I was sincerely remorseful for the ungrateful manner in which I had behaved toward him, and for the unworthy sentiments that I had cherished. I strove honestly, by amending my conduct, to do what I could in the way' of atonement.
Incidentally, moreover, my little adventure had brought me face to face with some of the naked facts of life. In a grim and vivid tableau it had shown me what a helpless and dependent creature I was; how for the sheer necessities of food, shelter and clothing I must rely upon the charity of other people. I tried now to make myself of real value to my patron, of real use in the shop and about the house, and thus in some measure to render an equivalent for what he did for me. Instead of going off afternoons to amuse myself with Ripley, I would remain at home to improve such chances as I had to be of service to Mr. Finkelstein. I would play the hand-organ for him, or read aloud to him, or take charge of the shop, while he slept, or enjoyed his game of pinochle with Mr. Flisch. And in my moments of leisure I would study a dog-eared fourth-hand copy of Munson's Complete Phonographer that I had bought; for I had long thought that I should like to learn short-hand, and had even devoted a good deal of time to mastering the rudiments of that art; and I fancied that, by much diligent practice now, I might hasten forward the day when I should be able to earn my own livelihood, and thus cease to be a burden upon my friends. Indeed, I could already write as many as sixty words a minute with perfect ease.
Mr. Finkelstein did not altogether approve of my assiduous industry, and used to warn me, “Look out, Kraikory! It don't naifer pay to run a ting into de ground; it aictually don't. You study so hart, your head'll get more knowledge inside of it as it can hold, and den, de first ting you know, all of a sudden vun day, it'll svell up and bust. Ainy-how, Kraikory, dere's a proverp which goes, 'All vork and no play makes Shack a dull poy'; and dot's as true as you're alife, Kraikory; it aictually does. You better knock off dis aifternoon, Kraikory, and go haif some fun. It's Saiturday, ain't it? And dere's a maitinee, hey? Vail, why don't you go to de teayter?... How? You study so hart becoase you vant to get able to earn your living? Now look at here, Kraikory; don't you talk foolish. I got plenty money, ain't I? And I got a right to spend my money so as to get saitisfaiction out of it, hey? Vail, now look at here; dere ain't no vay of spending my money what'll give me so much saitisfaiction as to spend it to make you haippy and contented; dot's a solemn faict. You needn't vorry about earning your living. You ain't got to earn it for a great mainy years yet already—not till you get all done mit your education. And ainyhow, Kraikory, you do earn it. You mind de store, and you read out lout to me, and you keep me company; and, my kracious, you're such a shenu-wine musician, Kraikory, you got such a graind tailent for de haind-organ, I don't know how I'd get along midout you. I guess I haif to raise your sailary next New Years.”
This was-only of a piece with Mr. Fin-kelstein's usual kindness. But I felt that I had abused his kindness in the past, and I was determined to abuse it no longer.
I say I was happier than I had been for a long while before, and so I was. I was happier because I was more contented. My disappointment about the inheritance, though keen enough at the moment, did not last long. As Mr. Finkelstein had remarked, I was no worse off than I had been in the first place; and then, I derived a good deal of consolation from remembering what Uncle Peter had told me—that the money had gone to reconstruct the splendor of our house in France. My disappointment at seeing my meeting with Uncle Florimond again become a thing of the indefinite future, was deeper and more enduring. “Alas,” I sighed, with a heart sick for hope deferred, “it seems as though I was never going to be able to go to him at all.” And I gulped down a big lump that had gathered in my throat.
Against Rosalind Earle I still nursed some foolish resentment. She had wished that I might have to eat humble pie. Well, her wish had come to pass; and I felt almost as though it were her fault that it had done so. She had said she didn't like me any more, and didn't care to have me call upon her any more. I took her at her word, and staid away, regarding myself in the light of a much-abused and injured person. So three or four weeks elapsed, and she and I never met. Then... Toward six o'clock one evening I was seated in the parlor, poring over my Complete Phonogacipher, when the door from the shop opened with a creak, and a light footstep became audible behind my chair. The next instant I heard Rosalind's voice, low and gentle, call my name.
My heart began to flutter. I got up and turned around, and saw the dear little girl standing a yard distant from me, with her hand extended for me to take, and with her beautiful dark eyes fixed appealingly upon my face. I didn't speak; and I pretended not to see her hand; and I just stood still there, mute and pouting, like the sulky coxcomb and simpleton that I was.
Rosalind allowed her hand to drop to her side, and a very pained look came over her face; and there was a frog in her voice, as she said, “O, Gregory! you—you are still angry with me.”
“O, no! I'm not angry with you,” I answered, but in an offish tone; and that was true; I really wasn't angry with her the least bit any more. All my anger had evaporated at the sight of her face and the sound of her voice. But I didn't know how to unbend gracefully and without loss of dignity.
“Then—then why haven't you been to see me?” she asked.