CHAPTER II.
THE THORNS AT HOME.
The Thorn homestead, like the family whose name it bore, was magnificent and substantial in an unassuming way. Its gray gables seemed to look with a frown on the gingerbread style of architecture that had grown up around it. Under the trees on its lawn, three generations of Thorns had grown to man's estate, and every one of them had become a lawyer.
It had been the hope of the present occupant that when he left the estate he might leave it in the hands of a son, but this was not to be.
After a short married life his wife died, leaving him childless.
Some years later he married a second time. When his first child was born and he was told it was a daughter, he was disappointed. When the second child came and was also a girl, his disappointment verged on resentment. Through the hours of anxious waiting that preceded the arrival of the third child, he walked the floor in a state of mind alternating between hope and fear, and when at last the suspense was over and he looked upon the tiny features of a son, his joy knew no bounds.
He hurried out to break the news to the two little sisters whom he imagined would be as pleased as he was. He found them in the yard, Vivian swinging with her doll and Jean digging a hole in a pile of sand. When the important announcement was made, the black-haired Vivian clapped her hands for joy, but the other little girl kept right on digging, just as if she had not heard. When she had passed the critical point in the process of excavating she paused and looked up.
The expression in her father's face was something new to her, and she studied him in silence a moment, then said, solemnly:
"Are boys any better than girls, father?"
"Better? Why no, they are no better. They are boys, that is all."
"Well, then!" and the tone of her voice, no less than the words, conveyed the meaning that the matter was settled, and she returned to her digging as if nothing had happened. But she did not forget the incident, and when, shortly after, the tiny baby boy in the cold arms of his mother had been put to rest beneath a mound, and the light had gone out of the father's face and the elasticity out of his step, little Jean pondered and her heart went out strangely to her father in his bitter trouble. She followed him softly about and studied him.
One evening, some time after the little son had come and gone, Jean appeared before her father in the library to make an important announcement. "I've been thinking the matter over, father," she said, "and I've made up my mind I will be your boy. You want a boy, and you know yourself you'll never be able to make one of Vivian, with her wee little mouth and her long braids. Now my hair is just right and I can throw a stone exactly over the middle of the barn and kick a ball farther than any boy on the block. I shall kick more hereafter, for don't you think a boy's legs ought to be cultivated?"
Judge Thorn smiled and assured her that she was correct in her idea of muscular development.
"Are boys as good as girls, father?"
"Boys as good as girls? Why, certainly."
"Well, you said once that girls were as good as boys, and if boys are as good as girls they're as good as each other, aren't they?"
Judge Thorn could not keep back the laugh this time.
"I believe that is the logical conclusion," he said.
"Then tell me truly, father, if I'm going to be your boy, are you going to be as glad as you were that morning you bothered me when I was digging my well?"
Judge Thorn hesitated a moment, but the clear gray eyes were upon him, and he felt the justice of their plea.
"Yes, dear, I think so."
"And may I do just as you do when I get big—read books and make speeches?"
Now Judge Thorn was not an advocate of the advanced sphere of women and was not sure he wanted his daughter to be a lawyer, but after a short reflection, perhaps thinking the request but the passing fancy of a child, he gave his assent.
"Thank you, father," she responded gravely. "I think you are a very good man." Then she kissed him and left the room.
He sat, still smiling, when her voice close to his side startled him with the announcement:
"I think, father, if you do not care, I will not go into pants. I might not feel at home, you know."
From the time that the little Jean had announced herself as her father's boy, he took more interest in her; and as the child developed, he saw unfolding the traits and abilities he had hoped to nurture in a son. Intuitively she seemed to understand his moods and fancies, and as her understanding developed, the books were a source of delight to her, and many times she discussed knotty problems with her father in a way that pleased him mightily.
So, as the years went by, she slipped into the place the father had reserved for the son, and he loved her with a peculiarly tender love and was never prouder of her than when he heard her say, in explanation of her notions and her plans, "I am my father's boy."
On the particular night when Maggie Crowley was wandering about in the storm, two young women occupied a handsome room in the Thorn home. A cheerful wood fire burned on the hearth and the clear rays from an overhanging light cast brightness over the rows of books that lined the walls.
These were two people who minded not the winter weather. The cold wind blowing through the gables and leafless trees held no terror for them. Perhaps they rather liked to hear it as by way of comparison it made their lot seem more comfortable.
The tall slender woman with black hair was examining alternately a fashion book and a bunch of samples. She was Vivian, a pronounced society lady.
The other sat in a low chair, by a small study table, reading, only looking up now and then to answer some question put to her by her sister. This was "my father's boy."
The solemn little Jean was gone, in her place was this altogether charming young person, whose shapely head was crowned with coils and coils of red brown hair held in place by numerous quaintly carved silver hairpins. If it had not been for the clear gray eyes and the quaint fashion she still had of dropping her head on one side when solving some momentous problem, the little Jean might have been a dream.
Presently the door opened and Judge Thorn entered.
"Nice evening, girls!"
"Delightful!"
"Blackstone, Jean?"
The young lady looked at the book quizzically a moment and then laughed.
"United States history, father. Last week I reviewed Caesar. Now I am on this, and if I do my best I think I may reasonably hope to be in the Third Reader by next week."
The judge laughed.
"I have been reading our constitution and looking over the record of 'the late unpleasantness,'" said Jean. "It is very interesting to me. Do you know, father, I love every woman who gave a husband or a son to her country, and I almost hold in reverence the memory of the men who shed their blood to effect the abolition of human slavery in America."
The tall form of the Judge straightened and his eye brightened, like a soldier's when he hears the names of his old battle-fields.
"Do not forget," he said, "that there were those who acted as brave a part who never faced a cannon. It is easy to be borne by the force of a great wave; but those who by their time and talents put the wave of public opinion in motion are the real heroes.
"I can remember the time when a man who preached or taught Abolition was looked upon as narrow-minded, fanatical, bigoted and even criminal. When the name was a stench in the nostrils of the people even in liberty-loving Boston. When men were rotten-egged, beaten, and in some instances killed because they dared to follow the dictates of their own consciences and make sentiment for the overthrow of the traffic in humanity. It took all this to bring it about. No great moral reform takes place without agitation, or without martyrs. Those men bore the brunt of battle before the battle was. They were most surely heroes. They made the tidal wave of opinion that swept the country with insistent force and struck the shackles from 3,000,000 slaves."
"And you, father, were one of them," cried the enthusiastic girl. "What perils you must have braved!"
"I did all I could, you may be sure," answered the judge, modestly, "and I imagine it would be more agreeable to be whipped in a hand-to-hand encounter than to be caricatured, misrepresented and lied about, and by those, too, who claimed to have the abolition of slavery near their hearts, who prayed unceasingly for its utter destruction, and then split hairs as to the way in which it was to be accomplished, and who fondly hoped to exterminate it by marking boundary lines."
"But then," asked Jean, "was there no way by which this terrible war could have been averted? No way by which the government could have regulated and gradually suppressed slavery?"
"Regulations and restrictions," replied the Judge, waxing eloquent, "put upon such a vice by a government are but its terms of partnership. Gradual suppression of a mighty evil is always a signal failure, and while we wait to prove these failures the enemy gains foothold."
"I am proud of you, father—proud to be my father's boy—proud to be the daughter of a patriot," said Jean, with tears in her clear eyes. "I am a patriot, too, and if ever such an issue comes to the front in my day, I intend to do a patriot's part, if I am a woman."
"I do not think such an issue will ever be forced to the front again. That was a moral question as well as political. Other matters vex the people of today—money matters mostly—in which more diplomacy is required than bravery."
"I must hurry now. I have but fifteen minutes in which to get down town."
"You surely are not going out tonight?"
"Business appointments must be kept. The storm was not considerate enough to leave town before 'the man' came, and 'the man' cannot wait for the storm to take its departure, so what is to be done?"
"Does James know?"
"I do not want the horses tonight."
Jean stepped out and returned with his wraps. She held the great coat while he thrust his long arms into it. Then she tied his muffler around his neck.
"Father, while you are out, if you run across any lonely reformer, put in for Jean an application for the position of first assistant," laughed Vivian.
Judge Thorn left the room, and these two daughters of fortune settled themselves for a comfortable evening.
Before it seemed possible that an hour had gone they heard a vehicle drive up to the side gate.
The carriage stopped for several minutes, then rattled away over the hard ground, and presently the judge re-entered the room.
"Ugh! This is a tough night. Fire feels good," and he rubbed his hands briskly.
"I brought home company, girls. Not exactly the reformer Vivian was speaking of; perhaps someone to reform."
"What do you mean?"
"Whom have you found?"
"I think I may be able to explain what I mean, but until the girl thaws out a little we will not know who she is," said the judge mysteriously.
"What in the world do you mean, father? But tell us about it."
"Well, as usual on a night of this sort, there was a missing man. The search for him took me a couple of blocks out of my way and in coming back I passed a saloon of a low order and found the girl lying in the sleet. I thought more than likely she was drunk, and stepped into the saloon to advise them to look after their productions. Here I found her father in a state of beastly intoxication and learned that she had been there, a short time before, begging him to go home with her to a sick wife and some hungry children, but I could not find out where this home was. Just as I left the saloon a cab came along, and I had the driver put the girl in it. This is all. Where are you going, Jean?"
"Going to see the object of your charity."
Judge Thorn placed his hand on Jean's shoulder and pushed her gently back into her chair.
"Possess your soul in patience. You could be of no possible service if you were to go. Mrs. Floyd has her in charge and will do all that is necessary. I am not sure that it was wise to bring her here. I am almost sorry that I did so, but I hated to leave her and there was not a policeman in sight; there never is.
"It is a shame such places as the place at which I stopped tonight are allowed to exist. Two-thirds of the crime and misery of our entire nation can be traced directly to their doors. They are a public nuisance, an outrage to civilization. Temperance people must see to it that license is raised so high that this sort cannot obtain it."
"Would that shut them up?" said Jean.
"Certainly it would."
"Not all the saloons?"
"All the poor, low ones."
"What about the rich ones?"
"It would make no difference with them, but they have not the bad effect on the morals of a community that the low ones have. They are patronized by a set of people who do not pour their last cent down their throats and employ their time beating their families."
Jean crossed one foot over the other, leaned slightly forward and with her head dropped a little to one side in the old-time way, sat studying the fire. She was trying to solve some knotty problem.
Her father smiled. It seemed she was the little Jean come back.
