Peter: A Novel of Which He is Not the Hero

by Francis Hopkinson Smith

Jack strode out into the night, his mind in a whirl. No sense of elation over the money had possession of him. All his thoughts were on Isaac. What manner of man was this Jew? he kept asking himself in a sort of stunned surprise, who could handle his shears like a journeyman, talk like a savant, spend money like a prince, and still keep the heart of a child? Whoever heard of such an act of kindness; and so spontaneous and direct; reading his heart, sympathizing with him in his troubles—as his friend would have done—as his own father might have done.

And with the thought of Cohen's supreme instantaneous response there followed with a rush of shame and self-humiliation that of his own narrow-mindedness, his mean prejudices, his hatred of the race, his questionings of Peter's intimacy, and his frequent comments on their acquaintance—the one thing he could never understand in his beloved mentor. Again Isaac's words rang in his ears. “Is it because I am a Jew? Who taught you such nonsense? Not your Uncle Peter—he loves me. I love him.” And with them arose the vision of the man stretched to his full height, the light of the lamp glinting on his moist forehead, his bead-like eyes flashing in the rush of his anger.

As to the sacrifice both he and Ruth had just made, and it was now final, this no longer troubled him. He had already weighed for her every side of the question, taking especial pains to discuss each phase of the subject, even going so far as to disagree with MacFarlane's opinion as to the worthlessness of the ore lands. But the dear child had never wavered.

“No!—I don't care,” she had answered with a toss of her head. “Let the land go if there is no other way. We can get on without it, my darling, and these poor people cannot.” She had not, of course, if the truth must be told, weighed any of the consequences of what their double sacrifice might entail, nor had she realized the long years of work which might ensue, or the self-denial and constant anxiety attending its repayment. Practical questions on so large a scale had been outside the range of her experience. Hers was the spirit of Joan of old, who reckoned nothing of value but her ideal.

Nor can we blame her. When your cheeks are twin roses; your hair black as a crow's wing and fine as silk; and your teeth—not one missing—so many seed pearls peeping from pomegranate lips; when your blood goes skipping and bubbling through your veins; when at night you sleep like a baby, and at morn you spring from your bed in the joy of another day; when there are two strong brown hands and two strong arms, and a great, loving, honest heart every bit your own; and when, too, there are crisp autumn afternoons to come, with gold and brown for a carpet, and long winter evenings, the fire-light dancing on the overhead rafters; and 'way—'way—beyond this—somewhere in the far future there rises a slender spire holding a chime of bells, and beneath it a deep-toned organ—when this, I say, is, or will be, your own—the gold of the Indies is but so much tinkling brass, and Cleopatra's diadem a mere bauble with which to quiet a child.

It was not until he was nearing Corklesville that the sense of the money really came to him. He knew what it would mean to Ruth and what her eyes would hold of gladness and relief. Suddenly there sprang to his lips an unbidden laugh, a spontaneous overflow from the joy of his heart; the first he had uttered for days. Ruth should know first. He would take her in his arms and tell her to hunt in all his pockets, and then he would kiss her and place the package in her hands. And then the two would go to Corinne. It would be late, and she would be in bed, perhaps, but that made no difference. Ruth would steal noiselessly upstairs; past where Garry lay, the flowers heaped upon his coffin, and Corinne would learn the glad tidings before to-morrow's sun. At last the ghost which had haunted them all these days was banished; her child would be safe, and Corinne would no longer have to hide her head.

Once more the precious package became the dominant thought. Ten bonds! More than enough! What would McGowan say now? What would his Uncle Arthur say? He slipped his hand under his coat fondling the wrapper, caressing it as a lover does a long-delayed letter, as a prisoner does a key which is to turn darkness into light, as a hunted man a weapon which may save his life.

It did not take Jack many minutes we may be sure to hurry from the station to Ruth's home. There it all happened just as he had planned and schemed it should—even to the kiss and the hunting for the package of bonds, and Ruth's cry of joy, and the walk through the starlight night to Corinne's, and the finding her upstairs; except that the poor woman was not yet in bed.

“Who gave it to you, Jack?” Corinne asked in a tired voice.

“A friend of Uncle Peter's.”