On Picket Duty, and Other Tales Part 9

"This is Bess, my Bess, sir," cried the boy, "and she will thank you for your kindness in sitting here so long with me."

"I am the person who lodges just below you; I mistook this room for my own; pardon me, and let me come again, for Jamie has already done me good," replied the stranger as he rose to go.

"Bess, dear, will you bring me a cup of water?" Jamie said; and as she hastened away, he beckoned his friend nearer, saying with a timid wistful look,--

"Forgive me, if it's wrong, but I wish you would let me give you this; it's very little, but it may help some; and I think you'll take it to please 'poor Jamie.' Won't you, sir?" and as he spoke, the child offered a bright coin, the proceeds of his work.

Tears sprung into the proud man's eyes; he held the little wasted hand fast in his own a moment, saying seriously,--

"I _will_ take it, Jamie, as a loan wherewith to begin anew the life I was about to fling away as readily as I do this;" and with a quick motion he sent a vial whirling down into the street. "I'll try the world once more in a humbler spirit, and have faith in _you,_ at least, my little Providence."

With an altered purpose in his heart, and a brave smile on his lips, the young man went away, leaving the child with another happy memory, to watch the cross upon the old church tower.

It was mid-winter; and in the gloomy house reigned suffering and want. Sister Bess worked steadily to earn the dear daily bread so many pray for and so many need. Jamie lay upon his bed, carving with feeble hands the toys which would have found far readier purchasers, could they have told the touching story of the frail boy lying meekly in the shadow of the solemn change which daily drew more near.

Cheerful and patient always, poverty and pain seemed to have no power to darken his bright spirit; for G.o.d's blessed charity had gifted him with that inward strength and peace it so often brings to those who seem to human eyes most heavily afflicted.

Secret tears fell sometimes on his pillow, and whispered prayers went up; but Bess never knew it, and like a ray of suns.h.i.+ne, the boy's tranquil presence lit up that poor home; and amid the darkest hours of their adversity, the little rushlight of his childish faith never wavered nor went out.

Below them lived the young man, no stranger now, but a true friend, whose generous pity would not let them suffer any want he could supply. Hunger and cold were hard teachers, but he learned their lessons bravely, and though his frame grew gaunt and his eye hollow, yet, at heart, he felt a better, happier man for the stern discipline that taught him the beauty of self-denial and the blessedness of loving his neighbor _better_ than himself.

The child's influence remained unchanged, and when anxiety or disappointment burdened him, the young man sat at Jamie's bedside listening to the boy's unconscious teaching, and receiving fresh hope and courage from the childish words and the wan face, always cheerful and serene.

With this example constantly before him, he struggled on, feeling that if the world were cold and dark, he had within himself one true affection to warm and brighten his hard life.

"Give me joy, Jamie! Give me joy, Bess! the book sells well, and we shall yet be rich and famous," cried the young author as he burst into the quiet room one wintry night with snow-flakes glittering in his hair, and his face aglow with the keen air which had no chill in it to him now.

Bess looked up to smile a welcome, and Jamie tried to cry "Hurrah;"

but the feeble voice faltered and failed, and he could only wave his hand and cling fast to his friend, whispering, brokenly,--

"I'm glad, oh, very glad; for now you need not rob yourself for us.

I know you have, Walter; I have seen it in your poor thin face and these old clothes. It never would have been so, but for Bess and me."

"Hush, Jamie, and lie here upon my arm and rest; for you are very tired with your work,--I know by this hot hand and shortened breath.

Are you easy now? Then listen; for I've brave news to tell you, and never say again I do too much for you,--the cause of my success."

"I, Walter," cried the boy; "what do you mean?"

Looking down upon the wondering face uplifted to his own, the young man answered with deep feeling,--

"Six months ago I came into this room a desperate and despairing man, weary of life, because I knew not how to use it, and eager to quit the struggle because I had not learned to conquer fortune by energy and patience. You kept me, Jamie, till the reckless mood was pa.s.sed, and by the beauty of your life showed me what mine should be. Your courage shamed my cowardice; your faith rebuked my fears; your lot made my own seem bright again. I, a man with youth, health, and the world before me, was about to fling away the life which you, a helpless little child, made useful, good, and happy, by the power of your own brave will. I felt how weak, how wicked I had been, and was not ashamed to learn of you the lesson you so unconsciously were teaching. G.o.d bless you, Jamie, for the work you did that day."

"Did I do so much?" asked the boy with innocent wonder; "I never knew it, and always thought you had grown happier and kinder because I had learned to love you more. I'm very glad if I did anything for you, who do so much for us. But tell me of the book; you never would before."

With a kindling eye Walter replied,--

"I would not tell you till all was sure; now, listen. I wrote a story, Jamie,--a story of our lives, weaving in few fancies of my own and leaving you unchanged,--the little counsellor and good angel of the ambitious man's hard life. I painted no fict.i.tious sorrows.

What I had seen and keenly felt I could truly tell,--your cheerful patience, Bess's faithful love, my struggles, hopes, and fears. This book, unlike the others, was not rejected; for the simple truth, told by an earnest pen, touched and interested. It was accepted, and has been kindly welcomed, thanks to you, Jamie; for many buy it to learn more of you, to weep and smile over artless words of yours, and forget their pity in their reverence and love for the child who taught the man to be, not what he is, but what, with G.o.d's help, he will yet become."

"They are very kind, and so are you, Walter, and I shall be proud to have you rich and great, though I may not be here to see it."

"You will, Jamie, you must; for it will be nothing without you;" and as he spoke, the young man held the thin hand closer in his own and looked more tenderly into the face upon his arm.

The boy's eyes shone with a feverish light, a scarlet flush burned on his hollow cheek, and the breath came slowly from his parted lips, but over his whole countenance there lay a beautiful serenity which filled his friend with hope and fear.

"Walter bid Bess put away that tiresome work; she has sat at it all day long, never stirring but to wait on me;" and as he spoke, a troubled look flitted across the boy's calm face.

"I shall soon be done, Jamie, and I must not think of rest till then, for there is neither food nor fuel for the morrow. Sleep, yourself, dear, and dream of pleasant things; I am not very tired."

And Bess bent closer to her work, trying to sing a little song, that they might not guess how near the tears were to her aching eyes.

From beneath his pillow Jamie drew a bit of bread, whispering to his friend as he displayed it,--

"Give it to Bess; I saved it for her till you came, for she will not take it from me, and she has eaten nothing all this day."

"And you, Jamie?" asked Walter, struck by the sharpened features of the boy, and the hungry look which for a moment glistened in his eye.

"I don't need much, you know, for I don't work like Bess; but yet she gives me all. Oh, how can I bear to see her working so for me, and I lying idle here!"

As he spoke, Jamie clasped his hands before his face, and through his slender fingers streamed such tears as children seldom shed.

It was so rare a thing for him to weep that it filled Walter with dismay and a keener sense of his own powerlessness. Ho could bear any privation for himself alone, but he could not see them suffer.

He had nothing to offer them; for though there was seeming wealth in store for him, he was now miserably poor. He stood a moment, looking from brother to sister, both so dear to him, and both so plainly showing how hard a struggle life had been to them.

With a bitter exclamation, the young man turned away and went out into the night, muttering to himself,--

"They shall not suffer; I will beg or steal first."

And with some vague purpose stirring within him, he went swiftly on until he reached a great thoroughfare, nearly deserted now, but echoing occasionally to a quick step as some one hurried home to his warm fireside.

"A little money, sir, for a sick child and a starving woman;" and with outstretched hand Walter arrested an old man. But he only wrapped his furs still closer and pa.s.sed on, saying sternly,--

"I have nothing for vagrants. Go to work, young man."

A woman poorly clad in widow's weeds pa.s.sed at that moment, and, as the beggar fell back from the rich man's path, she dropped a bit of silver in his hand, saying with true womanly compa.s.sion,--

"Heaven help you! it is all I have to give."

"I'll beg no more," muttered Walter, as he turned away burning with shame and indignation; "I'll _take_ from the rich what the poor so freely _give._ G.o.d pardon me; I see no other way, and they must not starve."

With a vague sense of guilt already upon him, he stole into a more unfrequented street and slunk into the shadow of a doorway to wait for coming steps and nerve himself for his first evil deed.

Glancing up to chide the moonlight for betraying him, he started; for there, above the snow-clad roofs, rose the cross upon the tower.

Hastily he averted his eyes, as if they had rested on the mild, reproachful countenance of a friend.

Far up in the wintry sky the bright symbol shone, and from it seemed to fall a radiance, warmer than the moonlight, clearer than the starlight, showing to that tempted heart the darkness of the yet uncommitted wrong.

That familiar sight recalled the past; he thought of Jamie, and seemed to hear again the childish words, uttered long ago, "G.o.d will remember us."