instant the pole remainedmotionless. Then, after a few jerky movements to right and left, insteadof continuing its journey toward the shore, it began spinning round andround in the circling current. At any minute it might break loose andresume its course down stream; but for the present there it was, haltingwithin a few yards of us--so near, and yet so far.
Up to this point we had all kept silence. But now the fisherman brokeit with a loud, gasping sigh. Next thing I heard was Sam Budd’s voice,pitched in a mocking, defiant key, “Say, Gregory, stump ye to go in.” Ilooked at Sam. He was already beginning to undress.
No; under the circumstances--with that man as a witness--I could notrefuse the challenge. My reputation, my character, was at stake. I knewthat the water would be as cold as ice; I knew that the force of itscurrent involved danger to a swimmer of a sort not to be laughed at. Yetmy pride had been touched, my vanity had been aroused. I could not allowSam Budd to “stump” me with impunity, and then outdo me. “You do, doyou?” I retorted. “Well, come on.” And stripping off my clothes in atwinkling, I plunged into the flood, Sam following close at my heels.
As cold as ice! Why, ice was nowhere, compared to the Yantic River inthat first week of April. They say extremes meet. Well, the water was socold that it seemed actually to scald my skin, as if it had been boilinghot. But never mind. The first shock over, I gritted my teeth to keepthem from chattering, and struck boldly out for the whirlpool, where theprecious rod was still spinning round and round. Of course, in order tosave myself from being swept down below it, I had to aim diagonally at apoint far above it.
The details of my struggle I need not give. Indeed, I don’t believe Icould give them, even if it were desirable that I should. My memory ofthe time I spent in the water is exceedingly confused and dim. Intensecold; desperately hard work with arms and legs; frantic efforts to getmy breath; a fierce determination to be the first to reach that poleno matter at what hazard; a sense of immense relief and triumph when,suddenly, I realized that success had crowned my labors--when I feltthe pole actually in my hands; then a fight to regain the shore; andfinally, again, success!
Yes, there I stood upon the dry land, safe and sound, though pantingand shivering from exhaustion and cold. I was also rather dazed andbewildered; yet I still had enough of my wits about me to go up to thefisherman, and say politely, “Here, sir, is your pole.” He cried inresponse--and I noticed that he pronounced the English language in avery peculiar way--“My kracious! You was a brave boy, Bubby. Hurry up;dress; you catch your death of cold standing still there, mitout noclodes on you, like dot. My koodness! a boy like you was worth a tousanddollars.”
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Suddenly it occurred to me to wonder what had become of Sam. I had notonce thought of him since my plunge into the water. I suppose the reasonfor this forgetfulness was that my entire mind, as well as my entirebody, had been bent upon the work I had in hand. But now, as I say,it suddenly occurred to me to wonder what had become of him; and asickening fear lest he might have got drowned made my heart quail.
“O, sir!” I demanded, “Sam--the other boy--where is he? Has anythinghappened to him? Did he--he didn’t--he didn’t get drowned?”
“Drownded?” repeated the fisherman. “Well, you can bet he didn’t. He’sall right. There he is--under dot tree over there.”
He pointed toward an apple-tree, beneath which I descried Sam Budd,already nearly dressed. As Sam’s eyes met mine, a very sheepish lookcrept over his face, and he called out, “Oh! I gave up long ago.” Well, you may just guess how proud and victorious I felt to hear thisadmission from my rival’s lips.
The fisherman now turned his attention to straightening out his tackle,which had got into a sad mess during its bath, while I set to putting onmy things. Pretty soon he drew near to where I stood, and, surveying mewith a curious glance, “Well, Bubby, how you feel?” he asked.
“Oh! I feel all right, thank you, sir; only a little cold,” I answered.
“Well, Bubby, you was a fine boy,” he went on. “Well, how old was you?”
“I’m twelve, going on thirteen.”
“My kracious! Is dot all? Why, you wasn’t much older as a baby; and yetso tall and strong already. Well, Bubby, what’s your name?”
“Gregory Brace.”
“Krekory Prace, hey? Well, dot’s a fine name. Well; you live here inNawvich, I suppose--yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe your papa was in business here?”
“No, sir; my father is dead.”
“Oh! is dot so? Well, dot’s too bad. And so you was a half-orphan, yes?”
“No, sir; my mother is dead, too.”
“You don’t say so! Well, my kracious! Well, den you was a whole orphan,ain’t you? Well, who you live with?”
“I live with my uncle, sir--Judge Brace.”
“Oh! so your uncle was a judge. Well, dot’s grand. Well, you go toschool, I suppose, hey?”
“No, sir; I don’t go to school.”
“You don’t go to school? Oh! then, maybe you was in business already,yes.”
“O, no, sir! I’m not in business.”
“You don’t go to school, and you wasn’t in business; well, what you domit yourself all day long, hey?”
“I play.”
“You play! Well, then you was a sort of a gentleman of leisure, ain’tyou? Well, dot must be pretty good fun--to play all day. Well, Bubby,you ever go to New York?”
“No, sir; I’ve never been in New York. Do you live in New York, sir?”
“Yes, Bubby, I live in New York when I’m at home. But I?
??m shenerally onthe road, like I was to-day. I’m what you call a trummer; a salesman forKrauskopf, Sollinger & Co., voolens. Here’s my card.”
He handed me a large pasteboard card, of which the following is acopy:--
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“Yes,” he went on, “dot’s my name, and dot’s my address. And when youcome to New York you call on me there, and I’ll treat you like a buyer.I’ll show you around our establishment, and I’ll give you a dinner by arestaurant, and I’ll take you to the theayter, and then, if you want it,I’ll get you a chop.”
“A chop?” I queried. “What is a chop?”
“What is a chop! Why, if you want to go into business, you got to get achop, ain’t you? A chop was an embloyment; and then there was chop-lotsalso.” At this I understood that he meant a job. “Yes, Bubby, a fine boylike you hadn’t oughter be doing nodings all day long. You’d oughter gointo business, and get rich. You’re smart enough, and you got enerchy. Iwas in business already when I was ten years old, and I ain’t no smarteras you, and I ain’t got no more enerchy. Yes, Bubby, you take my advice:come down to New York, and I get you a chop, and you make your fortune,no mistake about it. And now, Bubby, I want to give you a little presentto remember me by.”
He drew a great fat roll of money from his waistcoat pocket, and offeredme a two-dollar bill.
“O, no! I thank you, sir,” I hastened to say. “I don’t want any money.”
“O, well! this ain’t no money to speak of, Bubby; only a two-tollarpill. You just take it, and buy yourself a little keepsake. It von’thurt you.”
“You’re very kind, sir; but I really can’t take it, thank you.” And itflashed through my mind: “What would Uncle Florimond think of me, if Ishould accept his money?”
“Well, dot’s too bad. I really like to make you a little present, Bubby.But if you was too proud, what you say if I give it to the other boy,hey?”
“Oh! to Sam--yes, I think that would be a very good idea,” I replied.
So he called Sam--_Sem_ was the way he pronounced it--and gave himthe two-dol-lar bill, which Sam received without the faintest show ofcompunction.
“Well, I got to go now,” the fisherman said, holding out his hand.“Well, good-by, Bubby; and don’t forget, when you come to New York, togive me a call. Well, so-long.”
Sam and I watched him till he got out of sight. Then we too started forhome.
At the time, my talk with Mr. Solomon D. Marx did not make any especialimpression on me; but a few days later it came back to me, the subjectof serious meditation. The circumstances were as follows:--
We had just got through our supper, and Uncle Peter had gone to hisroom, when all at once I heard his door open, and his voice, loud andsharp, call, “Gregory!”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, my heart in a flutter; and to myself I thought,“O, dear, what can be the matter now?”
“Come here, quick!” he ordered.
I entered his room, and saw him standing near his table, with acigar-box in his hand.
“You young rascal,” he began; “so you have been stealing my cigars!”
This charge of theft was so unexpected, so insulting, so untrue, that,if he had struck me a blow between the eyes, it could not have taken memore aback. The blood rushed to my face; my whole frame grew rigid, asif I had been petrified. I tried to speak; but my presence of mind haddeserted me; I could not think of a single word.
“Well?” he questioned. “Well? ‘’
“I--I--I”--I stammered. Scared out of my wits, I could get no further.
“Well, have you nothing to say for yourself?”
“I--I did--I didn’t--do it,” I gasped. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What!” he thundered. “You dare to lie to me about it! You dare to stealfrom me, and then lie to my face! You insufferable beggar! I’ll teachyou a lesson.” And, putting out his hand, he took his rattan cane fromthe peg it hung by on the wall.
“Oh! really and truly, Uncle Peter,” I protested, “I never stole a thingin all my life. I never saw your cigars. I didn’t even know you had any.Oh! you--you’re not going to whip me, when I didn’t do it?”
“Why, what a barefaced little liar it is! Egad! you do it beautifully. Iwouldn’t have given you credit for so much cleverness.” He said this ina sarcastic voice, and with a mocking smile. Then he frowned, and hisvoice changed. “Come here,” he snarled, his fingers tightening upon thehandle of his cane.
A great wave of anger swept over me, and brought me a momentary flush ofcourage. “No, sir; I won’t,” I answered, my whole body in a tremor.
Uncle Peter started. I had never before dared to defy him. He did notknow what to make of my doing so now. He turned pale. He bit his lip.His eyes burned with a peculiarly ugly light. So he stood, glaring atme, for a moment. Then, “You--won’t,” he repeated, very low, and pausingbetween the words. “Why, what kind of talk is this I hear? Well, well,my fine fellow, you amuse me.”
I was standing between him and the door. I turned now, with the idea ofescaping from the room. But he was too quick for me. I had only just gotmy hand upon the latch, when he sprang forward, seized me by the collarof my jacket, and, with one strong pull, landed me again in the middleof the floor.
“There!” he cried. “Now we’ll have it out. I owe you four: one forstealing my cigars; one for lying to me about it; one for telling me youwouldn’t; and one for trying to sneak out of the room. Take this, andthis, and this.”
With that he set his rattan cane in motion; nor did he bring it to astand-still until I felt as though I had not one well spot left upon myskin.
“Now, then, be off with you,” he growled; and I found myself in the halloutside his door.
I dragged my aching body to my room, and sat down at my window in thedark. Never before had I experienced such a furious sense of outrage.Many and many a time I had been whipped, as I thought, unjustly; butthis time he had added insult to injury; he had accused me of stealingand of lying; and, deaf to my assertion of my innocence, he had punishedme accordingly. I seriously believe that I did not mind the whippingin itself half so much as I minded the shameful accusations that he hadbrought against me. “How long, how long,” I groaned, “has this got tolast? Shall I never be able to get away--to get to France, to my UncleFlorimond? If I only had some money--if I had a hundred dollars--thenall my troubles would be over and done with. Surely, a hundred dollarswould be enough to take me to the very door of his house in Paris.” Buthow--how to obtain such an enormous sum? And it was at this point thatmy conversation with Mr. Solomon D. Marx came back to me:--
“Why, go to New York! Go into business! You’ll soon earn a hundreddollars. Mr. Marx said he would get you a job. Start for New Yorkto-morrow.”
This notion took immediate and entire possession of my fancy, and Iremained awake all night, building glittering air-castles upon it asa foundation. The only doubt that vexed me was, “What will Uncle Petersay? Will he let me go?” The idea of going secretly, or without hisconsent, never once entered my head. “Well, to-morrow morning,” Iresolved, “I will speak with him, and ask his permission. And if hegives it to me--hurrah! And if he doesn’t--O, dear me, dear me!”
To cut a long story short, when, next morning, I did speak with him, andask his permission, he, to my infinite joy, responded, “Why, go, and behanged to you. Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
In my tin savings bank, I found, I had nine dollars and sixty-threecents. With this in my pocket; with the sword of my Uncle Florimond asthe principal part of my luggage; and with a heart full of strange andnew emotions, of fear and hope, and gladness and regret, I embarked thatevening upon the Sound steamboat, City of Lawrence, for the metropoliswhere I have ever since had my home; bade good-by to my old life, andset sail alone upon the great, awful, unknown sea of the future.