 | CHAPTER XII.
TEDDY'S TEMPTATION. Outpost |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
TEDDY'S TEMPTATION.
Teddy Ginniss sat alone in his master's office, feeling
very sad and forlorn: for Dr. Wentworth had that morning
said that the chance of life for his little patient was very,
very small; and it seemed to Teddy heavier news than human
heart had ever borne before. His morning duties over,
he had seated himself at his little table, and tried to study
the lesson given him by Mr. Burroughs upon the previous
day; but a heavy heart makes dim eyes, and the page
where Teddy's were fixed seemed to him no better than a
crowd of disjointed letters swimming in a blinding mist.
A hasty step was heard upon the stair; and, passing the
sleeve of his jacket across his eyes, the boy bent closer over
the book as his master entered the room.
“Any one been in this morning, Teddy?” asked Mr.
Burroughs, passing into the inner office.
“No, sir.”
“I am going out of town for a day or two, Teddy, — going
business. You will do whatever he wishes as you would
for me. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The good-natured young man, struck by the mournful
tone of Teddy's usually hearty voice, turned and looked
sharply at him.
“Aren't you well, Teddy?”
“Yes, sir, thank your honor.”
“Not `your honor' until I'm a judge, Teddy. But what's
amiss with you, my boy?”
“I wouldn't be troubling your — you with it, sir. It's
nothing as can be helped.”
“No, no; but what is it, Teddy?” insisted the lawyer,
who saw that Teddy could hardly restrain his tears.
“Nothing, sir; but the little sister is mortal sick, and
the doctor says he's afeard she won't stand it.”
“Your little sister, Teddy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I didn't know you had one. You never spoke of her
before, did you?”
“Maybe not, sir.”
“What is the matter with her?”
“The faver, sir.”
Mr. Burroughs knew that this phrase in an Irish mouth
means but one disease, and replied, in a sympathizing
voice, —
“Typhus! I'm sorry for you, Teddy, and sorry, too, for
your mother, who is an excellent woman; but the little
girl may yet recover: while there is life, there is hope,
you know. Even if she dies, it is not so bad as — I am
going to New York, Teddy, to look for a little cousin of
mine whose parents do not know if she is living or dead,
suffering or safe: that is worse than to have her ill, but
under their care and protection, isn't it?”
“Yes, sir, perhaps. Is the little girl in New York, sir,
do you think?”
“We hear of a child found astray there, who answers to
the description; and I am going to see her before we mention
the report to her mother. Have you never seen Mr.
Legrange here, Teddy? It is his little girl. I wonder
you haven't heard us talking of the matter.”
“I don't mind the name, sir; and I haven't heard of the
little girl before. Is she long lost?”
“Ten days yesterday. I have been busy all the week in
the search for her. The clothes she had on when lost were
yet.”
“What looking child was she, if you please, sir?” asked
Teddy after a short pause, in which he seemed to study
intently; while Mr. Burroughs went on glancing at the
newspapers in his hand.
“'Toinette? Here is a description of her in `The Journal,'
and I have a photograph in my pocket-book. Here it is.
It is well for you to study them both; for possibly you
may discover her. I didn't think of it before; but you
are just the boy to put upon the search. If you should
find her, Teddy, Mr. Legrange will make your fortune.
He is rich and generous, and this is his only child. Eleven
o'clock. Shall be in at one.”
As he spoke, Mr. Burroughs threw the paper and photograph
upon Teddy's table, and hastily left the office. The
boy took up “The Journal,” and read the following advertisement:
—
“Lost, upon the evening of Oct. 31, a little girl, six years
of age, named Antoinette Legrange; of slight figure, round
face, delicate color, large blue eyes, long curled hair of a
bright-yellow color, small mouth, and regular teeth. She
was dressed, at the time of her disappearance, in a blue
frock and brown boots, with a lady's breakfast-shawl; and
engraved under the clasp with her name in full. A liberal
reward will be paid for information concerning her. Apply
at the police-station.”
When he had studied this, Teddy took up the photograph,
and examined it earnestly. The dress, the long
curled hair, the joyous expression, were very different from
the pale face, wild eyes, and cropped head of the little
sister at home; but Teddy's heart sank within him as he
traced the delicate features, the curved lips, and trim little
figure. He dropped the picture, and, leaning his face upon
his arm, sobbed aloud.
“I'll lose her anyway, if she dies or if she lives; and it's
all the little sister ever I got.”
But presently another thought made Teddy lift his head,
and look anxiously about him to make sure that his emotion
had not been seen by any one. He was still alone; and,
with a sigh of relief, he dashed away the tears from his
eyes, muttering, —
“It's the big fool I am, entirely! Sure and mightn't she
have picked up the bracelet in the street, where maybe the
little lady they've lost dropped it? And, if she looks like the
picture, so does many a one beside; and it's no call I have
way. She's my own little sister, and I'll keep her to my
self.”
A sudden sharp recollection darted through the boy's
mind, and he grew a little pale as he added, —
“Leastways, I'll keep her if God will let me; and sure
isn't he stronger nor me? If it isn't for me to have her,
can't he take her, if it's by death, or if it's by leading
them that's searching for her to where she is? And more
by token, that's the way I'll try it. If God means she
shall stay and be my little sister, she'll live, and I'll take
her, and say nothing to nobody about it: but, if it's displasin'
to him, she'll die; and then I'll tell the master all about it,
and he may do what he's a mind to with me. That's the
way I'll fix it.”
And Teddy, well satisfied with his own bad argument,
took comfort, and went back to his books.
When Mr. Burroughs returned to the office, he was accompanied
by Mr. Barlow, the gentleman who was to occupy
it during his absence; and he did not speak to Teddy, except
to give him a few directions, and bid him a kind good-by.
The paper and picture he found lying upon his desk, and
hastily put in his pocket without remark or question.
For the first time in his life, Teddy avoided meeting his
master's eye, but watched him furtively over the top of
his book, raising it so as to screen his face whenever Mr.
Burroughs looked his way, and trembling whenever he
spoke to him; and, for the first time in his life, he secretly
rejoiced at seeing him leave the office, knowing that he was
to be gone for some time.
The long day was over at last; and, so soon as the hour
for closing the office had begun to strike, Teddy locked the
door, sprang down stairs, and ran like a deer towards
home, feeling as if in some manner the little sister was
about to be taken away from him, and he must hasten to
prevent it.
At the foot of the stairs, however, he checked himself,
creeping up as silently and cautiously as possible, and stopping
at the head to listen for the clear voice, frightfully
clear and shrill, of the delirious child, which usually met
him there. No sound was to be heard except the deep
voice of the Italian organ-grinder in the room below, talking
to himself or his monkey as he prepared supper; and
Teddy, creeping along the entry to his mother's door, softly
opened it, and went in.
At one side of the bed stood Mrs. Ginniss; at the other,
upon the pillow between them, — the little face so strange
and lovely now; for all the fever flush had passed away, the
babbling lips were folded white and still, the glittering eyes
were closed, and the long dark lashes lay motionless upon
the cheek, — the little face so strange and terrible in its
sudden, peaceful beauty.
As Teddy softly entered, Dr. Wentworth turned and held
a warning finger up; then bent again above the little child.
his hand upon her heart.
The boy crept close to his mother, down whose honest
face the tears ran like rain; although she heeded the earnest
warning of the physician, and was almost as still as the
little form she watched.
“Is she dead, mother?” whispered Teddy.
“Whisht, darlint! wait till we know,” whispered she in
return; and the young doctor glanced impatiently at both
out of his strained and eager eyes. Had it been his own and
only child, he could not have hung more earnestly about
her: and here was the strange, sweet charm of this little
life, — that all who came within its influence felt themselves
drawn toward it, and opened wide their hearts to allow
its entrance; feeling not alone that they loved the lovely
cherish and fondle and bind to them forever.
So the coarse, hard-working woman, who two weeks before
had never seen her face, now wept as true and bitter
tears as she had done beside the death-bed of the child she
had lost when Teddy was a baby; and the young doctor,
who had watched the passage of a hundred souls from
time to eternity, hung over this little dying form as if all
life for him were held within it, and to lose it were to lose
all. And Teddy — ah! poor Teddy; for upon his young
heart lay not only the bitterness of the death busy with his
“little sister's” life, but the heavy burden of wrong and deception,
and the proof, as he thought, of God's displeasure
in taking from him at last what he had tried so hard to
keep.
He sank upon his knees beside the bed, and hid his face,
whispering, —
“O God! let her live, and I will give her back to them
as I kept her from.”
Over and over and over again, he whispered just these
words, clinching tight his boy-hands to keep down the
agony of the sacrifice; while in the very centre of his heart
throbbed a hard, dull pain, that seemed as if it would rend
it asunder.
His face was still hidden, when, like an answer to his
petition, came the softest of whispers from the doctor's
lips, —
“She will live, with God's help, and the best of care
from you.”
“An' it's the bist uv care she'll git, I'll pass me word for
that,” whispered back Teddy's mother, so earnestly, that the
doctor answered, —
“Hush! She is falling asleep. Do not wake her, for
her life!”
He sank into a chair as he spoke. Mrs. Ginniss crept
round to the stove, and, crouching beside it, covered her
head with her apron, and remained motionless. As for
Teddy, he never stirred or looked up, but, with his face
hidden upon the bed, repeated again and again those words,
to him so solemn and so full of meaning, until in the silence
and the waiting he fell asleep, and gradually sank upon
the floor.
And so the night went on: and the careful eyes of the
young physician marked how a faint tinge of color crept
into the death-white cheek upon the pillow; and how the
still lips lost their hard, cold line, and grew human once
more, though so pale; and how the eyelids stirred, moving
throat.
At last, with a long, soft sigh, the lips lightly parted; the
eyelids opened slowly, showing for a moment the blue eyes,
dim and languid, but no longer wild with delirium; and
then they slowly closed, and the breath came softly and
regularly from the parted lips.
Dr. Wentworth heaved an answering sigh of mingled
weariness and relief, and, rising, went to Mrs. Ginniss's side,
touching her upon the shoulder, and whispering, —
“She is doing well. Keep her as quiet as possible. I
will be in at nine.”
Hushing the murmured blessings she would have poured
upon his head, the young man stole softly from the room
and down the stairs into the street, where already the first
gray of dawn struggled with the flaring gas-lights.
| CHAPTER XII.
TEDDY'S TEMPTATION. Outpost | |