Lavendar, that the aforesaid account-book is now the property, not of the deceased, but of the estate. Its destruction would be the destruction of property belonging to the heirs. Furthermore, your belief that the herein before mentioned account-book might be put to an improper use, for the injury of a third person--such belief would no more justify you in destroying it than would your belief in its unfairness towards said third person justify you in destroying a will."

Dr. Lavendar thrust out his lower lip and stared at him, frowning.

"Yes," he said, slowly--"yes; I see. I did not quite understand. But I see."

Mr. Ezra solemnly began to pour forth a stream of statistics; he referred to the case of Buckley vs. Grant, and even mentioned chapter and page of _Purdon's Digest_ where Dr. Lavendar could find further enlightenment. Dr. Lavendar may have listened, but he made no comment; he sat staring silently at the old purple handkerchief on the top of John's chair.

When Mr. Ezra had finished his work and his statistics, the two men shook hands; then Dr. Lavendar said good-bye to Rachel and climbed into his buggy, b.u.t.toning the ap.r.o.n high up in front of him; the lawyer mounted his horse, and they plodded off into the snow, single file.

But Dr. Lavendar's eyes, under his old fur cap, had lost their squirrel-like brightness....

So Algy's note belonged to the estate; and the estate belonged to Alex; and Alex was the executor. And upon Alex Gordon his father's intentions in regard to Algy's note would make no more impression than the flakes of snow on running water. A vision of Alex's mean and cruel mouth, his hard, light eyes, motionless as a snake's in his purpling face, made Dr. Lavendar wince. The note--the poor, shabby, worn note,--that stood for the best there was in Algy, that stood for perseverance and honesty and courage; the note, which had weighed so heavily that he had had to stand up in his pitiful best manhood to bear it: the note that John had meant to "forgive"--Alex would use to humiliate and torture and destroy. Under the pressure which he would bring to bear that note would be poor Algy's financial, and perhaps his moral, ruin. "And if I had not objected, John would have cancelled it," Dr. Lavendar thought, frowning and blinking under his fur cap. He saw the smoking flax quenched, the bruised reed broken; he saw Algy turning venomously upon his enemy--for he knew him well enough to know that his code of defence would not include any conventional delicacy; he saw the new and hardly won integrity crumbling under the a.s.sault of Alex's legal wickedness. Dr. Lavendar groaned to himself. Alex could, lawfully, murder Algernon Keen's soul.

When Mary saw the old minister come into the house she was much displeased. "There, now, look at him," she scolded; "white as a sheet.

What did I tell you? I'll bet ye he won't eat them corn dodgers, and I never made 'em finer."

It must be admitted that Mary was right. Dr. Lavendar did not eat much supper. He went shuffling back to his study, Danny slinking at his heels; but for once he did not notice his little, grizzled friend.

When he got into his flowered cashmere dressing-gown and put on his slippers and stirred his fire, he sat a long time with his pipe in his hand, forgetting to light it. When he did light it, it went out, unnoticed. Once Danny tried to scramble into his chair, but, receiving no encouragement, curled up on the rug. The fire burned low and smouldered into ashes; just one sullen, red coal blinked in a corner of the grate; Dr. Lavendar watched this red spot fixedly for a long time.

Indeed, it was well on towards twelve before he suddenly reached over for the bellows and a couple of sticks, and, bending down, stirred and blew until the sticks caught and the cinders began to sparkle under the ashes. This disturbed Danny, who sat up, displeased and yawning. But when at last the flames broke out, sputtering and snapping, and caught a piece of paper--a shabby, creased piece of paper covered with dates--caught it, ran over it, curling it into brittle blackness, and then whirled it, a flimsy, crumbling ghost, up the chimney, Dr.

Lavendar's face shone with a light that was not only from the fire.

"Ha, Danny, you scoundrel," he said, cheerfully, "I guess you are _particeps criminis_!"

Then he went over to his study-table and rooted about for a thin, shabby, blue book, over which he pored for some time, stopping once or twice to make some calculations on the back of an envelope, then turning to the book again. He covered the envelope with his small, neat figuring, and turned it over to begin on the other side--and started: "Johnny's letter!" he said. But when the calculations were made, the rest was easy enough: first, his check-book and his pen. (At the check he looked with some pride. "Daniel," he said, "look at that, sir. You never saw so much money in your life; and neither did I--over my own signature.") Next, a letter to Alex Gordon:

"MY DEAR ALEXANDER,--I owe your father's estate to the amount of the enclosed check. No papers exist in regard to it, as the matter was between ourselves. I will ask you for a receipt. Yours truly,

"EDWARD LAVENDAR."

THE GRa.s.sHOPPER AND THE ANT

I

When William Rives and Lydia Sampson quarrelled and broke their engagement, Old Chester said that they were lucky to fall out two weeks before their wedding-day instead of two weeks after it. Of course, Old Chester said many other things: it said it had always known they could never get along. William, who had very little money, was careful and thrifty, as every young man ought to be; Lydia, who was fairly well off, was lavish and no housekeeper. "What could you expect?" demanded Old Chester. Old Chester never knew exactly what the trouble between them had been, for they kept their own counsel; but it had its suspicions: it had something to do with William's father's will. By some legal quibble the Orphan's Court awarded to William a piece of property which everybody knew old Mr. Rives supposed he had left to his daughter Amanda. Lydia thought (at least Old Chester thought she thought) that William would, as a matter of course, at once turn the field over to his sister. But William did no such thing. And, after all, why should he? The field was his; the law allowed it, the Court awarded it. Why should he present a field to Amanda? Old Chester said this thoughtfully, looking at William with a sort of respectful regret.

Very likely Lydia's regret was not respectful. Lydia was always so outspoken. However, it was all surmise. About the time that Amanda did not get the field the engagement was broken--and you can put two and two together if you like. As for Old Chester, it said that it pitied poor, dear Lydia; and it was no wonder William left town after the rupture, because, naturally, he would be ashamed to show his face.

But then it also said it pitied poor, dear William, and it should think Lydia would be ashamed to show her face; for, of course, her obstinacy made the trouble--and a young female ought not to be obstinate, ought not, in fact, to have opinions on such matters. Legal affairs, said Old Chester, should be left to the gentlemen. In fact, Old Chester said every possible thing for and against them both; but gradually, as years pa.s.sed, conflicting opinions settled down to the "poor Lydia"

belief.

This was, probably, for two reasons: first, because William had never seen fit to come back to Old Chester, and that, quite apart from his conduct to his lady-love, was a reason for distrust; and, secondly, Lydia had, somehow, become Old Chester's one really poor person--that is, in a genteel walk of life. After the crumbling of the Sampson fortune, Old Chester had to plan for Lydia, and take care of her, and give her its "plain sewing"; so, naturally, William was reprobated.

Besides, she may have quarrelled and broken her engagement two weeks before her wedding, but all these years afterwards she had been faithful to the memory of Love! Old Chester knew this, for the simple reason that Miss Lydia, during all these years, had kept in her sitting-room a picture of William Rives, adorned with a sprig of box; furthermore, it knew (Heaven knows how!) that she kissed this slender, tight-waisted picture every night before she went to bed. Of course, Old Chester softened! Lydia may have broken her engagement and all that, but she kept his picture, and she kissed it every night. "But he ought to be ashamed of himself," said Old Chester--"that is, if he is alive." Then it added, reflectively, that he must be dead, for he had never returned to Old Chester. Yet as time went on people forgot even to disapprove of William; they had enough to do to take care of poor Lydia, "for she is certainly very poor--and very peculiar," said Old Chester, sighing.

"Peculiar!" said Martha King; "I call it something worse than peculiar to spend money that ought to go towards rent on a present for Rachel King's Anna. She gave that child a picture-book. I'm sure _I_ can't afford to go round giving children picture-books. I told her so flatly and frankly. And then it was so trying, because, right on top of my scolding, she gave me a present--a cup all painted with roses, and marked 'Friendship's Gift,' in gilt. I didn't want it; I could have shaken her," Mrs. King ended, helplessly.

It was not only Martha whose patience was tried by Miss Lydia; the experience was common to all Old Chester. Even Dr. Lavendar had felt the human impulse to shake her. When he had, very delicately, asked "as an old friend, the privilege of a.s.sisting her," it was exasperating to have a lamp-shade made of six porcelain intaglios set in a tin frame come to him the next day, with the "respectful compliments of L.S."

But somehow, when, beaming at him from under her shabby bonnet, Miss Lydia had asked him if he liked that preposterous shade, he could not speak his mind,--at least to her. He spoke it mildly to Mrs. Barkley.

"We must restrain her; she brought me $2 for Zenanna Missions yesterday."

"What did you do?" Mrs. Barkley said, sympathetically.

"I made her take it back. I pointed out that her first duty was to her landlord."

"Her landlord has some duties to her," Mrs. Barkley said, angrily.

"The stairs are just crumbling to pieces, and that chimney is dreadful.

She says that Davis said the flue would have to be rebuilt, and maybe the whole chimney. He couldn't be sure about that, but he thought it probable. He said it would cost $100 to put all the things in repair--floor and roof and everything. But he would do it for $85, considering. He thinks the flue has broken down inside somehow. She might burn up some night; and then," said Mrs. Barkley, in a deep ba.s.s, "how would that Smith person feel?"

"He says," Dr. Lavendar explained, "that by the terms of the lease the tenant is to make repairs."

Mrs. Barkley snorted. "And how is poor Lydia to make repairs? She hasn't two cents to bless herself with. I told him so."

Mrs. Barkley's face grew very red at the recollection of her interview with Mr. Smith (he was one of the new Smiths, of course). "I don't mix philanthropy and business," he had said; "the lease says the tenant shall make repairs. And, besides, I do not wish to be more attractive than I am. With that chimney, some other landlord may win her affections. Without it, she will never desert Mr. Micawber."

"I am not acquainted with your friend Mr. Micawber," said Mrs. Barkley, "neither, I am sure, is Miss Sampson; and if you will allow me to say so, sir, we do not in Old Chester consider it delicate to refer to the affections of an unmarried female."

Upon which Mr. Smith laughed immoderately. (None of the new people had any manners.)

"So there is no use asking him to do anything," Mrs. Barkley told Dr.

Lavendar.

"The only thing I can think of," the old minister said, "is that we all join together and give her the price Davis named, as a present."

"Eighty-five dollars!" Mrs. Barkley exclaimed, startled; "that's a good deal of money--"

"Well, yes; it is. But something has got to be done."

"And to take up a collection for Lydia! It's--charity."

"It isn't taking up a collection," Dr. Lavendar protested, stoutly.

"And it isn't charity. Miss Lydia's friends have a right to make her a present if they feel like it."

Mrs. Barkley agreed, doubtfully.

"Mrs. Dale would contribute, I'm sure," said Dr. Lavendar. "And perhaps the Miss Ferises."

"I wouldn't like to ask them."

"Don't ask 'em. Offer them the chance."

"No," Mrs. Barkley insisted; "they've no right. They are not really her friends. Lydia doesn't call them by their first names." But she went away very much encouraged and full of this project of a present for poor Lydia, who, happily, had no idea that she was "poor" Lydia.

She was not poor to herself (except, of course, in purse, which is a small matter). She lived in a shabby and dilapidated cottage at the Smith gates, and every month squeezed out a few dollars rent to Mr.

Smith; she was sorry for the Smiths, for they were new people; but she always spoke kindly to them, for she never looked down on anybody. So, as far as position went, she was not "poor." She had no relations living, but she called all Old Chester of her generation by its first name; so, as to friendship, there was nothing "poor" about her. And, most of all, she was not "poor," but very rich, in her capacity for interest.

Now, no one who has an interest is poor; and Miss Lydia had a hundred interests. A hundred? She had as many interests as there were people in the world or joys or sorrows in Old Chester; so she was really very rich.... Of course, there are different degrees of this sort of wealth: there are folk who have to manufacture their interests; with deliberation they are philanthropic or artistic or intellectual, or even, if hard put to it, they are amused. Such persons may be said to be in fairly comfortable circ.u.mstances, although they live anxiously and rather meagrely, because they know well that when interest gives out they are practically without the means to support life. Below this manufacturing cla.s.s come the really dest.i.tute--the poor creatures who do not care vitally for anything and who are without the spiritual muscle to manufacture an interest. These pathetic folk are occasionally made self-supporting by a catastrophe--grief or even merely some uncomfortable surgery in regard to their bank account may give them a poor kind of interest; but too often they exist miserably--sometimes, with every wish gratified, helplessly poor.

Above the manufacturing cla.s.s comes the aristocracy, to which Miss Lydia Sampson belonged, the cla.s.s which is positively rolling in wealth. Every morning these favored creatures arise with a zest for living. You hear them singing before breakfast; at the table they are full of eager questions: Is it going to rain? No; it is a fair day; delightful!--for it might have rained. And the sun will bring up the crocuses. And this was the day a neighbor was to go to town. Will she go? When will she come back? How pleasant that the day is pleasant!

And it will be good for the sick people, too. And the moment the eager, simple mind turns to its fellows, sick or well, the field of interest widens to the sky-line of souls. To sorrow in the sorrows of Tom and d.i.c.k and Harry and their wives, to rejoice in their joys--what is better than that? And then, all one's own affairs are so vital: the record of the range of the thermometer, the question of turning or not turning an alpaca skirt, the working out of a game of solitaire--these things are absorbing experiences.