Chapter LVIII. Child-talk
As Clare came down the next morning but one, there was the child again on the dark narrow stair. She had no doll. Her hands lay folded in her lap. She sat on the same step, the very image of child-patience. As he approached she did not move. I believe she held solemn revel of expectation. He laid his hand on the whitey-brown hair smoothed flat on her head with a brush dipped in water. Not much dressing was wasted on Ann—common little name!
She rose, turned to him, and again laid her arms about his neck. No kiss followed: she had not been taught to kiss.
“Where’s dolly?” asked Clare.
“Nowhere. Buried,” answered the child.
“Where did you bury her? In the garden?”
“No. The garden wouldn’t be nowhere!”
“Where, then?”
“Nowhere. I threw her out of the window.”
“Into the street?”
“Yes. She did fell on a horse’s back, and he jumped. I was sorry.”
“It didn’t hurt him. I hope it didn’t hurt dolly!”
The moment he said it, Clare’s heart reproached him: he was not talking true! he was not talking out of his real heart to the child! Almost with indignation she answered:—
“Things don’t be hurt! Dolly was a thing! She’s no thing now!”
“Why?”
“Because she fell under the horse, and was seen no more.”
“Is she old enough,” thought Clare, “to read the Pilgrim’s Progress?”
“Will you tell me, please,” he said, “when a thing is only a thing?”
“When it won’t mind what you do or say to it.”
“And when is a thing no thing any more?”
“When you never think of it again.”
“Is a fly a thing?”
“I could make a fly mind, only it would hurt it!”
“Of course we wouldn’t do that!”
“No; we don’t want to make a fly mind. It’s not one of our creatures.”
Clare thought that was far enough in metaphysics for one morning.
“I waited for you yesterday,” he said, “but you didn’t come!”
“Dolly didn’t like to be buried. I mean, I didn’t like burying dolly. I cried and wouldn’t come.”
“Then why did you bury dolly?”
“She had to be buried. I told you she couldn’t be anybody! So I made her be buried.”
“I see! I quite understand.—But what have you to amuse yourself with now?”
“I don’t want to be mused now. You’s come! I’m growed up!”
“Yes, of course!” answered Clare; but he was puzzled what to say next.
What could he do for her? Glad would he have been to take her down to the sea, or to the docks, or into the country somewhere, till dinner-time, and then after dinner take her out again! But there was his work—ugly, stupid work that had to be done, as dolly had to be buried! Alas for the child who has discarded her toys, and is suddenly growed up! What is she to do with herself? Clare’s coming had caused the loss of Ann’s former interests: he felt bound to make up to her for that loss. But how? It was a serious question, and not being his own master, he could not in a moment answer it.
“I wish I could stay with you all day!” he said. “But your papa wants me in the bank. I must go.”
Clare had not had a good sight of the child, and was at a loss to think what must be her age. Her language, both in form and utterance, was partly precise and grown-up, and partly childish; but her wisdom was child-like—and that is the opposite both of precise and childish. It was the wisdom that comes of unity between thought and action.
“Is there anything I can do for you before I go—for I must go?” said Clare.
“Who says must to you? Nurse says must to me.”
“Your papa says must to me.”
“If you didn’t say yes when papa said must, what would come next?”
“He would say, ‘Go out of my house, and never come in again.’”
“And would you do it?”
“I must: the house is his, not mine.”
“If I didn’t say yes when papa said must, what would happen?”
“He would try to make you say it.”
“And if I wouldn’t, would he say, ‘Go out of my house and never come in again’?”
“No; you are his little girl!”
“Then I think he shouldn’t say it to you.—What is your name?”
“Clare.”
“Then, Clare, if my papa sends you out of his house, I will go with you.—You wouldn’t turn me out, would you, when I was a little naughty?”
“No; neither would your papa.”
“If he turned you out, it would be all the same. Where you go, I will go. I must, you know! Would you mind if he said ‘Go away’?”
“I should be very sorry to leave you.”
“Yes, but that’s not going to be! Why do you stay with papa? Were you in the house always—ever so long before I saw you?”
“No; a very little while only.”
“Did you come in from the street?”
“Yes; I came in from the street. Your papa pays me to work for him.”
“And if you wouldn’t?”
“Then I should have no money, and nothing to eat, and nowhere to sleep at night.”
“Would that make you uncomfable?”
“It would make me die.”
“Have you a papa?”
“Yes, but he’s far away.”
“You could go to him, couldn’t you?”
“One day I shall.”
“Why don’t you go now, and take me?”
“Because he died.”
“What’s died?”
“Went away out of sight, where we can’t go to look for him till we go out of sight too.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does anybody know?”
“Nobody.”
“Then perhaps you will never go?”
“We must go; it’s only that nobody knows when.”
“I think the when that nobody knows, mayn’t never come.—Is that why you have to work?”
“Everybody has to work one way or another.”
“I haven’t to work!”
“If you don’t work when you’re old enough, you’ll be miserable.”
“You’re not old enough.”
“Oh, yes, indeed I am! I’ve been working a long time now.”
“Where? Not for papa?”
“No; not for papa.”
“Why not? Why didn’t you come sooner? Why didn’t you come much sooner—ever so much sooner? Why did you make me wait for you all the time?”
“Nobody ever told me you were waiting.”
“Nobody ever told me you were coming, but I knew.”
“You had to wait for me, and you knew. I had to wait for you, and I didn’t know! When we have time, I will tell you all about myself, and how I’ve been waiting too.”
“Waiting for me?”
“No.”
“Who for?”
“For my father and mother—and somebody else, I think.”
“That’s me.”
“No; I’m waiting yet. I didn’t know I was coming to you till I came, and there you were!”
The child was silent for a moment. Then she said thoughtfully,
“You will tell me all about yourself! That will be nice!—Can you tell stories?” she added. “—Of course you can! You can do everything!”
“Oh, no, I can’t!”
“Can’t you?”
“No; I can do some things—not many. I can love you, little one!—Now I must go, or I shall be late, and nobody ever ought to be late.”
“Go then. I will go to my nursery and wait again.”
She went down the stair without once looking behind her. Clare followed. On the next floor she went one way to her nursery, and he another to the back-stairs.
One of the causes and signs of Clare’s manliness was, that he never aimed at being a man. Many men continue childish because they are always trying to act like men, instead of simply trying to do right. Such never develop true manliness, Clare’s manhood stole upon him unawares. That which at once made him a man and kept him a child, was, that he had no regard for anything but what was real, that is, true.
All the day the thought kept coming, what could he do for the little girl Perhaps what stirred his feeling for her most, was a suspicion that she was neglected. But the careless treatment of a nurse was better for her than would have been the capricious blandishments and neglects of a mother like Mrs. Shotover. Clare, however, knew nothing yet about Ann’s mother. He knew only, by the solemnly still ways of the child, that she must be much left to her own resources, and was wonderfully developed in consequence—whether healthily or not, he could not yet tell. The practical question was—how to contrive to be her occasional companion; how to offer to serve her.
After much thinking, he concluded that he must wait: opportunity might suggest mode; and he would rather find than make opportunity!
Chapter LIX. Lovers’ walks
He had not long to wait. That very afternoon, going a message for the head-clerk, he met Ann walking with a young lady—who must be Miss Shotover. Neither sister seemed happy with the other. Ann was very white, and so tired that she could but drag her little feet after her. Miss Shotover, flushed with exertion, and annoyed with her part of nursemaid, held her tight and hauled her along by the hand. She looked good-natured, but not one of the ministering sort. Every now and then she would give the little arm a pull, and say, though not very crossly, “Do come along!” The child did not cry, but it was plain she suffered. It was plain also she was doing her best to get home, and avoid rousing her sister’s tug.
Keen-sighted, Clare had recognized Ann at some distance, and as he approached had a better opportunity than on the dark stair of seeing what his little friend was like. He saw that her eyes were unusually clear, and, paces away, could distinguish the blue veins on her forehead: she looked even more delicate than he had thought her. The lines of her mouth were straightened out with the painful effort she had to make to keep up with her sister. Her nose continued insignificant, waiting to learn what was expected of it.
For Miss Shotover, there was not a good feature in her face, and even to a casual glance it might have suggested a measure of meanness. But a bright complexion, and the youthful charm which vanishes with youth, are pleasant in their season. Her figure was lithe, and in general she had a look of fun; but at the moment heat and impatience clouded her countenance.
Clare stopped and lifted his hat. Then first the dazed child saw him, for she was short-sighted, and her observation was dulled by weariness. She said not a word, uttered no sound, only drew her hand from her sister’s, and held up her arms to her friend—in dumb prayer to be lifted above the thorns of life, and borne along without pain. He caught her up.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, “but the little one and I have met before:—I live in the house, having the honour to be the youngest of your father’s clerks. If you will allow me, I will carry the child. She looks tired!”
Miss Shotover was glad enough to be relieved of her clog, and gave smiling consent.
“If you would be so kind as to carry her home,” she said, “I should be able to do a little shopping!”
“You will not mind my taking her a little farther first, ma’am? I am on a message for Mr. Woolrige. I will carry her all the way, and be very careful of her.”
Miss Shotover was not one to cherish anxiety. She already knew Clare both by report and by sight, and willingly yielded. Saying, with one of her pleasant smiles, that she would hold him accountable for her, she sailed away, like a sloop that had been dragging her anchor, but had now cut her cable. Clare thought what a sweet-looking girl she was—and in truth she was sweet-looking. Then, all his heart turned to the little one in his arms.
What a walk was that for both of them! Little Ann seemed never to have lived before: she was actually happy! She had been long waiting for Clare, and he was come—and such as she had expected him! It was bliss to glide thus along the busy street without the least exertion, looking down on the heads of the people, safe above danger and fear amid swift-moving things and the crowding confusions of life! To be in Clare’s arms was better than being in the little house on the elephant’s back in her best picture-book! True, little one! To be in the arms of love, be they ever so weak, is better than to ride the grandest horse in all the stables of God—and God would have you know it! Never mind your pale little face and your puny nose! While your heart is ready to die for love-sake, you are blessed among women! Only remember that to die of disappointment is not to die either of or for love!
And to Clare, after all those days upon days during which only a dog would come to his arms, what a glory of life it was to have a human child in them, the little heart of the pale face beating against his side! He was not going to forget Abdiel. Abdiel was not a fact to be forgotten. Abdiel was not a doll, Abdiel was not a thing that would not come alive. Abdiel was a true heart, a live soul, and Clare would love him for ever!—not an atom the less that now he had one out upon whom a larger love was able to flow! All true love makes abler to love. It is only false love, the love of those who take their own meanest selfishness, their own pleasure in being loved, for love, that shrinks and narrows the soul.
To the pale-faced, listening child, Clare talked much about the wonderful Abdiel, and about the kind good Miss Tempest who was keeping him to live again at length with his old master; and Ann loved the dog she had never seen, because the dog loved the Clare who was come at last.
When they returned, Clare rang the house-bell, and gave up his charge to the man who opened the door. Without word or tone, gesture or look of objection, or even of disinclination, the child submitted to be taken from Clare’s loving embrace, and carried to a nurse who was neither glad nor sorry to see her.
He had been so long gone that Mr. Woolrige found fault with him for it. Clare told him he had met Miss Shotover with her sister, and the child seemed so tired he had asked leave to carry her with him, Mr. Woolrige was not pleased, but he said nothing; on the spot the clerks nicknamed him Nursie; and Clare did his best to justify the appellation-he never lost a chance of acting up to it, and always answered when they summoned him by it.
Before the week was ended, he sought an interview with Miss Shotover, and asked her whether he might not take little Ann out for a walk whenever the evening was fine. For at five o’clock the doors of the bank were shut, and in half an hour after he was free. Miss Shotover said she saw no objection, and would tell the nurse to have her ready as often as the weather was fit; whereupon Clare left her with a gratitude far beyond any degree of that emotion by her conceivable. The nurse, on her part, was willing to gratify Clare, and not sorry to be rid of the child, who was not one, indeed, to interest any ordinary woman.
The summer came and was peculiarly fine, and almost every evening Clare might be seen taking his pleasure—neither like bank-clerk nor like nurse-maid, for always he had little Ann in his arms, or was leading her along with care and entire attention: he never let her walk except on entreaty, and not always then. To his fellow clerks this proof of an utter lack of dignity seemed consistent with his origin—of which they knew nothing; they knew only his late position. To themselves they were fine gentlemen with cigars in their mouths, and he was a lackey to the bone! To himself Clare was the lover of a child; and about them he did not think. Theirs was the life of a town; Clare’s was a life of the universe.
The pair came speedily to understand and communicate like twin brother and sister. Clare, as he carried her, always knew when Ann wanted a change of position; Ann always knew when Clare began to grow weary—knew before Clare himself—and would insist on walking. Neither could remember how it came, but it grew a custom that, when they walked hand in hand, Clare told her stories of his life and adventures; when he carried her, he told her fairy-tales, which he could spin like a spider: she preferred the former.
So neither bank nor nursery was any longer dreary.
At length came the gray, brooding winter, causing red fingers and aches and chilblains. But it was not unfriendly to little Ann. True, she was not permitted to go out in the evening any more, but Clare, with the help of the cook, devoted to her his dinner-hour instead. It was no hardship to eat from a basket in place of a table, to one who never troubled himself as to the kind, quality, or quantity of his food itself. He had learned, like a good soldier, to endure hardness. I have heard him say that never did he enjoy a dinner more than when, in those homeless days of his boyhood, he tore the flakes off a loaf fresh from the baker’s oven, and ate them as he walked along the street. The old highlanders of Scotland were trained to think it the part of a gentleman not to mind what he ate—sign of scant civilization, no doubt, in the eyes of some who now occupy but do not fill their place—as time will show, when the call is for men to fight, not to eat.
Chapter LX. The shoe-black
The head-clerk, while he had not a word against him, as he confessed to Mr. Shotover, yet thought Clare would never make a man of business. When pressed to say on what he grounded the opinion, he could only answer that the lad did not seem to have his heart in it. But if, to be a man of business, it is not enough to do one’s duty scrupulously, but the very heart must be in it, then is there something wrong with business. The heart fares as its treasure: who would be content his heart should fare as not a few sorts of treasure must? Mr. Woolrige passed no such judgment, however, upon certain older young men in the bank, whose hearts certainly were not in the business, but even worse posited.
One cold, miserable day, at once damp and frosty, on which it was quite unfit to take Ann out, Clare, having eaten a hasty dinner, and followed it with a walk, was returning through the town in good time for the recommencement of business, when he came upon a little boy, at the corner of a street, blowing his fingers, and stumping up and down the pavement to keep his blood moving while he waited for a job: his brushes lay on the top of his blacking-box on the curbstone. Clare saw that he was both hungry and cold—states of sensation with which he was far too familiar to look on the signs of them with indifference. To give him something to do, and so something to eat, he went to his block and put his foot on it. The boy bustled up, snatched at his brushes, and began operations. But, whether from the coldness or incapacity of his hands, Clare soon saw that his boots would not be polished that afternoon.
“You don’t seem quite up to your business, my boy!” he said. “What’s the matter?”
The boy made no answer, but went on with his vain attempt. A moment more, and Clare saw a tear fall on the boot he was at work upon.
“This won’t do!” said Clare. “Let me look at your boots.”
The boy stood up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Ah!” said Clare, “I don’t wonder you can’t polish my boots, when you don’t care to polish your own!”
“Please, sir,” answered the boy, “it’s Jim as does it! He’s down wi’ the measles, an’ I ain’t up to it.”
“Look here, then! I’ll give you a lesson,” said Clare. “Many’s the boot I’ve blacked. Up with your foot! I’ll soon show you how the thing’s done!”
“Please, sir,” objected the boy, “there ain’t enough boot left to take a polish!”
“We’ll see about that!” returned Clare. “Put it up. I’ve worn worse in my time.”
The boy obeyed. The boot was very bad, but there was enough leather to carry some blacking, and the skin took the rest.
Clare was working away, growing pleasantly hot with the quick, sharp motion, while two of his fellow clerks were strolling up on the other side of the corner, who had been having more with their lunch than was good for them. Swinging round, they came upon a well dressed youth brushing a ragged boy’s boots. It was an odd sight, and one of them, whose name was Marway, thought to get some fun out of the phenomenon.
“Here!” he cried, “I want my boots brushed.”
Clare rose to his feet, saying,
“Brush the gentleman’s boots. I will finish yours after, and then you shall finish mine.”
“Hullo, Nursie! it’s you turned boot-black, is it?—Nice thing for the office, Jack!” remarked Marway, who was the finest gentleman, and the lowest blackguard among the clerks.
He put his foot on the block. The boy began his task, but did no better with his boots than he had done with Clare’s.
“Soul of an ass!” cried Marway, “are you going to keep my foot there till it freezes to the block? Why don’t you do as Nursie tells you? He knows how to brush a boot! You ain’t worth your salt! You ain’t fit to black a donkey’s hoofs!”
“Give me the brushes, my boy,” said Clare.
The boy rose abashed, and obeyed. After a few of Clare’s light rapid strokes, the boots looked very different.
“Bravo, Nursie!” cried Marway. “There ain’t a flunkey of you all could do it better!”
Clare said nothing, finished the job, and stood up. Marway, turning on the other heel as he set his foot down, said, “Thank you, Nursie!” and was walking off.
“Please, Mr. Marway, give the boy his penny,” said Clare.
But Marway wanted to take a rise out of Clare.
“The fool did nothing for me!” he answered. “He made my boot worse than it was.”
“It was I did nothing for you, Mr. Marway,” rejoined Clare. “What I did, I did for the boy.”
“Then let the boy pay you!” said Marway.
The shoe-black went into a sudden rage, caught up one of his brushes, and flung it at Marway as he turned. It struck him on the side of the head. Marway swore, stalked up to Clare and knocked him down, then strode away with a grin.
The shoe-black sent his second brush whizzing past his ear, but he took no notice. Clare got up, little the worse, only bruised.
“See what comes of doing things in a passion!” he said, as the boy came back with the brushes he had hastened to secure. “Here’s your penny! Put up your foot.”
The boy did as he was told, but kept foaming out rage at the bloke that had refused him his penny, and knocked down his friend. It did not occur to him that he was himself the cause of the outrage, and that his friend had suffered for him. Clare’s head ached a good deal, but he polished the boy’s boots. Then he made him try again on his boots, when, warmed by his rage, he did a little better. Clare gave him another penny, and went to the bank.
Marway was not there, nor did he show himself for a day or two. Clare said nothing about what had taken place, neither did the others.