The Story of Leather Part 23

"You are very, very kind, both you and Mr. Coddington," she answered. "I have no words to thank you; but believe me, while I heartily appreciate your generosity, I feel that too much has already been done for Nat and me--far more than I should have accepted had I realized that it was Mr.

Coddington himself and not the company who was doing it. Do not consider me ungracious in being unwilling to add this favor to the others. I would rather be under obligations to you and Mr. Coddington than to any one else in the world if it were possible. Nat shall go. The trip will be a wonderful education for him and he will, I am sure, work hard in the future to repay you for your kindness; but I could not accept such a gift."

Unconsciously Mrs. Jackson's chin lifted, and her figure drew itself up.

"Oh, but _I_ want you to go," broke in Peter.

Smiling, she shook her head.

"I think, if you will pardon my frankness, you are making too much of a very slight thing, Mrs. Jackson," declared Mr. Coddington. "Come, be honest. You are too proud to accept this trip from Mrs. Coddington and me. Isn't that it? You doubt her wanting you as a traveling companion.

But there you wrong her. She really does want you. It would be a genuine favor to her, and the obligation would be entirely on our side, you see."

"I think your kindness blinds you to your real motive, Mr. Coddington,"

Mrs. Jackson returned.

"Then listen. I will tell you a story. Long ago, at the time of the Civil War, my father----" Mrs. Jackson started, then recovered herself; but there was no question that his words had caught her keenest attention.

Imperturbably he went on with his tale.

"My father, who was a fearless young Northerner, was sent forward to carry a dispatch through the Southern lines. It was a dangerous mission and on the delivery of that message depended not alone his honor but a large measure of the success of the Northern cause. He pledged his life to carry that word. All went well until quite without warning he found himself in a rebel ambush. He made his escape but in so doing was seriously wounded and nothing but the speed of his horse prevented his recapture. His enemies were still hot in pursuit when he found he could go no further. Then when he saw his strength failing and knew the struggle was useless he took a desperate chance. A plantation stood in his path and he rode up to the house and begged for aid. Now it happened that the owners of that plantation, although Southerners, were in sympathy with the Northern cause; not only did they take in the wounded man and nurse him back to life, but the son of the family, a daring lad, ventured to continue the ride through the lines and deliver the stranger's message."

Mr. Coddington paused a moment.

"And did he succeed?" cried Peter breathlessly.

"Yes."

"Oh, it was splendid! Think of a boy's doing a thing like that for his country!"

"And a boy not much older than you either, Peter," added Mrs. Jackson eagerly.

"Why--why--how did you know?" queried Peter, bewildered.

Instantly Mrs. Jackson was all confusion; but she did not explain her impulsive words.

"That Northern soldier, Peter, was your grandfather," declared Mr.

Coddington quickly. "He all but died in the fulfilment of his task and had it not been for the nursing he received in that Southern home he undoubtedly would have done so. His family owed his life, his honor, and the success of the cause they prized so dearly to those brave friends who risked everything they possessed to serve their country and a fellow creature. And now if you will ask Mrs. Jackson perhaps she can tell you who the boy was who carried the dispatch through the Southern lines."

"It was my brother--Nat's uncle, Peter," whispered Mrs. Jackson.

"Why, mother," Nat e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "you never told me it was these Coddingtons!"

"And not until the day I came to see you at the hospital, Nat, did I find out that it was these Jacksons," said Mr. Coddington. Then turning to Nat's mother he said: "Now you must certainly admit that the Coddingtons, Mrs. Jackson, owe a good deal to the Jacksons--life, honor, their country's success. Between your family and mine on which side lies the obligation?"

"It was a service gladly rendered."

"But one that cost your family dear. Oh, I have discovered, you see, how the incident came to the knowledge of your Southern neighbors and how, in rage, they burned your father's plantation driving you all from it. I have looked up all the facts. Your father came North in the hope of recovering his fortunes; he died; you married, strangely enough, another Jackson; your husband was unfortunate and before he won a place in life he, too, was taken from you and you were left with this boy. You strayed into Milburn--it is needless to go on; you see I know all your story. I wished, my dear madam, to verify my suspicions. I have verified them.

You and Nat unconsciously came to a haven where you never again shall have cause to worry. Your son shall be trained to share my son's fortunes. The Coddingtons can never cancel their debt to the Jacksons, but at least they shall repay a part of it. You who know so well what pride is will not, I am sure, deny me this pleasure and satisfaction."

For a few moments there was silence.

Then Mrs. Jackson extended her hand toward Mr. Coddington.

"Let us not consider it a debt between strangers," she said. "Rather let it be a bond between friends. I will gladly accept your kindness and go to England with you all."

And so two weeks later Peter, amid the cheers of the workmen, bade good-bye to the tanneries.

As he and his father stood alone on the deck of the great liner and watched her make her way out of the harbor Mr. Coddington said:

"Do you recall, Peter, the evening of your failure at school, and how I told you that although it was hard for me to be so severe I felt I must make a man of you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was very confident in my own strength that night; but I see now I was not so powerful as I thought, and it is you who have shown me my folly.

No one in this world can build the character of another; each of us must rear his own. You have made a far better man of yourself, my boy, than I ever could have made of you. I am proud of my son, Peter!"