Captain Elisha, "one of these days, when you get to be as old as I am or before, you'll realize that an education is worth somethin'."
"Ugh!" grunted the boy, in supreme disgust. "What do you know about that?"
"Why, not much, maybe, but enough."
"Yes?" sarcastically. "What college did you attend?"
"Me? Why, none, more's the pity. What learnin' there was in our family your dad had. Maybe that's why he was what he was, so fur as money and position and society and so on went, and I'm what _I_ am."
"Oh, rubbish! What difference does it make to Malcolm Dunn--now--his going through college?"
"Well, he went, didn't he?"
Stephen grinned. Malcolm had told him some particulars concerning his university career and its termination.
"He went--part way," he answered.
"Ya-as. Well, you've gone part way, so fur. And now you'll go the rest."
"I'd like to know why."
"For one reason, because I'm your guardian and I say so."
Stephen was furiously angry. His father's indulgence and his sister's tolerance had, in most cases, made his will law in the household. To be ordered about in this way by an ignorant interloper, as he considered his uncle, was too much.
"By gad," he shouted, "we'll see!"
"No, we've seen. You run along now and pack your trunk. And take my advice and study hard. You'll be behindhand in your work, so Mr. Sylvester tells me, but you're smart, and you can catch up. Make us proud of you; that's what you can do."
His nephew glanced at him. Captain Elisha was smiling kindly, but there was no sign of change of purpose in his look.
Stephen ground his teeth.
"Oh," he snarled, "if it wasn't for the disgrace! If things weren't as they are, I'd--"
"S-s-s-h! I know; but they are. Maybe I wish they wa'n't 'most as much as you do, but they are. I don't blame you for feelin' mad now; but I'm right and I know it. And some day you'll know it, and thank me."
"When I do, I'll be insane."
"No, you'll be older, that's all. Now pack your trunk--or get the Commodore to pack it for you."
* * * * *
News from the Moriarty sick room continued favorable for a time. Then, with alarming suddenness, a change came. The broken hip was mending slowly, but poor Pat's age was against him, and the shock and long illness were too much for his system to fight. Dr. Henry shook his head dubiously when the captain asked questions. And, one morning at breakfast, Edwards informed him that the old man was dead. Annie had been summoned by telephone at midnight and had gone home.
Captain Elisha, though not greatly surprised, was shocked and grieved. It seemed such a needless tragedy, almost like murder, although there was no malice in it. And the thought of the fatherless children and the poverty of the stricken family made him shudder. Death at any time, amid any surroundings, is terrible; when the dead hands have earned the bread for many mouths it is appalling.
The captain dreaded visiting the flat, but because he felt it to be a duty he went immediately. And the misery and wailing and dismay he found there were worse than his anticipations. He did his best to comfort and cheer. Mrs. Moriarty alternately called upon the saints to bless him and begged to know what she would do now that they were all sure to starve. Luckily, the family priest, a kind-hearted, quiet man who faced similar scenes almost every day of his life, was there, and Captain Elisha had a long talk with him. With Dennis, the oldest son, and Annie, the maid at the Warrens', he also consulted. Money for their immediate needs, he told them, he would provide. And the funeral expenses must not worry them. Afterward--well, plans for the future could be discussed at another time. But upon Dennis and Annie he tried to impress a sense of their responsibility.
"It's up to you, Boy," he said to the former. "Annie's job's sure, I guess, as long as she wants it, and she can give her mother somethin' every month. But you're the man of the house now, and you've got to steer the ship and keep it afloat. That means work, and hard work, lots of it, too. You can do it, if you've got the grit. If I can find a better place and more pay for you, I will, but you mustn't depend on that. It's up to you, I tell you, and you've got to show what's in you. If you get stuck and need advice, come to me."
He handed the priest a sum of money to cover immediate contingencies, and departed. His letter to Abbie that afternoon was so blue that the housekeeper felt sure he was "coming down" with some disease or other. He had been riding in that awful subway, where the air--so the papers said--was not fit to breathe, and just as like as not he'd caught consumption. His great-uncle on his mother's side died of it, so it "run in the family." Either he must come home or she should come to him, one or the other.
But before evening his blueness had disappeared. He had just returned to his room, after stepping into the hall to drop his letter in the mail chute, when his niece knocked at the door. He was surprised to see her, for she had not spoken to him, except in brief reply to questions, since their misunderstanding in that very room. He looked at her wonderingly, not knowing what to say or what to expect; but she spoke first.
"Captain Warren," she began, hurriedly, "the last time I came to you--the last time I came here, I came to ask a favor, and you--I thought you--"
She was evidently embarrassed and confused. Her guardian was embarrassed, also, but he tried to be hospitable.
"Yes, Caroline," he said, gravely, "I know what you mean. Won't you--won't you sit down?"
To his surprise, she accepted the invitation, taking the same chair she had taken on the occasion of their former interview. But there was a look in her eyes he had never seen there before; at least, not when she was addressing him.
She went on, speaking hastily, as though determined to head off any questioning on his part.
"Captain Warren," she began once more, "the time I came to you in this room you were, so I thought, unreasonable and unkind. I asked you for money to help a poor family in trouble, and you refused to give it to me."
"No, Caroline," he interrupted, "I didn't refuse, you only thought I did."
She held up her hand. "Please let me go on," she begged. "I thought you refused, and I couldn't understand why. I was hurt and angry. I knew that father never would have refused me under such circumstances, and you were his brother. But since then, only to-day, I have learned that I was wrong. I have learned--"
She paused. The captain was silent. He was beginning to hope, to believe once more in his judgment of character; and yet, with his hope and growing joy, there was a trifle of anxiety.
"I have learned," went on his niece, "that I was mistaken. I can't understand yet why you wished to wait before saying yes, but I do know that it must have been neither because you were unkind nor ungenerous. I have just come from those poor people, and they have told me everything."
Captain Elisha started. "What did they tell you?" he asked, quickly. "Who told you?"
"Annie and her mother. They told me what you had done and were doing for them. How kind you had been all through the illness and to-day. Oh, I know you made them promise not to tell me; and you made the doctor and nurse promise, too. But I knew _someone_ had helped, and Annie dropped a hint. Then I suspected, and now I know. Those poor people!"
The captain, who had been looking at the floor, and frowning a bit, suddenly glanced up to find his niece's eyes fixed upon him, and they were filled with tears.
"Will you forgive me?" she asked, rising from her chair, and coming impulsively toward him. "I'm sorry I misjudged you and treated you so. You must be a very