CHAPTER IV.

THE FAIR.

An old man sat alone in one of those large, old-fashioned houses, which have been almost driven out of existence by the march of commerce into the haunts of fashion. The rooms were broad, deep, and well lighted; for there was plenty of land around the old house, which was half occupied by the remnants of an old-fashioned garden, in which two or three quince trees might be seen from the side windows, covered with plump, orange-tinted fruit in the late autumn, but gnarled and knotted old skeletons, as they appeared to their owner that frosty afternoon.

The room in which this man sat was large, old-fashioned, and gloomy enough. A Brussels carpet, worn in places till the linen foundation broke through the faded pattern, was stretched upon the floor without quite covering it, and a breadth of striped stair-carpeting eked out the deficiency, running along the footboards in meagre imitation of a cordon.

A ponderous old sideboard of solid mahogany, which contained a multitude of drawers and shelves for every thing, stood in a recess by the fireplace. On this were decanters with silver caps; and tiny silver shields hung around their necks, telling what manner of spirits was imprisoned within, bespeaking the old-fashioned hospitality of forty years ago; and over the sideboard hung a picture from some Dutch artist in which bunches of carrots, heads of cabbages, birds, newly shot, and fish ready for the pan, were heaped together in sumptuous profusion. It was a fine appetizing kitchen scene, in which a few marigolds and hollyhocks had been thrown, as tasteful market-men sometimes cast a handful of coarse flowers on a customer’s basket. Some mahogany chairs, with well-worn horse-hair seats, stood against the wall; and a stiff, spindle-legged sofa, covered with the same useful material, occupied a recess near the fireplace, like that filled by the sideboard.

This old man, who seemed a part and parcel of the room, sat at a round table, old-fashioned as the sideboard, on which the remnants of his solitary dinner still remained. A decanter, full of some ruby-tinted liquor, stood before him; but the glasses were empty, and not a drop of liquid had as yet stained them. With both elbows on the table, and both hands bent under his chin, he sat gazing on the Dutch picture; but apparently seeing something far beyond it, which filled his eyes with gloom, and bent his brows with heavy thought. At last he moved heavily in his chair, and pushed the decanter away toward the centre of the table.

“Why should I think of him now more than at another time?” he muttered. “The fellow is safe enough, I dare say; very likely isn’t in the army at all. Am I a man to grow moody over a dream, or a bit of nightmare? I wouldn’t have believed it if any one had told me so; but, spite of myself, I do feel shaky, and tons of lead seem to be holding down my heart. Hark! I heard the patter of feet running swiftly; now a cry. There is news from the army. Tush! what is that to me? I have no one to mourn or hope for again.”

The old man started from his chair and went swiftly into the hall, crying out, in a hoarse voice, as he flung the door open,

“Boy, boy! I say—boy, a paper, quick!”

The newsboy broke up a shrill cry and came clamping back, selecting a paper from the bundle under his arm as he moved.

“Great battle, sir; list of killed and wounded a yard long! Ten cents; thank you! Can’t stay to give change. Most of our fellers ’ed stick you with a week older, and take the money at that. But I mean ter have yer for a general customer. Hallo! there comes another chap yelling like blazes; bet yer a copper, old boy, that I get round the corner fust.”

Away the sharp, young rogue darted down the street, with the clatter of his thick shoes beating the pavement like a pair of flails, and his shrill, young voice cutting the frosty air with a shrill clearness that made the old man on the door-step shiver.

“It is very cold,” he said, buttoning his coat over his chest with trembling fingers. “Yet I could see the wind whistling through that little fellow’s hair, and he did not seem to mind it, or think that his voice is a death-cry to so many. Why did I get this? What do I care who lives or dies?”

The old man went into the house as he spoke, and sat down on the spindle-legged sofa, unfolding his damp paper in the light of a window behind it. It was the first time he had interested himself in the war news enough to purchase an extra. Now his breath came quickly, and his hands shook with something beside cold.

The boy had spoken no more than the truth. Column after column of names filled up the dead-list; and that was followed by so many names of the wounded and missing, that the most eager affection would tire in searching them. But the eyes of this weary old man seized upon each name, and dropped it with the quickness of lightning. He had so long been accustomed to adding up columns of intricate figures, that names of the dead glided by him like shadows. One column was despatched, and then another.

“What folly,” he said, looking up from the paper. “Why should a dream set me to searching here? Ha! Oh! God, help me! It is here!”

The paper dropped from his hold; his head fell forward. Besting an elbow on each knee, he supported that drooping head with two quivering hands. After a time he arose from the sofa, and began to walk slowly up and down the room with his arms behind him, and his fingers interlocked with a grip of iron.

“Her only son—her only hope.”

This hard, perhaps we may say, this bad man, had been so shaken by a dream that had seized upon his conscience in the night, that he was almost given up to regrets; for the dream was reality now—that paper had told him so.

“Why should I have bought that?” he said, starting from the paper which rustled against him as he walked. “Just as I was thinking to search him out, too. Oh, me! it is hard—it is hard!”

It is an old man I am writing about—a hard, stern man, self-sufficient, and above such small human weaknesses as grow out of the affections; but his whole nature was broken up for the moment. Some plan of atonement, generosity, or ambition, had been overthrown by the reading of that one name among the killed of a great battle.

These thoughts crowded on the lonely man so closely, that he felt suffocated even in that vast room, and went into the hall, beating his breast for the breath that was stifling him. But even the cold hall seemed without atmosphere. So the old man seized his hat, put on an overcoat that hung on the rack, and went into the street. He had no object, save that of finding air to breathe, and wandered off, walking more briskly than he had done for years, though his cane had been left behind. For more than an hour the old man wandered through the streets, so buried, soul and sense, in the past, that he scarcely knew whether it was night or day. At last he came opposite the great fair. Around the entrance a crowd was gathered, and people were passing through in groups, as if some special attraction carried them there.

The old man remembered at once that he had been applied to for contributions to this fair, and, being in a crusty mood, had refused to contribute a cent. Now, when the effect of that name in the death-list was upon him, he groaned at the remembrance of his rudeness; and forcing his way with the crowd, purchased a ticket and went in.

This old man was not much given to amusing himself; and the beautiful scene before him had more than the charm of novelty. The flags, wreathed among flowers and heavy evergreen garlands, made the enclosure one vast bower, haunted with lovely women, ardent, generous, and radiant with winning smiles. The lights, twinkling through gorgeous draperies and feathery-fine boughs, almost blinded him as he came in from the dark street. The life, the hum of conversation, the laughter that now and then rang up from some stall, or group, fell upon him strangely. These people seemed mocking the heavy, dead weight of sorrow that lay upon his soul. At another time he would have gone away in disgust, muttering some sarcasm, and escaping out of the brightness with a sneer. But he was just then too wretched.

He had refused money when it was asked of him; but now—now, when conscience was crowning his soul with thorns, he would be liberal. Fortunately, there was plenty of money in the breast-pocket which almost covered his heart—that should redeem him from his own reproaches. He would buy any amount of pretty nothings, and, for once, fling away his money like dirt—why not? It was his own, and no one in this world had a right to question him.

With these new thoughts in his mind, the old man paused before one of those fairy-like enclosures, which, in such places, seem to have drifted out of Paradise. It was one mass of evergreens, living ivy, and creeping plants, rich with blossoms; back of the little bower this wealth of foliage was drawn back like the drapery of a window, and through its rich green came the gorgeous warmth of hot-house plants in full flower. Fuchsias, with a royal glow of purple at heart, and rich crimson folding it in, drooping over a Hebe vase of pure white alabaster, whose pedestal was planted among azalias white as clustering snow, pink as a summer-cloud, or blood-red, in great blossoming clusters, that fairly set the atmosphere ablaze with their gorgeousness. Behind all this was some tropical tree of the acacia species, drooping like a willow over the whole, and laden with raciness of delicate golden blossoms. Around the pedestal of the vase was a wreath of fire, composed of tiny jets of gas, trembling up and down like jewels half transmuted into the atmosphere, which shed a tremulous brilliancy into the cups of the flowers, and over the greenness of the leaves.

In the midst of this lovely spot stood a young girl, with a fleecy white nubia twisted around her head, and a heavy velvet sacque shrouding her under-dress from head to foot—or, rather, so far as her person was visible. She had evidently only stepped into the stall to supply the place of its usual occupant, and looked a little bewildered when the old man came up and inquired the price of a wax-doll.

“This,” said Georgiana Halstead, seizing the doll, which gave out a little, indeed, sullen shriek, as her hand pressed its bosom, “this lovely little lady in full ball costume, with a flounce of real lace, and this heavenly sash. Well, really, sir, I should think—let me see,” here Georgiana cast a side glance at her customer—“I should think, twenty, or—yes, twenty-five dollars—thirty, say——”

The nature of the man arose above his sorrow. He cast a withering glance at the fair young face turned upon him, and withdrew his hand from under his vest, where he had half thrust it in search of his pocket-book.

“Thirty dollars for that thing?” he growled.

“For this thing! this loveliest of lovely little ladies! Why, one blink of her eyes is worth the money. Just see her fall asleep,” cried Georgiana; and with a magic twist of her finger, the doll closed its blue eyes in serene slumber. “Thirty dollars—I am astonished at myself for asking so little.”

A grim smile stole over those thin lips, and the old man’s eyes sparkled through their gloom, as he looked on that cheerful face dimpling with mischief, turned now upon him, now upon the doll. The scarlet ball-dress, in which the mimic fashionable was arrayed, sent a flush down the white arm that held it up for admiration, and from which the velvet sleeve had fallen loosely back, revealing a bracelet of pure gold, formed of two serpents twined together, and biting each other. The old man’s face became suddenly of a grayish white as he saw the ornament.

“Where—where did you get that?” he questioned, in a low, hoarse voice, touching the bracelet with his finger.

“That, sir,” cried Georgiana, lowering the doll till her sleeve fell to its place again, and speaking with sudden dignity, “why should you ask?”

“Because I have seen one like it before, and only one. Do not be angry, young lady. I have no wish to be rude; but tell me where you got those twisted snakes?”

“They belong to Mrs. Halstead, my father’s stepmother,” answered Georgiana, impressed by the intense earnestness of the man.

“Mrs. Halstead! I do not know the name; but I should like those serpents. If this Mrs. Halstead is one of your benevolent women, who are willing to fling their ornaments into the national fund, I will pay her handsomely for them—very handsomely.”

“Of course, grandmamma is as charitable as the day is long, and would give almost any thing to help those who suffer for our country; but I don’t know about these pretty reptiles. She may have a fondness for them—some association, as Miss Eliza says.”

“No, no, that cannot be! they have no connection with her. She must have bought them at some pawnbroker’s sale. They can have no value to her, except as a curiosity. Ask her if she will sell them for ten times their weight in gold!”

“I—I will ask her, if you wish it so much; but she will think it strange.”

“No matter—ask her. And now, to show you that I am in earnest, here is thirty dollars for that bit of satire on womankind, which you may hand over to the first little girl that comes along. Ah! here is one now, looking meek and frightened. Little woman, would you like a doll?”

The little girl thus addressed turned her great, brown eyes from the old man to the doll, shrinking back, and yet full of eager desire.

“Is it for me?—for me?” she said at last, as the glorious creature was pressed upon her. “Please, don’t make fun of me!”

“He isn’t making fun, indeed he isn’t, my little lady,” cried Georgiana, delighted with the whole proceeding. “I dare say he hasn’t any little girl of his own, and wants to do something nice by the little girl of somebody else. Take it in your arms, dear, and don’t forget the good gentleman when you say your prayers.”

“I won’t, indeed, sir. I’ll put you into the long prayer, and the short one, too, special,” cried the little creature, dimpling brightly under her happiness, and huddling the great doll up in her arms as if she had been its mother. “Aunt, aunt, see here!” Away the little creature darted toward some woman, who was so mingled up with the crowd that her bonnet only could be distinguished.

“There is one person made happy by your thirty dollars, sir,” said Georgiana, brightly; “to say nothing of those who will receive your money. Any thing more that I can show you? Here comes a couple of little boys barefooted, and looking so poor.”

The old man turned toward the two boys, who had wandered away from some inner room, and were gazing around them with eager curiosity. Something in their faces seemed to strike him, for his countenance changed instantly, and he took a step forward to meet the children, who paused before the stall where Georgiana presided, lost in admiration.

“What would you buy here, if you had plenty of money?” asked the old man, laying one hand on the elder lad’s shoulder.

“If I had plenty of money?” repeated the boy, staring into the dark face bending over him. “I—I don’t know. I never had plenty of money.”

“But you would like to buy some of these nice things?”

“Oh! yes, I would.”

“Well, what is there here that you like?”

The lad took a swift survey of the brilliant articles arranged in Miss Halstead’s stall.

“I’d buy one of them caps for grandma,” he said; “and that shawl, with the red and white border, for sister Anna.”

“No, no! buy ’em a whole heap of candy, and cakes, and oranges, and peanuts,” cried the younger child, pulling at his brother’s coat.

“Come here,” said the old man, in a tone of compassion, “let me look in your face.”

The elder lad turned frankly, and lifted his eyes to those of the old man. That was a frank, honest young face, full of life and purpose, notwithstanding the pallor which spoke of close rooms and insufficient food.

“These are thin clothes for winter,” said the old man, grasping Robert’s shoulder almost roughly. “What is your father doing, that you have nothing better than these things?”

“My father went to fight for his country,” answered the lad, bravely. “It isn’t his fault.”

“It isn’t his fault,” repeated the younger boy, creeping behind his brother as he spoke, dismayed by his own voice.

“No shoes!” muttered the old man.

“A soldier’s boys know how to go barefooted,” said Robert. “It don’t hurt us—much.”

“Come with me! come with me! I saw some things round here that may be worth something!”

The old man strode away as he spoke, followed by the two boys, who ran to keep up with him. He stopped at a less showy stall than that he had left, and spoke to the rather grave female who presided there.

“Take a good look at these children, and fit them out with warm, decent clothing. You can supply something fanciful in the way of a hat or cap for the little fellow with the curls. Let the boots be thick and strong. Leave nothing out that will make them comfortable for the winter. Make them up in two bundles; they’ll find strength to carry them, I dare say.”

“Oh, yes, yes!” almost shouted the boys in unison.

“We know how to carry carpet-bags and bundles, don’t we?” continued Robert, addressing Joseph, who was shrinking away from the sound of his own voice.

“You do,” whispered the little fellow; “you do.”

“Come along with me,” said the old man, who had cast off half the weight of his sorrow since these children had approached him. “There is something to eat around here.”

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Joseph, with a sigh of infinite delight; “oranges, maybe, or peanuts.”

“Sir,” said Robert, lifting his clear eyes, bright with thankfulness, to the old man’s face, that was so intently regarding him, “would you just as leave let me stay behind, and take grandmother and sister Anna? They’d like it so much.”

“No, no! come along! I’ll give you something for them. We can’t have women about us.”

He spoke peremptorily, and the children obeyed him, almost afraid.

All sorts of delicious things broke upon the lads when they entered that portion of the fair which was used as a restaurant; and these half-famished young creatures grew wild with animal delight when cakes, pies, and oranges were placed in their hands.

The old man sat down, and, leaning his elbows on a table, watched these happy children as they eat the food he had given them. In years and years he had not tasted pure joy like that. Any one, to have watched him then, would never have believed him the hard old fellow that he was. His eyes sparkled, and he chuckled softly when little Joseph hid away an orange in his pocket, thinking how nice it would be for grandma; and, after a little, he fell to himself, and began to eat with relish. The very sight of those children enjoying themselves so much had given him an appetite.

The bundles were all ready when this strange group returned for them.

“Now for the red and white shawl, and that cap,” said the old man. “Here are lots of candies, and the other things in this paper, which we will roll up in them.”

“Will you, though?” said Robert, taking a bundle under each arm. “I say, sir, won’t you let me hold your horse and run errands for all this? I’ll do it first-rate.”

The old man looked down kindly upon him.

“Perhaps, who knows,” he said, answering some idea in his own mind rather than what the lad was saying. “Here is the stall, but the lady is gone.”

True enough; another person had taken the place of Georgiana Halstead, of whom the shawl and cap were bought.

The old man was keenly disappointed, for he had intended to learn something more about the serpent-bracelet. But the young lady in charge had no knowledge of the lady who had preceded her temporarily.

While the old man was questioning this lady, a young girl came hurrying through the crowd, eagerly looking for some one in eager haste. She saw the boys, and came breathlessly up.

“Oh! I am so glad to have found you, boys!” she cried, addressing them in haste. “The ladies are waiting for you!”

“Oh, Anna! he has been so kind! You wouldn’t believe it!” cried Robert, looking down at his bundles. “Such clothes!”

“Such cakes and candies,” chimed in Joseph.

“And something for you. Such a shawl—there it lies; and a cap for grandma!” said Robert. “Thank him, Anna; I cannot do it half!”

“I don’t understand—I am in such haste. The time is up, sir; but I think you have done something very generous, that my brothers want me to thank you for. I do it with all my heart. But we must go.”

“Not till you have taken these,” said the old man, hastily rolling up the paper of bon-bons in the shawl, which he had just paid for. “It is a present from this fine lad; wear it for his sake.”

“I’ll carry it for her, and the cap, too,” cried Joseph, seizing on the carelessly-rolled bundle.

“Good-night, sir! I wish I had time to thank you,” said Anna, earnestly. “Good-night!”

“Good-by, sir!” said Robert, with a faltering voice; for he was near shedding tears of gratitude.

“Good-by! I wish I could do something for you.”

Away the three went, after uttering their adieus, passing swiftly through the crowd.

The old man followed them at a distance till they led him into that portion of the building devoted that evening to tableaux, when they disappeared through a side door.

“A dollar extra, here!” said a man stationed near the door. “The seats are almost filled!”

The old man took some money from his pocket, and went in, feeling interested in the persons he had befriended, and resolved to find them again if possible. He sat down on a bench near the door, and waited. The room was full, the light dim, and a faint hum of whispering voices filled the room.

At last a bell rang. Some dark drapery, directly before him, was drawn back, and then appeared before him those boys huddled together near an old lady, in poverty-stricken garments, with a yawning fireplace in the background, and a young girl brightening the tableau with her beauty.

There was breathless stillness in the room—for the picture was one to touch the heart and fire and refine the imagination. No one stirred; and every eye was bent on that living picture of misery. But, all at once, some confusion arose near the door; an old man was pressing his way out so eagerly that he pushed the doorkeeper, who was leaning forward to see the picture, so rudely aside, that he almost fell.