PATSY.
Patsy was wide awake in a second. What was it those men were talking about; what was it they were planning to do? That name, and "the brown house on the hill"! By a strong effort, he kept his eyes closed and breathed regularly and deeply as though still sleeping. He must not let them suspect that he was listening, but he must catch every word they said, every word. How he hated them, this band of rascals that had gotten his David into their clutches and were slowly but surely making him as bad as they! His David bad? No, no! David was kind and good and gentle to him always. David was not bad, he would not listen to their dreadful scheme. He would refuse to help them; surely he would. His David a thief? It was impossible. But that dreadful plan they were discussing! "The brown house on the hill"; "to-morrow night"; and David was promising to go with them.
Patsy shivered beneath the bedclothes and bitter tears gathered in his eyes and trickled down the pale, sunken cheeks. The men were leaving and David was renewing his promise to accompany the expedition to the brown house on the hill to-morrow night. In fact, he was to act as guide to the man appointed to commit the deed, for who, so well as David, could show them the way to the library in which was the safe that they were going to rob?
They had gone now and Patsy felt that David was standing beside the bed and looking down at him. He opened his eyes and two more tears escaped, which he hastily brushed away. Immediately David was on his knees, the little cripple's hand clasped tenderly in his.
"What's the trouble, kid?" he questioned anxiously. "Is it the pain that's bad to-night?"
"'Tain't the pain, Davy, 'tain't the pain at all," sobbed the child.
"What is it then, youngster? Come now, tell your own Davy what's troubling you, there's a good boy."
"David, how long is it since mother was taken away from us? It seems so long. I was thinkin' of mother, Davy, and wishing she was here with us this night."
"You poor kid, poor little crippled kid," muttered David, patting the small, thin hand. "It's natural, I suppose, for you to pine for your mother, but ain't Davy been almost like a mother to you, Patsy? He's tried hard, that he has, to be father and mother and big brother all in one." And the man smiled somewhat wistfully.
"You've been all that and more too, Davy. 'Twasn't on my account I was wishin' for mother, 'twas on yours. If she was here, she'd know how to keep you from going with them men to-morrow night. She'd know how to keep you to home, and I don't know what to say or to do to stop you from going."
David's face darkened slightly and there was a note of sternness in his voice as he said:
"So you was listening, was you, and heard what we was talkin' about?"
"I didn't listen a purpose, David; at least, not at first. I happened to wake and heard 'em speak of the brown house on the hill. Then I wanted to hear everything and I listened a purpose after that. Oh, Davy! Davy!" the child cried imploringly, sitting up in the bed and clasping his hands in petition; "don't do it, Davy; don't be a thief to please those wicked men; don't go robbing the brown house on the hill."
A fearful fit of coughing racked the little form and David held him gently in his arms until the paroxysm had passed. Then, laying the boy back upon the pillows, he said quietly:
"You mustn't get excited, Patsy, it's bad for you. We'll not talk no more to-night. In the morning I'll tell you the story of the house on the hill and you'll see I'm not tacklin' this job to please anyone but myself. Go to sleep now, kid, for I'll not say another word to-night, not another word."
When David spoke in that tone of voice Patsy knew there was nothing for him to do but to obey. Turning his face to the wall, he closed his eyes, but sleep did not visit him that night. He lay listening for the stroke of the town clock as it sounded, one after another, the slowly dragging hours; he lay listening to David's regular breathing and wondered how a man could sleep so calmly with such a deed in prospect; he lay anxiously turning over in his mind various schemes by which he could frustrate the plan in case he failed in persuading David to abandon it altogether. Several times fits of coughing shook him nearly to pieces, and at those times the pain in his poor little chest was well-nigh unbearable. He smothered the cough as well as he could beneath the bedclothes for fear of disturbing David. As for the pain—well, pain and Patsy had been companions so long now that he had grown quite accustomed to it.
The next day was cold and dismal, with a leaden sky threatening snow, and a bitter wind blowing that searched the very marrow of one's bones. The few neighbors who chanced to glance out of their windows at an early hour in the afternoon were surprised to see Patsy making his way along the street, slowly and painfully, with the aid of his crutches. They had never known him to be abroad on a day like this; indeed, it was many a day since he had attempted going upon the street at all. Poor little Patsy, his crutches were once a familiar sight going up and down the pavements on pleasant days in the summer time, but they had thought never to see him leave his room again. Did David know? Some one should stop the child; he was too weak to wander out alone like that. But then, it was no affair of theirs; David could probably be trusted to look after the boy.
As no one was willing to make it his business to interfere, Patsy went on his way unmolested. A strange look of determination battled with the pain on the sickly, childish face as he made his way bravely against the biting wind that sought to drive him back. He had learned the mystery of the house on the hill; he knew now why David hated so bitterly that house and all connected with it; he knew why David was willing and eager to help the men in the plan they were to carry out that night. David had told him all about it, and for the first time in his life he had felt afraid of this dearly loved brother of his. It had been a revelation to Pasty. Surely, this bitter, unforgiving, revengeful man could not be the same who had been father, mother and big brother to the little cripple for whom he had cared so tenderly since their mother had been taken from them.
It had sounded like a fairy tale to Patsy; he could scarcely believe his own ears. Just to think of it; that brown house on the hill had once been their mother's home, and the man who lived there, the man whom David hated with undying hatred, was their mother's brother and their uncle. On the day she married, she had left her home forever, her brother vowing that never as long as he lived would he set eyes upon her face again; to him she would be as though dead. Once, when father lay dying (Patsy could not remember it, but David had told him of it), mother had written to their uncle imploring a little help in their misery. It was not for herself she had asked but for the dying husband and sickly baby. Her letter had been returned to her with these harsh words written on the back: "Some mistake here. No woman has the right to call me brother. My only sister died years ago." David had kept the letter ever since; he had been old enough at the time to understand. He had vowed then to have revenge some day and he kept the letter to remind him of the vow should he ever be in danger of forgetting it.
Patsy knew now why his brother so hated the house on the hill, and why David had been so cross on that day last summer when he, Patsy, had come home and told of the young lady who had been so kind to him, the lady who lived in the house on the hill. As a rule, every one was good to Patsy. Even the children on the street, who quarrelled among themselves, striking, reviling, pelting one another with stones, had, nothing but kind words and smiles for Patsy. But that day last summer he had wandered farther from home than usual and a crowd of rough boys had stopped and commenced tormenting him, laughing at him, calling him names, jeering at his deformity, and even pulling his hair and pinching his ears. The child had tried to push past them, but they closed in on him and it might have fared ill with Patsy but for the timely arrival on the scene of the young lady from the house on the hill.
She quickly scattered the band of hoodlums and then walked with Patsy until he was well on his way home and safe from further attack. She had been kind to him, and made him promise to come and see her. That was how he knew her name and where she lived. He had wanted to see her again and had thought of her so often but David would not let him go.
Many a night, when the pain kept him from sleeping, he would while away the long hours by thinking of the gentle, beautiful girl, and he never said his prayers at night and morning, as mother had taught him, that he did not add a petition for his "lovely lady." And to think that she was his own cousin, his uncle's daughter; she lived in the house on the hill and it was her house that David and those men were planning to rob. For her sake as well as David's the deed must be prevented; her father must not be robbed; David must not become a thief. Patsy had determined that last night when he first heard them mention the scheme. If no one else would stop them, he would, though he could not imagine how he was going to do it. He had thought and thought until his head ached so that he could hardly see, but no plan suggested itself to his mind. He prayed, too, long and earnestly, for the priest at the Sunday-school told them God would always answer little boys' prayers if what they asked for was good for them. And was it not a good thing for which he was pleading? Simply that he might find a way to keep his lady from being robbed and save David from becoming a thief?
At last, the idea he wanted had come to him; he knew just what he must do to secure his end. There was danger in the plan, to himself, but he must risk that. It mattered little what happened to him if he could only save his David, his dear, kind big brother, who would never have thought of doing wrong had it not been for those wicked men who had led him astray. Patsy feared those men mightily. He knew their anger would be terrible should they discover how their plan had been frustrated. They might even kill him if they found him out, but he hoped they need not know. He would confess to David alone at supper time that evening; no matter how angry, David would not hurt his little brother. Of that Patsy was certain. Anyway, whatever the risk, he must take it to save David and to save the lady.
The early winter twilight was closing in when Patsy reached his home again and dragged himself up the stairs to the one room which he and David occupied. He was almost exhausted and his breath came in short, sharp gasps which cut him like knives. He would have liked to crawl into his bed, close his eyes and never open them again, he was so tired. But he must not give in yet; his task was but half accomplished. David must be told of what he had done, and at that thought a spasm of fear contracted his heart. Shivering, he drew a chair near the stove and waited with closed eyes and pain-drawn face for the sound of David's foot upon the stairs.
Twilight passed and darkness filled the little room, still David did not come. Patsy lighted the lamp upon the table, wondering anxiously why his brother was so late. He put more coals upon the fire, which was burning low, and made the tea for David's supper. He set out the loaf of bread, the cold meat, the cheese, upon the table, then resumed his chair and his eager listening for footsteps that were so long in coming. It seemed to Patsy he had waited for hours and hours, and suddenly his heart stopped beating and his eyes distended in terror as a thought occurred to him. Suppose David did not come at all! What, what would happen then? But there, that was David's step and all would be well now. The child looked up eagerly as his brother entered the room, then, nearly cried aloud in his bitter disappointment. David was not alone. One of the gang was with him, and this was a contingency for which Patsy had made no allowance. What was he to do now? How could he tell his brother, how warn him, in the presence of that dreadful man?
For the first time in his life David was so preoccupied that he paid no heed to the little cripple who had now withdrawn to the darkest corner of the room and crouched there in abject terror. The two men made a hasty meal and then sat by the table talking in tones so low that Patsy heard scarcely a word of what was said. Anyway, he cared nothing for their plans now; he had spoiled everything for them. But how was he to tell David, how was he to tell David?
By and by, a third man joined them and there was more whispering with heads close together. At last, the three arose and made preparations for going out. They moved towards the door and were astonished to find themselves confronted by a small, crippled figure, that stood swaying on his crutches, directly in their way. A bright red spot burned on either cheek, the eyes were brilliant with fever, and the child was panting for breath. But he said very quietly, his eyes fixed steadily on his brother's face:
"You mustn't go out to-night, David."
The men gasped and looked at one another in amazement.
"You mustn't go out to-night, David," the child repeated. "You mustn't none of you go to the house on the hill to-night."
"We mustn't go out, mustn't we," exclaimed one of the men roughly. "Who's to stop us going, I'd like to know? Stand aside, kid, before harm comes to you."
"Who's to stop you? I am. I have stopped you."
A laugh of derision greeted this statement.
"Yes," Patsy repeated; "I've stopped you. I peached on you; I warned 'em you was comin'."
David's face was terrible to see.
"What's that you're saying, Patsy? You what?"
"I warned 'em this afternoon. I went to the house on the hill and told 'em you was comin'. You mustn't go, David, you mustn't go. The police'll be there waitin' for you, 'cos I told 'em you was comin'. I didn't want you to be a thief, David; I done it for your sake. Oh, David, David!"
David's face was livid and his clenched fist was raised to strike, but Patsy and his crutches lay in a little huddled heap at David's feet.
When the child opened his eyes again, the men were gone and he and his brother were alone. He looked into the face bending above him and gave a sigh of relief. All the anger was gone, only anxious solicitude rested there. Patsy tried to speak, but his voice was so weak and low that David had difficulty in understanding what he said. He leaned over to catch the faintly whispered words:
"You ain't mad at me now, are you, Davy? I'm so glad. I'd hate to go away thinkin' you was mad at me. I had to do it, Davy, I had to tell; there wasn't no other way to keep you from being a thief. I'm sorry to leave you alone, Davy, but I guess mother wants me in Heaven. You know the doctor said I'd be going soon anyway. Mother said she'd be waitin' for you and me and I guess she wants me now. I'm sorry to leave you, but I'm afeared I must go. It'll be lonesome for you when I'm gone. You'll have no one to light the lamp and make the tea for you in the evenings. You'll come home here at night and it'll be all dark and lonely with no Patsy to meet you. But remember, David, I'll be lookin' at you from Heaven. Mother and I'll be waitin' for you there and I'm thinkin' even Heaven won't be just right till you've come to us. Promise me you'll come to us some day; promise you'll never go with them wicked men no more. Let 'em alone or they'll make you as bad as they be, and then you won't never see mother and me. Promise you'll let 'em alone, Davy; promise you'll be good and come to us in Heaven some day."
"I promise, kid, I promise," whispered David brokenly. "With God's help I'll turn over a new leaf and I'll come to you some day."
A smile brightened the pale, pinched face, a smile of absolute content and trustful affection.
"God bless you, my Davy, God bless you," murmured the faint voice haltingly. "Good-by—until we meet—in Heaven."