The Alchemist's Secret Part 6

III.

Long since, the factory whistle has sounded the signal for release from the day's toil. The workers in the factory, a small army of men and women, boys and girls, poured forth from the doorways of the huge buildings, swarmed up the street, laughing and chattering, and dispersed to their several homes. The buzz and jarring of the machinery have ceased and silence fills the place. Even the offices are deserted, with the exception of one from which issues the steady click, click, of a typewriter.

Jane Horton, private secretary and confidential clerk to the millionaire president of the company, is a very busy as well as a very important individual. The sound of that whistle means release for the workers in the rooms above, the toilers at the machines where she herself labored so many years ago; it means release for stenographers, bookkeepers, clerks, in the general office without; but for her, there yet remain many things to be attended to before she can take advantage of the half holiday and seek the seclusion of her small suburban home. Important letters must be written, private letters which cannot be entrusted to the care of an ordinary stenographer. For some time longer Jane's typewriter clicks unceasingly, and it is nearly dusk before her task is finished and she is free to lock her office door and leave the building for the night.

She walks rapidly along the darkening streets, sorry that she is so late. She fears Marie will have been watching for her all the afternoon and worrying perhaps, little Marie, the lame factory girl whom she has befriended, the girl with eyes so strangely like to Richard's. The resemblance is startling at times, though Richard's eyes were ever merry, ever dancing with fun and mischief, while Marie's are grave and sweet and sad. Still, the likeness is there, and probably that is the reason that Jane has been so anxious to help this girl, scarce more than a child, who had appealed to her for aid. Marie was by no means the first to seek her a.s.sistance in time of need, for Miss Horton's name stands for all that is kind and gracious and helpful in every department of the factory. The woman who has succeeded, who has worked her way up, step by step, to a position of trust and confidence, does not forget the time when she stood, as Marie does now, with her foot upon the lowest round of the ladder. She never forgets the days when she worked as they work, and is ever ready to extend a helping hand to those who need it.

To her, then, Marie had come, as had so many others before her, in her hour of trial and distress. Hastening along the street, Jane smiles as she recalls the day Marie had first tapped upon her office door and, entering timidly, waited for permission to speak. Jane had been unusually busy and frowned impatiently at the interruption. The eyes, so like to Richard's, had quelled her anger and she listened to the girl's story.

It was Jackie was the trouble this time, Jackie who came next to her and who helped in the support of the family. He'd just broken his leg and was in the hospital and there was no telling when he would be out again.

The twins were sick, too, and there were Nellie and Minnie and the little baby, and mother not strong enough to work even if she had time to leave the children. Father? Well, that's just where Miss Horton's help was needed. Father had worked here in the factory, out in the s.h.i.+pping-room, but they'd discharged him several weeks ago. Yes, father had been discharged before, many times before, and had been taken back again. This time they would not let him come back though he had begged and pleaded and promised faithfully never to touch the drink again. No, no, father did not get drunk very often, only once in a while, and he was never cross or ugly. He was the kindest and best of fathers only he drank a little just once in a while. Wouldn't Miss Horton please; please, say a word for father and get them to take him back? Miss Horton hesitated for a moment, looked into the eyes so like Richard's, then promised that she would.

She certainly kept her promise and said, not one word, but many, in her efforts to have Marie's father reinstated in his former position. The man was a stranger to her, she had never seen him, never even heard his name before, but for Marie's sake she pleaded his cause most earnestly.

The same reply met her every turn:

"Not a better man in the place when he was sober, the very best worker we've got. But just when we're busiest and need him most, off he goes and gets drunk. Not so very often, oh! no, but always when he's needed most. We've forgiven him time again, but he's had his last chance. We'll not take him back."

Jane had even appealed to the president himself, but the appeal was useless. He never interfered in such matters, left them entirely to the department heads.

The eyes like Richard's filled with tears as Marie was told of the utter failure of all appeals. The pale face grew paler day by day and the thin figure drooped wearily. Jane had, more than once, offered pecuniary help, which had been gently but firmly refused. They'd manage somehow, Marie thought, until Jackie was well again and able to help, though it was hard to feed so many on just one girl's pay. If they would only take father back, that was all the help she needed; just for them to take father back. He'd not touched a drop now for six months and vowed he never would again. He'd taken the pledge and was making the First Fridays. He'd not missed one since he began five months ago, and oh! if they'd only give him one more chance. That's what father said himself, that's all he wanted, just one more chance to make good. He meant it this time, too, Marie was quite sure of that. If they'd only give him that one chance he'd make the most of it.

Jane Horton had promised to make one more attempt and she is now carrying to Marie the good news that her efforts have been crowned with success.

Following the directions given her, she pa.s.ses from the broad, well-lighted streets to smaller, darker ones. Finally she turns down a narrow, crooked alley and enters a tumble-down house at the farther end.

Bad as was the tenement home of her early childhood, this place is far worse, and a wave of pity fills Jane's heart as she thinks of that delicate, patient child growing up in surroundings like these. Marie herself opens the door in response to Jane's knock, her eyes anxiously asking the question her lips dare not utter.

"Good news, little one, good news," cried Jane joyously, advancing into the room and taking in at a glance the terrible poverty of the place, the shabbiness of the woman laying the table for supper, and of the barefooted, ragged children who stare at her in open-mouthed astonishment. "Where is your father, Marie? Take me to him at once for I bring him what he asked for--one more chance to make good."

In answer to Marie's call, the door leading into an adjoining room opens and a man steps forth. The light of the lamp s.h.i.+nes full upon his face, and for one breathless moment they face each other in silence, the woman who has succeeded in life, the man who has failed, and to whom she brings one last chance of redeeming his failure.

Despite the change of name and the greater changes wrought by the hand of time, she knows him at once. It is Richard, her brother.

THE ELEVENTH HOUR.

It was an ordinary tenement house of the poorest cla.s.s, exactly like its neighbors, which lined both sides of the dingy street. The door was always open, more than half the time hanging by one hinge, the stairways were dark and crooked, the rooms small and dirty. In a back kitchen on the topmost floor, a man sat, or rather huddled, in a chair drawn close to the stove. His eyes were closed and his head drooped wearily against the back of the chair. That last spell of coughing had been unusually severe and had left him weak and breathless. A plague on the cough, anyway. Why was it he could not get rid of it? The doctor from the dispensary, the district nurse, even Maggie, had a.s.sured him that with the coming of summer this cold of his would be better. Summer was here, though you would not think so to-day with this raw east wind and drizzling rain, and instead of being better he was worse, decidedly worse. Could it be that they were all wrong and Nancy alone was in the right? Nancy, who, of all that approached him, was the only one who dared to tell him the truth. The truth? No, it was a lie, a lie; he was not dying, he was going to be well and strong again as soon as he could shake this cold that had settled upon him. Nancy was a meddlesome old woman. He had told her so not more than an hour ago and had sent her off about her business. He had been harsh to her and rude, and after all she was old and had probably meant to do him a kindness. But, then, he was not sorry; she'd not come bothering him any more now with her dismal croakings of death and eternity. Death? He defied it. Eternity? Time enough to think of that.

He opened his eyes and they rested upon the chair which Nancy had occupied one hour ago, which she had occupied so frequently during the past few months. She had been almost a daily visitor since he and Maggie had been living in these wretched lodgings in "Nancy's Alley," as it was called. Evidently, the old woman seemed to think the entire street was her personal property and that she was responsible for the welfare of all the dwellers thereon. Well, he guessed he had taught her not to come meddling in his affairs. He hoped he had anyway. Dying? The idea of such a thing; how dared she tell him he was dying when everyone else fed him with the hope that he would be better to-morrow, next week, next month.

Ah! yes, but to-morrow never came; or rather, when it did come, it was no longer to-morrow with its promise of renewed health. It was to-day, with the same disappointment, the same pains, the same racking cough, which he had endured on so many other to-days that had come and gone before it.

Watching the chair she had so lately occupied, he could see once more the figure of Nancy, her bright eyes and cheery smile, and hear the nimble tongue which chattered so merrily or soothed so gently according to the needs of her listener. He could see the little, stooped figure in its ragged gown, the work-worn hands, the smooth, grey hair. He would miss her visits; yes, indeed, he would miss them sorely. But what right had she to go talking to him of death? Still, she was old, she had been kind to him, and he had driven her away in anger. He had called her a meddlesome busybody who went about poking and prying into other people's affairs and had ordered her to leave the house and never enter it again.

"Pokin' an' pryin' is it?" she had answered quietly as she made her way towards the door. He remembered now how difficult it had been for her to walk even on the level floor; what a task it must have been for her to climb those three long flights of stairs as she had been doing every day for these months past. "Pokin' an' pryin' is it? Maybe so, maybe so. But Nancy didn't mean it that way, no, lad, indeed she didn't. Nancy was thinkin' of her own boy lyin' at rest out yonder with the green gra.s.s growin' over him, her own boy that went the same way you're a goin' now.

He'd be about the same age as you, too, an' there's the look on your face that I seen on his so often, the desperate, despairin' look that it breaks my heart to see. I figured that if you was my boy, I'd be glad for some one to tell you the truth an' try to bring you back to G.o.d before it's too late. I'd figured, too, that most likely you had a mother somewheres. She may be still on the earth prayin' for you an'

longin' for you, same as I prayed an' longed for my Danny for so many years. She may be in heaven lookin' down on us now, but wherever she is she'll be glad to know that I tried to bring you back. It's for her sake that I'm doing this, for the sake of your poor mother wherever she may be."

His mother! What memories that name conjured up! His mother who had kissed and blessed him as she closed her eyes forever so many, many years ago. He was still looking at the chair which Nancy had occupied but he saw it not. He was a boy once more standing by his mother's bedside, her soft, white hand in his, and was promising her--ah! how many promises he had made holding that dear hand for the last time, and how readily he had broken those promises every one!

His mind wandered on and he saw himself a boy at school, a youth at college, a grown man filling a position of trust in a large business concern. In those days, wherever he might turn, there was one figure standing out before all others, one friend, tried and true. When boys at school this friend had saved his life; when young men at college, it was to this friend's continued help he owed any little success he may have attained. After leaving college, his position was secured through the kindly offices of this same friend whose desk was next his own in the office in which they were employed.

His gaze still rested on the vacant chair but he saw only a pretty little suburban cottage with flower garden and smooth green lawn and box-bordered gravel paths. Once upon a time that cottage was his, and the sweet-faced girl, who trod those paths so daintily, tripping to the gate to meet him on his return in the evening, was his wife. Upstairs in the nursery their children slept, two fair little girls with their mother's pretty eyes and dainty ways. All that had been his, once upon a time.

He still watched that vacant chair but he saw only the day they discovered the loss of that money which had disappeared so mysteriously from the firm's safe. Suspicion rested upon that one true friend of his, the friend to whom he owed all he was, all he had. There was not sufficient evidence to prove that he was the thief, but in the minds of his employers there was no doubt as to his guilt. The supposed delinquent was dismissed and the cloud of suspicion rested upon him wherever he went thereafter. Only two people had known the truth, the man now sitting by the stove in the tenement house kitchen and the friend who had suffered in silence rather than betray him. They had never met again, and not long after the robbery, the man now sitting by the stove had heard of his friend's death; the physicians said it was typhoid, but he knew better. Disappointment, anxiety, heartbreak, were the real causes of his friend's early taking off.

He still gazed at the empty chair but he saw only the series of misfortunes that had befallen him since the day his friend died. He had launched into business on his own account; the result was dire disaster.

His home was burned in the dead of night; they barely escaped with their lives. Everything was gone; there was no insurance and ruin and despair confronted them. His children died suddenly of a malignant fever and the heartbroken mother had followed them to the grave within a few weeks. He was alone, all alone, and from that day to this had gone steadily downward until now he found himself in this dirty tenement depending for his daily bread upon the faded, ragged little woman who was now his wife. Poor Maggie, how she irritated him at times and yet she had been a good faithful wife to him. But for her, they would not have even this miserable apology for a home. Yes, even Maggie, with her watery eyes and thin, unkempt hair, Maggie, who scrubbed floors for a living and could not write so much as her own name nor read the simplest child's primer; even Maggie was far too good for the worn-out drunkard and gambler whom she tended so faithfully.

A light tap upon the door, but the man by the stove was too much occupied with those phantoms of the past to pay heed to it. The door opened quietly and a priest stepped into the room. The man's gaze s.h.i.+fted from the vacant chair to the black-robed figure standing by the door and looking at him in puzzled amazement. Phantoms of the past? Yes, indeed, and here was one more come to torment him and to mock at him.

The two watched each other in silence for a moment. Then, the man crouching in his chair by the fire found voice at last:

"What brings you here, you, of all men? Have you come to taunt me, to upbraid me, to delight your eyes with the sight of my misery? Have you come to laugh at me in my downfall?"

"Nay, friend," returned the priest gently, "none of those things has brought me to you to-day. I come only on a mission of mercy, to bring you peace and pardon."

"But how did you find me; who sent you to me?" demanded the man by the fire.

"A little old woman, Nancy by name, told me there was one here sadly in need of the ministrations of a priest. I did not dream that I should find _you_."

"You know me then; you remember me?"

"I remember you perfectly and recognized you at once, though you have changed almost beyond recognition."

"You say you know me, but you do not, you do not. You may know _who_ I am, but you don't know _what_ I am. You don't know that I'm a thief.

Yes, a thief, for it was I who took that money he was accused of stealing. Do you know that?"

"I know it," answered the priest calmly, "and still I say I bring you peace and pardon."

"Perhaps you know, too, that I am a murderer, for it was grief, heartbreak, which weakened him so that when disease attacked him he had not sufficient strength to combat the fever. Do you now that, you who talk to me so easily of peace and pardon?"

"I know that, too, and it is in his name that I offer you forgiveness for your sins."

"You know all then? He told you?"

"He told me in the delirium of fever. He never knew he told; he died thinking he carried the secret with him to the grave. He was faithful even unto death."

"Faithful even unto death. And you, his brother, come to me now and, knowing all, dare to hold out to me the hope of forgiveness and of peace?" and the man stared incredulously into the kind, pitying eyes bent upon him.

"I, his brother, offer you now forgiveness of all your sins and peace which surpa.s.seth all understanding."

The sick man was seized with a violent fit of coughing and when it had pa.s.sed, he lay back in his chair exhausted, with closed eyes and white, pain-drawn face. The priest, wis.h.i.+ng to give him a moment to rest and recover his breath, walked to the window and looked out. In the field below more than a score of ragged men, women and children were scratching and digging among piles of ashes, eagerly searching for and gathering up the half-burned cinders; searching, too, in the forlorn hope of finding something of greater value that might have been thrown away by accident. The rain beat noisily on the window pane and the priest s.h.i.+vered as he looked at those scantily-clad little children, not one of whom could boast of shoes and stockings, and at the white heads and bent figures of old women on whose unprotected shoulders the rain fell so pitilessly. What mattered the inclemency of the weather to them?

Winter would be here by and by; they must gather in all the fuel possible before it was upon them with its snow and sleet and icy blasts.

In fact, even when winter came, many of these same little children and old women, even grown men who either could not find other work to do or did not care to seek it, many of these same people would be seen day after day scratching and digging in this same field of ashes.

The priest turned from the window with a sigh of pity for the miserable creatures below. His glance strayed over the untidy kitchen which bore all the marks of the most extreme poverty and he gave another sigh of pity for the man who had been brought so low in the last days of his life, the man whom he had known in the time of his success and prosperity.

He approached the chair beside the stove and the tired eyes opened slowly and looked at him. Unaccustomed tears filled those eyes and the hard voice softened marvelously.