But alas! what if the obligation of a live soul went farther than this
life? What if a man was bound, by the fact that he lived, to live on,
and do everything possible to keep the life alive in him? There his
heart sank, and the depths of the sea covered it! Did God require of him
that, sooner than die, he should beg the food to keep him alive? Would
he be guilty of forsaking his post, if he but refused to ask, and waited
for Death? Was he bound to beg? If he was, he must begin at once by
refusing to accept the smallest credit! To all they must tell the truth
of their circumstances, and refuse aught but charity. But was there not
something yet he could try before begging? He had had a good education,
had both knowledge and the power of imparting it; this was still worth
money in the world's market. And doubtless therein his friend could do
something for him.
Therewithal his new dread was gone; one possibility was yet left him in
store! To his wife he must go, and talk the thing over with her. He had
still, he believed, threepence in his pocket to pay for the omnibus.
It began to move; and then first, waking up, he saw that he had seated
himself between a poor woman and a little girl, evidently her daughter.
"I am very sorry to incommode you, ma'am," he said apologetically to the
white-faced woman, whose little tartan shawl scarcely covered her
shoulders, painfully conscious of his dripping condition, as he took off
his hat, and laid it on the floor between his equally soaking feet. But,
instead of moving away from him to a drier position beyond, the woman,
with a feeble smile, moved closer up to him, saying to her daughter on
his other side:
"Sit closer to the gentleman, Jessie, and help to keep him warm. She's
quite clean, sir," she added. "We have plenty of water in our place, and
I gave her a bath myself this morning, because we were going to the
hospital to see my husband. He had a bad accident yesterday, but thank
God! not so bad as it might have been. I'm afraid you're feeling very
cold, sir," she added, for Hector had just given an involuntary shiver.
"My husband he's a bricklayer," she went on; "he has been in good work,
and I have a few shillings in hand, thank God! Times are sure to mend,
for they seldom turns out so bad as they looks."
Involuntarily Hector's hand moved to his trouser pocket, but dropped by
his side as he remembered the fare. She saw his movement, and broke into
a sad little laugh.
"Don't mistake me, sir," she resumed. "I told you true when I said I
wasn't without money; and, before the pinch comes, wages, I dare say,
will show their color again. Besides, our week's rent is paid. And he's
in good quarters, poor fellow, though with a bad pain to keep him
company, I'm afraid"
"Where do you live?" asked Hector "But," he went on, "why should I ask?
I am as poor as you--poorer, perhaps, for I have no trade to fall back
upon. But I have a good wife like you, and I don't doubt she'll think of
something."
"Trust to that, sir! A good woman like I'm sure she is 'll be sure to
think of many a thing before she'll give in. My husband, he was brought
up to religion, and he always says there's one as know's and don't
forget." But now the omnibus had reached the spot where Hector must
leave it. He got up, fumbling for his threepenny-piece, but failed to
find it.
"Don't forget your hat, sir; it'll come all right when it's dry," said
the woman, as she handed it to him. But he stood, the conductor waiting,
and seemed unable to take it from her: he could not find the little
coin!
"There, there, sir!" interposed the woman, as she made haste and handed
him three coppers; "I have plenty for both of us, and wish for your sake
it was a hundred times as much. Take it, sir," she insisted, while
Hector yet hesitated and fumbled; "you won't refuse such a small service
from another of God's creatures! I mean it well."
But the conductor, apparently affected with the same generosity, pushed
back the woman's hand, saying, "No, no, ma'am, thank you! The gentleman
'll pay me another day."
Hector pulled out an old silver watch, and offered it.
"I cannot be so sure about that," he said. "Better take this: it's of
little use to me now."
"I'll be damned if I do!" cried the conductor fiercely, and down he
jumped and stood ready to help Hector from the omnibus.
But his kindness was more than Hector could stand; he walked away,
unable to thank him.
"I wonder now," muttered the conductor to himself when Hector was gone,
"if that was a put-up job between him and the woman? I don't think so.
Anyhow, it's no great loss to anybody. I won't put it down; the company
'll have to cover that."
Hector turned down a street that led westward, drying his eyes, and
winking hard to make them swallow the tears which sought to hide from
him a spectacle that was calling aloud to be seen. For lo! the
street-end was filled with the glory of a magnificent rainbow. All
across its opening stretched and stood the wide arch of a wonderful
rainbow. Hector could not see the sun; he saw only what it was making;
and the old story came back to him, how the men of ancient time took the
heavenly bow for a promise that there should no more be such a flood as
again to destroy the world. And therefore even now the poets called the
rainbow the bow of hope.
Nor, even in these days of question and unbelief, is it matter of wonder
that, at sight of the harmony of blended and mingling, yet always
individual, and never confused colors, and notwithstanding his knowledge
of optics, and of how the supreme unity of the light was secerned into
its decreed chord, the imaginative faith of the troubled poet should so
work in him as to lift his head for a moment above the waters of that
other flood that threatened to overwhelm his microcosm, and the bow
should seem to him a new promise, given to him then and individually, of
the faithfulness of an unseen Power of whom he had been assured, by one
whom he dared not doubt, that He numbered the very hairs of his head.
Once more his spirit rose upon the wave of a hope which he could neither
logically justify nor dare to refuse; for hope is hope whencesoever it
spring, and needs no justification of its self-existence or of its
sudden marvelous birth. The very hope was in itself enough for itself.
And now he was near his home; his Annie was waiting for him; and in
another instant his misery would be shared and comforted by her! He was
walking toward the wonder-sign in the heavens. But even as he walked
with it full in view, he saw it gradually fade and dissolve into the
sky, until not a thread of its loveliness remained to show where it had
spanned the infinite with its promise of good. And yet, was not the sky
itself a better thing, and the promise of a yet greater good? He must
walk onward yet, in tireless hope! And the resolve itself endured--or
fading, revived, and came again, and ever yet again.
For ere he had passed the few yards that lay between him and Annie yet
another wonder befell: as if the rainbow had condensed, and taken shape
as it melted away, there on the pathway, in the thickening twilight of
the swift-descending November night, stood a creature, surely not of the
night, but rather of the early morn, a lovely little child--whether
wandered from the open door of some neighboring house, or left by the
vanished rainbow, how was he to tell? Endeavoring afterward to recall
every point of her appearance, he could remember nothing of her feet, or
even of the frock she wore. Only her face remained to him, with its
cerulean eyes--the eyes of Annie, looking up from under the cloud of her
dark hair, which also was Annie's. She looked then as she stood, in his
memory of her, as if she were saying, "I trust in you; will you not
trust in Him who made the rainbow?" For a moment he seemed to stand
regarding her, but even while he looked he must have forgotten that she
was there before him, for when again he knew that he saw her, though he
did not seem ever to have looked away from her, she had changed in the
gathering darkness to the phantasm of a daisy, which still gazed up in
his face trustingly, and, indeed, went with him to his own door, seeming
all the time to say, "It was no child; it was me you saw, and nothing
but me; only I saw the sun--I mean, the man that was making the
rainbow." And never more could he in his mind separate the child, whom I
cannot but think he had verily seen, from the daisy which certainly he
had not seen, except in the atmosphere of his troubled and confused
soul.
It may help my reader to understand its confusion if I recall to him the
fact that Hector had that day eaten nothing. Nor must my wife reader
think hardly of Annie for having let him leave the house without any
food, for he had stolen softly away, and closed the door as softly
behind him, thinking how merrily they would eat together when he came
back with his good news. And now he was bringing nothing to her but the
story of a poor woman and her child who had warmed him, and of an
omnibus-conductor who had trusted him for his fare, and of a rainbow and
a child and a daisy.
"Oh, you naughty, naughty dear!" cried Annie, as she threw herself into
his arms, rejoicing. But at sight of his worn and pallid face the smile
faded from hers, and she thought, "What can have befallen him?"
His lip quivered, and, seeking with a watery smile to reassure her, he
gave way and burst into tears. Unmanly of him, no doubt, but what is a
man to do when he cannot help it? And where is a man to weep if not on
his wife's bosom? Call this behavior un-English, if you will; for,
indeed, Hector was in many ways other than English, and, I protest,
English ways are not all human. But I will not allow that it manifested
any weakness, or necessarily involved shame to him; the best of men, and
the strongest--yea, the one Man whose soul harbored not an atom of
self-pity--upon one occasion wept, I think because he could not persuade
the women whom he loved and would fain console to take comfort in his
Father. Annie, for one reverent moment, turned her head aside, then
threw her arms about him, and hid her glowing face in his bosom.
"There's only me in the house, dear," she said, and led the way to their
room.
When they reached it, she closed the door, and turned to him.
"So they won't take your story?" she said, assuming the fact, with a
sad, sunny smile.
"They refused it absolutely."
"Well, never mind! I shall go out charing to-morrow. You have no notion
how strong I am. It is well for you I have never wanted to beat you.
Seriously, I believe I am much stronger than you have the least notion
of. There! Feel that arm--I should let you feel it another way, only I
am afraid of hurting you."
She had turned up the sleeve of her dress, and uncovered a grandly
developed arm, white as milk, and blossoming in a large, splendidly
formed hand. Then playfully, but oh! so tenderly, with the under and
softest part of her arm she fondled his face, rubbing it over first one,
then the other cheek, and ended with both arms round his neck, her hands
folding his head to her bosom.
"Wife! wife!" faltered Hector, with difficulty controlling himself; "my
strong, beautiful wife! To think of your marrying me for this!"
"Hector," answered Annie, drawing herself back with dignity, "do you
dare to pity me? That would be to insult me! As if I was not fit to be
your wife when doing _everything_ for my mother! There are
thousands of Scotch girls that would only be proud to take my place,
poor as you are--and you couldn't be much poorer--and serve you, without
being your wife, as I have the honor and pride to be! But, my blessed
man, I do believe you have eaten nothing to-day; and here am I fancying
myself your wife, and letting you stand there empty, instead of
bestirring myself to get you some supper! What a shame! Why, you are
actually dying with hunger!" she cried, searching his face with pitiful
eyes.
"On the contrary, I am not in the least hungry," protested Hector.
"Then you must be hungry at once, sir. I will go and bring you something
the very sight of which will make you hungry."
"But you have no money, Annie; and, not being able to pay, we must go
without. Come, we will go to bed." "Yes, I am ready; I had a good
breakfast. But you have had nothing all day. And for money, do you know
Miss Hamper, the dressmaker, actually offered to lend me a shilling, and
I took it. Here it is. You see, I was so sure you would bring money home
that I thought we _might_ run that much farther into debt. So I got
you two fresh eggs and such a lovely little white loaf. Besides, I have
just thought of something else we could get a little money for--that
dainty chemise my mother made for me with her own hands when we were
going to be married. I will take it to the pawnbroker to-morrow."
"I was never in a pawnshop, Annie. I don't think I should know how to
set about it."
"_You!_" cried Annie, with a touch of scorn. "Do you think I would
trust a man with it? No; that's a woman's work. Why, you would let the
fellow offer you half it was worth--and you would take it too. I shall
show it to Mrs. Whitmore: _she_ will know what I ought to get for
it. She's had to do the thing herself--too often, poor thing!"
"It would be like tearing my heart out."
"What! to part with my pretty chemise. Hector, dear, you must not be
foolish! What does it matter, so long as we are not cheating anybody?
The pawnshop is a most honorable and useful institution. No one is the
worse for it, and many a one the better. Even the tradespeople will be a
trifle the better. I shall be quite proud to know that I have a
pawn-ticket in my pocket to fall back upon. Oh, there's that old silk
dress your mother sent me--I do believe that would bring more. It is in
good condition, and looks quite respectable. If Eve had got into a
scrape like ours, she would have been helpless, poor thing, not having
anything _to put away_--that is the right word, I believe. There is
really nothing disgraceful about it. Come now, dear, and eat your
eggs--I'm afraid you must do without butter. I always preferred a piece
of dry bread with an egg--you get the true taste of the egg so much
better. One day or another we must part with everything. It is sure to
come. Sooner or later, what does that matter? 'The readiness is all,' as
Hamlet says. Death, or the pawnshop, signifies nothing. 'Since no man
has aught of what he leaves, what is it to leave betimes?' We do but
forestall the grave for one brief hour with the pawnshop."
"You deserve to have married Epictetus, Annie, you brave woman, instead
of Xantippe!"
"I prefer you, Hector."
"But what might you have said if he had asked you, and you had heard me
bemoaning the pawnshop?"
