CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER I.
WILL
MEETS WITH A REBUKE.
“Here
are your vegetables, Nora,” said Will Carden, as he scraped his
feet upon the mat before the kitchen door of the “big house.”
“Come
in, Masther Willyum,” called the cook, in her cheery voice.So
the boy obeyed the summons and pushed open the screen door, setting
his basket upon the white table at Nora’s side.
“Oo,
misery! but them pays is illegant,” she said, breaking open a green
pod and eating the fresh, delicious contents. “Why, Masther
Willyum, the bloom is on ’em yet.”
“I
picked them myself, Nora,” the boy answered, with a pleased laugh,
“and only a little while ago, at that. And you’ll find the
tomatoes and the celery just as nice, I’m sure.”
“They
can’t be bate,” responded the cook, emptying the basket and
handing it to him. “Sure, I don’t know whatever we’d do widout
yez to bring us the grans stuff, Masther Willyum.”
“I
wish,” said he, hesitatingly, “you wouldn’t call me ‘master,’
Nora. Call me Will, as everyone else does. I’m not old enough to
have a handle to my name, and I’m not much account in the
world,—yet.”Nora’s
round, good natured face turned grave, and she looked at the boy with
a thoughtful air.
“I
used to know the Cardens,” she said, “when they didn’t have to
raise vegetables to earn a living.”Will
flushed, and his eyes fell.
“Never
mind that, Nora,” he answered, gently. “We’ve got to judge
people by what they are, not by what they have been. Good bye!” and
he caught up his basket and hastily retreated, taking care, however,
to close the screen door properly behind him, for he knew the cook’s
horror of flies.
“Poor
boy!” sighed Nora, as she resumed her work. “It ain’t his
fault, at all at all, that the Cardens has come down in the wurruld.
But down they is purty close to the bottom, an’ it ain’t loikly
as they’ll pick up ag’in in a hurry.”Meantime
the vegetable boy, whistling softly to himself, passed along the walk
that led from the back of the big house past the stables and so on to
the gate opening into the lane. The grounds of the Williams mansion
were spacious and well kept, the lawns being like velvet and the
flower beds filled with artistic clusters of rare blooming plants. A
broad macadamed driveway, edged with curbs of dressed stone, curved
gracefully from the carriage porch to the stables, crossing the lawn
like a huge scroll.At
one side of this a group of children played upon the grass—two boys
and three girls—while the nurse who was supposed to have charge of
the smallest girl, as yet scarcely more than a baby, sat upon a
comfortable bench engaged in reading a book.As
Will passed, one of the little girls lay flat upon the ground,
sobbing most dismally, her golden head resting upon her outstretched
arms. The boy hesitated an instant, and then put down his basket and
crossed the lawn to where the child lay, all neglected by her
companions.
“What’s
wrong, Gladie?” he asked, sitting on the grass beside her.
“Oh,
Will,” she answered, turning to him a tear-stained face, “m—my
d—d—dolly’s all bwoke, an’ Ted says she’ll h—h—have t’
go to a h—h—hospital, an’ Ma’Weeze an’ Wedgy says they’ll
m—m—make a f—fun’ral an’ put dolly in the c—cold gwound,
an’ make her dead!” and the full horror of the recital flooding
her sensitive little heart, Gladys burst into a new flood of tears.Will
laughed.
“Don’t
you worry about it, Gladie,” he said, in a comforting tone. “We’ll
fix dolly all right, in less than a jiffy. Where is she, and where’s
she broke?”Hope
crept into the little face, begot of a rare confidence in the big boy
beside her. Gladys rolled over upon the grass, uncovering a French
doll of the jointed variety, dressed in very elaborate but soiled and
bedraggled clothes and having a grimy face and a mass of tangled
hair. It must have been a pretty toy when new, but the doll had never
won Gladys’ whole heart so long as it remained immaculate and
respectable. In its present disreputable condition it had become her
dearest treasure, and when she handed the toy to Will Carden and
showed him where one leg was missing from the knee down, a fresh
outburst of grief convulsed her.
“Her
l—leg is all b—bwoke!” she cried.
“That’s
bad,” said Will, examining the doll carefully. “But we’ll play
I’m the doctor, come to make her well. Where’s the other piece,
Gladie?”The
child hastily searched for her pocket, from which, when at last the
opening was found, she drew forth the severed leg. By this time the
other children had discovered Will’s presence and with a wild whoop
of greeting they raced to his side and squatted around him on the
lawn, curiously watching to see how he would mend the doll. Theodore
was about Will’s own age, but much shorter and inclined to
stoutness. His face habitually wore a serious expression and he was
very quiet and stolid of demeanor. Reginald, the other boy, was only
nine, but his nature was so reckless and mischievous that he was the
life of the whole family and his mother could always tell where the
children were playing by listening for the sound of Reginald’s
shrill and merry voice.Mary
Louise was fourteen—a dark haired, blue eyed maiden whose sweet
face caused strangers to look more than once as she passed them by.
To be sure she was very slender—so slight of frame that Reginald
had named her “Skinny” as a mark of his brotherly affection; but
the girl was so dainty in her ways and so graceful in every movement
that it was a wonder even her careless younger brother should not
have recognized the fact that her “skinny” form was a promise of
great beauty in the years to come.Then
there was Annabel, the “odd one” of the Williams family, with a
round, freckled face, a pug nose, tawny red hair and a wide mouth
that was always smiling. Annabel was twelve, the favored comrade of
her brothers and sisters, the despair of her lady mother because of
her ugliness of feature, and the pet of Nora, the cook, because she
was what that shrewd domestic considered “the right stuff.”
Annabel, in spite of her bright and joyous nature, was shy with
strangers, and at times appeared almost as reserved as her brother
Theodore, which often led to her being misunderstood. But Will Carden
was no stranger to the Williams children, being indeed a school-mate,
and as they flocked around him this bright Saturday morning they
showered questions and greetings upon their friend in a somewhat
bewildering manner.The
boy had only one thought in mind, just then: to comfort little Gladys
by making her dolly “as good as new.” So whistling softly, in his
accustomed fashion, he drew out his pocket knife and began fishing in
the hole of the doll’s leg for the elastic cord that had parted and
allowed her lower joint to fall off. Gladys watched this operation
with wide, staring eyes; the others with more moderate interest; and
presently Will caught the end of the cord, drew it out, and made a
big knot in the end so it could not snap back again and disappear.
Then, in the severed portion, he found the other end of the broken
elastic, and when these two ends had been firmly knotted together the
joints of the leg snapped firmly into place and the successful
operation was completed.
“Hooray!”
yelled Reginald, “it’s all right now, Gladie. We’ll postpone
the funeral till another smash-up.”The
little one’s face was wreathed with smiles. She hugged the restored
doll fondly to her bosom and wiped away the last tears that lingered
on her cheeks. The callous nurse looked over at the group, yawned,
and resumed her reading.
“Can
you make a kite fly, Will?” asked Theodore, in his quiet tones.
“Don’t
know, Ted,” replied Will. “What seems wrong with the thing?”At
once they all moved over to the center of the lawn, where a big kite
lay with tangled cord and frazzled tail face downward upon the grass.
“It
keeps ducking, and won’t go up,” explained Reginald, eagerly.
“The
tail seems too long,” said Mary Louise.
“Or
else the cord isn’t fastened in the right place,” added Theodore.
“We’ve been working at it all morning; but it won’t fly.”
“Guess
it’s a ground-kite,” remarked Annabel, demurely. “It slides on
the grass all right.”Will
gave it a careful examination.
“Looks
to me as if the brace-strings were wrong,” said he, resuming his
low whistle, which was an indication that he was much interested in
the problem. “They don’t balance the kite right, you see. There,
that’s better,” he continued, after changing the position of the
cords; “let’s try it now. I’ll hold it, Ted, and you run.”Theodore
at once took the cord, which Will had swiftly untangled and rolled
into a ball, and stood prepared to run when the kite was released.
Next moment he was off, and the kite, now properly balanced, rose
gracefully into the air and pulled strong against the cord, which
Theodore paid out until the big kite was so high and distant that it
looked no bigger than your hand.Ted
could manage the kite now while standing still, and the other
children all rushed to his side, with their eyes fastened upon the
red speck in the sky.
“Thank
you, Will,” said Theodore.
“That’s
all right,” answered Will, indifferently; “all it needed was a
little fixing. You could have done it yourself, if you’d only
thought about it. How’s the sick kitten, Annabel?”
“Fine,”
said the girl. “The medicine you gave me made it well right away.”
“Oho!”
cried Reginald, joyfully, “he gave Annabel medicine to cure a sick
kitten!”
“I’ll
give you some for a sick puppy, Reggie,” said Will, grinning.The
kite-flyers were now standing in a group near a large bed of roses at
the side of the house, and none of them, so intent were they upon
their sport, had noticed that Mrs. Williams had come upon the lawn
with a dainty basket and a pair of shears to gather flowers. So her
voice, close beside them, presently startled the children and moved
the inattentive nurse to spring up and hide her book.
“Isn’t
that the vegetable boy?” asked the lady, in a cold tone.Will
swung around and pulled off his cap with a polite bow.
“Yes,
ma’am,” said he.
“Then
run away, please,” she continued, stooping to clip a rose with her
shears.
“Run
away?” he repeated, not quite able to understand.
“Yes!”
said she, sharply. “I don’t care to have my children play with
the vegetable boy.”The
scorn conveyed by the cold, emphatic tones brought a sudden flush of
red to Will’s cheeks and brow.
“Good
bye,” he said to his companions, and marched proudly across the
lawn to where his basket lay. Nor did he pause to look back until he
had passed out of the grounds and the back gate closed behind him
with a click.Then
a wild chorus of protest arose from the children.
“Why
did you do that?” demanded Theodore of his mother.
“He’s
as good as we are,” objected Annabel.
“It
wasn’t right to hurt his feelings,” said Mary Louise, quietly;
“he can’t help being a vegetable boy.”
“Silence,
all of you!” returned Mrs. Williams, sternly. “And understand,
once for all, that I won’t have you mixing with every low character
in the town. If you haven’t any respect for yourselves you must
respect your father’s wealth and position—and me.”There
was an ominous silence for a moment. Then said little Gladys:
“Will’s
a dood boy; an’ he fixted my dolly’s leg.”
“Fanny!
take that rebellious child into the house this minute,” commanded
the great lady, pointing a terrible finger at her youngest offspring.
“I
don’t want to,” wailed Gladys, resisting the nurse with futile
determination.
“Oh,
yes you will, dear,” said Mary Louise, softly, as she bent down to
the little one. “You must obey mamma, you know. Come,—I’ll go
with you.”
“I’ll
go with Ma’-Weeze,” said the child, pouting and giving her mother
a reproachful glance as she toddled away led by her big sister, with
the nurse following close behind.
“A
nice, obedient lot of children you are, I must say!” remarked Mrs.
Williams, continuing to gather the flowers. “And a credit, also, to
your station in life. I sometimes despair of bringing you up
properly.”There
was a moment’s silence during which the children glanced half
fearfully at each other; then in order to relieve the embarrassment
of the situation Annabel cried:
“Come
on, boys; let’s go play.”They
started at once to cross the lawn, glad to escape the presence of
their mother in her present mood.
“Understand!”
called Mrs. Williams, looking after them; “if that boy stops to
play with you again I’ll have Peter put him out of the yard.”But
they paid no attention to this threat, nor made any reply; and the
poor woman sighed and turned to her flowers, thinking that she had
but done her duty.
CHAPTER II.
THE DOCTOR TELLS THE
TRUTH.
Meantime Will Carden walked
slowly up the lane, his basket on his arm and his hands thrust deep
into his pockets. Once out of sight of the Williams’ grounds his
proud bearing relaxed, and great tears welled in his gray eyes. The
scornful words uttered by Mrs. Williams had struck him like a blow
and crushed and humiliated him beyond measure. Yet he could not at
first realize the full meaning of his rebuff; it was only after he
found time to think, that he appreciated what she had really meant
by the words. Her children were rich, and he was poor. There was a
gulf between them, and the fine lady did not wish her children to
play with the vegetable boy. That was all; and it was simple
enough, to be sure. But it brought to Will’s heart a bitterness
such as he had never known in all his brief lifetime.
He liked the Williams boys and
girls. They had always been good comrades, and not one of them had
ever hinted that there was any difference in their positions. But
of course they did not know, as their mother did, how far beneath
them was the poor “vegetable boy.”
Will glanced down at the worn
and clumsy shoes upon his feet. The leather was the same color as
the earth upon the path, for he worked in the garden with them, and
couldn’t have kept them clean and polished had he so wished. His
trousers were too short; he knew that well enough, but hadn’t cared
about it until then. And they were patched in places, too, because
his mother had an old-fashioned idea that patches were more
respectable than rags, while Will knew well enough that both were
evidences of a poverty that could not be concealed. He didn’t wear
a coat in summer, but his gray shirt, although of coarse material,
was clean and above reproach, and lots of the village boys wore the
same sort of a cheap straw hat as the one perched upon his own
head.
The Williams children didn’t
wear such hats, though. Will tried to think what they did wear; but
he had never noticed particularly, although it was easy to remember
that the boys’ clothes were of fine cloths and velvets, and he had
heard Flo speak of the pretty puffs and tucks in the Williams
girls’ dresses. Yes, they were rich—very rich, everyone said—and no
one knew so well as Will how very poor and needy the Cardens were.
Perhaps it was quite right in Mrs. Williams not to want her
children to associate with him. But oh! how hard his rejection was
to bear.
Bingham wasn’t a very big town.
Formerly it had been merely a headquarters for the surrounding
farmers, who had brought there their grain to be shipped on the
railroad and then purchased their supplies at the stores before
going back home again. But now the place was noted for its great
steel mills, where the famous Williams Drop Forge Steel was made
and shipped to all parts of the world. Three hundred workmen were
employed in the low brick buildings that stood on the edge of the
town to the north, close to the railway tracks; and most of these
workmen lived in pretty new cottages that had been built on grounds
adjoining the mills, and which were owned and rented to them by
Chester D. Williams, the sole proprietor of the steel
works.
The old town, with its humble
but comfortable dwellings, lay scattered to the south of the “Main
Street,” whereon in a double row stood the “stores” of Bingham, all
very prosperous because of the increased trade the steel mills had
brought to the town.
The great Williams mansion,
built only a half dozen years before, stood upon a knoll at the
east end of the main street, and the natural beauties of the
well-wooded grounds had been added to by planting many rare shrubs
and beds of beautiful flowers. It was not only the show place of
Bingham but the only really handsome house in town, and the natives
looked upon it with much pride and reverence.
The cottage occupied by the
Cardens stood upon the extreme south edge of the village, and with
it were two acres of excellent land, where Will and Egbert,
assisted at times by their mother and little Florence, raised the
vegetables on which their living depended. Egbert was a deaf-mute
and his right arm was shrivelled and almost useless, all these
afflictions being the result of an illness in his babyhood. But it
was surprising how much work he could do in the garden, in the way
of weeding and watering and even spading; so he was a great help to
the family and contributed much toward the general support. Egbert
was two years older than Will, who was now fifteen, and Florence—or
“Flo,” as everybody called her—was a yellow haired, sunny natured
little elf of ten.
Fortunately, the family living
did not depend altogether upon the garden; for Mr. Jordan, the
secretary at the steel works and at one time John Carden’s best
friend, had boarded with the family for eight years—ever since the
day when Will’s father so mysteriously disappeared, only to be
reported dead a month later, and the family fortunes were swept
away in one breath.
Mr. Jordan occupied the best
room in the cottage, and paid his board regularly every Saturday
night. He was a silent, reserved man, about fifty years of age, who
seldom spoke to Mrs. Carden and never addressed the children. After
supper his custom was to take a long walk down the country lane,
returning by a roundabout way to shut himself in his room, whence
he only emerged in time for breakfast. After that meal, which he
ate alone, he would take a little lunch basket and stalk solemnly
away to the mills, there to direct the clerical work that came
under his supervision.
Mr. Jordan was a man greatly
respected, but little liked. He had no friends, no companions
whatever, and seemed to enjoy the clock-like regularity and
solitude in which he lived.
It was toward this humble home
that Will Carden, after being dismissed by Mrs. Williams, directed
his steps on that bright Saturday forenoon. He tried hard to bear
up under the humiliation he had suffered; but there was no one near
to see him and for a few minutes he gave way to the tears that
would force themselves into his eyes, and let them flow
unrestrained. Yet he kept on his way, with bent head and stooping
shoulders, a very different boy from the merry, light hearted youth
who had carried the heavy basket to the big house only an hour
ago.
Suddenly, to the eyes blurred
with tears, a huge, dark form loomed up in the road just ahead of
him. Will hastily wiped away the unmanly drops and tried to
whistle. Someone was coming, and whoever it was must not know he
had been guilty of crying. Also he shifted his path to the edge of
the road; but the other did the same, and the boy stopped abruptly
with the knowledge that he had been purposely halted.
Then he glanced timidly up and
saw a round, bearded face and two shrewd but kindly eyes that were
looking at him from beneath a slouched felt hat.
“Hello, Doctor,” he said,
letting his dismal whistle die away, and starting to pass round the
stalwart form before him.
But Dr. Meigs laid a heavy hand
on the boy’s shoulder, and made him face round again.
“What’s up, Will?”
The voice was big and full, yet
gentle as it was commanding.
“Noth’n, Doctor.”
“Look here; you’re telling
whoppers, young man. Lift up your head.”
Will obeyed.
“You’ve been
crying.”
“Something got in my eye,” said
the boy.
“To be sure. Tears. What’s it
all about, Will? And, mind you, no lying! Your father’s son should
sp [...]
