University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE BOY'S OWN ACCOUNT OF IT.

Meantime, it must be supposed that the boy himself,
though generally seeming indifferent, as boys do in
such cases, was sometimes annoyed at being the object
in this way of constant conjecture and occasional
watching.

That afternoon, when they had got a little way from
the rest, he stopped, hot and panting, from his run with
Remsen, and said, after some delay and with some
difficulty, though at the same time without whimpering
or breaking down: —

“Remmy, I wish the fellows would stop, now! They
might plague me, or just us boys in the school, but
they've got no business with other people.”

Remsen, for his part, was willing to take a friend's
share: —

“I'm sure they're welcome to plague me, too, Anty,
if they want to; I don't care,” he said.

“But,” said Antony, seriously, “they've no business
to bring Mrs. Ryan into it.”

“Oh!” said Remsen, “that's only their nonsense, and
it won't do any harm. They've got a notion she's put
here to watch over you.”

To Remsen, at his time of life, a romance of that
sort would, perhaps, seem as natural as any other
happening.

“But I never made-believe I was any lord, or any
thing; so I don't care about that,” said Brade. “I don't
suppose any person believes it, and I don't mind” —

His young companion was not quite so ready to let a
romance go out of life: —

“But I do believe you are something, Bradey; I'm
pretty sure of it; every thing looks like it,” answered
Remsen, laying on piece after piece of probability, until
he had a pretty good pile. “And they do send away
their sons in disguise: don't we read about 'em in
books?”

“But I told you I wasn't, Nick, — I said I wasn't. I
never told anybody such nonsense. I'm just a man's
son, like any of the boys.”

“But you never saw your father, Anty,” argued
Nicholas; “nor your mother.”

“No, I never saw them,” said Antony; “but, then,
I know about them.”

“But what was he?” asked his friend. “Do you
really know?” and it might have seemed as if he were
at the very brink of the mystery.

Brade was a little fellow to have the keeping of a
secret big enough for a man; but for a moment he was
as thoughtful as a man, and then said: —

“I know a good deal about him, — to be sure I do;”
and now again it might have seemed as if the mystery
were already almost open to the eye.

As they were drawing near to the buildings, they
turned off toward the play-ground again.

“Well, won't they let you tell?” asked his companion,
eagerly.

Again Brade was silent, as they walked, and then
answered: —

“All I know isn't much of a secret. I should like
to tell you, I'm sure, Rem. I will, some time;” and he
locked his arm with Remsen's. “I can tell you my
mother was very beautiful, and very good,” — and he
hesitated and was bashful, as most boys would be, —
and he put up his free hand and clasped it with that
which held Remsen's arm.

“Oh, I know she was! I'm sure of it! She must have
been!” said Remsen, who evidently felt almost, if not
quite, as strongly as his friend, and whose voice hesitated
just about as much. He drew Antony's arm in
closer to himself as he spoke. “And what was your
father, Anty?” he asked.

The fading of the daylight and the chilling of the
air very likely intensified the feeling of both, although
they probably had no thought that coldness and darkness
were symbols of separation and mystery. Here
there was a silence again, as they walked, and then
what seemed like an agitated movement of the young
sharer in (more or less of) a great social or family
secret. Remsen hastened with his sympathy: —

“Oh, no matter, Bradey!” he said: “if you can't tell,
I won't ask.”

“It isn't any thing very strange, only I can't, now,”
said Brade. “You tell people there isn't any thing at
all, won't you, Remmy? There really isn't, — I'm sure
there isn't. If anybody asks you, you won't tell them
there is any thing, will you?”

Remsen promised, as strongly as if he knew the
whole already; and they turned again toward the
buildings.

After another silence as before, Brade went a little
further in his confidence: —

“I know my father was an honorable man.”

Remsen was quick to take this up. “There, that's
it! I knew it!” he said.

“Oh, I don't mean that!” said Antony. “I don't
mean so; but she always said `he was a man I might
be proud of.'”

“Why, I thought she died before you knew any
thing,” said his friend. “I didn't know you ever saw
her.”

Here was another bit of mystery.

“Oh! my mother died before my father did,” said
Brade, not clearing it up much.

“I'm just the same way,” said Remsen, glad to be
able to share his orphanhood, “only I've got a father.
But who was it told you?”

This question seemed to throw Antony all back. “I
don't know; let's let it all alone,” he answered. “Mr.
Warren knows. Only I know there isn't any thing
very wonderful; and there isn't any harm in it, I know
that.”

To this last assertion Remsen answered: “Oh!
nobody ever thought of that! What bad would there
be, if you had a great title?”

Young people are pretty much like older people in
the matter of curiosity, only more frank and straight-forward
with it. So Remsen tried once more at another
point, leaving these that his friend might be expected
to feel too strongly about.

“Has Mrs. Ryan got any thing to do with you?” he
asked, in this way bringing them back to the point from
which they had wandered.

Poor Antony seemed to be struggling with the difficulties
of his position, — unwilling to be so reserved

with his friend, and yet unable to speak freely to
him.

“Remsen!” he said, pulling the arm which was
between his two hands, “I don't want to talk any
more about my things. You see, if I know any thing,
I can't tell, because I haven't got any right to; but it
isn't much.” And, when his companion had promised,
Antony made a little further advance: —

“Now mind, Nick, you won't say there is any thing,
if anybody asks you or not.” Remsen promised
again, and Brade continued: “Then I'll tell you as
much as I can. She doesn't meddle with me at all,
but I know she's good. She's one of the best persons
that ever lived in the world, — everybody'd like her,
— and the boys mustn't insult her!”

Nothing that he had said had shown more feeling
than this; and Remsen, too, was very much moved.
They were near the buildings again, and lingered.
Remsen answered for the boys: “Oh! they won't,
Bradey! they didn't mean any harm, — they won't!”
Remsen's question had been fairly answered; and yet,
if the boy thought it all over, he would see that little
change had been made in the mystery. Who Mrs.
Ryan was, and what she used to have to do with
Brade, was rather deeper in the dark than ever, because
now it was plain that there was something
between them; and yet they had nothing to do with
each other. Moreover, it had been told him that
Brade's father was a “man to be proud of,” and an
“honorable man;” but who, or what, or where the
father had been, was still as unknown as before. And
then, too, there were some people that were keeping
Antony Brade from telling all he knew, which might

be little or much, but which was, of course, not so
much as those other people knew.

Some writers of novels describe what passes in the
minds of their several characters, as positively and
minutely as what these say and do. We cannot treat
the personages of our little drama in this way: they
seem to us too real. And so, of Remsen, we can only
say that boys of just about his cleverness, and bearing
such a relation as he bore to Brade, are capable of good
argument (wanting only experience of life), and are
more under the influence of feeling than men. The
track of reasoning which we have pointed out, Remsen,
we think, would be likely to take; and we think that
Brade's positive statements, as to what his father was
and was not, being both few and slight, would be likely,
as time went on, and as he thought the whole thing
over, now and then, to grow less and less, in proportion;
while that which was unknown and behind the
bars of secrecy, being capable of shaping into grandeur
and wonder, which Brade would well befit both in body
and spirit, and also, being capable of unstinted stretch
and growth, would be likely to fill more and more
place in his thought and memory.

The lamps were lighted when the two young friends
went in, and streams of boys, up stairs and down, and
this way and that, in the entries, were moving, as they
usually move in idle times. One boy, occupied with a
book, and another, idle, were standing under a lamp, in
a corner.

Boys never escape banter, from some one or other
of their fellows, when there is any occasion for it; and
traces of the strong feeling which Remsen and Brade
had so lately gone through were still to be seen,

when they showed themselves in the hall, to the knots
and pairs of standers and walkers there.

“Hillo! what's the matter, Emperor?” called out
one of the loiterers, as the light fell upon Brade, who
was hurrying quietly past toward the school-room.

Brade neither stopped, nor made answer of any sort;
but Remsen took his place, and, going up to the boy
who had spoken, said quietly, —

“Look here, Charley Leavitt! he's just been telling
me about his father and mother, and he feels bad:
don't trouble him!”

“Why, can't a fellow talk about his father and
mother, without feeling bad about it?” Leavitt asked,
but lowering his tone, considerately. “His father and
mother may be very big; but I suppose every fellow's
father's the same to him.”

“Well, but his father and mother are dead,” answered
Remsen, “and he don't know very much about
'em, because they died before he was born” —

Just then an unexpected diversion was made, which
drew the conversation away from Brade, as well as
could have been wished.

“Look here!” said Towne, who was just coming
from the school-room, as Remsen had reached this
point, “how's a fello' goin' to be born when his
father and mother's dead?”

Blake, who was standing, reflectively, under the lamp,
now showed that he had his ears open.

“You needn't try that now, Towne,” he said very
gravely. “It's how you can get along, now you are
here.”

Brade and his orphanhood, and all that was unknown
about him, were forgotten by this time; so Remsen

followed his friend into the school-room, and found
him there, surrounded by half a dozen others, who were
making out their Latin, asking him questions which he
answered without book.

Brade himself seemed entirely happy now; and, when
their hanging light needed turning up, mounted to the
top of a desk with great alacrity, before any one else,
to set it right.

As he stood there, for a moment, he was certainly a
bright-looking fellow, and, to those who can be influenced
by looks, decidedly interesting. He happened,
to be sure, to be a well-dressed boy, — and, for that
matter, altogether well-dressed: from his collar and
neck-ribbon down to his well-cut shoe, with silken
braid for tie, all having the air of a refinement inborn
in him, and showing itself in every bend and joint of
his body; and it was his good shape and features that
made his dress particularly becoming. Two or three
words more, as he is the hero of this story, we will add,
with our reader's leave, to his portrait. He had dark
hair, cut short, after the manner of school-boys of the
day, but wavy even in its shortness. A few freckles,
on his cheeks and across his nose, did not disfigure him,
but only showed the fairness and delicacy of his skin.
In fact he was, outwardly, a very good specimen of
school-boys.

An odd-looking, indeed a fantastical-looking boy
had been hovering not far away from this group during
the time that Brade had been among them, and with
his eyes very often turned to Brade, — eyes which
showed a good deal of white between the iris and the
lower lid, and gave their owner a dreamy expression.
Sometimes he drew near, and was apparently just

ready to speak, and sometimes moved off again, but
never to any considerable distance. As Brade jumped
down to the floor, the boy, starting suddenly forward,
took him by the arm, drawing him toward the side of
the room, and saying, at the same time, —

“Look here, Bradey! I want to tell you something.”

“Never mind Peters, Brade! he can wait. What
does `obvenerat' mean?” called out one of the studious
company engaged at the desk. “Oh! here's Meadows!
Come along, Meadows: we want to pump you.” But
the new-comer, winding between desks and across
seats, found his way to his own books, and sat down by
himself.

Brade, who had moved a little way off with Peters,
now stood still and asked, like one going against his
will, whether it was “any thing very particular.”

“Yes, yes!” said Peters, “something very particular,
indeed. It won't take a minute;” and he tried to
draw Brade aside still further.

“He wants to tell you about St. George and the
Dragon, or Sir William Wallace, or something he's
been reading!” Nick Remsen called out.

“No, I don't, — really and truly. Really I don't,”
pleaded Peters. Brade yielded again, and went a little
way further apart.

“May I trap with you?” Peters asked. “You know
I'm pretty lucky.”

“Oh! that's all!” said Brade. “You must ask Remsen:
I don't mind, if he doesn't. Was that all?”

“No, it wasn't all,” said the other boy, hesitatingly,
as if he had some reluctance about saying all that he
had to say. “Look here!” he began, with a queer
sort of abruptness, “you didn't want any succor out
there, to-night, did you?”

The most important word in this sentence not being
a boy's word, he slurred over, in his pronunciation, as
if a little afraid of it.

“Why no! I didn't want any supper out there,” said
Brade, laughing. “I don't know what you're talking
about;” and he looked over toward the others, as if
to see if they were watching.

No one seemed to be attending to them (Remsen
being engaged in lively conversation with one or more
of the Latin-readers, the chief speaker of whom he
called Wadham); and Peters, having apparently satisfied
himself of the same fact, said with great earnestness,
as if he had something on his mind or conscience
till he could get rid of it, —

“They used to call it `succor' when they went round
helping everybody, in the old times,” — he did not say
days of chivalry, — “but I mean when that black lady
was there. You wasn't afraid of her, were you?”
The poor fellow was thinking more of what he wanted
to say than of his grammar.

“Afraid of her?” asked Brade, impatiently. “No!
what should I be afraid of?”

“You don't believe she's any thing but a common
woman; do you?” Peters asked.

Brade fired at this. “What do you mean by `a common
woman'?” he asked.

“Why, a woman with great power,” answered the
other, innocently, “one that can do more than a common
person. They were laughing at me about chivalry;
but I'd have dared to go, if it had been necessary. I
would, indeed!” Peters pleaded as if his character or
happiness depended upon Brade's believing him.

Antony's expression of indignation was changed, at

once, for an expression of contempt, which Peters
seemed to feel deeply.

“She can't do you any harm, can she?” Peters
asked.

To Brade, at this distance of time from the late
scene on the play-ground, and the talks with Remsen,
no painful recollections needed to have been called up
by such a reminder as this from Alonzo Peters; but
he seemed now inclined to be angry at any reference to
what had passed; and having turned his eyes again
toward the other boys in the school-room, as if to see
if any of them were hearing, he answered: —

“No! what harm do you suppose she's going to do
me? You needn't come meddling between me and anybody.”

“I don't want to meddle,” said poor Peters, who was
pitched upon such a key that he could not make himself
understood.

“I should think gentlemen's sons would know better
than to insult a woman,” said Brade. “If they want to
plague me, they may.”

“Did they insult her?” asked Peters. “That's just
what the knights were for, — to prevent people's being
insulted. But the fellows thought she was a sort of a
watch, or a sort of a woman with great power” —

Brade interrupted him: —

“But what fools they must be! They're not babies,
to believe any such nonsense.”

“Well,” said Peters, “I didn't mean to insult her (you
know I've only got a mother), — only, if you wanted
anybody to stand by you, I wouldn't be afraid.” (It
was strange what a valorous young person this slight,
large-eyed, flaxen stripling professed to be.)

“I don't want anybody to stand by me about that,”
said Brade; “and I only wish not to hear any more
about it, please.”

At this moment they heard the Tutor's signal, and
became aware that every one was hurrying to his own
seat for roll-call; and so their conference suddenly
ended, with a hurried request from Peters, taking Brade
by a button, —

“I can trap with you, can't I?” so eager, that Brade
laughed, as he answered that “he didn't care.”

“What did that old Peters want?” asked Remsen,
as they went to supper; and when he heard the proposition
about trapping, which was all that Brade
reported, objected strongly to “taking that moony
fellow in.” He yielded, however, to his friend's good-natured
mediation, and was persuaded at last that they
could get along with Peters easily, — a conclusion which
he filled out by adding, “We needn't have him with
us much, anyhow.”