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diff --git a/old/50698-0.txt b/old/50698-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4691948..0000000 --- a/old/50698-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3315 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's My Uncle Florimond, by (AKA Sidney Luska) Henry Harland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: My Uncle Florimond - -Author: (AKA Sidney Luska) Henry Harland - -Release Date: December 15, 2015 [EBook #50698] -Last Updated: November 7, 2016 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY UNCLE FLORIMOND *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -MY UNCLE FLORIMOND - -By Sidney Luska (Henry Harland) - -Author of The Yoke of the Thorah and Others - -D. Lothrop Company - -Boston: Franklin and Hawley Streets - -1888 - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0006] - -[Illustration: 0007] - -TO MY GRANDMOTHER - -A. L. H. - -IN REMEMBRANCE OF OLD - -NORWICH DAYS - - - - -CHAPTER I.--THE NEPHEW OF A MARQUIS. - -Both of my parents died while I was still a baby; and I passed my -childhood at the home of my father's mother in Norwich Town--which lies -upon the left bank of the river Yantic, some three miles to the north of -Norwich City, in Eastern Connecticut. - -My father's mother, my dear old grandmother, was a French lady by -birth; and her maiden name had been quite an imposing one--Aurore Aline -Raymonde Marie Antoinette de la Bourbonnaye. But in 1820, when she was -nineteen years old, my grandfather had persuaded her to change it -for plain and simple Mrs. Brace; from which it would seem that my -grandfather must have been a remarkably persuasive man. At that time -she lived in Paris with her father and mother, who were very lofty, -aristocratic people--the Marquis and Marquise de la Bourbonnaye. But -after her marriage she followed her husband across the ocean to his home -in Connecticut, where in 1835 he died, and where she had remained ever -since. She had had two children: my father, Edward, whom the rebels shot -at the Battle of Bull Run in July, 1861, and my father's elder brother, -my Uncle Peter, who had never married, and who was the man of our house -in Norwich. - -The neighbors called my Uncle Peter Square, because he was a lawyer. -Some of them called him Jedge, because he had once been a Justice of the -Peace. Between him and me no love was lost. A stern, cold, frowning man, -tall and dark, with straight black hair, a lean, smooth-shaven face, -thin lips, hard black eyes, and bushy black eyebrows that grew together -over his nose making him look false and cruel, he inspired in me an -exceeding awe, and not one atom of affection. I was indeed so afraid -of him that at the mere sound of his voice my heart would sink into my -boots, and my whole skin turn goose-flesh. When I had to pass the -door of his room, if he was in, I always quickened my pace and went on -tiptoe, half expecting that he might dart out and seize upon me; if -he was absent, I would stop and peek in through the keyhole, with the -fascinated terror of one gazing into an ogre's den. And, oh me! what -an agony of fear I had to suffer three times every day, seated at -meals with him. If I so much as spoke a single word, except to answer -a question, he would scowl upon me savagely, and growl out, “Children -should be seen and not heard.” After he had helped my grandmother, he -would demand in the crossest tone you can imagine, “Gregory, do you -want a piece of meat?” Then I would draw a deep breath, clinch my fists, -muster my utmost courage, and, scarcely louder than a whisper, stammer, -“Ye-es, sir, if you p-please.” It would have come much more easily to -say, “No, I thank you, sir,”--only I was so very hungry. But not once, -in all the years I spent at Norwich, not once did I dare to ask for -more. So I often left the table with my appetite not half satisfied, and -would have to visit the kitchen between meals, and beg a supplementary -morsel from Julia, our cook. - -Uncle Peter, for his part, took hardly any notice whatever of me, unless -it was to give me a gruff word of command--like “Leave the room,” “Go to -bed,” “Hold your tongue,”--or worse still a scolding, or worst of all -a whipping. For the latter purpose he employed a flexible rattan cane, -with a curiously twisted handle. It buzzed like a hornet as it flew -cutting through the air; and then, when it had reached its objective -point--mercy, how it stung! I fancied that whipping me afforded him a -great deal of enjoyment. Anyhow, he whipped me very often, and on the -very slightest provocation: if I happened to be a few minutes behindhand -at breakfast, for example, or if I did not have my hair nicely brushed -and parted when I appeared at dinner. And if I cried, he would whip all -the harder, saying, “I'll give you something to cry about,” so that in -the end I learned to stand the most unmerciful flogging with never so -much as a tear or a sob. Instead of crying, I would bite my lips, and -drive my fingernails into the palms of my hands until they bled. Why, -one day, I remember, I was standing in the dining-room, drinking a glass -of water, when suddenly I heard his footstep behind me; and it startled -me so that I let the tumbler drop from my grasp to the floor, where it -broke, spilling the water over the carpet. “You clumsy jackanapes,” - he cried; “come up-stairs with me, and I'll show you how to break -tumblers.” He seized hold of my ear, and, pinching and tugging at it, -led me up-stairs to his room. There he belabored me so vigorously -with that rattan cane of his that I was stiff and lame for two days -afterward. Well, I dare say that sometimes I merited my Uncle Peter's -whippings richly; but I do believe that in the majority of cases when -he whipped me, moral suasion would have answered quite as well, or even -better. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was one of his fundamental -principles of life. - -Happily, however, except at meal hours, my Uncle Peter was seldom in the -house. He had an office at the Landing--that was the name Norwich City -went by in Norwich Town--and thither daily after breakfast and again -after dinner, he betook himself. After supper he would go out to spend -the evening--where or how I never knew, though I often wondered; but -all day Sunday he would stay at home, shut up in his room; and all day -Sunday, therefore, I was careful to keep as still as a mouse. - -He did not in the least take after his mother, my grandmother; for she, -I verily believe, of all sweet and gentle ladies was the sweetest and -the gentlest. It is now more than sixteen years since she died; yet, as -I think of her now, my heart swells, my eyes fill with tears, and I can -see her as vividly before me as though we had parted but yesterday: a -little old body, in a glistening black silk dress, with her snowy -hair drawn in a tall puff upward from her forehead, and her kind face -illuminated by a pair of large blue eyes, as quick and as bright as any -maiden's. She had the whitest, daintiest, tiniest hands you ever did -see; and the tiniest feet. These she had inherited from her noble French -ancestors; and along with them she had also inherited a delicate Roman -nose--or, as it is sometimes called, a Bourbon nose. Now, as you will -recollect, the French word for nose is _nez_ (pronounced _nay_); and I -remember I often wondered whether that Bourbon nose of my grandmother's -might not have had something to do with the origin of her family name, -Bourbonnaye. But that, of course, was when I was a very young and -foolish child indeed. - -In her youth, I know, my grandmother had been a perfect beauty. Among -the other pictures in our parlor, there hung an oil painting which -represented simply the loveliest young lady that I could fancy. She had -curling golden hair, laughing eyes as blue as the sky, ripe red lips -just made to kiss, faintly blushing cheeks, and a rich, full throat like -a column of ivory; and she wore a marvelous costume of cream-colored -silk, trimmed with lace; and in one hand she-held a bunch of splendid -crimson roses, so well painted that you could almost smell them. I -used to sit before this portrait for hours at a stretch, and admire the -charming girl who smiled upon me from it, and wonder and wonder who she -could be, and where she lived, and whether I should ever have the good -luck to meet her in proper person. I used to think that perhaps I had -already met her somewhere, and then forgotten; for, though I could not -put my finger on it, there was something strangely familiar to me in her -face. I used to say to myself, “What if after all it should be only a -fancy picture! Oh! I hope, I hope it isn't.” Then at length, one day, -it occurred to me to go to my grandmother for information. Imagine -my surprise when she told me that it was a portrait of herself, taken -shortly before her wedding. - -“O, dear! I wish I had been alive in those days,” I sighed. - -“Why?” she queried. - -“Because then I could have married you,” I explained. At which she -laughed as merrily as though I had got off the funniest joke in the -world, and called me an “_enfant terrible_”--a dreadful child. - -This episode abode in my mind for a long time to come, and furnished me -food for much sorrowful reflection. It brought forcibly home to me the -awful truth, which I had never thought of before, that youth and beauty -cannot last. That this young girl--so strong, so gay, so full of life, -with such bright red lips and brilliant golden hair--that she could have -changed into a feeble gray old lady, like my grandmother! It was a sad -and appalling possibility. - -My grandmother stood nearly as much in awe of my Uncle Peter as I did. -He allowed himself to browbeat and bully her in a manner that made my -blood boil. “Oh!” I would think in my soul, “just wait till I am a man -as big as he is. Won't I teach him a lesson, though?” She and I talked -together for the most part in French. This was for two reasons: first, -because it was good practice for me; and secondly, because it was -pleasant for her--French being her native tongue. Well, my Uncle Peter -hated the very sound of French--why I could not guess, but I suspected -it was solely for the sake of being disagreeable--and if ever a word of -that language escaped my grandmother's lips in his presence, he would -glare at her from beneath his shaggy brows, and snarl out, “Can't you -speak English to the boy?” She never dared to interfere in my behalf -when he was about to whip me--though I knew her heart ached to do -so--but would sit alone in her room during the operation, and wait to -comfort me after it was over. His rattan cane raised great red welts -upon my skin, which smarted and were sore for hours. These she would rub -with a salve that cooled and helped to heal them; and then, putting -her arm about my neck, she would bid me not to mind it, and not to feel -unhappy any more, and would give me peppermint candies and cookies, and -tell me long, interesting stories, or read aloud to me, or show me the -pictures in her big family Bible. “Paul and Virginia” and “The Arabian -Nights” were the books I liked best to be read to from; and my favorite -picture was one of Daniel iii the lion's den. Ah, my dear, dear -grandmother! As I look back upon those days now, there is no bitterness -in my memory of Uncle Peter's whippings; but my memory of your tender -goodness in consoling me is infinitely sweet. - -No; if my Uncle Peter was perhaps a trifle too severe with me, my -grandmother erred in the opposite direction, and did much to spoil me. -I never got a single angry word from her in all the years we lived -together; yet I am sure I must have tried her patience very frequently -and very sorely. Every forenoon, from eight till twelve o'clock, she -gave me my lessons: geography, history, grammar, arithmetic and music. -I was neither a very apt nor a very industrious pupil in any of these -branches; but I was especially dull and especially lazy in my pursuit of -the last. My grandmother would sit with me at the piano for an hour, -and try and try to make me play my exercise aright; and though I -always played it wrong, she never lost her temper, and never scolded. I -deserved worse than a scolding; I deserved a good sound box on the ear; -for I had shirked my practising, and that was why I blundered so. But -the most my grandmother ever said or did by way of reproof, was to shake -her head sadly at me, and murmur, “Ah, Gregory, Gregory, I fear that you -lack ambition.” So very possibly, after all, my Uncle Peter's sternness -was really good for me as a disagreeable but salutary tonic. - -My Uncle Florimond was my grandmother's only brother, unmarried, five -years older than herself, who lived in France. His full name was even -more imposing than hers had been; and to write it I shall have to use up -nearly all the letters of the alphabet: Florimond Charles Marie Auguste -Alexandre de la Bourbonnaye. As if this were not enough, he joined to it -the title of marquis, which had descended to him from his father; -just think--Florimond Charles Marie Auguste Alexandre, Marquis de la -Bourbonnaye. - -Though my grandmother had not once seen her brother Florimond since her -marriage--when she was a blushing miss of nineteen, and he a dashing -young fellow of four-and-twenty--I think she cared more for him than -for anybody else alive, excepting perhaps myself. And though I had never -seen him at all, I am sure that he was to me, without exception, -the most important personage in the whole wide world. He owed this -distinguished place in my regard to several causes. He owed it partly, -no doubt, to the glamour attaching to his name and title. To my youthful -imagination Florimond Charles Marie Auguste Alexandre de la Bourbonnaye -made a strong appeal. Surely, any one who went through life bearing a -name like that must be a very great and extrordinary man; and the fact -that he was my uncle--my own grandmother's brother--stirred my bosom -with pride, and thrilled it with satisfaction. Then, besides, he was a -marquis; and a marquis, I supposed, of course, must be the embodiment -of everything that was fine and admirable in human nature--good, strong, -rich, brave, brilliant, beautiful--just one peg lower in the scale -of glory than a king. Yes, on account of his name and title alone, I -believe, I should have placed my Uncle Florimond upon a lofty pedestal -in the innermost shrine of my fancy, as a hero to drape with all the -dazzling qualities I could conceive of, to wonder about, and to worship. -But indeed, in this case, I should most likely have done very much the -same thing, even if he had had no other title than plain Mister, and if -his name had been homely John or James. For my grandmother, who never -tired of talking to me of him, had succeeded in communicating to my -heart something of her own fondness for him, as well as imbuing my mind -with an eager interest in everything that concerned him, and in firing -it with a glowing ideal of his personality. She had taught me that he -was in point of fact, all that I had pictured him in my surmises. - -When, in 1820, Aurore de la Bourbonnaye became Mrs. Brace, and bade -good-by to her home and family, her brother Florimond had held a -commission as lieutenant in the King's Guard. A portrait of him in his -lieutenant's uniform hung over the fireplace in our parlor, directly -opposite the portrait of his sister that I have already spoken of. You -never saw a handsomer young soldier: tall, muscular, perfectly shaped, -with close-cropped chestnut hair, frank brown eyes, and regular -clean-cut features, as refined and sensitive as a woman's, yet full of -manly dignity and courage. In one hand he held his military hat, plumed -with a long black ostrich feather; his other hand rested upon the hilt -of his sword. - -His uniform was all ablaze with brass buttons and gold lace; and a -beautiful red silk sash swept over his shoulder diagonally downward -to his hip, where it was knotted, and whence its tasseled ends -fell half-way to his knee. Yes, indeed; he was a handsome, dashing, -gallant-looking officer; and you may guess how my grandmother flattered -me when she declared, as she often did, “Gregory, you are his -living image.” Then she would continue in her quaint old-fashioned -French:--“Ah! that thou mayest resemble him in spirit, in character, -also. He is of the most noble, of the most generous, of the most gentle. -An action base, a thought unworthy, a sentiment dishonorable--it is to -him impossible. He is the courage, the courtesy, the chivalry, itself. -Regard, then, his face. Is it not radiant of his soul? Is it not -eloquent of kindness, of fearlessness, of truth? He is the model, the -paragon even, of a gentleman, of a Christian. Say, then, my Gregory, is -it that thou lovest him a little also, thou? Is it that thou art going -to imitate him a little in thy life, and to strive to become a man as -noble, as lovable, as he?” - -To which I would respond earnestly in the same language, “O, yes! I love -him, I admire him, with all my heart--after thee, my grandmother, better -than anybody. And if I could become a man like him, I should be happier -than I can say. Anyway, I shall try. He will be my pattern. But tell me, -shall I never see him? Will he never come to Norwich? I would give--oh! -I would give a thousand dollars--to see him, to embrace him, to speak -with him.” - -“Alas, no, I fear he will never come to Norwich. He is married to his -France, his Paris. But certainly, when thou art grown up, thou shalt see -him. Thou wilt go to Europe, and present thyself before him.” - -“O, dear! not till I am grown up,” I would complain. “That is so long -to wait.” Yet that came to be a settled hope, a moving purpose, in my -life--that I should sometime meet my Uncle Florimond in person. I used -to indulge my imagination in long, delicious day-dreams, of which our -meeting was the subject, anticipating how he would receive me, and what -we should say and do. I used to try honestly to be a good boy, so that -he would take pleasure in recognizing me as his nephew. My grandmother's -assertion to the effect that I looked like him filled my heart with -gladness, though, strive as I might, I could not see the resemblance for -myself. And if she never tired of talking to me about him, I never tired -of listening, either. Indeed, to all the story-books in our library I -preferred her anecdotes of Uncle Florimond. - -Once a month regularly my grandmother wrote him a long letter; and once -a month regularly a long letter arrived from him for her--the reception -of which marked a great day in our placid, uneventful calendar. It was -my duty to go to the post-office every afternoon, to fetch the mail. -When I got an envelope addressed in his handwriting, and bearing the -French postage-stamp--oh! didn't I hurry home! I couldn't seem to run -fast enough, I was so impatient to deliver it to her, and to hear her -read it aloud. Yet the contents of Uncle Florimond's epistles were -seldom very exciting; and I dare say, if I should copy one of them here, -you would pronounce it quite dull and prosy. He always began, “_Ma sour -bien-aimee_”--My well-beloved sister. Then generally he went on to give -an account of his goings and his comings since his last--naming the -people whom he had met, the houses at which he had dined, the plays he -had witnessed, the books he had read--and to inquire tenderly touching -his sister's health, and to bid her kiss his little nephew Gregory for -him. He invariably wound up, “_Dieu te garde, ma sour cherie_”--God keep -thee, my dearest sister.--“Thy affectionate brother, de la Bourbonnaye.” - That was his signature--de la Bourbonnaye, written uphill, with a big -flourish underneath it--never Florimond. My grandmother explained to -me that in this particular--signing his family name without his given -one--he but followed a custom prevalent among French noblemen. Well, as -I was saying, his letters for the most part were quite unexciting; yet, -nevertheless, I listened to them with rapt attention, reluctant to lose -a single word. This was for the good and sufficient reason that they -came from him--from my Uncle Florimond--from my hero, the Marquis de la -Bourbonnaye. And after my grandmother had finished reading one of them, -I would ask, “May I look at it, please?” To hold it between my fingers, -and gaze upon it, exerted a vague, delightful fascination over me. -To think that his own hand had touched this paper, had shaped these -characters, less than a fortnight ago! My Uncle Florimond's very hand! -It was wonderful! - -I was born on the first of March, 1860; so that on the first of March, -1870, I became ten years of age. On the morning of that day, after -breakfast, my grandmother called me to her room. - -“Thou shalt have a holiday to-day,” she said; “no study, no lessons. But -first, stay.” - -She unlocked the lowest drawer of the big old-fashioned bureau-desk at -which she used to write, and took from it something long and slender, -wrapped up in chamois-skin. Then she undid and peeled off the -chamois-skin wrapper, and showed me--what do you suppose? A beautiful -golden-hilted sword, incased in a golden scabbard! - -“Isn't it pretty?” she asked. - -“Oh! lovely, superb,” I answered, all admiration and curiosity. - -“Guess a little, _mon petit_, whom it belonged to?” she went on. - -“To--oh! to my Uncle Florimond--I am sure,” I exclaimed. - -“Right. To thy Uncle Florimond. It was presented to him by the king, by -King Louis XVIII.” - -“By the king--by the king!” I repeated wonderingly. “Just think!” - -“Precisely. By the king himself, as a reward of valor and a token of his -regard. And when I was married my brother gave it to me as a keepsake. -And now--and now, my Gregory, I am going to give it to thee as a -birthday present.” - -“To me! Oh!” I cried. That was the most I could say. I was quite -overcome by my surprise and my delight. - -[Illustration: 0032] - -“Yes, I give it to thee; and we will hang it up in thy bed-chamber, on -the wall opposite thy bed; and every night and every morning thou shalt -look at it, and think of thy Uncle Florimond, and remember to be like -him. So thy first and thy last thought every day shall be of him.” - -I leave it to you to fancy how happy this present made me, how happy and -how proud. For many years that sword was the most highly prized of all -my goods and chattels. At this very moment it hangs on the wall in my -study, facing the table at which I write these lines. - -A day or two later, when I made my usual afternoon trip to the -post-office, I found there a large, square brown-paper package, about -the size of a school geography, postmarked Paris, and addressed, in my -Uncle Florimond's handwriting, not to my grandmother, but to me! to my -very self. “Monsieur Grégoire Brace, chez Madame Brace, Norwich Town, -Connecticut, Etats-unis d'Amérique.” At first I could hardly believe -my eyesight. Why should my Uncle Florimond address anything to me? What -could it mean? And what could the contents of the mysterious parcel be? -It never occurred to me to open it, and thus settle the question for -myself; but, burning with curiosity, I hastened home, and putting -it into my grandmother's hands, informed her how it had puzzled and -astonished me. She opened it at once, I peering eagerly over her -shoulder; and then both of us uttered an exclamation of delight. It was -a large illustrated copy of my favorite story, “Paul et Virginie,” bound -in scarlet leather, stamped and lettered in gold; and on the fly-leaf, -in French, was written, “To my dear little nephew Gregory, on his tenth -birthday with much love from his Uncle de la Bourbonnaye.” I can't tell -you how this book pleased me. That my Uncle Florimond should care enough -for me to send me such a lovely birthday gift! For weeks afterward -I wanted no better entertainment than to read it, and to look at its -pictures, and remember who had sent it to me. Of course, I sat right -down and wrote the very nicest letter I possibly could, to thank him for -it. - -Now, as you know, in that same year, 1870, the French Emperor, Louis -Napoleon, began his disastrous war with the King of Prussia; and it -may seem very strange to you when I say that that war, fought more than -three thousand miles away, had a direct and important influence upon my -life, and indeed brought it to its first great turning-point. But such -is the truth. For, as you will remember, after a few successes at the -outset, the French army met with defeat in every quarter; and as the -news of these calamities reached us in Norwich, through the New York -papers, my grandmother grew visibly feebler and older from day to day. -The color left her cheeks; the light left her eyes; her voice lost its -ring; she ate scarcely more than a bird's portion at dinner; she became -nervous, and restless, and very sad: so intense was her love for her -native country, so painfully was she affected by its misfortunes. - -The first letter we received from Uncle Florimond, after the war broke -out, was a very hopeful one. He predicted that a month or two at the -utmost would suffice for the complete victory of the French, and the -utter overthrow and humiliation of the Barbarians, as he called the -Germans. “I myself,” he continued, “am, alas, too old to go to the -front; but happily I am not needed, our actual forces being more than -sufficient. I remain in Paris at the head of a regiment of municipal -guards.” His second letter was still hopeful in tone, though he had to -confess that for the moment the Prussians seemed to be enjoying -pretty good luck. “_Mais cela passera_”--But that will pass,--he added -confidently. His next letter and his next, however, struck a far less -cheery note; and then, after the siege of Paris began, his letters -ceased coming altogether, for then, of course, Paris was shut off from -any communication with the outside world. - -With the commencement of the siege of Paris a cloud settled over our -home in Norwich, a darkness and a chill that deepened steadily until, -toward the end of January, 1871, the city surrendered and was occupied -by the enemy. Dread and anxiety dogged our footsteps all day long every -day. “Even at this moment, Gregory, while we sit here in peace and -safety, thy Uncle Florimond may be dead or dying,” my grandmother would -say; then, bowing her head, “_O mon Dieu, sois miséricordieux_”--O -my God, be merciful. Now and then she would start in her chair, and -shudder; and upon my demanding the cause, she would reply, “I was -thinking what if at that instant he had been shot by a Prussian bullet.” - For hours she would sit perfectly motionless, with her hands folded, -and her eyes fixed vacantly upon the wall; until all at once, she would -cover her face, and begin to cry as if her heart would break. And then, -when the bell rang to summon us to meals, “Ah, what a horror!” she would -exclaim. “Here are we with an abundance of food and drink, while he whom -we love may be perishing of hunger!” But she had to keep her suffering -to herself when Uncle Peter was around; otherwise, he would catch her up -sharply, saying, “Tush! don't be absurd.” - -And so it went on from worse to worse, my grandmother pining away under -my very eyes, until the siege ended in 1871, and the war was decided -in favor of the Germans. Then, on the fourteenth of February, St. -Valentine's Day, our fears lest Uncle Florimond had been killed were -relieved. A letter came from him dated February 1st. It was very short. -It ran: “Here is a single line, my beloved sister, to tell thee that -I am alive and well. To-morrow I shall write thee a real letter”--_une -vraie lettre_. - -My grandmother never received his “real letter.” The long strain and -suspense had been too much for her. That day she broke down completely, -crying at one moment, laughing the next, and all the time talking to -herself in a way that frightened me terribly. That night she went to -bed in a high fever, and out of her mind. She did not know me, her own -grandson, but kept calling me Florimond. I ran for the doctor; but when -he saw her, he shook his head. - -On the morning of February 16th my dear, dear grandmother died. - - - - -CHAPTER II--I MAKE A FRIEND. - - -I shall not dwell upon my grief. It would be painful, and it would -serve no purpose. The spring of 1871 was a very dark and dismal spring -to me. It was as though a part--the best part--of myself had been taken -from me. To go on living in the same old house, where everything spoke -to 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 her -voice, nor see her face, nor feel her presence any more, and to realize -that 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. I -need 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 she -had really died. It was too dreadful. I could not help thinking that it -must be some mistake, some hideous delusion. I would start from my sleep -in the middle of the night, and feel sure that it must have been a bad -dream, that she must have come back, that she was even now in bed in her -room. Then, full of hope, I would get up and go to see. All my pain -was 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, and -abandon myself to a passionate outburst of tears and sobs, calling aloud -for her: “_Grand'-mère, grand'mere, O ma grand'mère chérie!_” I almost -expected that she would hear me, and be moved to pity for me, and come -back. - -One night, when I was lying thus upon her bed, in the dark, and -calling for her, I felt all at once the clutch of a strong hand upon my -shoulder. It terrified me unspeakably. My heart gave a great jump, and -stopped its beating. My limbs trembled, and a cold sweat broke out all -over my body. I could not see six inches before my face. Who, or rather -what, could my invisible captor be? Some grim and fearful monster of the -darkness? 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 heard -the voice of my Uncle Peter: “What do you mean, you young beggar, by -raising such a hullaballoo at this hour of the night, and waking people -up? Get off to your bed now, and in the morning I'll talk to you.” And -though I suspected that “I'll talk to you” signified “I'll give you a -good sound thrashing,” I could have hugged my Uncle Peter, so great was -my 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 energetic -thrashings I ever received from him. But now I had nobody to pet me -and make much of me after it; and all that day I felt the awful -friendlessness of my position more keenly than I had ever felt it -before. - -“I have but one friend in the whole world,” I thought, “and he is so -far, so far away. If I could only somehow get across the ocean, to -France, to Paris, to his house, and live with him! He would be so good -to me, and I should be so happy!” And I looked up at his sword hanging -upon my wall, and longed for the hour when I should touch the hand that -had once wielded it. - -I must not forget to tell you here of a little correspondence that I -had with this distant friend of mine. A day or two after the funeral I -approached 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 quite -distinctly. That was one of his disagreeable, disconcerting ways--to -make you repeat whatever you had to say. It always put me out of -countenance, and made me feel foolish and embarrassed. - -“I wanted to know whether you were going to write and tell Uncle -Florimond,” I explained with a quavering voice. - -By way of retort, he half-shut his eyes, and gave me a queer, quizzical -glance, which seemed to be partly a sneer, and partly a threat. He kept -it up for a minute or two, and then he turned his back upon me, and went -off 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 to -let 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; and -then I copied it again; and at last I dropped my final copy into the -post-box. - -About five weeks later I got an answer from him. In a few simple -sentences 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 closer -together; and by a more tender mutual affection we must try to comfort -and console each other. For my part, I open to thee that place in my -heart left vacant by the death of my sainted sister; and I dare to hope -that thou wilt transfer to me something of thy love for her. I attend -with impatience the day of our meeting, which, I tell myself, if the -Lord spares our lives, must arrive as soon as thou art big enough to -leave thy home and come to me in France. Meanwhile, may the good God -keep and bless thee, shall be the constant prayer of thy Uncle de la -Bourbonnaye.” - -This letter touched me very deeply. - -After reading it I came nearer to feeling really happy than I had come -at any time before since she died. - -I must hasten over the next year. Of course, as the weeks and months -slipped away, I gradually got more or less used to the new state of -things, and the first sharp edge of my grief was dulled. The hardest -hours of my day were those spent at table with Uncle Peter--alone with -him, 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 passed -out of doors, in the company of Sam Budd, our gardener's son, and the -other village boys. What between swimming, fishing, and running the -streets with them, I contrived to amuse myself after a fashion. Yet, for -all that, the year I speak of was a forlorn, miserable year for me; I -was far from being either happy or contented. My first violent anguish -had simply given place to a vague, continuous sense of dissatisfaction -and unrest, like a hunger, a craving, for something I could not name. -That something was really--love: though I was not wise enough to know -as much at the time. A child's heart--and, for that matter, a grown-up -man's--craves affection as naturally as his stomach craves food; I did -not have it; and that was why my heart ached and was sick. I wondered -and wondered whether my present mode of life was going to last forever; -I longed and longed for change. Somehow to escape, and get across the -ocean to my Uncle Florimond, was my constant wish; but I saw no means of -realizing it. Once in a while I would think, “Suppose I write to him -and tell him how wretched I am, and ask him to send for me?” But then a -feeling of shame and delicacy restrained me. - -Another thing that you will easily see about this year, is that it -must have been a very unprofitable one for me from the point of view -of 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 and -ignorant to desire to go of my own accord. Then, too, I was without any -sort of refining or softening influence at home; Julia, our cook, being -my single friend there, and my uncle's treatment of me serving only to -sour and harden me. If, therefore, at the end of the year in question I -was by no manner of means so nice a boy as I had been at the beginning -of it, surely there was little cause for astonishment. Indeed, I imagine -the only thing that kept me from growing altogether rough and wild and -boisterous, was my thought of Uncle Florimond, and my ambition to be the -kind 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 of -a new departure in my affairs. - -It was early in April, 1872. There had been a general thaw, followed by -several days of heavy rain; and the result was, of course, a freshet. -Our little river, the Yantic, had swollen to three--in some places even -to four--times its ordinary width; and its usually placid current had -acquired a tremendous strength and speed. This transformation was the -subject of endless interest to us boys; and every day we used to go and -stand upon the bank, and watch the broad and turbulent rush of water -with mingled wonder, terror and delight. It was like seeing an old -friend, whom we had hitherto regarded as a quite harmless and rather -namby-pamby sort of chap, and been fearlessly familiar with, suddenly -display the power and prowess of a giant, and brandish his fists at us, -crying, “Come near me at your peril!” Our emotions sought utterance -in such ejaculations as “My!” “Whew!” and “Jimminy!” and Sam Budd was -always tempting me with, “Say, Gregory, stump ye to go in,” which was -very aggravating. I hated to have him dare me. - -Well, one afternoon--I think it was on the third day of the -freshet--when Sam and I made our customary pilgrimage down through -Captain Josh Abingdon's garden to the water's edge, fancy our surprise -to behold a man standing there and fishing. Fishing in that torrent! It -was too absurd for anything; and instantly all our wonder transferred -itself from the stream to the fisherman, at whom we stared with eyes -and mouths wide open, in an exceedingly curious and ill-bred manner. He -didn't notice us at first; and when he did, he didn't seem to mind -our rudeness the least bit. He just looked up for a minute, and calmly -inspected us; and then he gave each of us a solemn, deliberate wink, and -returned his attention to his pole, which, by the way, was an elaborate -and costly one, jointed and trimmed with metal. He was a funny-looking -man; short and stout, with a broad, flat, good-natured face, a thick -nose, 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 have -called cityfied; and across his waistcoat stretched a massive golden -watch-chain, from which dangled a large golden locket set with precious -stones. - -Presently this strange individual drew in his line to examine his bait; -and then, having satisfied himself as to its condition, he attempted to -make 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 moment -started off down stream at the rate of a train of steam-cars. This was a -sad mishap. The stranger's face expressed extreme dismay, and Sam and I -felt sorry for him from the bottom of our hearts. It was really a -great pity that such a handsome pole should be lost in such a needless -fashion. - -But stay! All at once the pole's progress down stream ceased. It had -got caught by an eddy, which was sweeping it rapidly inward and upward -toward the very spot upon the shore where we stood. Would it reach land -safely, and be recovered? We waited, watching, in breathless suspense. -Nearer it came--nearer--nearer! Our hopes were mounting very high -indeed. A smile lighted the fisherman's broad face. The pole had -now approached within twenty feet of the bank. Ten seconds more, and -surely--But again, stay! Twenty feet from the shore the waters formed -a whirlpool. In this whirlpool for an instant the pole remained -motionless. Then, after a few jerky movements to right and left, instead -of continuing its journey toward the shore, it began spinning round and -round in the circling current. At any minute it might break loose and -resume its course down stream; but for the present there it was, halting -within a few yards of us--so near, and yet so far. - -Up to this point we had all kept silence. But now the fisherman broke -it 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.” I -looked at Sam. He was already beginning to undress. - -No; under the circumstances--with that man as a witness--I could not -refuse the challenge. My reputation, my character, was at stake. I knew -that the water would be as cold as ice; I knew that the force of its -current involved danger to a swimmer of a sort not to be laughed at. Yet -my pride had been touched, my vanity had been aroused. I could not allow -Sam Budd to “stump” me with impunity, and then outdo me. “You do, do -you?” I retorted. “Well, come on.” And stripping off my clothes in a -twinkling, I plunged into the flood, Sam following close at my heels. - -As cold as ice! Why, ice was nowhere, compared to the Yantic River in -that first week of April. They say extremes meet. Well, the water was so -cold that it seemed actually to scald my skin, as if it had been boiling -hot. But never mind. The first shock over, I gritted my teeth to keep -them from chattering, and struck boldly out for the whirlpool, where the -precious rod was still spinning round and round. Of course, in order to -save myself from being swept down below it, I had to aim diagonally at a -point far above it. - -The details of my struggle I need not give. Indeed, I don't believe I -could give them, even if it were desirable that I should. My memory of -the time I spent in the water is exceedingly confused and dim. Intense -cold; desperately hard work with arms and legs; frantic efforts to get -my breath; a fierce determination to be the first to reach that pole -no matter at what hazard; a sense of immense relief and triumph when, -suddenly, I realized that success had crowned my labors--when I felt -the pole actually in my hands; then a fight to regain the shore; and -finally, again, success! - -Yes, there I stood upon the dry land, safe and sound, though panting -and shivering from exhaustion and cold. I was also rather dazed and -bewildered; yet I still had enough of my wits about me to go up to the -fisherman, and say politely, “Here, sir, is your pole.” He cried in -response--and I noticed that he pronounced the English language in a -very peculiar way--“My kracious! You was a brave boy, Bubby. Hurry up; -dress; you catch your death of cold standing still there, mitout no -clodes on you, like dot. My koodness! a boy like you was worth a tousand -dollars.” - -[Illustration: 0061] - -Suddenly it occurred to me to wonder what had become of Sam. I had not -once thought of him since my plunge into the water. I suppose the reason -for this forgetfulness was that my entire mind, as well as my entire -body, 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 a -sickening fear lest he might have got drowned made my heart quail. - -“O, sir!” I demanded, “Sam--the other boy--where is he? Has anything -happened to him? Did he--he didn't--he didn't get drowned?” - -“Drownded?” repeated the fisherman. “Well, you can bet he didn't. He's -all 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 look -crept 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 this -admission 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 on -my things. Pretty soon he drew near to where I stood, and, surveying me -with 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 yet -so 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 in -Nawvich, 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 to -school, 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 do -mit yourself all day long, hey?” - -“I play.” - -“You play! Well, then you was a sort of a gentleman of leisure, ain't -you? 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 on -the road, like I was to-day. I'm what you call a trummer; a salesman for -Krauskopf, Sollinger & Co., voolens. Here's my card.” - -He handed me a large pasteboard card, of which the following is a -copy:-- - -[Illustration: 0068] - -“Yes,” he went on, “dot's my name, and dot's my address. And when you -come 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 a -restaurant, 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 a -chop, ain't you? A chop was an embloyment; and then there was chop-lots -also.” At this I understood that he meant a job. “Yes, Bubby, a fine boy -like you hadn't oughter be doing nodings all day long. You'd oughter go -into business, and get rich. You're smart enough, and you got enerchy. I -was in business already when I was ten years old, and I ain't no smarter -as 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 present -to remember me by.” - -He drew a great fat roll of money from his waistcoat pocket, and offered -me 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-tollar -pill. You just take it, and buy yourself a little keepsake. It von't -hurt you.” - -“You're very kind, sir; but I really can't take it, thank you.” And it -flashed through my mind: “What would Uncle Florimond think of me, if I -should 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 him -the two-dol-lar bill, which Sam received without the faintest show of -compunction. - -“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, to -give me a call. Well, so-long.” - -Sam and I watched him till he got out of sight. Then we too started for -home. - -At the time, my talk with Mr. Solomon D. Marx did not make any especial -impression on me; but a few days later it came back to me, the subject -of serious meditation. The circumstances were as follows:-- - -We had just got through our supper, and Uncle Peter had gone to his -room, when all at once I heard his door open, and his voice, loud and -sharp, 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 a -cigar-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 me -more aback. The blood rushed to my face; my whole frame grew rigid, as -if I had been petrified. I tried to speak; but my presence of mind had -deserted 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 steal -from me, and then lie to my face! You insufferable beggar! I'll teach -you a lesson.” And, putting out his hand, he took his rattan cane from -the peg it hung by on the wall. - -“Oh! really and truly, Uncle Peter,” I protested, “I never stole a thing -in 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. I -wouldn't have given you credit for so much cleverness.” He said this in -a sarcastic voice, and with a mocking smile. Then he frowned, and his -voice changed. “Come here,” he snarled, his fingers tightening upon the -handle of his cane. - -A great wave of anger swept over me, and brought me a momentary flush of -courage. “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 not -know 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 at -me, for a moment. Then, “You--won't,” he repeated, very low, and pausing -between 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 of -escaping from the room. But he was too quick for me. I had only just got -my hand upon the latch, when he sprang forward, seized me by the collar -of my jacket, and, with one strong pull, landed me again in the middle -of the floor. - -“There!” he cried. “Now we'll have it out. I owe you four: one for -stealing my cigars; one for lying to me about it; one for telling me you -wouldn't; and one for trying to sneak out of the room. Take this, and -this, and this.” - -With that he set his rattan cane in motion; nor did he bring it to a -stand-still until I felt as though I had not one well spot left upon my -skin. - -“Now, then, be off with you,” he growled; and I found myself in the hall -outside his door. - -I dragged my aching body to my room, and sat down at my window in the -dark. Never before had I experienced such a furious sense of outrage. -Many and many a time I had been whipped, as I thought, unjustly; but -this time he had added insult to injury; he had accused me of stealing -and of lying; and, deaf to my assertion of my innocence, he had punished -me accordingly. I seriously believe that I did not mind the whipping -in itself half so much as I minded the shameful accusations that he had -brought against me. “How long, how long,” I groaned, “has this got to -last? Shall I never be able to get away--to get to France, to my Uncle -Florimond? If I only had some money--if I had a hundred dollars--then -all my troubles would be over and done with. Surely, a hundred dollars -would be enough to take me to the very door of his house in Paris.” But -how--how to obtain such an enormous sum? And it was at this point that -my conversation with Mr. Solomon D. Marx came back to me:-- - -“Why, go to New York! Go into business! You'll soon earn a hundred -dollars. Mr. Marx said he would get you a job. Start for New York -to-morrow.” - -This notion took immediate and entire possession of my fancy, and I -remained awake all night, building glittering air-castles upon it as -a foundation. The only doubt that vexed me was, “What will Uncle Peter -say? Will he let me go?” The idea of going secretly, or without his -consent, never once entered my head. “Well, to-morrow morning,” I -resolved, “I will speak with him, and ask his permission. And if he -gives 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, and -ask his permission, he, to my infinite joy, responded, “Why, go, and be -hanged to you. Good riddance to bad rubbish!” - -In my tin savings bank, I found, I had nine dollars and sixty-three -cents. With this in my pocket; with the sword of my Uncle Florimond as -the principal part of my luggage; and with a heart full of strange and -new emotions, of fear and hope, and gladness and regret, I embarked that -evening upon the Sound steamboat, City of Lawrence, for the metropolis -where I have ever since had my home; bade good-by to my old life, and -set sail alone upon the great, awful, unknown sea of the future. - - - - -CHAPTER III.--NEW YORK. - - -I did not feel rich enough to take a stateroom on the City of Lawrence; -that would have cost a dollar extra; so I picked out a sofa in the -big gilt and white saloon, and sitting down upon it, proceeded to make -myself as comfortable as the circumstances would permit. A small boy, -armed with a large sword, and standing guard over a hand-satchel and -a square package done up in a newspaper--which last contained my Uncle -Florimond's copy of _Paul et Virginie_--I dare say I presented a curious -spectacle to the passers-by. Indeed, almost everybody turned to look at -me; and one man, with an original wit, inquired, “Hello, sword, where -you going with that boy?” But my mind was too busy with other and -weightier matters to be disturbed about mere appearances. One thought in -particular occupied it: I must not on any account allow myself to fall -asleep--for then I might be robbed. No; I must take great pains to keep -wide awake all night long. - -For the first hour or two it was easy enough to make this resolution -good. The undiscovered country awaiting my exploration, the novelty and -the excitement of my position, the people walking back and forth, and -laughing and chattering, the noises coming from the dock outside, and -from every corner of the steamboat inside, the bright lights of the -cabin lamps--all combined to put my senses on the alert, and to banish -sleep. But after we had got under way, and the other passengers had -retired to their berths or staterooms, and most of the lamps had been -extinguished, and the only sound to be heard was the muffled throbbing -of the engines, then tired nature asserted herself, the sandman came, my -eyelids grew very heavy, I began to nod. Er-rub-dub-dub, er-rub-dub-dub, -went the engines; er-rub-dubdub, er-rub-er-rub-er-er-er-r-r..., - -Mercy! With a sudden start I came to myself. It was broad day. I had -been sleeping soundly for I knew not how many hours. - -My first thought, of course, was for my valuables. Had my fears been -realized? Had I been robbed? I hastened to make an investigation. No! -My money, my sword, my satchel, my _Paul et Virginie_, remained in their -proper places, unmolested. Having relieved my anxiety on this head, I -got up, stretched myself, and went out on deck. - -If I live to be a hundred, I don't believe I shall ever forget my first -breath of the outdoor air on that red-letter April morning--it was so -sweet, so pure, so fresh and keen and stimulating. It sent a glow of new -vitality tingling through my body. I just stood still and drew in deep -inhalations of it with delight. It was like drinking a rich, delicious -wine. My heart warmed and mellowed. Hope and gladness entered into it. - -It must have been very early. The sun, a huge ball of gold, floated into -rosy mists but a little higher than the horizon; and a heavy dew bathed -the deck and the chairs and the rail. We were speeding along, almost, -it seemed, within a stone's throw of the shore, where the turf was -beginning to put on the first vivid green of spring, where the leafless -trees were exquisitely penciled against the gleaming sky, and where, -from the chimneys of the houses, the smoke of breakfast fires curled -upward: Over all there lay a wondrous, restful stillness, which the -pounding of our paddle-wheels upon the water served only to accentuate, -and which awoke in one's breast a deep, solemn, and yet joyous sense of -peace. - -I staid out on deck from that moment until, some two hours later, we -brought up alongside our pier; and with what strange and strong emotions -I watched the vast town grow from a mere distant reddish blur to the -grim, frowning mass of brick and stone it really is, I shall not attempt -to tell. To a country-bred lad like myself it was bound to be a stirring -and memorable experience. Looking back at it now, I can truly say that -it was one of the most stirring and memorable experiences of my life. - -It was precisely eight o'clock, as a gentleman of whom I inquired -the hour was kind enough to inform me, when I stepped off the City of -Lawrence and into the city of New York. My heart was bounding, but my -poor brain was bewildered. The hurly-burly of people, the fierce-looking -men at the entrance of the dock, who shook their fists at me, and -shouted, “Cadge, cadge, want a cadge?” leaving me to wonder what a -cadge was, the roar and motion of the wagons in the street, everything, -everything interested, excited, yet also confused, baffled, and to -some degree frightened me. I felt as though I had been set down in -pandemonium; yet I was not sorry to be there; I rather liked it. - -I went up to a person whom I took to be a policeman, for he wore a -uniform resembling that worn by our one single policeman in Norwich -City; and, exhibiting the card that Mr. Marx had given me, I asked him -how to reach the street and house indicated upon it. - -He eyed me with unconcealed amusement at my accoutrements, and answered, -“Ye wahk down tin blocks; thin turrun to yer lift four blocks; thin down -wan; thin to yer roight chew or thray doors; and there ye are.” - -“Thank you, sir,” said I, and started off, repeating his instructions to -myself, so as not to forget them. - -I felt very hungry, and I hoped that Mr. Marx would offer me some -breakfast; but it did not occur to me to stop at an eating-house, and -breakfast on my own account, until, as I was trudging along, I presently -caught sight of a sign-board standing on the walk in front of a -shop, which advertised, in big conspicuous white letters upon a black -ground:-- - -[Illustration: 0084] - -Merely to read the names of these good things made my mouth water. The -prices seemed reasonable. I walked into the ladies' and gents' dining -parlor--which was rather shabby and dingy, I thought, for a parlor--and -asked for a beefsteak and some fried potatoes; a burly, -villainous-looking colored man, in his shirt-sleeves, having demanded, -“Wall, Boss, wottle you have?” His shirt-sleeves were not immaculately -clean; neither was the dark red cloth that covered my table; neither, I -feared, was the fork he gave me to eat with. To make sure, I picked this -last-named object up, and examined it; whereupon the waiter, with a -horrid loud laugh, cried, “Oh! yassah, it's sawlid, sawlid silvah, sah,” - which made me feel wretchedly silly and uncomfortable. The beefsteak was -pretty tough, and not especially toothsome in its flavor; the potatoes -were lukewarm and greasy; the bread was soggy, the butter rancid; the -waiter took up a position close at hand, and stared at me with his -wicked little eyes as steadily as if he had never seen a boy before: so, -despite my hunger, I ate with a poor appetite, and was glad enough when -by and by I left the ladies' and gents' dining parlor behind me, and -resumed my journey through the streets. As I was crossing the threshold, -the waiter called after me, “Say, Johnny, where joo hook the sword?” - -Inquiring my way of each new policeman that I passed--for I distrusted -my memory of the directions I had received from the first--I finally -reached No. ----, Franklin Street and read the name of Krauskopf, -Sollinger & Co., engraved in Old English letters upon a shining metal -sign. I entered, and with a trembling heart inquired for Mr. Marx. Ten -seconds later I stood before him. - -[Illustration: 0093] - -“Mr. Marx,” I ventured, in rather a timid voice. - -He was seated in a swivel-chair, reading a newspaper, and smoking a -cigar. At the sound of his name, he glanced up, and looked at me for a -moment with an absent-minded and indifferent face, showing no glimmer -of recognition. But then, suddenly, his eyes lighted; he sprang from his -chair, started back, and cried:-- - -“My kracious! was dot you, Bubby? Was dot yourself? Was dot--well, my -koodness!” - -“Yes, sir; Gregory Brace,” I replied. - -“Krekory Prace! Yes, dot's a fact. No mistake about it. It's -yourself, sure. But--but, koodness kracious, Bubby, -what--how--why--when--where--where you come from? When you leave -Nawvich? How you get here? What you--well, it's simply wonderful.” - -“I came down on the boat last night,” I said. - -“Oh! you came down on de boat last night. Well, I svear. Well, Bubby, -who came mit you?” - -“Nobody, sir; I came alone.” - -“You came alone! You don't say so. Well, did your mamma--excuse me; you -ain't got no mamma; I forgot; it was your uncle--well, did your uncle -know you was come?” - -“Oh! yes, sir; he knows it; he said I might.” - -“He said you might, hey? Well, dot's fine. Well, Bubby, what you come -for? To make a little visit, hey, and go around a little, and see the -town? Well, Bubby, this was a big surprise; it was, and no mistake. But -I'm glad to see you, all de same. Well, shake hands.” - -“No, sir,” I explained, after we had shaken hands, “I didn't come for a -visit. I came to go into business. You said you would get me a job, and -I have come for that.” - -“Oh! you was come to go into pusiness, was you? And you want I should -get you a chop? Well, if I ever! Well, you're a great feller, Bubby; -you got so much ambition about you. Well, dot's all right. I get you -the chop, don't you be afraid. We talk about dot in a minute. But now, -excuse me, Bubby, but what you doing mit the sword? Was you going to -kill somebody mit it, hey, Bubby?” - -“O, no, sir! it--it's a keepsake.” - -“Oh! it was a keepsake, was it, Bubby? Well, dot's grand. Well, who was -it a keepsake of? It's a handsome sword, Bubby, and it must be worth -quite a good deal of money. If dot's chenu-wine gold, I shouldn't wonder -if it was worth two or three hundred dollars.--Oh! by the way, Bubby, -you had your breakfast yet already?” - -“Well, yes, sir; I've had a sort of breakfast.” - -“A sort of a breakfast, hey? Well, what sort of a breakfast was it?” - -I gave him an account of my experience in the ladies' and gents' dining -parlor. He laughed immoderately, though I couldn't see that it was so -very funny. “Well, Bubby,” he remarked, “dot was simply immense. Dot -oughter go into a comic paper, mit a picture of dot big nigger staring -at you. Well, I give ten dollars to been there, and heard him tell -you dot fork was solid silver. Well, dot was a. pretty poor sort of a -breakfast, anyhow. I guess you better come along out mit me now, and we -get anudder sort of a breakfast, hey? You just wait here a minute while -I go put on my hat. And say, Bubby, I guess you better give me dot -sword, to leaf here while we're gone. I don't believe you'll need it. -Give me dem udder things, too,” pointing to my satchel and my book. - -He went away, but soon came back, with his hat on; and, taking my hand, -he led me out into the street. After a walk of a few blocks, we turned -into a luxurious little restaurant, as unlike the dining parlor as a -fine lady is unlike a beggar woman, and sat down at a neat round table -covered with a snowy cloth. - -“Now, Bubby,” inquired Mr. Marx, “you got any preferences? Or will you -give me card blanch to order what I think best?” - -“Oh! order what you think best.” - -He beckoned a waiter, and spoke to him at some length in a foreign -language, which, I guessed, was German. The waiter went off; and then, -addressing me, Mr. Marx said, “Well, now, Bubby, now we're settled down, -quiet and comfortable, now you go ahead and tell me all about it.” - -“All about what, sir?” queried I. - -“Why, all about yourself, and what you leaf your home for, and what -you expect to do here in New York, and every dings--the whole pusiness. -Well, fire away.” - -“Well, sir, I--it--it's this way,” I began. And then, as well as I -could, I told Mr. Marx substantially everything that I have as yet told -you in this story--about my grandmother, my Uncle Florimond, my -Uncle Peter, and all the rest. Meanwhile the waiter had brought the -breakfast--such an abundant, delicious breakfast! such juicy mutton -chops, such succulent stewed potatoes, such bread, such butter, such -coffee!--and I was violating the primary canons of good breeding by -talking with my mouth full. Mr. Marx heard me through with every sign -of interest and sympathy, only interrupting once, to ask, “Well, what I -ordered--I hope it gives you entire satisfaction, hey?” and when I had -done:-- - -“Well, if I ever!” he exclaimed. “Well, dot beats de record! Well, dot -Uncle Peter was simply outracheous! Well, Bubby, you done just right, -you done just exactly right, to come to me. The only thing dot surprises -me is how you stood it so long already. Well, dot Uncle Peter of yours, -Bubby--well, dot's simply unnecheral.” - -He paused for a little, and appeared to be thinking. By and by he went -on, “But your grandma, Bubby, your grandma was elegant. Yes, Bubby, your -grandma was an angel, and no mistake about it. She reminds me, Bubby, -she reminds me of my own mamma. Ach, Krekory, my mamma was so loafly. -You couldn't hardly believe it. She was simply magnificent. Your grandma -and her, they might have been ter_vins_. Yes, Krekory, they might have -been ter_vin_ sisters.” - -Much to my surprise, Mr. Marx's eyes filled with tears, and there was a -frog in his voice. “I can't help it, Bubby,” he said. “When you told me -about dot grandma of yours, dot made me feel like crying. You see,” he -added in an apologetic key, “I got so much sentiment about me.” - -He was silent again for a little, and then again by and by he went on, -“But I tell you what, Krekory, it's awful lucky dot you came down to -New York just exactly when you did. Uddervise--if you'd come tomorrow -instead of to-day, for example--you wouldn't have found me no more. -Tomorrow morning I start off on the road for a six weeks' trip. What you -done, hey, if you come down to New York and don't find me, hey, Bubby? -Dot would been fearful, hey? Well, now, Krekory, now about dot chop. -Well, as I got to leaf town to-morrow morning, I ain't got the time to -find you a first-class chop before I go. But I tell you what I do. I -take you up and introduce you to my fader-in-law; and you stay mit him -till I get back from my trip, and then I find you the best chop in the -market, don't you be afraid. My fader-in-law was a cheweler of the name -of Mr. Finkelstein, Mr. Gottlieb Finkelstein. He's one of the nicest -gentlemen you want to know, Bubby, and he'll treat you splendid. As soon -as you get through mit dot breakfast, I take you up and introduce you to -him.” - -We went back to Mr. Marx's place of business, and got my traps; and then -we took a horse-car up-town to Mr. Finkelstein's, which was in Third -Avenue near Forty-Seventh Street. Mr. Marx talked to me about his -father-in-law all the time. - -“He's got more wit about him than any man of my acquaintance,” he said, -“and he's so fond of music. He's a vidower, you know, Bubby; and I -married his only daughter, of the name of Hedwig. Me and my wife, we -board; but Mr. Finkelstein, he lives up-stairs over his store, mit an -old woman of the name of Henrietta, for houze-keeper. Well, you'll like -him first-rate, Bubby, you see if you don't; and he'll like you, you -got so much enerchy about you. My kracious! If you talk about eating, he -sets one of the grandest tables in the United States. And he's so fond -of music, Krek-ory--it's simply wonderful. But I tell you one thing, -Bubby; don't you never let him play a game of pinochle mit you, or else -you get beat all holler. He's the most magnificent pinochle player in -New York City; he's simply A-number-one.. . . Hello! here we are.” - -We left the horse-car, and found ourselves in front of a small jeweler's -shop, which we entered. The shop was empty, but, a bell over the door -having tinkled in announcement of our arrival, there entered next moment -from the room behind it an old gentleman, who, as soon as he saw Mr. -Marx, cried, “Hello, Solly! Is dot you? Vail, I declare! Vail, how goes -it?” - -The very instant I first set eyes on him, I thought this was one of the -pleasantest-looking old gentlemen I had ever seen in my life; and I am -sure you would have shared my opinion if you had seen him, too. He was -quite short--not taller than five feet two or three at the utmost--and -as slender as a young girl; but he had a head and face that were really -beautiful. His forehead was high, and his hair, white as snow and soft -as silk, was combed straight back from it. A long white silky beard -swept downward over his breast, half-way to his waist. His nose was a -perfect aquiline, and it reminded me a little of my grandmother's, -only it was longer and more pointed. But what made his face especially -prepossessing were his eyes; the kindest, merriest eyes you can imagine; -dark blue in color; shining with a mild, sweet light that won your heart -at once, yet having also a humorous twinkle in them. Yes, the moment I -first saw Mr. Finkelstein I took a liking to him; a liking which was -ere a great while to develop into one of the strongest affections of my -life. - -“Vail, how goes it?” he had inquired of Mr. Marx; and Mr. Marx had -answered, “First-class. How's yourself?” - -“Oh! vail, pretty fair, tank you. I cain't complain. I like to be -better, but I might be vorse. Vail, how's Heddie?” - -“Oh! Hedwig, she's immense, as usual. Well, how's business?” - -“Oh! don't aisk me. Poor, dirt-poor. I ain't made no sale vort -mentioning dese two or tree days already. Only vun customer here dis -morning yet, and he didn't buy nodings. Aifter exaiming five tousand -tol-lars vort of goots, he tried to chew me down on a two tollar and a -haif plated gold vatch-chain. Den I aisked him vedder he took my -establishment for a back-handed owction, and he got maid and vent avay. -Vail, I cain't help it; I must haif my shoke, you know, Solly. Vail, -come along into de parlor. Valk in, set down, make yourself to home.” - -Without stopping his talk, he led us into the room behind the shop, -which was very neatly and comfortably furnished, and offered us chairs. -“Set down,” said he, “and make yourself shust as much to home as if you -belonged here. I hate to talk to a man stainding up. Vail, Solly, I'm -real glaid to see you; but, tell me, Solly, was dis young shentleman mit -you a sort of a body-guard, hey?” - -“A body-guard?” repeated Mr. Marx, “how you mean?” - -“Why, on account of de sword; I tought maybe you took him along for -brodection.” - -“Ach, my kracious, fader-in-law, you're simply killing, you got so much -wit about you,” cried Mr. Marx, laughing. - -“Vail, I must haif my shoke, dot's a faict,” admitted Mr. Finkelstein. -“Vail, Soily, you might as vail make us acqvainted, hey?” - -“Well, dot's what brought me up here this morning, fader-in-law. I -wanted to introduce him to you. Well, this is Mr. Krekory Prace--Mr. -Finkelstein.” - -“Bleased to make your acqvaintance, Mr. Prace; shake hands,” said Mr. -Finkelstein. “And so your name was Kraikory, was it, Shonny? I used to -know a Mr. Kraikory kept an undertaker's estaiblishment on Sixt Aivenue. -Maybe he was a relation of yours, hey?” - -“No, sir; I don't think so. Gregory is only my first name,” I answered. - -“Well, now, fader-in-law,” struck in Mr. Marx, “you remember dot boy I -told you about up in Nawvich, what jumped into the water, and saved me -my fishing-pole already, de udder day?” - -“Yes, Solly, I remember. Vail?” - -“Well, fader-in-law, this was the boy.” - -“What! Go 'vay!” exclaimed Mr. Finkelstein. “You don't mean it! Vail, if -I aifer! Vail, Shonny, let me look at you.” He looked at me with all his -eyes, swaying his head slowly from side to side as he did so. “Vail, I -wouldn't haif believed, it, aictually.” - -“It's a fact, all de same; no mistake about it,” attested Mr. Marx. “And -now he's come down to New York, looking for a chop.” - -“A shop, hey? Vail, what kind of a shop does he vant, Solly? I should -tink a shop by de vater-vorks vould be about his ticket, hey?” - -“Oh! no shoking. Pusiness is pusiness, fader-in-law,” Mr. Marx -protested. “Well, seriously, I guess he ain't particular what kind of a -chop, so long as it's steady and has prospects. He's got so much enerchy -and ambition about him, I guesss he'll succeed in 'most any kind of a -chop. But first I guess you better let him tell you de reasons he leaf -his home, and den you can give him your advice. Go ahead, Bubby, and -tell Mr. Finkelstein what you told me down by the restaurant.” - -“Yes, go ahead, Shonny,” Mr. Finkelstein added; and so for a second time -that day I gave an account of myself. - -Mr. Finkelstein was even a more sympathetic listener than Mr. Marx had -been. He kept swaying his head and muttering ejaculations, sometimes in -English, sometimes in German, but always indicative of his eager -interest in my tale. “_Mein Gott!_” “_Ist's moglich?_” “You don't say -so!” “Vail, if I aifer!” And his kind eyes were all the time fixed upon -my face in the most friendly and encouraging way. In the end, “Vail, I -declare! Vail, my kracious!” he cried. “Vail, Shonny, I naifer heard -nodings like dot in all my life before. You poor little boy! All alone -in de vorld, mit nobody but dot parparian, dot saivage, to take care of -you. Vail, it was simply heart-rending. Vail, your Uncle Peter, he'd -oughter be tarred and feddered, dot's a faict. But don't you be afraid, -Shonny; God will punish him; He will, shust as sure as I'm sitting here, -Kraikory. Oh! you're a good boy, Kraikory, you're a fine boy. You make -me loaf you already like a fader. Vail, Shonny, and so now you was come -down to New York mit de idea of getting rich, was you?” - -“Yes, sir,” I confessed. - -“Vail, dot's a first-claiss idea. Dot's de same idea what I come to -dis country mit. Vail, now, I give you a little piece of information, -Shonny; what maybe you didn't know before. Every man in dis vorld was -born to get rich. Did you know dot, Shonny?” - -“Why, no, sir; I didn't know it. Is it true?” - -“Yes, sir; it's a solemn faict. I leaf it to Solly, here. Every man in -dis vorld is born to get rich--only some of 'em don't live long enough. -You see de point?” - -Mr. Marx and I joined in a laugh. Mr. Finkelstein smiled faintly, and -said, as if to excuse himself, “Vail, I cain't help it. I must haif my -shoke.” - -“The grandest thing about your wit, fader-in-law,” Mr. Marx observed, -“is dot you don't never laugh yourself.” - -“No; dot's so,” agreed Mr. Finkelstein. “When you get off a vitticism, -you don't vant to laif yourself, for fear you might laif de cream off -it.” - -“Ain't he immense?” demanded Mr. Marx, in an aside to me. Then, turning -to his father-in-law: “Well, as I was going to tell you, I got to leaf -town to-morrow morning for a trip on the road; so I thought I'd ask you -to let Krekory stay here mit you till I get back. Den I go to vork and -look around for a chop for him.” - -“Solly,” replied Mr. Finkelstein, “you got a good heart; and your brains -is simply remarkable. You done shust exaictly right. I'm very glaid -to have such a fine boy for a visitor. But look at here, Solly; I was -tinking vedder I might not manufacture a shop for him myself.” - -“Manufacture a chop? How you mean?” Mr. Marx queried. - -“How I mean? How should I mean? I mean I ain't got no ready-mait shops -on hand shust now in dis estaiblishment; but I might mainufacture a shop -for the right party. You see de point?” - -“You mean you'll make a chop for him? You mean you'll give him a chop -here, by you?” cried Mr. Marx. - -“Vail, Solomon, if you was as vise as your namesake, you might haif -known dot mitout my going into so much eggsblanations.” - -“My kracious, fader-in-law, you're simply elegant, you're simply loafly, -and no mistake about it. Well, I svear!” - -“Oh! dot's all right. Don't mention it. I took a chenu-wine liking to -Kraikory; he's got so much enterprise about him,” said Mr. Finkelstein. - -“Well, what sort of a chop would it be, fader-in-law?” questioned Mr. -Marx. - -“Vail, I tink I give him de position of clerk, errant boy, and sheneral -assistant,” Mr. Finkelstein replied. - -“Well, Krekory, what you say to dot?” Mr. Marx inquired. - -“De question is, do you accept de appointment?” added Mr. Finkelstein. - -“O, yes, sir!” I answered. “You're very, very kind, you're very good -to me. I--” I had to stop talking, and take a good big swallow, to keep -down my tears; yet, surely, I had nothing to cry about! - -“Well, fader-in-law, what vages will you pay?” pursued Mr. Marx. - -“Vail, Solly, what vages was dey paying now to boys of his age?” - -“Well, they generally start them on two dollars a week.” - -“Two tollars a veek, and he boards and clodes himself, hey?” - -“Yes, fader-in-law, dot's de system.” - -“Vail, Solly, I tell you what I do. I board and clode him, and give him -a quarter a veek to get drunk on. Is dot saitisfaictory?” - -“But, sir,” I hastened to put in, pained and astonished at his remark, -“I--I don't get drunk.” - -“O, Lord, Bubby!” cried Mr. Marx, laughing. “You're simply killing! He -don't mean get drunk. Dot's only his witty way of saying pocket-money.” - -“Oh! I--I understand,” I stammered. - -“You must excuse me, Shonny,” said Mr. Finkelstein. “I didn't mean to -make you maid. But I must haif my shoke, you know; I cain't help it. -Vail, Solly, was de proposition saitisfaictory?” - -“Well, Bubby, was Mr. Finkelstein's proposition satisfactory?” asked Mr. -Marx. - -“O, yes, sir! yes, indeed,” said I. - -“Vail, all right; dot settles it,” concluded Mr. Finkelstein. “And now, -Kraikory, I pay you your first veek's sailary in advaince, hey?” and he -handed me a crisp twenty-five-cent paper piece. - -I was trying, in the depths of my own mind, to calculate how long it -would take me, at this rate, to earn the hundred dollars that I needed -for my journey across the sea to my Uncle Florimond. The outlook was -not encouraging. I remembered, though, a certain French proverb that -my grandmother had often repeated to me, and I tried to find -some consolation in it: “_Tout vient à la fin à qui sait -attendre_”--Everything comes at last to him who knows how to wait. - - - - -CHAPTER IV--AT MR. FINKELSTEIN'S. - - -So you see me installed at Mr. Finkel-stein's as clerk, errand boy -and general assistant. Next morning I entered upon the discharge of my -duties, my kind employer showing me what to do and how to do it. Under -his supervision I opened and swept out the store, dusted the counter, -polished up the glass and nickel-work of the show-cases, and, in a word, -made the place ship-shape and tidy for the day. Then we withdrew into -the back parlor, and sat down to a fine savory breakfast that the old -housekeeper Henrietta had laid there. She ate at table with us, but -uttered not a syllable during the repast; and, much to my amazement, Mr. -Finkelstein talked to me about her in her very presence as freely and as -frankly as if she had been stone deaf, or a hundred miles away. - -“She ain't exaictly what you call hainsome, Kraikory,” he said; “but -she's as solid as dey make 'em. She was a second cousin of my deceased -vife's, and she's vun of de graindest cooks in de United States of -America. May be you don't believe it, hey? Vail, you shust vait till -some day you eat vun of her big dinners, and den you'll see. I tell -you what I do. When Solly gets back from de road I'll invite him and my -daughter to dinner here de first Sunday aifternoon, shust on purpose -for you to see de vay Henrietta can cook when she really settles down to -pusiness. It's simply vunderful. You'll be surprised. De vay she cooks a -raisined fish, sveet and sour--ach! it makes my mout vater shust to tink -of it. Vail, she's awful _goot_-hearted-too, Kraikory; but so old--_du -lieber Herr!_ You couldn't hardly believe it. It's fearful, it's -aictually fearful. Why, she's old enough to be my mudder, and I'm going -on sixty-seven already. Dot's a solemn faict.” - -“Is she deaf?” I asked. - -“Daif?” he repeated. “Vail, my kracious! What put dot idea in your head? -What in de vorld made you tink she's daif? She ain't no more daif as you -are yourself.” - -“Why,” I explained, “I thought she might be deaf, because she doesn't -seem to notice what you're saying about her.” - -“Oh! Vail, dot beats de deck. Dot's pretty goot. O, no! dot ain't -becoase she's daif, Kraikory; dot's becoase she's so funny. She's vun -of de funniest ladies in de city of New York. Why, look at here; she's -lived in dis country going on forty years already; and she's so funny -dot she ain't learned ten vorts of de English lainguage yet. Dot's as -true as I'm alife. She don't understand what me and you are talking -about, no more as if we spoke Spainish.” - -After we had folded our napkins, “Vail, now, Kraikory,” began Mr. -Finkelstein, “dis morning you got a lesson in being sheneral assistant -already, don't you? Vail, now I give you a lesson in being errant -boy. Come along mit me.” He led me to the front door of the shop, and, -pointing to a house across the street, resumed, “You see dot peelding -ofer dere, what's got de sign out, Ferdinand Flisch, photo-graipher? You -see it all right, hey? Vail, now I tell you what you do. You run along -ofer dere, and you climb up to de top floor, which is where Mr. Flisch's -estaiblishment is situated, and you aisk to see Mr. Flisch, and you say -to him, 'Mr. Flisch, Mr. Finkelstein sents you his coampliments, and -chaillenges you to come ofer and play a little game of pinochle mit him -dis morning'--you understand? Vail, now run along.” - -Following Mr. Finkelstein's instructions, I mounted to the top story of -the house across the way, and opened a door upon which the name Flisch -was emblazoned in large gilt script. This door admitted me to a small -ante-room; carpeted, furnished with a counter, several chairs, and -a sofa, hung all round the walls with framed photographs, presumably -specimens of Mr. Flisch's art, and smelling unpleasantly of the -chemicals that photographers employ. A very pretty and very tiny little -girl, who couldn't have been a day older than I, if she was so old, sat -behind the counter, reading a book. At my entrance, she glanced up; and -her eyes, which were large and dark, seemed to ask me what I wished. - -“Please, I should like to see Mr. Flisch,” I replied to her tacit -question. - -“I'll go call him,” said she, in a voice that was as sweet as the tinkle -of a bell. “Won't you sit down?” And she left the room. - -In a minute or two she came back, followed by a short, plump, red-faced, -bald-pated little old gentleman, with a brisk and cheery manner, who, -upon seeing me, demanded, “Well, Sonny, what you want?” - -I delivered the message that Mr. Finkel-stein had charged me with, and -Mr. Flisch responded, “All right. I'll come right along with you now.” - So in his company I recrossed the street. On the way he remarked, “Well, -Sonny, I guess I never seen you before, did I? Was you visiting by Mr. -Finkelstein, perhaps?” - -“O, no, sir!” I answered, and proceeded to explain my status in Mr. -Finkelstein's household. - -“Well, Sonny, you'll have a mighty easy time of it,” Mr. Flisch informed -me. “You won't die of hard work. Mr. Finkelstein don't do no business. -He don't need to. He only keeps that store for fun.” - -“Now, Kraikory,” said my employer, when we had reached his door, “me -and Mr. Flisch, we'll go in de parlor and play a little game of pinochle -togedder; and now you sit down outside here in de store; and if any -customers come, you call me.” - -I sat in the store, with nothing to do, all the rest of the forenoon; -but, idle though I was, the time passed quickly enough. What between -looking out of the window at the busy life upon the street--a spectacle -of extreme novelty and interest to me--and thinking about my own affairs -and the great change that had suddenly come over them, my mind had -plenty to occupy it; and I was quite surprised when all at once the -clocks, of which there must have been at least a dozen in the shop, -began to strike twelve. Thus far not one customer had presented himself. -Just at this instant, however, the shop door opened, and the bell above -it sounded. I got up to go and call Mr. Finkelstein; but when I looked -at the person who had entered, I saw that it was no customer, after -all. It was that same pretty little girl whom I had noticed behind the -counter at Mr. Flisch's. - -“I came to tell Mr. Flisch that his dinner is ready,” she announced, in -that clear, sweet voice of hers. - -“I'll go tell him,” said I. - -I went into the back room, where the air was blue with tobacco smoke, -and where the two old gentlemen were seated over their cards, and spoke -to Mr. Flisch. - -“All right, Sonny; I come right away,” he answered; and I returned to -the store. - -The little girl was still there, standing where I had left her. - -“Mr. Flisch will come right away,” said I. - -“Thank you,” said she. - -And then, with undisguised curiosity, she and I just stood and scanned -each other for a moment from the corners of our eyes. For my part, I was -too bashful to make any advances, though I should have liked to scrape -acquaintance with her; but she, apparently, had more courage, for, -pretty soon, “What's your name?” she asked. - -“My name is Gregory Brace. What's yours?” - -“Mine is Rosalind Earle. How old are you?” - -“I'm twelve, going on thirteen.” - -“I'm eleven, going on twelve.” - -And the next instant she had vanished like a flash. - -Mr. Flisch shortly followed her; and it may have been a quarter of an -hour later on, that my attention was suddenly arrested by the sound of -music issuing from the back room, where Mr. Finkelstein remained alone. -I recognized the tune as the Carnival of Venice; and it brought my heart -into my mouth, for that was one of the tunes that my grandmother had -used to play upon her piano. But now the instrument was not a piano. -Unless my ears totally deceived me, it was a hand-organ. This struck me -as very odd; and I went to the door of the parlor, and looked in. There -sat Mr. Finkelstein, a newspaper open before him, and a cigar between -his fingers, reading and smoking; while on the floor in front of him, -surely enough, stood a hand-organ; and, with his foot upon the crank of -it, he was operating the instrument just as you would operate the wheel -of a bicycle. - -[Illustration: 0121] - -Well, I couldn't help smiling, though I knew that it was unmannerly -of me to do so. The scene was really too ludicrous for anything. Mr. -Finkelstein appeared a little embarrassed when he spied me looking at -him, and stopped his playing, and said rather sheepishly, with somewhat -of the air of a naughty child surprised in mischief, “Vail, Kraikory, I -suppose you tink I'm crazy, hey? Vail, I cain't help it; I'm so fond of -music. But look at here, Kraikory; don't you say nodings to Solly -about it, will you? Dere's a goot poy. Don't you mention it to him. He -vouldn't naifer let me hear de laist of it.” - -I having pledged myself to secrecy, Mr. Finkelstein picked the -hand-organ up, and locked it away out of sight in a closet. But after -we had had our dinner, he brought it forth again, and, not without some -manifest hesitation, addressed me thus: “Look at here, Kraikory; dere's -a proverp which says dot man is a creature of haibits. Vail, Kraikory, -I got a sort of a haibit to lie down and take a short naip every day -aifter my meals. And say, Kraikory, you know how fond of music I am, -don't you? I simply dote on it, Kraikory. I guess maybe I'm de fondest -man of music in de United States of America. And--vail, look at here, -Kraikory, as you ain't got nodings in particular to do, I tought maybe -you vouldn't mind to sit here a few minutes, and--and shust turn dot -craink a little while I go to sleep--hey?” - -I assented willingly; so Mr. Finkelstein lay down upon his lounge, and I -began to turn the crank, thereby grinding out the rollicking measures of -Finnigan's Ball. - -“My kracious, Kraikory, you do it splendid,” the old gentleman -exclaimed, by way of encouragement. “You got a graind tailent for -music, Kraikory.” Then I heard him chuckle softly to himself, and -murmur, “I cain't help it, I aictually cain't. I must haif my shoke.” - Very soon he was snoring peacefully. - -Well, to cut a long story short, my first day at Mr. Finkelstein's -passed smoothly by, and so did the next and the next. In a surprisingly -short time I became quite accustomed to my new mode of life, and all -sense of strangeness wore away. Every morning I opened and tidied up -the shop; then we breakfasted; then the routine of the day began. As -Mr. Flisch had predicted, I had a very easy time of it indeed. Every -afternoon I played the hand-organ, while Mr. Finkelstein indulged in -his siesta; almost every forenoon I tended the store, while he and Mr. -Flisch amused themselves with pinochle in the parlor. Mr. Marx and his -wife dined with us I should think as often as once a week; Henrietta -surpassed herself on these occasions, and I came to entertain as high an -opinion of her skill in cookery as my employer could have wished. - -Between little Rosalind Earle and myself a great friendship rapidly -sprang up. On week-days we caught only fleeting glimpses of each other; -but almost every Sunday I used to go to see her at her home, which -was in Third Avenue, a short distance above our respective places of -business. Her father, who had been a newspaper reporter, was dead; and -her mother, a pale sad lady, very kind and sweet, went out by the day -as a dressmaker and seampstress. They were wretchedly poor; and that -was why little Rosalind, who ought to have worn pinafores, and gone -to school, had to work for her living at Mr. Flisch's, like a grownup -person. But her education proceeded after a fashion, nevertheless. In -her spare moments during the day she would study her lessons, and in -the evening at home she would say them to her mother. Though she was my -junior by a year and more, she was already doing compound interest in -arithmetic, whereas I had never got beyond long division. This made me -feel heartily ashamed of myself, and so I invested a couple of dollars -in some second-hand schoolbooks, and thenceforth devoted my spare -moments to study, too. Almost every Sunday, as I have said, I used to go -to see her; and if the weather was fine, her mother would take us for -an outing in Central Park, where we would have a jolly good time racing -each other over the turf of the common, or admiring the lions and tigers -and monkeys and hippopotamuses, at the Arsenal. Yes, I loved little -Rosalind very dearly, and every minute that I spent at her side was the -happiest sort of a minute for me. - -Mr. Finkelstein, when he first noticed me poring over my school-books in -the shop, expressed the liveliest kind of satisfaction with my conduct. - -“Dot's right, Kraikory,” he cried. “Dot's maiknificent. Go ahead -mit your education. Dere ain't nodings like it. A first-claiss -education--vail, sir, it's de graindest advantage a feller can haif -in de baittle of life. Yes, sir, dot's a faict. You go ahead mit your -education, and you study real hard, and you'll get to be--why, you might -get to be an alderman, no mistake about it. But look at here, Kraikory; -tell me; where you got de books, hey? You bought 'em? You don't say -so? Vail, what you pay for dem, hey, Kraikory? Two tollars! Two aictual -tollars! My kracious! Vail, look at here, Kraikory; I like to make you -a little present of dem books, so here's a two tollar pill to reimburse -you. Oh! dot's all right. Don't mention it. Put it in de baink. Do what -you please mit it. I got anudder.” And every now and then during the -summer he would inquire, “Vail, Kraikory, how you getting on mit your -education? Vail, I suppose you must know pretty much aiferydings by -dis time, hey? Vail, now I give you a sum. If I can buy fife barrels of -aipples for six tollars and a quowter, how much will seventeen barrels -of potatoes coast me, hey?... Ach, I was only shoking, was I? Vail, -dot's a faict; I was only shoking; and you was pretty smart to find it -out. But now, shoking aside, I tell you what you do. You keep right on -mit your education, and you study real hard, and you'll get to be--why, -you might get to be as big a man as Horace Greeley, aictually.” Horace -Greeley was a candidate for the presidency that year, and he had no more -ardent partisan than my employer. - -After the summer had passed, and September came, Mr. Finkelstein called -me into the parlor one day, and began, “Now, look at here, Kraikory; I -got somedings important to talk to you about. I been tinking about dot -little maitter of your education a good deal lately; and I talked mit -Solly about it, and got his advice; and at laist I made up my mind dot -you oughter go to school. You got so much aimbition about you, dot if -you get a first-claiss education while you're young, you might get to be -vun of de biggest men in New York City aifter you're grown up. Vail, me -and Solly, we talked it all ofer, and we made up our mind dot you better -go to school right avay. - -“Vail, now I tell you what I do. I found out de public schools open for -de season next Monday morning. Vail, next Monday morning I take you up -to de public school in Fifty-first Street, and I get you aidmitted. And -now I tell you what I do. If you study real hard, and get A-number-vun -marks, and cratchuate all right when de time comes--vail, den I send you -to college! Me and Solly, we talked it all ofer, and dot's what we made -up our minds we oughter do. Dere ain't nodings like a good education, -Kraikory; you can bet ten tousand tollars on dot. When I was your age I -didn't haif no chaince at vun; and dot's why I'm so eeknorant. But now -you got de chaince, Kraikory; and you go ahead and take advaintage of -it. My kracious! When I see you cratchuate from college, I'll be so -prout I von!t know what to do.” - -I leave you to form your own opinion of Mr. Finkelstein's generosity, as -well as of the gratitude that it inspired in me. Next Monday morning I -entered the public school in Fifty-first Street, and a little less -than two years later--namely, in the spring of 1874--I graduated. I had -studied “real hard,” and got “A-number-vun” marks; Mr. Finkelstein was -as good as his word, and that same spring I passed the examinations for -admission to the Introductory Class of the College of the City of New -York. - -Well, there! In a couple of sentences I have skipped over as many years; -and not one word about the hero of my story! - -“But what,” I can hear you ask, “what of your Uncle Florimond in all -this time? Had you given up your idea of going to him? had you forgotten -your ideal of him--had he ceased to be a moving force in your life?” - -No; to each of these questions my answer must be a prompt and emphatic -no. - -I had not by any means given up my idea of going to him; but I had, for -reasons that seemed good, put off indefinitely the day of my departure. -Two or three weeks after my arrival at Mr. Finkelstein's I wrote Uncle -Florimond a letter, and told him of the new turn that my affairs had -taken. I did not say anything about my Uncle Peter's treatment of me, -because I felt somehow reluctant to let him know how unjust and unkind -his own sister's son, my own father's brother, could be, and because, -also, I thought it would be scarcely fair and above-board for me to tell -tales, now that our bygones were bygones. I simply said that I had -left Norwich, and come to New York, and gone into business; and that my -purpose was to earn a lot of money just as quickly as I could, and then -to set sail for France. - -I received no answer from him till about six months afterward; and in -this he said that he was glad I meant to come to France, but he thought -it was a pity that I should go into business so early in my youth, for -that must of course interrupt my education. - -I hastened to reply that, since I had written my former letter to him, -my outlook had again changed; that my kind and liberal employer had -sent me to school, where I was working as hard as I knew how, with -the promise of a college course before me if I showed proper zeal and -aptitude. - -I had to wait more than a year now for his next epistle; but it came at -last one day towards the close of the vacation that intervened between -my graduation from school and the beginning of my career at college. - -“I have been ill and in trouble, my dear little nephew,” he wrote, -“since the reception of thy last letter so good and so gentle; and -I have lacked both the force and the heart to write to thee. At this -moment at length it goes better; and I seize the first occasion to take -my pen. The news of the progress which thou makest in thy studies -gives me an infinite pleasure, as does also thy hope of a course at -the university. And though I become from more to more impatient to meet -thee, and to see with my proper eyes the grandson of my adored sister, I -am happy, nevertheless, to force myself to wait for an end so precious. -That thou mayst become a gentleman well-instructed and accomplished, -it is my sincere desire; for it is that, I am sure of it, which my -cherished sister would most ardently have wished. Be then industrious; -study well thy lessons; grow in spirit as in body; remember that, though -thy name is different, thou art the last of the la Bourbonnaye. I -astonish myself, however, that thy Uncle Peter does not charge himself -with the expenses. Is it that he has not the means? I have believed him -very rich. - -“Present my respects to thy worthy patron, that good Finkelstein, who, -though bourgeois and shopkeeper, I must suppose is a man of heart; and -think ever with tenderness of thy old devoted uncle, de la Bourbonnaye. - -“Paris, the 3 7ember, 1874.” - -7ember was Uncle Florimond's quaint French way of writing September, -_Sept,_ as you know, being French for seven. - -And now as to those other questions that you have asked me--so far was I -from having forgotten my ideal of him, so far was he from having ceased -to be a moving force in my life, I have not any doubt whatever that -the thought of my relationship with him, and my desire to appear to -advantage in his eyes, had a great deal to do with fostering my -ambition as a scholar. Certainly, the nephew of Florimond Marquis de la -Bourbonnaye must not let any boy of ordinary lineage stand above him -in his classes; and then, besides, how much more highly would Uncle -Florimond consider me, if, when we met, he found not an untutored -ignoramus, but, in his own words, “a gentleman well-instructed and -accomplished!” - -During the two years that I have skipped over in such summary-fashion, -my friendship with little Rosalind Earle had continued as active and as -cordial as it had been at the beginning. She had grown quite tall, and -even prettier than ever, with her oval face and olive skin, her soft -brown hair and large dark eyes, and was really almost a young lady. She -had kept pace with me in my studies also, I having acted as her teacher. -Every Sunday at her home I would go over with her all my lessons for the -past week, imparting to her as intelligently as I was able what I myself -had learned. This would supply her with subject-matter for her study -during the week to come; so that on the following Sunday she would be -ready for a new send-off. This was capital drill for me, because, in -order to instruct another, I had to see that my own knowledge was -exact and thorough. And then, besides, I enjoyed these Sunday afternoon -conferences with Rosalind so heartily, that they lightened the labor of -learning, and made what to a boy is usually dull grind and drudgery, to -me an abundant source of pleasure. Rosalind retained her situation at -Mr. Flisch's, but her salary had been materially increased. She was only -thirteen years old, yet she earned the dazzling sum of six dollars every -week. This was because she had acquired the art of retouching negatives, -and had thus trebled her value to her employer. - -But I had made another friend during those two years, whose influence -upon my life at that time was perhaps even greater than Rosalind's. -Among my classmates at the school in Fifty-first Street there was a boy -named Arthur Ripley, older than I, taller, stronger, a very handsome -fellow, with blue eyes and curling hair, very bright, and seemingly very -good-natured, whom I had admired privately from the moment I had first -seen him. He, however, had taken no notice of me; and so we had never -got especially well acquainted, until one day I chanced to hear him -speak a few words of French; and his accent was so good that I couldn't -help wondering how he had come by it. - -“Say, then, Ripley,” I demanded, in the Gallic tongue, but with Saxon -bluntness, “how does it happen that you speak French so well? Your -pronunciation is truly extraordinary.” - -“And why not?” he retorted. “I have spoken it since my childhood. My -grandmother--the mother of my father--was a French lady.” - -“Hold,” cried I. “Really? And so was mine.” - -Thereupon we fell into conversation. We got on famously together. From -that hour we were intimates. I was admitted into Ripley's “set,” which -included all the nicest boys of the school; and Ripley invited me to his -home, which, with its beautiful pictures and books and furnishings, and -general air of comfort and refinement, struck me as the loveliest place -I had ever set my foot in, and where his mother and father made me feel -instantly and entirely at my ease. They talked French to me; and little -by little drew from me the whole story of my life; and when I had done, -“Ah! my poor little one,” said his mother, with a tenderness that went -straight to my heart, “how thy lot has been hard! Come, let me kiss -thee.” And, “Hold, my little man,” said his father. “You are a good and -brave boy, and I am glad that my son has found such a comrade. Moreover, -do you know, you come of one of the most illustrious families not -only of France, but even of Europe? The la Bourbonnaye are of the -most ancient nobility, and in each generation they have distinguished -themselves. At Paris there is an important street named for them. A -Marquis de la Bourbonnaye won great celebrity as an admiral under Louis -xv.; another, his son, I believe, was equally renowned as a royalist -general during the revolution.” - -“Yes, sir,” I put in, delighted at his familiarity with the history of -our house; “they were the father and the grandfather of my grandmother.” - -“But I had supposed that the family was extinct. You teach me that it -survives still in the person of your Uncle Florimond. I am content of -it.” - -Arthur Ripley and I became as intimate as only boys, I think, can -become. We were partners in tops, marbles, décalcomanies, and postage -stamps. We spent the recess hour together every day. We walked home -together every afternoon. We set out pleasure hunting almost every -Saturday--now to watch or to take part in a base-ball match, now to -skate in Central Park, now to row on the Harlem River, now to fish in -the same muddy stream, where, to the best of my recollection, we never -so much as got a single bite. He was “Rip,” to me, and to him I was -“Greg.” We belonged, as has been said, to the same set at school; at -college we joined the same debating society, and pledged ourselves to -the same Greek-letter fraternity. - -He was the bravest, strongest fellow I ever knew; a splendid athlete; -excelling in all sports that required skill or courage. He was -frankness, honesty, generosity personified; a young prince whom I -admired and loved, who compelled love and admiration from everybody who -knew him. In the whole school there was not a boy whom Ripley couldn't -whip; he could have led us all in scholarship as well, only he was -careless and rather lazy, and didn't go in for high standing, or that -sort of thing. He wrote the best compositions, however, and made the -best declamations. I tell you, to hear him recite Spartacus's address to -the gladiators--“Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief who -for twelve long years has met upon the bloody sands of the arena every -shape of man and beast that the broad empire of Rome could furnish”--I -tell you, it was thrilling. Ripley's father was a lawyer; and he meant -to be a lawyer, too. So far as he was responsible for it, Ripley's -influence over me was altogether good. What bad came of my association -with him, I alone was to blame for. - -Some bad did come, and now I must tell you about it. - -He and the other boys of our circle were gentlemen's sons, who lived -with their parents in handsome houses, wore fine clothes, had plenty of -pocket-money, and generally cut a very dashing figure; whereas I--I was -the dependent of a petty Third-Avenue Jewish shopkeeper; I had scarcely -any pocket-money whatever; and as for my clothes--my jackets were -usually threadbare, and my trousers ornamented at an obtrusive point -with two conspicuous patches, that Henrietta had neatly inserted -there--trousers, moreover, which had been originally designed for the -person of Mr. Marx, but which the skillful Henrietta had cut down and -adjusted to my less copious proportions. - -And now the bad, if perhaps not unnatural, result of all this was to -pique my vanity, and to arouse in me a certain false and quite wrong and -improper shame of my condition. I was ashamed because I could not spend -money as my companions did; I was ashamed of my shabby clothing; I -was ashamed of my connection with Mr. Finkelstein; I was even a little -ashamed of my intimacy with Rosalind Earle, for she too occupied a very -humble station in the world. - -And, as the obverse of this false shame, I became inflated with a pride -that was equally false and wrong. I was as good a gentleman as anybody, -if not better. I was the dependent of a Third-Avenue shopkeeper, true -enough. But I was also the nephew of the Marquis de la Bourbonnaye. And -I am afraid that I got into the habit of bragging a good deal about my -relationship with that aristocratic person. Anyhow, my state of mind -was not by any means a wholesome or a happy one; and by and by it bore -practical consequences that were not wholesome or happy either. - - - - -CHAPTER V--PRIDE AND A FALL. - - -Arthur Ripley, as I have said, meant to be a lawyer. He was full of -enthusiasm for his future profession, and never tired of talking about -it. In his room at home he had three or four big law-books, bound in -yellow calf-skin, which he used to read for his pleasure, just as we -other boys would read our story-books; and he seemed to know their -contents by heart. At least, we gave him the credit for knowing them -by heart. He passed among us for little less than a Solomon of legal -wisdom. His opinion upon a legal question had, to our thinking, the -authority of a judgment from the bench; and if one of our number had -got into a legal difficulty of any sort, I am sure he would have gone to -Ripley for aid and counsel as readily and as confidently as to the most -eminent jurist at the bar. - -This being premised, you will easily understand the impression made upon -me by the following conversation which I had with Ripley one day in the -early summer of 1875. - -We had just passed our examinations for promotion from the Introductory -to the Freshman class at college, and our consequent vacation had just -begun. I was minding the shop, while Messrs. Flisch and Finkelstein -smoked their cigars and played their pinochle in the back room, and -Ripley was keeping me company. We had been talking about my grandmother; -and presently Ripley queried: “Look here, Greg, she was a woman of some -property, wasn't she? I mean to say she lived in good style, had plenty -of money, was comfortable and well-to-do, hey?” - -“Why, yes,” I answered, “she was pretty well-off--why, about as well as -anybody in Norwich Town, I suppose. Why do you ask?” - -“Because--what I should like to know is, why didn't she leave anything -to you?” - -“Why, how could she? I was only her grandchild. My Uncle Peter was her -son. Don't you see?” - -“But that doesn't make any difference. Your father being dead, you were, -equally with your uncle, her legal heir and next-of-kin. And as long as -she was so fond of you, it seems kind of funny she didn't provide for -you in any way.” - -“What do you mean by her legal heir and next-of-kin?” - -“Don't you know that? Why, a legal heir and next-of-kin is a person -entitled to take under the statutes of descent and distribution. For -instance, if your grandmother had died intestate, you would have come in -for half of all the property she left, your Uncle Peter taking the other -half. See the point?” - -“Can't say I do. You're too high-up for me, with your legal slang. What -does intestate mean?” - -“Why, intestate--why, that means without having made a will. When a -person dies without leaving a will, he is said to have died intestate.” - -“Well, I guess my grandmother died intestate, then. I don't believe she -left any will.” - -“She didn't? Why, if she didn't leave a will--Oh! but she must have. -Look here, Greg, this is serious. Are you sure she didn't?” - -“O, no! of course I'm not sure. I never thought of the matter before, -and so I can't be sure. But I don't believe she did.” - -“But, Greg, if she didn't--if she didn't leave a will, disinheriting -you, and bequeathing everything to Peter--man alive, what are you doing -here in old Finkelstein's jewelry shop? Why, Greg, you're rich. You're -absolute owner of half of her estate.” - -“O, no! I'm perfectly sure she never did that. If she made any will at -all, she didn't disinherit me, and give everything to Uncle Peter. She -cared a great deal more for me than she did for Uncle Peter. I'm sure -she never made a will favoring him above me. I always supposed that -she had died, as you call it, intestate; and so, he being her son, the -property had descended to him in the regular course of events.” - -“But don't I tell you that it wouldn't have descended to him? It would -have descended to both of you in equal shares. Here's the whole business -in a nut-shell: either she did leave a will, cutting you off with a -shilling; or else you're entitled to fifty cents in every dollar that -she owned.” - -“But I have never received a penny. If what you say is true, how do you -account for that?” - -“There's just the point. If your idea about the will is correct, your -Uncle Peter must be a pretty rogue indeed. He's been playing a sharp -game, Greg, and cheating you out of your rights. And we can make it hot -enough for him, I tell you. We can compel him to divide up; and inside -of a month you'll be rolling in wealth.” - -“Oh! come, Rip,” I protested, “fen fooling a fellow about a thing like -this.” - -“But I'm not fooling. I never was more in earnest in all my life. It's -as plain as the nose on your face. There are no two ways about it. Ask -anybody.” - -“But--but then--but then I'm rich--rich!” - -“That's what you are, unless, by a properly executed will, your -grandmother disinherited you.” - -“But I tell you I know she never did that. It stands to reason that she -didn't.” - -“Well, sir, then it only remains for you to claim your rights at the -hands of your amiable uncle, and to open a bank account.” - -“O my goodness! O, Rip! Oh! it's impossible. It's too--too glorious to -be true,” I cried, as a realizing sense of my position rushed upon -me. My heart was pounding like a hammer against my ribs; my breath was -coming short and swift; my brain was in a whirl. I felt dazzled and -bewildered; and yet I felt a wondrous, thrilling joy, a great glow of -exultation, that sent me dancing around the shop like a maniac, wringing -my hands in self-congratulation. - -I was rich! Only think, I was rich! I could take my proper station -now, and cut my proper figure in the world. Good-by, patched trousers, -good-by, shop, good-by all such low, humiliating things. Welcome -opulence, position, purple and fine linen. Hurrah! I would engage a -passage upon the very first, the very fastest steamer, and sail away to -that brilliant, courtly country where my Uncle Florimond, resplendent in -the trappings of nobility, awaited me with open arms, there to live in -the state and fashion that would become the nephew of a marquis. I would -burn my plebeian ships behind me. I would do this, that, and the other -wonderful thing. I saw it all in a single radiant glance. - -But what you see more plainly than anything else, I did not see at all. - -I did not see that I was accepting my good fortune in an altogether -wrong and selfish spirit. I did not see that my first thought in my -prosperity ought to have been for those who had stood by me in my -adversity. I did not see that my first impulse ought to have been now to -make up in some wise to my friend and benefactor, Mr. Finkelstein, -for his great goodness and kindness to me. I did not see that I was an -arrant little snob, an ungrateful little coxcomb. A mixture of false -shame and evil pride had puffed me up like so much inflammable gas, -which--Ripley having unwittingly applied the spark to it--had now burst -into flame. - -“O, Rip!” I cried again, “it's too glorious to be true.” - -“Well, now,” cut in Ripley, “let's be practical. What you want to do is -step into your kingdom. Well, to-day's Saturday, isn't it? Well, now, I -propose that day after to-morrow, Monday, you and I go to Norwich. There -we can make a search in the Probate Office, and find out for certain -just how the facts stand. Then we can come back here and put the case -in the hands of my father, who's a lawyer, and who will have a guardian -appointed for you, and do everything else that's necessary. See? Now, -the question is, Will you go to Norwich with me Monday night?” - -“Won't I, though!” was my response. - -And then Rip and I just sat there in the shop, and talked, and talked, -and talked, planning out my life for the future, and wondering exactly -how rich I was going to be. We surmised that my grandmother could not -possibly have left less than a hundred thousand dollars, in which event -I should come in for a cool fifty thousand. We employed the strongest -language at our command to stigmatize my Uncle Peter's rascality in -having for so long a time kept me out of my just rights; and we gloated -in imagination over his chagrin and his discomfiture when we should -compel him to render an account of his stewardship and to disgorge my -portion of our inheritance. I declared it as my intention to go to my -Uncle Florimond in Paris as soon as the affair was finally settled; -and Ripley agreed that that would be the appropriate thing for me to -do--“Though, of course,” he added, “I shall feel awfully cut up at our -separation. Still, it's undoubtedly the thing for you to do. It's what -I would do if I were in your place. And, O, Scottie! Greg, won't old -Finkelstein and your other Hebrew friends open their eyes?” - -“Won't they, though!” I returned, reveling in fancy over their -astonishment and their increased respect for me, after I should have -explained to them my sudden and tremendous rise in the world. But in -this particular I was destined to disappointment; for when, as soon -as Ripley had gone home, I joined Mr. Finkelstein in the parlor, and -conveyed to him the joyful information, he, having heard me through -without any sign of especial wonder, remarked:-- - -“Vail, Kraikory, I suppose you vant me to conkraitulate you, hey? Vail, -it's a graind ting to be rich, Kraikory, and no mistake about it. And I -shust tell you dis, Kraikory: dere ain't nobody in de United States of -America vould be glaidder if ainy goot luck haippened to you, as I vould -be. I'm awful fond of you, Kraikory, and dere ain't nodings what I vant -more as to see you haippy and prosperous. De only trouble is, Kraikory, -dot I ain't so sure as dis vould be such awful goot luck, aifter all. -For, to tell you de honest troot, Kraikory, I don't like de vay you -take it. No, I aictually don't. You're too stuck-up and prout about it, -Kraikory; and I hate to see you stuck-up and prout. It ain't nice to be -prout, Kraikory; it ain't what you call manly; and I simply hate to see -you do ainydings what ain't nice and manly--I'm so fond of you, don't -you understand? Den, ainyhow, Kraik-ory, de Bible says dot prite goes -before destruction, and a howty spirit before a fall; and dot's a solemn -faict, Kraikory; dey do, shust as sure as you're alife. De Bible's shust -exaictly right, Kraikory; you can bet ten tousand tollars on it. Why, I -myself, I seen hundreds of fellers get stuck-up and prout already; -and den de first ting dey knew, dey bust all to pieces like a -goot-for-nodings boiler. Yes, siree, if I was as prout as you are, -Kraikory, I'd feel afraid. - -“No, Kraikory, I don't like de vay you take it, and I really tink if you -get dis money what you're talking about, I really tink it'll spoil you, -Kraikory; and dot's why I cain't conkraitulate you de vay you vant me -to. You ain't been like yourself for a pretty long while now already, -Kraikory. I ain't said nodings about it; but I seen it all de same; -and Solly seen it, and Heddie, she seen it, and Mr. Flisch seen it, and -Henrietta seen it, and we all seen it, and we all felt simply fearful -about it. And now I tink it shust needs dis money to spoil you -altogedder. I hate to say ainydings to hurt your feelings, Kraikory, -but dot's my honest opinion; and me and you, we'd oughter be goot enough -friends to talk right out to each udder like fader and son. De faict is, -Kraikory, I've loafed you shust exaictly de same as if we was fader -and son; and dot's de reason it makes me feel so awful to see you get -stuck-up and prout. But you was a goot boy down deep, Kraikory, and I -guess you'll turn out all right in de end, if dis here money don't spoil -you. You got a little foolishness about you, which is necheral to your -age. When I was your age I was a big fool, too. - -“Vail, and so, shust as soon as de maitter's settled, you're going to -Europe, are you, to live mit your Uncle Florimond in Pairis? Vail, dot's -all right, Kraikory, if you like to do it. I ain't got no pusiness to -make ainy obshections, dot's sure. All I got to say, Kraikory, is dis: -Your Unde Florimond, he may be an awful fine feller, and I guess likely -he is; but I don't know as he's aifer done much of ainydings for you; -and if I was in your place, I'd feel sorter sorry to stop my education, -and leaf de old friends what I was certain of, and go to a new friend -what I hadn't naifer tried; dot's all. Vail, if you vant to go, I -suppose you'll go; and Solly and me and Henrietta and dot little kirl -ofer by Mr. Flisch, vail, we'll have to get along mitout you de best vay -we can. I guess dot little Rosie, I guess she'll feel pretty baid about -it, Kraikory; but I don't suppose dot'l make much difference to you, -to shush by de vay you talk. Poor little ting! She's awful fond of you, -Kraikory, and I guess she'll feel pretty lonesome aifter you've gone -avay. Oh! vail, I suppose she von't die of it. Dere are plenty udder -young fellers in dis vorld, and I don't suppose she'll cry herself to -dead for you. All de same, I guess she'll feel pretty baid first off; -but dot's your business, and not mine. - -“Vail, let me see. To-day's Saturday; and you're going to Nawvich Monday -night. Vail, dot's all right. I ain't got nodings to say against dot. I -shust give you vun little piece of advice, dough, Kraikory, and dot is -dis: If I was in your place, I vouldn't feel too awful sure of dis -here money, until I'd aictually got hold of it, for fear I might be -disappointed. Dere's a proverp which goes, 'Dere's a great mainy slips -between de cup and de lips,' Kraikory; and dot's a solemn faict, which I -advice you to remember.” - -This sermon of Mr. Finkelstein's made me feel very sore indeed; but I -felt sorer still next day, when Rosalind--whom I was calling upon, and -to whom I had just communicated the momentous news--when Rosalind, with -flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, assailed me thus:-- - -[Illustration: 0159] - -“O, Gregory Brace! Oh! shame on you. Oh! I don't know you. I can't -believe it's you. I can't believe it's the same boy at all. Such -selfishness! Such ingratitude! Such a proud hard heart! It's been as -much as anyone could do to put up with you for ever and ever so long, -you've been so vain and so conceited and everything; but this just caps -the climax. Oh! think of poor Mr. Finkelstein. He's been so good and -generous to you, and so fond of you; and he's sent you to school and -college, and given you every advantage he possibly could; and you owe -him so much, and you're under such great obligations to him, for he took -you right out of the streets, and gave you a home, and made a son of -you, instead of a servant--yes, he did--and now the very first thing -that you propose to do, as soon as you're able to, is to leave him, to -abandon him--oh! you ungrateful thing--and go to your horrid old French -uncle, who, I don't believe cares the snap of his finger for you. He is -horrid, too; and I hope he'll just treat you horribly, just to punish -you. And I hope that Arthur Ripley is mistaken, and that you won't get a -single penny from your Uncle Peter, but just a good whipping to take you -down; and I hope you'll have to come back to Mr. Finkelstein, and humbly -beg his pardon; yes, I do, with all my heart and soul. I'd just like to -see you have to come down from your high horse and eat humble pie for -a while; yes, I would. The idea! Desert Mr. Finkelstein! You, who might -have been begging in the streets, except for him! I should think you'd -be ashamed to look me in the face. Oh! you mean to give him a good round -sum of money, do you, to pay him for what he's done for you? Why, how -very liberal and noble you are, to be sure! As though money could pay -for what Mr. Finkelstein has done for you! As though money were what he -wants from you, and not love and affection! O, Gregory! you've changed -so that I don't know you, and I don't like you at all any more, and I -don't care to be friends with you any more, and you needn't come to see -me any more. There!” - -Yes, I felt very sore and very angry. What Rosalind said only served to -exasperate and embitter me, and to make me grit my teeth, and pursue all -the more doggedly my own selfish purpose. - -Well, on Monday night, according to our agreement, Ripley and I set -out for Norwich, passengers aboard the very same steamboat, the City of -Lawrence, that I had come to New York by, three years before; and bright -and early Tuesday morning we reached our destination. - -I only wish I could spare a page to tell you something of the emotions -that I felt as we came in sight of the dingy old town. It had not -changed the least bit in the world; it was like the face of an old -familiar friend; it called up before me my own self of former years; it -brought a thousand memories surging upon me, and filled my heart with a -strong, unutterable melancholy, that was yet somehow indescribably sweet -and tender. - -But Ripley and I had no time for the indulgence of sentiment. “Now, -then, where's the Court House? Where's the Probate Office?” he demanded -as soon as we had set foot upon the dry land. “We must pitch right in, -without losing a moment.” - -So I led him to the Probate Court; and there he “pitched right in” - with a vengeance, examining the indices to lots of big written books of -records, while I stood by to hand them to him, and to put them back in -their places when he had finished with them--until, after an hour or so, -he announced, “Well, Greg, you're right. She left no will.” - -Then he continued: “Now we must find out the date upon which Peter -took out his Letters of Administration, and also whether he had himself -constituted your guardian, as he most likely did; and then we'll -have all the facts we need to establish your claims, and put you in -possession.” - -Thereupon he attacked another set of big written volumes, and with these -he was busy as long as two hours more. In the end, “By Jingo, Greg,” - he cried, “here's a state of things! He didn't take out any Letters of -Administration at all.” - -“Well,” I queried, not understanding the meaning of this circumstance, -“what of that? What does that signify?” - -“Why, that signifies an even darker and more systematic piece of fraud -than I had suspected. In order to cheat you out of your share, he failed -to comply with the law. He didn't go through the proper formalities to -get control of her property, but simply took possession of it without -authority. And now we've got him completely at our mercy. We could -prosecute him criminally, if we liked. We could send him to State -Prison. Oh! won't we make him hop? I say, Greg, do you want to have some -fun?” - -“How? What way?” - -“Well, sir, if you want to have some fun, I'll tell you what let's do. -Let's go call on your Uncle Peter, and confront him with this little -piece of villainy, and politely ask him to explain it: and then see him -squirm. It'll sort of square accounts with him for the number of times -he's given you a flogging.” - -“O, no! I--I guess we'd better not,” I demurred, faltering at the -prospect of a personal encounter with my redoubtable relative. - -“But, man alive, you have nothing to fear. We've got the whip-hand of -him. Just think, we can threaten him with criminal prosecution. Oh! come -on. It'll be the jolliest kind of a lark.” - -Well, I allowed myself to be persuaded; and we set forth for Uncle -Peter's office, Ripley all agog for excitement, and I trying not to -appear afraid. But Uncle Peter wasn't in. An oldish man, who seemed -to be in charge, informed us that the Jedge had got a touch of the -rheumatiz, and was stayin' hum. - -“Never mind,” said Ripley to me; “we'll visit him at his home, we'll -beard him in his den. Come along!” - -I tried to beg off, but Rip insisted; and I weakly gave in. - -If I had been stirred by strong emotions at the sight of Norwich City, -conceive how much more deeply I was stirred when we reached Norwich -Town--when I saw our old house peeping out from among the great -elm-trees that embosomed it--when I actually stood upon its doorstep, -with my hand upon the old brass knocker! A strange servant girl opened -the door, and to my request to see Judge Brace, replied, “The Jedge is -sick in his room.” - -“That doesn't matter,” I explained. “You know, I am his nephew. Tell him -his nephew Gregory wants to see him.” And I marched boldly through the -hall--where the same tall eight-day clock, with its silver face that -showed the phases of the moon, was ticking just as it had used to tick -as long ago as I could remember--and into the parlor, Ripley following. -I say I marched in boldly, yet I was really frightened half to death, -as the moment of a face-to-face meeting with my terrible uncle became so -imminent. There in the parlor stood the piano upon which my grandmother -had labored so patiently to teach me to play. There hung the oil -portrait of her, in her robe of cream-colored silk, taken when she was -a beautiful young girl, and there, opposite it, above the fireplace, the -companion-picture of my Uncle Florimond, in his lieutenant's uniform, -with his sword and his crimson sash. Ripley started back a little when -he saw this painting, and cried, “For mercy's sake, Greg, who is it? -I never saw anything like it. The same eyes, nose, mouth, chin, -everything. It's you all over”--thus confirming what my grandmother used -to tell me: “Gregory, thou art his living image.” The room was haunted -by a myriad dear associations. I forgot the errand that had brought -me there; I forgot my fear of meeting Uncle Peter; I forgot all of the -recent past, and was carried back to the happiest days of my childhood; -and my heart just swelled, and thrilled, and ached. But next instant -it gave a great spasmodic leap, and stood still for a second, and then -began to gallop ahead like mad, while a perspiration broke out over my -forehead; for the maid-servant entered, and said “Please walk upstairs -to the Jedge's room.” I really thought I should faint. It was as much as -I could do to get my breath. My knees knocked together. My hands shook -like those of an aged palsy-stricken man. However, there was no such -thing as backing out at this late date; so I screwed my courage to the -sticking place, and led Ripley upstairs to Uncle Peter's room. - -Uncle Peter was seated in an arm-chair, with his legs, wrapped in a -comforter, stretched out on another chair in front of him. He never so -much as said how-d'-ye-do? or anything; but at once, scowling at us, -asked in his gruffest voice, “Well, what do you want?” - -I was so afraid and so abashed that I could hardly speak; but I did -contrive to point at Ripley, and gasp, “He--he'll tell you.” - -“Well,” snapped Uncle Peter, turning to my spokesman, “go on. State your -business.” - -“Well, sir,” began Rip--and O, me! as I listened to him, didn't my -wonder at his wisdom, and my admiration of his eloquence, mount up a -peg?--“well, sir, our business is very simple, and can be stated in -a very few words. The amount of it is simply this. My friend Gregory -Brace, being the only child of Edward Brace, deceased, who was a son of -your mother, Aurore Brace, deceased, is, equally with yourself, the heir -and next-of-kin of the said decedent, and would, in the event of her -having died intestate, divide share and share alike with you whatever -property she left. Now, sir, we have caused a search to be made in the -records of the Probate Court of this County, and we find that the said -decedent did in fact die intestate. It, therefore, became your duty to -petition for Letters of Administration upon her estate; to cite Gregory -Brace to show cause why such Letters should not be issued; to cause a -guardian _ad litem_ to be appointed to act for him in the proceedings; -to cause a permanent guardian to be appointed for him after the issuance -of said Letters; and then to apply the rents, profits, and income of -one undivided half of the estate of said decedent to his support, -maintenance and education, allowing what excess there might be to accrue -to his benefit. Well, sir, examination proves that you have performed -none of these duties; that you have illegally and without warrant -or authority possessed yourself of the whole of said estate, thereby -committing a fraud upon the said Gregory Brace, and violating the -statutes in such case made and provided. And now, sir, we have come here -to give you notice that it is our intention to put this matter at once -into the hands of an attorney, with directions that he proceed against -you, both criminally and civilly.” Uncle Peter heard Ripley through -without interrupting, though an ugly smile flickered about his lips. -When Rip had done, he lay back in his chair, and gave a loud harsh -laugh. Then he drew a long, mock-respectful face, and in a very dry, -sarcastic manner spoke as follows:-- - -“Why, my young friend, you talk like a book. And what profound and -varied knowledge of the law you do possess, to be sure! Why, I must -congratulate my nephew upon having found such an able and sagacious -advocate. And really, I cannot see the necessity of your calling in -the services of an attorney, for a person of your distinguished calibre -ought certainly to be equal to conducting this dual prosecution, both -civil and criminal, single-handed. My sakes alive!” he cried, with a -sudden change of tone and bearing. “Do you know what I've a great mind -to do with you and your client, my fine young fellow? I've a great mind -to cane you both within an inch of your precious lives, and send you -skulking away, with your tails between your legs, like two whipped -puppies. But, bless me, no! You're neither of you worth the trouble. So -I'll spare my rod, and spoil your fancy, by giving you a small measure -of information. Now, then, pray tell me, Mr. Advocate, what is your -valuation of the property which the 'said decedent' left?” - -Ripley, nothing daunted, answered, “At least a hundred thousand -dollars.” - -“At least a hundred thousand dollars,” repeated Uncle Peter; “well, -that's a pretty sum. Well, now, what would you say, my learned friend, -if I should tell you that she didn't leave a penny?” - -“I should say it was very extraordinary, and that I couldn't believe it. -She was the widow of a wealthy man. She lived in good style. It stands -to reason that she couldn't have died penniless.” - -“And so it does; it stands to reason, as you say; and yet penniless she -was when she died, and penniless she had been for ten years before; and -if she lived in good style, it was because I paid the bills; and if this -young cub, my nephew, wore good clothes and ate good dinners, it was -my charity he had to thank. Little by little, stick by stick, my mother -disposed of all the property her husband left her, selling the bulk of -it to me, and sending the proceeds to France, to help to reconstruct the -fortunes of her family there, who were ruined by the revolution. She -was a pauper when she died; and that's why I took out no Letters of -Administration--because there was nothing to administrate upon. -There, now I've told you more than I was under any obligation to; and -now, both of you, get out!” - -“Come, Greg,” said Rip, “let's go.” - -We went. Out of doors, I began, “Well, Rip”-- - -“Well, Greg,” Rip interrupted, “we've been on a fool's errand, a -wild-goose chase, and the less said about it the better.” - -“And I--I'm not rich, after all?” - -“That's what's the matter, Greg. If she didn't leave any property--you -see, we took it for granted that she did--why, there's nothing for you -to inherit. It's too bad, old fellow; but then, you're no worse off -than you were in the beginning. Anyhow, there's no use crying over spilt -milk. Come on; let's take the afternoon train to New York.” - -So my fine castle in the air had fallen to pieces like a house of cards. -I tell you, it was a mighty crest-fallen young gentleman, in a very -humble frame of mind, who sat next to Arthur Ripley that afternoon in -the train that was speeding to New York. - - - - -CHAPTER VI--MY UNCLE FLORIMOND. - - -Yes, indeed, it was a very crest-fallen youth who accompanied Arthur -Ripley back to New York that bright summer afternoon, and who toward -bed-time that evening stole quietly into Mr. Finkelstein's shop. It was -hard work under the circumstances to return to Mr. Finkelstein's. I -had to swallow my pride in doing so, and it proved to be an exceedingly -unpalatable dose. I had expected to return a young prince, in princely -style, to dazzle my plebeian friends with my magnificence, and overwhelm -them with my bounteous generosity; and now, in point of fact, I came -back poorer than I had gone away, a beggar and a dependent, one who -would be homeless and penniless if they should refuse to take him in. It -was a dreadful come-down. I think, if there had been anywhere else for -me to go, I should never have returned to Mr. Finkelstein's at all, -it mortified my vanity so cruelly to have to do it. I felt as though -I should like to seek out some obscure hiding-place in the remotest -quarter of the world, and bury myself there forever from the sight of -men. “O, Rip!” I cried, “I should just like to bag my head.” - -Of course, as I opened the shop door, the bell above it must needs -tinkle; and in response to this summons Mr. Finkelstein himself issued -from the parlor. - -“What, Kraikory!” he exclaimed at sight of me. “Back so soon? Ach! I -tought it was a customer. Vail, it's you yourself, and no mistake about -it.” - -“Yes, sir,” I replied, “we came back on the train this afternoon.” - -“Ach, so? You came back on de train dis aifternoon? Vail, vail, valk in, -set down, make yourself to home. Vail, Kraik-ory, I'm real glaid to see -you. Vail, it's all right, I suppose? You got de money, hey? Vail, was -it more or less as you expected? Was it fifty tousand, or a hundred, or -maybe only terventy-fife? Vail, set down and tell me all about it.” - -“N-no, sir,” I began, rather tremulously; “it--we--there--there was a -mistake. She--I mean to say my grandmother--she didn't leave any money, -after all. She didn't have any to leave. She was quite poor, instead of -rich, and--and my Uncle Peter, he supported her. He owned the house and -everything. He had bought it from her, and she had sent the money to -France. So--I--that is--you see”--I broke down. I could get no further. - -“Ach, dere, dere, Kraikory,” cried Mr. Finkelstein, as my emotion -betrayed itself, and he laid his hand caressingly upon my shoulder; -“dere, dere, don't you go feel baid about it, my dear little poy.” Then -he caught himself up. “Excuse me, Kraikory; I didn't mean to call you a -little poy; I forgot. But don't you go feel baid about it, all de -same. You ain't no vorse off as you was before already. Put it down to -experience, Kraikory, sharsh it to experience. It's allright. You got -a comfortable home here by me. You needn't feel so awful about it. Come, -sheer up, Kraikory. Don't tink about it no more. Come along inside mit -me, and Henrietta will get you somedings to eat. We ain't got no faitted -caif to kill in your honor, Kraikory, but we got some of de finest liver -sowsage in de United States of America; and ainyhow, Kraikory, veal is -a fearful dry meat. Ach, dere, dere, for mercy's sake, don't you feel -baid. I get off a shoke shust on purpose to make you laif, and you don't -naifer notice it. Ach, Kraikory, don't feel baid. I simply hate to see -you feel baid, Kraikory; I simply cain't staind it. I give ten tousand -tollars right out of my own pocket sooner as see you feel baid, -Kraikory; I'm so fond of you, don't you understand?” - -My heart melted all at once like ice in sunshine. Tears sprang to my -eyes. “Oh! my dear, dear Mr. Finkelstein,” I sobbed, “you are so good -to me. Oh! can--can you ever--for--forgive the--the way I've acted? -I--I'm--I'm so sorry for it.” - -“My kracious, Kraikory, don't talk like dot. If you talk like dot, you -make me aict so foolish I be ashamed to show my face. You make me cry -like a raikular old voman, Kraikory; you aictually vill. Ach, dere I go. -Ach, my kracious! Ach! I cain't help it. Ach, what--what an old fool I -am.... Kraikory--my boy--my son--come here, Kraikory--come here to -me. O, Kraikory! I loaf you like a fader. O, Kraikory! you know what -I tought? I tought I loast you foraifer, Kraikory. O, Kraikory! I'm so -glaid to haif you back. Ach, Kraikory, God is good.” The tears rolled -downward from his dear old eyes, and pattered like rain-drops upon my -cheeks. He had clasped me in his arms. - -From that hour I took up my old place at Mr. Finkelstein's, in a -humbler, healthier, and, on the whole, happier frame of mind than I -had known for many a long day before. My heart had been touched, and my -conscience smitten, by his loving kindness. - -I was sincerely remorseful for the ungrateful manner in which I -had behaved toward him, and for the unworthy sentiments that I had -cherished. I strove honestly, by amending my conduct, to do what I could -in the way' of atonement. - -Incidentally, moreover, my little adventure had brought me face to face -with some of the naked facts of life. In a grim and vivid tableau it had -shown me what a helpless and dependent creature I was; how for the sheer -necessities of food, shelter and clothing I must rely upon the charity -of other people. I tried now to make myself of real value to my patron, -of real use in the shop and about the house, and thus in some measure -to render an equivalent for what he did for me. Instead of going off -afternoons to amuse myself with Ripley, I would remain at home to -improve such chances as I had to be of service to Mr. Finkelstein. I -would play the hand-organ for him, or read aloud to him, or take charge -of the shop, while he slept, or enjoyed his game of pinochle with -Mr. Flisch. And in my moments of leisure I would study a dog-eared -fourth-hand copy of Munson's _Complete Phonographer_ that I had bought; -for I had long thought that I should like to learn short-hand, and had -even devoted a good deal of time to mastering the rudiments of that -art; and I fancied that, by much diligent practice now, I might hasten -forward the day when I should be able to earn my own livelihood, and -thus cease to be a burden upon my friends. Indeed, I could already write -as many as sixty words a minute with perfect ease. - -Mr. Finkelstein did not altogether approve of my assiduous industry, and -used to warn me, “Look out, Kraikory! It don't naifer pay to run a ting -into de ground; it aictually don't. You study so hart, your head'll get -more knowledge inside of it as it can hold, and den, de first ting -you know, all of a sudden vun day, it'll svell up and bust. Ainy-how, -Kraikory, dere's a proverp which goes, 'All vork and no play makes Shack -a dull poy'; and dot's as true as you're alife, Kraikory; it aictually -does. You better knock off dis aifternoon, Kraikory, and go haif some -fun. It's Saiturday, ain't it? And dere's a maitinee, hey? Vail, why -don't you go to de teayter?... How? You study so hart becoase you vant -to get able to earn your living? Now look at here, Kraikory; don't you -talk foolish. I got plenty money, ain't I? And I got a right to spend -my money so as to get saitisfaiction out of it, hey? Vail, now look at -here; dere ain't no vay of spending my money what'll give me so much -saitisfaiction as to spend it to make you haippy and contented; dot's a -solemn faict. You needn't vorry about earning your living. You ain't -got to earn it for a great mainy years yet already--not till you get all -done mit your education. And ainyhow, Kraikory, you do earn it. You mind -de store, and you read out lout to me, and you keep me company; and, my -kracious, you're such a shenu-wine musician, Kraikory, you got such a -graind tailent for de haind-organ, I don't know how I'd get along midout -you. I guess I haif to raise your sailary next New Years.” - -This was-only of a piece with Mr. Fin-kelstein's usual kindness. But I -felt that I had abused his kindness in the past, and I was determined to -abuse it no longer. - -I say I was happier than I had been for a long while before, and so I -was. I was happier because I was more contented. My disappointment about -the inheritance, though keen enough at the moment, did not last long. As -Mr. Finkelstein had remarked, I was no worse off than I had been in -the first place; and then, I derived a good deal of consolation from -remembering what Uncle Peter had told me--that the money had gone to -reconstruct the splendor of our house in France. My disappointment -at seeing my meeting with Uncle Florimond again become a thing of the -indefinite future, was deeper and more enduring. “Alas,” I sighed, with -a heart sick for hope deferred, “it seems as though I was never going -to be able to go to him at all.” And I gulped down a big lump that had -gathered in my throat. - -Against Rosalind Earle I still nursed some foolish resentment. She had -wished that I might have to eat humble pie. Well, her wish had come to -pass; and I felt almost as though it were her fault that it had done -so. She had said she didn't like me any more, and didn't care to have -me call upon her any more. I took her at her word, and staid away, -regarding myself in the light of a much-abused and injured person. So -three or four weeks elapsed, and she and I never met. Then... Toward six -o'clock one evening I was seated in the parlor, poring over my _Complete -Phonogacipher_, when the door from the shop opened with a creak, and a -light footstep became audible behind my chair. The next instant I heard -Rosalind's voice, low and gentle, call my name. - -My heart began to flutter. I got up and turned around, and saw the dear -little girl standing a yard distant from me, with her hand extended for -me to take, and with her beautiful dark eyes fixed appealingly upon my -face. I didn't speak; and I pretended not to see her hand; and I -just stood still there, mute and pouting, like the sulky coxcomb and -simpleton that I was. - -Rosalind allowed her hand to drop to her side, and a very pained look -came over her face; and there was a frog in her voice, as she said, “O, -Gregory! you--you are still angry with me.” - -“O, no! I'm not angry with you,” I answered, but in an offish tone; and -that was true; I really wasn't angry with her the least bit any more. -All my anger had evaporated at the sight of her face and the sound of -her voice. But I didn't know how to unbend gracefully and without loss -of dignity. - -“Then--then why haven't you been to see me?” she asked. - -“You said you didn't want me to come to see you any more.” - -“But I didn't mean it. You must have known I didn't mean it.” - -“But you said it, anyhow. I don't care to go where I'm not wanted. When -people say a thing, how am I to know they don't mean it?” - -“But I said it when I was vexed. And what people say when they're -vexed--other people ought not to count it. It isn't fair. And really and -truly, Gregory, I didn't mean it; and I'm sorry I said it; and I'm -sorry I spoke to you the way I did; and--and that's why I've come here, -Gregory; I've come to ask your pardon.” - -“Oh! certainly; don't mention it; no apology's necessary,” I said. I -would have given anything to have taken her in my arms, and kissed her, -and begged her pardon; but I was too stiff-necked and self-conscious. - -“And then,” she went on, “after you came back from Norwich, and Mr. -Flisch told me what Mr. Finkelstein had told him--about how disappointed -you had been, and everything--I--I felt so sorry for you, Gregory, and -so sorry that I had spoken to you that way; and I wanted to come right -over, and tell you I didn't mean it, and beg your pardon, and ask you to -make up with me; but I thought maybe you mightn't like it, and that you -might be angry with me, and--and not--not--I don't know; but anyway, I -didn't come. And then I just hoped and hoped all the time that maybe -you would come to see me; but you never did. And then at last I just -couldn't wait any longer, I felt so guilty and sorry and everything; -and--and so I stopped in on my way home to day; and, O, Gregory! I -really didn't mean to hurt your feelings, and I hope you'll forgive me, -Gregory, and not be angry with me any more.” - -By this time I had gone up, and taken her in my arms; and, “O, -Rosalind!” I cried, “don't talk like that. You--you make me feel so -ashamed. You--you humiliate me so. What you said to me that day--it was -just right. You were just right, and I was wrong. And I deserved to -have you talk to me ten times worse, I was so horrid and stuck-up and -everything. And I--I'm awfully sorry. And I've wanted--I've wanted to go -and see you all the time, and tell you I was sorry; only--only I don't -know--I suppose I was too proud. And I just hope that you'll forgive -me, and forgive the way I acted here to-day a little while ago, and--O, -Rosalind! I'm so glad to be friends with you again.” - -“What!” exclaimed Mr. Finkelstein, entering from the shop. “Hugging and -kissing each udder! Vail, my kracious! Vail, if I aifer! Vail, dot beats -de deck! Oh! you needn't take no notice of me. You needn't stop on my -account. I don't mind it. I been dere myself already, when I was your -age. You needn't bloosh like dot, Rosie; dough it's mighty becoming to -you, dot's a faict. And, Kraikory, you needn't look so sheebish. You -ain't done nodings to be ashamed of. And I'm awful sorry I came in shust -when I did, and inderrubded you; only I didn't know what you was doing, -as you haidn't notified me, and I vanted to speak to Kraikory about -a little maitter of business. Dere's an old feller outside dere in de -store what cain't talk no English; and I guess he was a Frenchman; so I -tought I'd get Kraikory to come along and aisk him what he vants, if you -could spare him, Rosie--hey?” So Rosalind and I followed Mr. Finkelstein -into the shop. - -A tall, thin, and very poor-looking old man stood before the counter, -resting his hands upon it--small and well-shaped hands, but so fleshless -that you could have counted the bones in them, and across which the -blue, distended veins stretched like wires. His stove-pipe hat was worn -and lustreless; his black frock coat was threadbare, and whitish along -the seams. His old-fashioned standing collar was frayed at the edge; and -a red mark on each side of his neck, beneath his ears, showed that the -frayed edge had chafed his skin. His face was colorless and emaciated; -his eyes, sunken deep under his brows, had a weary, sad, half-frightened -look in them that compelled your pity. His moustache and imperial -were as white as snow. A very forlorn, pathetic, poor-looking old -man, indeed. Yet there was also something refined, dignified, and even -courtly in his appearance; and I thought to myself that he had seen -better days; and my heart ached for him. It was with an unwonted -gentleness that I inquired: “You are French, Monsieur? I put myself at -your service.” - -His sad old eyes fixed themselves eagerly upon mine, and in a quavering -old voice he answered, “_Je cherche un jeune homme qui s'appelle -Grégoire Brace_”--I seek a young man named Gregory Brace. “_C'est ici que -il demeure?_”--It is here that he lives? - -“_Mais oui, monsieur: c'est moi_” “--it is I,” I said; and wondering what -in the world he could want with me, I waited for him to go on. - -His eyes opened a little wider, and a light flashed in them. He seemed -to be struggling with an emotion that made it impossible for him to -speak. His throat, I could see, gave two or three convulsive swallows. -Then his lips parted, his eyes grew dim with tears, and very huskily, -bending forward, he demanded, “_Et--et vous ne me connaissez pas?_”--And -you do not know me? - -I scanned his face carefully. I could not recognize it. I shook my head. -“_Mais non, monsieur_--I do not think that I have ever seen you before. - -“No, that is true. But I hoped that you might know me, nevertheless.... -Gregory, it is I; it is thy uncle--de la Bourbonnaye.” And he stretched -out his two arms, to embrace me. - -[Illustration: 0193] - -“What!... Thou!... My--my Uncle--Florimond!... Oh!” I gasped. My heart -bounded terribly. My head swam. The objects round about began to dance -bewilderingly to and fro. The floor under my feet rocked like the deck -of a ship. There was a loud continuous ringing in my ears.... But still -I saw the figure of that sad old man standing there motionless, with -arms outstretched toward me, waiting. A thousand unutterable emotions -were battling in my heart; a thousand incoherent thoughts were racing -through my brain. This poor old man my Uncle Florimond! This poor old -man--in threadbare cloth and tattered linen.... Then suddenly an -impulse mastered me. I rushed forward, and threw myself upon his breast, -and--like a schoolgirl--fell to weeping. - -Well, as the French proverb says, everything comes at last to him who -knows how to wait. To me at last had come the moment for which I had -waited so many years; and I stood face to face with my Uncle Florimond, -with the hero of my imagination, the Marquis de la Bourbonnaye. But -in place of the rich and powerful nobleman whom I had dreamed of, the -dashing soldier, the brilliant courtier, I found the poor decrepit aged -man whom you have seen. “Thou knowest, my Gregory,” he explained to me. -by and by, “since the overthrow of the legitimate monarchy by the first -revolution, our family has never been rich. In 1792, upon the eve of the -Terror, my father emigrated from the beautiful France, and sought refuge -in Sweden, where I and my sister were born, and where he remained -until 1815. Upon the restoration we returned to our fatherland; but our -chateaux of which we counted no fewer than three, had been burned, our -hôtel in Paris sacked, our wealth confiscated and dissipated, by those -barbarians, those assassins, those incendiaries, and we possessed -scarcely even the wherewithal to live. It was for that that we consented -to the misalliance made by our Aurore in espousing thy grandfather, -Philip Brace. American and bourgeois that he was, in admitting him to -our connection, our family suffered the first disgrace of its history. -Yet without dowry, my sister could never have married her equal in -France, and would most likely have become a nun. But that excellent -Brace, he loved her so much, her station was so high, his own so low, -he was happy to obtain her hand at any terms. She, too, reciprocated -his affection; he was indeed a fine fellow; and the marriage was -accomplished.... It is now some ten years since, by the goodness of my -beloved sister, I was enabled to amass a sufficient sum to purchase for -myself an annuity of six thousand francs as a provision for my age. -But behold, the other day--it is now about two months ago, perhaps--the -annuity company goes into bankruptcy; and I am left absolutely without -a _sou_. So I am come to America to seek an asylum with my sister's -son, Peter. I am arrived to-day even, aboard the steamship La Touraine. -Figure to thyself that, fault of money, I have been forced to make the -passage second class! To-morrow I shall proceed to Norr-veesh.” - -“Have you written to Uncle Peter to expect you?” I inquired. - -“_Mais non!_ I have not thought it necessary.” - -“It is a man altogether singular, my Uncle Peter,” I went on, “and truly -I think that you will do better to rest here at New York a few days, in -attending a response to the letter which I counsel you to send him. He -loves not the surprises, my Uncle Peter.” - -“I shall do all as thou desirest, my good Gregory,” said Uncle -Florimond; and he dispatched a letter to his nephew, Peter Brace, that -very evening, setting forth the state of his affairs, and declaring his -intention to go to Norwich. - -That night and the next he slept in Mr. Finkelstein's spare bedroom. On -the evening of the third day an answer came from Uncle Peter, professing -his inability to do anything to assist his mother's brother, and -emphatically discouraging his proposed visit to Norwich. Uncle Florimond -could hardly believe his senses. “Ah! such cruelty, such lack of heart,” - he cried, “it is impossible.” - -“Vail, Kraikory,” said Mr. Finkelstein, “de only ting is, he'll haif to -settle down here, and live mit me and you. He can keep dot spare room, -and we'll make him as comfortable as we know how. Tell him I be prout to -haif him for my guest as long as he'll stay.” - -“No,” I answered, “I can't let you go to work and saddle yourself with -my relatives as well as with me. I must pitch in and support him.” - -“But, my kracious, Kraikory, what can you do? You're only fifteen years -old. You couldn't earn more as tree or four tollars a veek if you vorked -all de time.” - -“Oh! yes, I could. You forget that I've been studying short-hand; and I -can write sixty words a minute; and Mr. Marx will get me a position as a -short-hand writer in some office down-town; and then I could earn eight -dollars a week at least.” - -“Vail, my kracious, dot's a faict. Vail, dot's simply immense. Vail, I'm -mighty glaid now you kept on studying and didn't take my advice. Vail, -ainyhow, Kraikory, you and him can go on living here by me, and den when -you're able you can pay boart--hey? And say, Kraikory, I always had -a sort of an idea dot I like to learn Frainch; and maybe he'd give me -lessons, hey? Aisk him what he'd sharsh.” - -“Ah, my Gregory,” sighed Uncle Florimond, “I am desolated. To become a -burden upon thy young shoulders--it is terrible.” - -“I beseech you, my dearest uncle, do not say such things. I love you -with all my heart. It is my greatest happiness to have you near me. And -hold, you are going to gain your own livelihood. Mr. Finkelstein here -wishes to know what you will charge to give him French lessons.” - -“Well, I guess I join de class,” said Mr. Marx, when he heard of his -father-in-law's studies. - -“So will I,” said Mrs. Marx. - -“Well, I guess I come in too,” said Mr. Flisch. - -“And I want to learn French ever so much,” said Rosalind. - -[Ill 0006] - -So a class was formed; and a Marquis de la Bourbonnaye, for the first -time, no doubt, in the history of that ancient family, ate bread that he -had earned by the sweat of his brow. It was a funny and yet a pathetic -sight to see him laboring with his pupils. He was very gentle and very -patient; but by the melancholy expression of his eyes, I knew that the -outrages they committed upon his native language sank deep into his own -soul. He and Mr. Finkelstein became great friends. I think they used -to play cards together quite six hours every day. Uncle Florimond had -studied English as a lad at school; and by and by he screwed his courage -to the sticking place, and began to talk that tongue. It was as good as -a play to hear him and Mr. Finkelstein converse together. - -In due time, surely enough, Mr. Marx procured a situation for me as -stenographer in a banking-house down-town. My salary, to start with, was -seven dollars a week. Joining that to what Uncle Florimond earned, we -had enough to support us in comparative comfort and without loss of -self-respect. - -And now Mrs. Gregory Brace, who is looking over my shoulder, and whose -first name is Rosalind, and whose maiden-name was Earle, warns me that -the point is reached where I must write - - -THE END. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of My Uncle Florimond, by -(AKA Sidney Luska) Henry Harland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY UNCLE FLORIMOND *** - -***** This file should be named 50698-0.txt or 50698-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/6/9/50698/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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