“No, oh! no. That is, nothing to mention. A few bruises and scratches, and a bit of stiffness. But I thank you. I should not have been alone, only Dolloway, my man, has the rheumatism and I couldn’t think of taking him out in the cold. He stayed at the hotel. If he had been with me he would have prevented my making an exhibition of myself. However, ‘all’s well that ends well;’ and I have been congratulating myself ever since that I may have been thus led to trace an old friend. Did you ever hear of one Conrad Honeychurch Beckwith?”
A responsive smile illumined the widow’s pale face, and the last misgiving she had about thus receiving a stranger into her home vanished. “There could be but one Conrad Honeychurch Beckwith, I think. Such was the name of my husband’s father.”
“I thought so! I thought so! Your husband is—was—”
“Charles Honeychurch Beckwith. The only son of Conrad who grew to manhood.”
“Madam, your hand again! We are old, old friends! Or we should be. Conrad was the chum of my youth, the Damon to my Pythias. We even went ‘Forty-Nining’ together; but he soon left California and returned to his dying wife in New York. I stayed—awhile. He wrote me a few times, then ceased to even answer my letters, which after a while I ceased to write. From that day to this I have never heard of him. I have hunted Beckwiths without number, till people have thought me Beckwith mad; but my Conrad was never among them, and I had given him up. How strange, how strange, and also how fortunate, that I stood gaping at the sights till I was knocked down and Conrad’s grandchild was sent to pick me up! Come here, my dear! Come here and let me look at you!”
Mr. Brook’s excitement communicated itself to all the household, always alert to anything which varied the monotony of their pinched lives. Roland came forward and gazed wonderingly upon the man who, fast slipping out of life, yet remembered so faithfully the friend of his youth. Belle felt the elation of a real romance; Bonny was dancing with delight; and Robert, the “terrible,” was eagerly speculating whether this was the sort of an old gentleman one read of in story-books, duly appreciative of small attentions and liberal as to tips.
But the mother understood best the desire of the old man’s heart to learn all there was to tell, and set herself to gratify it. “My dears, suppose you go on with the dinner-getting. I am sure Mr. Brook will pardon our necessity, and I hope will share our meal. You see, we are rather cramped for room; so, while table is being made ready, those of us not engaged in the task generally retreat to this corner and call it the ‘withdrawing room.’ But maybe you know the inconveniences of a small city flat?”
“No, indeed. Thank the Lord, I live in the country. Even in my best days I would get out of town nearly every night to sleep at home; though I was a beau here, when I first came back from the coast with my pockets full of nuggets. I used purposely to have my name in the papers as often as might be, hoping that thus, if I could not find Conrad, he would find me. But it was of no use. Five-and-twenty years ago I left the town for good. I never meant to come back. But of late a terrible uneasiness has possessed me, and I finally yielded to it. I understand what it meant now.”
They had moved to the corner which Mrs. Beckwith had designated, and though the guest appeared to notice nothing of what the young folks were doing, he was, nevertheless, very watchful; and while his hostess related all the simple history of two discouraged men, her husband and his father, yielding to a fate which seemed too hard for them and dying, each in his prime,—ay, even before what most would call the prime,—the wise old visitor read between her periods the tale of her own bravery, and wondered how best he could second her efforts.
“And that is all. I am sorry we have not better entertainment to offer, but such as we have I see is ready.”