Part 22 (1/2)

He found him--not, as before, walking in the front piazza, where the afternoon sun was now s.h.i.+ning, but reclining on a settee on the back piazza that was now in the shade. He lay languidly fanning himself with one hand, while he held a pamphlet that he was reading in the other.

Valentine had resolved not to provoke him by any hasty words, as he had used in the morning. He resolved to govern his own spirit, to approach his master respectfully, humbly. He did so.

”Master Oswald!”

Mr. Waring looked up, seemed annoyed, and hastened to exclaim:

”Now, Valentine, if you have come again about going to see your sick wife, and all that humbug, I tell you it is no manner of use. I have been wearied nearly to death already with fruitless importunity, and I want to hear no more of it.”

”Oh, sir!”

”I tell you it is of no use to talk to me!”

”Ah, but Master Oswald, only listen, even if you do no more!” pleaded Valentine, in the fond hope of an ardent nature, that, judging from the earnestness of his feelings, believes that if he gains a hearing, he gains his cause.

”Well, well! but I warn you it will be wasted breath.”

”Ah, sir, do not say so! I am nearly crazy with trouble, sir, when I think of Fannie and poor little Coralie. She was very poor, sir, and the child was very sick, even before the pestilence appeared. Now she has the fever in that horrible place, with no one to help her or to take care of the poor child. She may be dying, sir, even while I speak! she may be dying, as many of the poor in that doomed city die, deserted--alone--but for the famis.h.i.+ng infant, whose cries add to her own sufferings; she may have, as many of the poor have, famine and burning thirst added to her fever, with no one near to place to her lips a morsel of food or a drop of water! Think of it, sir! My G.o.d! do you wonder that I am almost frantic?” cried the young man, earnestly, beseechingly clasping his hands.

”An imaginary picture altogether, Valentine,” coolly remarked Mr.

Waring.

”A common reality among the poor of the city, this dreadful season, sir.

You know it. You have heard it and read it. And she is very poor, sir.

She and the child often suffered, even before the pestilence came and stopped her work with all the rest. Judge what her condition must be now. Oh, my G.o.d!” cried the young man, in a voice of agony.

”Your fears exaggerate the case, Valentine. There are almshouses and hospitals, and sisters of charity and relief funds, and all those sort of contrivances for the very poor.”

”Yet you know, for I heard you read it, that all these places are full, that the relief fund failed to meet all the demands made upon it; and you know, besides, that all the poor white people have to be taken care of, before the colored people are thought of.”

”Of course, there is a difference, you know. I wish, once for all, you would understand that fact,” said Mr. Waring, replying only to the latter proposition. Then he added: ”Your fears magnify the danger; the yellow fever cannot last forever, and she may get well.”

”Not one in ten do--I heard you say it.”

”Well, she may be that one.”

”What, sir, with all the privations of her lot?”

”Yes, why not? You are out of sorts, Valentine. Go into the house and take a drink; it will set you up--in the dining-room--sideboard--left-hand corner--some fine old Otard brandy--help yourself; it will make a man of you.”

”Thank you, Master Oswald; but that is not what I came for.”

”What the devil did you come for, then, you troublesome fellow; tell me, and let me go to sleep,” exclaimed the master, impatiently turning on his settee.

”I came to beg and to pray you, Master Oswald, for a permit to go to town.”

”And you cannot have it, Valentine; so you may save your prayers. Once for all, if you and your mother, and madam, your mistress, to back you, were to pray from now till doomsday, you--cannot--have--it. Do you understand?” said his master, stolidly.

Valentine governed his own rising anger; it was as much as he could possibly do; he could not suppress his grief, but broke forth in a voice of agony:

”Oh! Fannie, Fannie, Fannie, and her little child!”