Mliss :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mr. Smith called on Dr. Fox at the appointed
time. The clergyman was absent, but was momentarily
expected home. Mrs. Smith accepted
an invitation to wait in his study, and was conducted
into that pious retreat by the clergy man's
son.

There were evangelical publications with
which the lady might have amused herself while
waiting for the pastor, if her mind had been attuned
to that description of literature. She was
not, however, in pursuit of the kind of knowledge
these publications conveyed. The young
man who conducted her into the room, and who
lingered regarding her with a kind of idiotic
admiration presented a much more fruitful field
of study.

Mr. Joseph Fox prided himself on having an
eye for beautiful women. The variety that
pleased him best was women of the world. In
his own circles he was regarded as a harmless
boy. The mature women petted him as the
clergyman's son, and the girls sometimes laughed
at him for being so large a boy. The lady
before him was handsome and elegant, and her
manner toward him was a skillful blending of
deference and cordiality. The deference was to
his position, and the cordiality to a gentleman
with whom she was not adverse to a better acquaintance.
So instead of retiring and leaving
the lady to the pursuit of evangelical knowledge,
be yielded to her delica ely intimated desire to
engage him in conversation.

Mrs. Smith's experienced eye took his measure at
a glance. He was a good subject upon whom to practice
her fascinations of manner and conversation.
Perhaps at this interview she had no further object
than amusement. In her new role of pious respectability
a devoted friend in the person of a clergyman's
son might be of service. It was not as a clergyman's
son, however, that she affected to regard him. She
permitted him to perceive that in her estimation he
stood on his own merits. She imparted to him the
pleasing sensation of being considered as a man. By
degrees their conversation became confidential, at
least on the gentleman's part. He shared with her
the secret of one or two indulgences in such forms of
dissipation as an occasional ride to the Cliff in society
not generally regarded as orthodox. Encouraged
by the evident admiration this social dereliction inspired,
he mentioned the names of one or two ladies
not known in the orthodox circles. Mrs. Smith modestly
lowered her eyes at this mention, and the slightest
possible flush suffused her face. Having paid this
tribute to virtue, she stole a glance at the young man
in which reproof and desire were plainty expressed.
Her glance seemed to say “I am afraid you are wicked,
but I know you are nice” Mr. Joseph Fox excused
himself for these delinquences on the ground that he
had found church circles a trifle show. A man could
not be expected to be a saint at so early an age. The
proverbial wild oats must be sown, though his social
position debarred him from the pleasure of sewing
them under the gaze of the public.

The arrival of the elder Fox interrupted their conversation.
The clergyman greeted his new convert
with cordially but with less tenderness than on her
previous visit. He informed her that he had spoken
with Mrs. Shaw and with Mr. Gray on the subject
Mrs. Smith had introduced but he was afraid the evidence
on which her suspicions were founded was too
slight to warrant earnest remonstrance.

“I can readily conceive,” said the lady sadly,
“that Mrs. Shaw does not like to offend Mr. Gray.”
It was well known that Mr. Shaw died insolvent yet
his family maintained their former style of living.
She did not know as she ought to blame them. Women
were helpless creatures. She then turned the conversation
into spiritual channels, and thoroughly reinstated
herself in the clergyman's estimation.

Passing out she encountered Joseph and contrived
to slip her card into his hand. The young man acknowledged
the fact of its reception by a loud wink
intended to inform the lady that he was sufficiently
an adept in the mysteries of intrigue to comprehend
that she had conferred upon him the honor of a clandestine
appointment.

Three weeks passed without event worthy of record

Bob Shaw's wounds healed rapidly. When the surgeon
pronounced him recovered Mr. Gray sought the
promised conference.

The young man was thoroughly ashamed of his part
of the adventure. He admitted that he had a recollection
of entering the apartment of Mliss with the intention
of getting the kiss he had so often tried to obtain.
It was a mean, cowardly act, and he deserved to
be shot for it. Mr. Gray might shoot him and welcome.
He did not know as there was any particular
use in his living anyhow.

Mr. Gray did not avail himself of the permission so
freely given. He had a faint idea that he might do
society a service by so doing; but he was not ambitious
of distinction as a public benefactor. So he
talked gravely and earnestly to Bob, and finally proposed
the trip to Red Mountain.

Bob accepted the proposition with alacrity. He
wanted to get out of town. He was disgracing himself
and family when he ought to be a help to them. After
a little he sobered down.

“Regie'll miss me,” he said, as if suggesting an excuse
for not putting the project into immediate execution.

“Your sister is willing you should go, as it is for
your benefit.”

“Well, I'll go; but you must take care of Mliss.
Ain't through the fight yet. Do you know, I like the
little girl. Isn't another girl in town that would've
come and kissed me after that. But she knew I didn't
mean to insult her, and she isn't the kind to bear
malice.

Mr. Gray admitted that Mliss had a generous nature.

“Isn't she a brave little piece. Did she ever tell
you abeut going to see her mother?”

“No,” replied Mr. Gray.

Bob related the adventure as it occurred. Mr. Gray
was more astonished than pleased. If she gave way
to such wild impulses it was impossible to tell at what
moment she would throw herself into the hands of
her enemies.

“I perceive,” said Mr. Gray. “I must keep a close
watch over the child.”

“Yes; there's a heap of coin at stake. Why, that
crowd would kill a dozen girls for a half of thirty
thousand dollars.”

“I dare say,” replied Mr. Gray, reflectively.

“If I was in town,” continued Bob, with a side
glance at Mr. Gray's face, “they'd be a little careful.
They know our boys. There's fifty of 'em, all hard
hitters, that would go through any house in town if I
said the word.”

“I perceive,” said Mr. Gray smiling; “that you
don't like this banishment to Red Mountain.”

“Isn't that, Grav. I've done a mean act and ought
to be punished. You're Mliss's guardian, and if you
say San Quintin, San Quintin it is. But I want you
to look out for Mliss. 'Like the little girl.”

“I believe you do.”

“Didn't she kiss me after that! Never so taken
back in my life.”

“I know she'll find a friend in you hereafter.”

“Won't she, though! If she ever wants a fellow
whipped—”

“Let us hope she won't want a fellow whipped.”
interrupted Mr. Gray. “If you want Mliss to like
you, you must be a man. You've been a boy long
enough. Quit these wild ways, these reckless associates.
At Red Mountain you'll find two kinds of men
—one kind idle, dissolute, thieving, breaking all the
laws of God and man. You go there your own master,
and as you choose your associates so will your life
be.”

“Think I'll take the steady kind. Be a change.
Enough of the others down here.”

“When will you be ready to go?”

“Give me three days. Want to say good-by to the
boys. Haven't seen them for three weeks. Don't
dare to come here. Afraid of Regie.”

“I am glad they are. Good-by now. I'll see you
again before you go.”

“Good-by, old boy. S'pose you'll come down with
the stamps. Don't recognize me at the Bank.”

“Never mind. You shall have a fair start.”

“Now for Mliss,” thought Mr. Gray. “The poor
child must be prepared to go back to her mother.”

Mliss came to him in the sitting-room. She stood
before him and looked searchingly in his eyes.

“You've got bad news,” she said.

“Why do you think so?”

“See it in your eyes.”

“Can you tell me what this news is?”

“It's about me. That's all I know.”

“Yes; it is about you. Do you know after all,
Mliss, you'll have to go back to your mother.”

The child's head dropped. She looked half reproachfully
at her friend.

“Are you tired of me?” she asked, at last.

“No, Lissy, not tired of you. You are as dear to
me as ever. But in law a mother has a right to her
child.”

Then he told her as well as he could what investigation
he had made, and with what result.

She listened quietly, following him with precocious
intelligence, asking a question now and then, showing
that she appreciated the nature of the evidence adduced
in support of her mother's claim.

“Wait,” she said, when he had finished; “I've got
something to show you.” She left the room, but soon
returned with an old-fashioned daguerreotype in her
hand.

“Who does that look like,” she asked, holding it before
Mr. Gray.

Mr. Gray examined the face narrowly from every
Point of view. It was the face of a mature woman,
perhaps thirty years of age.

“Whose is this?” he asked.

“Does it look like her?” asked Mliss.

“Not in the least.”

“Well; it is the picture of my mother.”

Mr. Gray looked in surprise at the child, but her
face wore an expression of seriousness that convinced
him that she had reason for the strange assertion she
had made.

“How long have you had this?”

“Do you remember once at Red Mountain you asked
me if I had ever seen my mother?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when I went home I remembered what you
said. I had never thought before I must have had a
mother, I was so unlike other girls. If I thought at
all I thought I had grown from a wasp to be a
little girl. But now I remembered that my father had
given me a picture, and told me it was the picture of
my mother. I did not think much of it at the time,
but when you asked me about my mother I thought I
would get it and see how she looked. Then I laid it
away, but sometimes looked at it and wished she was
alive. Then you know she came and said she was my
mother. I knew she was not, but you were going
away, and I thought, perhaps, she might love me even
if I was not her daughter. But as soon as I saw her I
knew she did not. But you were going away and no
one else cared for me.”

“Poor child! Poor child!” murmured the lawyer, a
suspicious redness about his eyes; “then you wanted
to be loved, after all.”

“Yes,” she replied, softly. “I did not know it, but
I did. I've often been very hungry, but my stomach
never craved food as my heart craved love.”

Mr. Gray had put his arm around the girl's waist
and drawn her to his side. There was a moment of
silence, for the thoughts of both were traveling back
to the school-house at Red Mountain, and to the forest
walks where they had so often straved hand in hand.
It gave him more pleasure to think that he had fed
that starved little heart, if even with crumbs, than he
could imagine in any intellectual triumph that might
be in store for him. The flexible little waist yielded
to his clasp, and, as of old, a little arm stole round his
neck. The brown, but now clean fingers stroked his
beard, and ran, with a touch of delicious tenderness,
through his hair.

“Do you remember when you first came to me at
the school-house at Red Mountain?” he asked.

“Yes; I think if there is a God He took mercy on
me that night and sent me to you. Since I could remember
I had been jeered at and laughed at, and told
that I was wicked. The miners were sometimes kind
to me in a thoughtless way, when they saw me driven
to madness, but no one seemed to think me quite human.
I went to you expecting you to drive me away
or show that you were ashamed to have me for a
scholar. I remember how my heart seemed to open
when you spoke to me. It seemed as if something
sweet and peaceful had dropped in, and for the first
time in a good many years I cried.”

“I remember, and without having been bad, you
promised to he good.”

“Yes: I have been very lonely and very unhappy
since then when I thought you had forgotten me, but
not so wretched as I was before. I remembered that
some one had loved me.”

The master's arm pressed closer about the pupil's
waist, and the pupil's arm wound closer round the
master's neck. For the moment three years were annihilated,
and they were master and pupil again.

“And now they want to take you away from me,
Lissy. The law is stronger than I.”

“I wish I could tell you something,” she said, after
a pause; “if you would not laugh at me.”

“Tell me, Lissy. I promise not to laugh.”

“My father comes to me sometimes—in the night.”

“In your dreams?”

“I suppose so, though I seem to be awake. But I
see him so plainly—not as he was when you knew him,
but as he was years before, when I was a little child.”

“Well; does he seem to speak to you?”

“I do not hear him, yet I understand what he wants
to say. He tells me—you promise not to laugh?”

“Yes, child.”

“He tells me that my real mother still lives, and in
this city.”

“Can he tell you where she lives?”

“No; but I see pictures. I see a dirty narrow alley
with tall brick houses on each side. Then I see rows
of bottles of all kinds and decanters and boxes of
cigars.”

“And what do these pictures mean?”

“I don't know. I think perhaps my mother lives in
this alley, and that she has something to do with these
bottles.”

Mr. Gray did not laugh. He was too candid and
liberal a mind to hold to the belief that the mysteries
of nature were yet fully unfolded to man. He had
seen no visions himself but such as his own imagination
formed, but others might enjoy powers he did
not possess.

But the law sees no visions. The law dreams no
dreams. Between the abodes of the dead and the
living the laws draws an impenetrable vail. The existence
of Mliss's mother must be proved by some
other means than the visions of Mliss.

Every interview with Mliss fixed her closer in his
heart. There was no passion in this love, but an exquisite
tenderness, the love which sacrifices all for the
object loved, the love that is gratified in seeing its object
happy. Questioning his own heart he felt that he
could be content to know that she was happy with
another, or could find hapbiness in making her happy
with himself. But to part with her and know the parting
made her miserable was a step never to be taken.

That night the young lawyer did the hardest thinking
he had ever done in his short life. His own case
was the knottiest that had yet claimed legal investigation.
He even thought of marriage as a way out of
the labyrinth of difficulties, but a marriage without
her mother's consent would get him no legal right to
the custody of his wife. It would only disclose the
disinterested guardian and counsel as the impatient
suitor possibly tempted by a rich bride. He might
watt, but with Mliss in Mrs. Smith's hands there was
no probability that he would see her again. As Bob
Shaw had said, there were men who would kill a
dozen girls for one-half of thirty thousand dollars.
Or she might be forced into a marriage with some
villain who cared only for her money. Or she might
be sent abroad to starve. Or she might be buried in
some Insane Asylum. The only sure way out was to
take her and fly, or to conceal her until she arrived at
an age to contract a legal marriage.