Part 15 (1/2)
Pike came to see him one day, his arms full of a bundle, which turned out to be an accordion for Sophy.
”Christmas, you know,” he said, taking off the brown paper, while he was cursing the Cotton States the hardest, and gravely kneading at the keys, and stretching it until he made as much discord as five Congressmen. ”I think Sophy will like that,” he said, looking at it sideways, and tying it up carefully.
”I am sure she will,” said Holmes,--and did not think the man a fool for one moment.
Always going back, this Holmes, when he was alone, to the certainty that home-comings or children's kisses or Christmas feasts were not for such as he,--never could be, though he sought for the old time in bitterness of heart; and so, dully remembering his resolve, and waiting for Christmas eve, when he might end it all. Not one of the myriads of happy children listened more intently to the clock clanging off hour after hour than the silent, stern man who had no hope in that day that was coming.
He learned to watch even for poor Lois coming up the corridor every day,--being the only tie that bound the solitary man to the inner world of love and warmth. The deformed little body was quite alive with Christmas now, and brought its glow with her, in her weak way.
Different from the others, he saw with a curious interest. The day was more real to her than to them. Not because, only, the care she had of everybody, and everybody had of her seemed to reach its culmination of kindly thought for the Christmas time; not because, as she sat talking slowly, stopping for breath, her great fear seemed to be that she would not have gifts enough to go round; but deeper than that,--the day was real to her. As if it were actually true that the Master in whom she believed was freshly born into the world once a year, to waken all that was genial and n.o.ble and pure in the turbid, worn-out hearts; as if new honour and pride and love did flash into the realms below heaven with the breaking of Christmas morn. It was a beautiful faith; he almost wished it were his. A beautiful faith! it gave a meaning to the old custom of gifts and kind words. LOVE coming into the world!--the idea pleased his artistic taste, being simple and sublime. Lois used to tell him, while she feebly tried to set his room in order, of all her plans,--of how Sam Polston was to be married on New-Year's,--but most of all of the Christmas coming out at the old school-master's: how the old house had been scrubbed from top to bottom, was fairly glowing with s.h.i.+ning paint and hot fires,--how Margret and her mother worked, in terror lest the old man should find out how poor and bare it was,--how he and Joel had some secret enterprise on foot at the far end of the plantation out in the swamp, and were gone nearly all day.
She ceased coming at last. One of the sisters went out to see her, and told him she was too weak to walk, but meant to be better soon,--quite well by the holidays. He wished the poor thing had told him what she wanted of him,--wished it anxiously, with a dull presentiment of evil.
The days went by, cold and slow. He watched grimly the preparations the hospital physician was silently making in his case, for fever, inflammation.
”I must be strong enough to go out cured on Christmas eve,” he said to him one day, coolly.
The old doctor glanced up shrewdly. He was an old Alsatian, very plain-spoken.
”You say so?” he mumbled. ”Chut! Then you will go. There are some--bull-dog, men. They do what they please,--they never die unless they choose, begar! We know them in our practice, Herr Holmes!”
Holmes laughed. Some ac.u.men there, he thought, in medicine or mind: as for himself, it was true enough; whatever success he had gained in life had been by no flush of enthusiasm or hope; a dogged persistence of ”holding on,” rather.
A long time; but Christmas eve came at last: bright, still, frosty.
”Whatever he had to do, let it be done quickly;” but not till the set hour came. So he laid his watch on the table beside him, waiting until it should mark the time he had chosen: the ruling pa.s.sion of self-control as strong in this turn of life's tide as it would be in its ebb, at the last. The old doctor found him alone in the dreary room, coming in with the frosty breath of the eager street about him.
A grim, chilling sight enough, as solitary and impenetrable as the Sphinx. He did not like such faces in this genial and gracious time, so hurried over his examination. The eye was cool, the pulse steady, the man's body, battered though it was, strong in its steely composure.
”Ja wohl!--ja wohl!” he went on chuffily, summing up: latent fever,--the very lips were blue, dry as husks; ”he would go,--oui?--then go!”--with a chuckle. ”All right, gluck Zu!” And so shuffled out. Latent fever? Doubtless, yet hardly from broken bones, the doctor thought,--with no suspicion of the subtile, intolerable pa.s.sion smouldering in every drop of this man's phlegmatic blood.
Evening came at last. He stopped until the cracked bell of the chapel had done striking the Angelus, and then put on his overcoat, and went out. Pa.s.sing down the garden walk a miserable chicken staggered up to him, chirping a drunken recognition. For a moment, he breathed again the hot smoke of the mill, remembering how Lois had found him in Margret's office, not forgetting the cage: chary of this low life, even in the peril of his own. So, going out on the street, he tested his own nature by this trifle in his old fas.h.i.+on. ”The ruling pa.s.sion strong in death,” eh? It had not been self-love; something deeper: an instinct rather than reason. Was he glad to think this of himself? He looked out more watchful of the face which the coming Christmas bore.
The air was cold and pungent. The crowded city seemed wakening to some keen enjoyment; even his own weak, deliberate step rang on the icy pavement as if it wished to rejoice with the rest. I said it was a trading city: so it was, but the very trade to-day had a jolly Christmas face on; the surly old banks and p.a.w.nbrokers' shops had grown ashamed of their doings, and shut their doors, and covered their windows with frosty trees, and cathedrals, and castles; the shops opened their inmost hearts; some child's angel had touched them, and they flushed out into a magic splendour of Christmas trees, and lights, and toys; Santa Claus might have made his head-quarters in any one of them. As for children, you stumbled over them at every step, quite weighed down with the heaviness of their joy, and the money burning their pockets; the acrid old brokers and pettifoggers, that you met with a chill on other days, had turned into jolly fathers of families, and lounged laughing along with half a dozen little hands pulling them into candy-stores or toy-shops; all of the churches whose rules permitted them to show their deep rejoicing in a simple way, had covered their cold stone walls with evergreens, and wreaths of glowing fire-berries: the child's angel had touched them too, perhaps,--not unwisely.
He pa.s.sed crowds of thin-clad women looking in through open doors, with red cheeks and hungry eyes, at red-hot stoves within, and a placard, ”Christmas dinners for the poor, gratis;” out of every window on the streets came a ruddy light, and a spicy smell; the very sunset sky had caught the reflection of the countless Christmas fires, and flamed up to the zenith, blood-red as cinnabar.
Holmes turned down one of the back streets: he was going to see Lois, first of all. I hardly know why: the child's angel may have touched him, too; or his heart, full of a yearning pity for the poor cripple, who, he believed now, had given her own life for his, may have plead for indulgence, as men remember their childish prayers, before going into battle. He came at last, in the quiet lane where she lived, to her little brown frame-shanty, to which you mounted by a flight of wooden steps: there were two narrow windows at the top, hung with red curtains; he could hear her feeble voice singing within. As he turned to go up the steps, he caught sight of something crouched underneath them in the dark, hiding from him: whether a man or a dog he could not see. He touched it.
”What d' ye want, Mas'r?” said a stifled voice.
He touched it again with his stick. The man stood upright, back in the shadow: it was old Yare.
”Had ye any word wi' me, Mas'r?”
He saw the negro's face grow gray with fear.
”Come out, Yare,” he said, quietly. ”Any word? What word is arson, eh?”
The man did not move. Holmes touched him with the stick.
”Come out,” he said.