Philip Winwood. Robert Neilson Stephens

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ lad's dismay now became complete, yet it appeared in no other way than in the forlorn expression of his sharp, pale countenance, and in the unconscious appeal with which his blue eyes surveyed Madge and me in turn. But in a few moments he collected himself, as if for the necessary dealing with some unexpected castastrophe, and asked me, a little huskily still:

      "When will he come home?"

      "Never, to this house, I think. Another customs officer has come over in his place, but this one lodges at the King's Arms, because he's a bachelor."

      The lad cast a final hopeless glance at the house, and then mechanically took a folded letter from an inner pocket, and dismally regarded the name on the back.

      "I had a letter for him," he said, presently, looking again across the street at me and Madge, for the curious Miss Faringfield had walked down from her gateway to my side, that she might view the stranger better. And now she spoke, in her fearless, good-humoured, somewhat forward way:

      "If you will give the letter to me, my father will send it to Mr. Aitken in London."

      "Thank you, but that would be of no use," said the lad, with a disconsolate smile.

      "Why not?" cried Madge promptly, and started forthwith skipping across the dusty street. I followed, and in a moment we two were quite close to the newcomer.

      "You're tired," said Madge, not waiting for his answer. "Why don't you sit down?" And she pointed to the steps of the vacant house.

      "Thank you," said the lad, but with a bow, and a gesture that meant he would not sit while a lady stood, albeit the lady's age was but eight years.

      Madge, pleased at this, smiled, and perched herself on the upper step. Waiting to be assured that I preferred standing, the newcomer then seated himself on his own travelling-bag, an involuntary sigh of comfort showing how welcome was this rest.

      "Did you come to visit in New York?" at once began the inquisitive Madge.

      "Yes, I—I came to see Mr. Aitken," was the hesitating and dubious answer.

      "And so you'll have to go back home without seeing him?"

      "I don't very well see how I can go back," said the boy slowly.

      "Oh, then you will visit some one else, or stay at the tavern?" Madge went on.

      "I don't know any one else here," was the reply, "and I can't stay at the tavern."

      "Why, then, what will you do?"

      "I don't know—yet," the lad answered, looking the picture of loneliness.

      "Where do you live?" I put in.

      "I did live in Philadelphia, but I left there the other day by the stage-coach, and arrived just now in New York by the boat."

      "And why can't you go back there?" I continued.

      "Why, because—I had just money enough left to pay my way to New York; and even if I should walk back, I've no place there to go back to, and no one at all—now—" He broke off here, his voice faltering; and his blue eyes filled with moisture. But he made a swallow, and checked the tears, and sat gently stroking the head of his kitten.

      For a little time none of us spoke, while I stood staring somewhat abashed at the lad's evident emotion. Madge studied his countenance intently, and doubtless used her imagination to suppose little Tom—her younger and favourite brother—in this stranger's place. Whatever it was that impelled her, she suddenly said to him, "Wait here," and turning, ran back across the street, and disappeared through the garden gate.

      Instead of following her, the dog went up to the new boy's cat and sniffed at its nose, causing it to whisk back its head and gaze spellbound. To show his peaceful mind, the dog wagged his tail, and by degrees so won the kitten's confidence that it presently put forth its face again and exchanged sniffs.

      "I should think you'd have a dog, instead of a cat," said I, considering the stranger's sex.

      He answered nothing to this, but looked quite affectionately at his pet. I set it down as odd that so manly a lad should so openly show liking for a cat. The conduct of the animal in its making acquaintance with the dog; the good-humoured assurance of the one, and the cautious coyness of the other; amused us till presently Madge's voice was heard; and then we saw her coming from the garden, speaking to her father, who walked bareheaded beside her. Behind, at a little distance, came Madge's mother and little Tom. All four stopped at the gateway, and looked curiously toward us.

      "Come over here, boy," called Madge, and heeded not the reproof her mother instantly gave her in an undertone for her forwardness. For any one of his children but Madge, reproof would have come from her father also; in all save where she was concerned, he was a singularly correct and dignified man, to the point of stiffness and austerity. His wife, a pretty, vain, inoffensive woman, was always chiding her children for their smaller faults, and never seeing the traits that might lead to graver ones.

      Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield awaited the effect of Madge's invitation, or rather command, adding nothing to it. The boy's colour showed his diffidence, under the scrutiny of so many coldly inquiring eyes; but after a moment he rose, and I, with greater quickness, seized his bag by the handle and started across the street with it. He called out a surprised and grateful "Thank you," and followed me. I was speedily glad I had not undertaken to carry the bag as far as he had done; 'twas all I could do to bear it.

      "How is this, lad?" said Mr. Faringfield, when the boy, with hat off, stood before him. The tone was stern enough, a stranger would have thought, though it was indeed a kindly one for Madge's father. "You have come from Philadelphia to visit Mr. Aitken? Is he your relation?"

      "No, sir; he was a friend of my father's before my father came to America," replied the lad, in a low, respectful voice.

      "Yet your father did not know he was gone back to England? How is that?"

      "My father is dead, sir; he died six years ago."

      "Oh, I see," replied Mr. Faringfield, a little taken down from his severity. "And the letter my little girl tells me of?"

      "If you please, my mother wrote it, sir," said the boy, looking at the letter in his hand, his voice trembling a little. He seemed to think, from the manner of the Faringfields, that he was obliged to give a full account of himself, and so went on. "She didn't know what else to do about me, sir, as there was no one in Philadelphia—that is, I mean, she remembered what a friend Mr. Aitken was to my father—they were both of Oxford, sir; Magdalen college. And so at last she thought of sending me to him, that he might get me a place or something; and she wrote the letter to tell him who I was; and she saw to it that I should have money enough to come to New York—"

      "But I don't understand," interrupted Mr. Faringfield, frowning his disapproval of something. "What made it necessary for her to dispose of you? Was she going to marry again?"

      "She was going to die, sir," replied the boy, in a reserved tone which, despite his bashfulness, both showed his own hurt, and rebuked his elder's thoughtless question.

      "Poor boy!" whispered Mrs. Faringfield, grasping her little Tom's hand.

      "Oh," said her husband, slowly, slightly awed from his sternness. "I beg your pardon, my lad. I am СКАЧАТЬ