CHAPTER VII.
ANOTHER CHASE.
If Tim had meant to revenge himself for all Berty’s crossness, he could not have chosen any means more certain than his parting-words to do it. In the tumult of her thoughts, and her anxiety to get rid of Gottlieb’s questions about the basket and broom, which in her haste she had left unheeded upon the sidewalk, Berty had hurried herself and the children into bed without remembering her usual devotions. But those words of Tim’s, “Say your prayers before you go to sleep,” brought the remembrance, and somehow it was strangely unwelcome. She sat down upon the bedside, after Tim was gone, to think it over. If the pocket-book had been sent, as she tried to persuade herself, in answer to her prayers, she ought at least to be willing to thank her Father in Heaven for such great and unexpected kindness; and yet for her life she dared not have done it. If it was God’s gift, it should fill her heart with love and thankfulness. Whence came, then, this anger and terror? Berty would not let herself understand,—would not allow herself to answer,—but crept into bed again with the Vaterunser still unsaid, though not forgotten.
But the sleep which settled so sweetly over Tim’s hard couch held aloof from the straw bed in the attic. Berty tossed and tumbled in feverish unrest,—or lay in silent terror listening to the footsteps of the late lodgers coming in, and fancying they were policemen seeking for her,—or magnifying the rats in the ceiling into robbers, breaking in to steal her treasure. She tried to put the pocket-book out of her head, but it lay there like a leaden weight in her bosom, and would not be forgotten; she tried to think of her Christmas tree, but the shining tapers were all gone out and would not be relighted. The face of the strange gentleman would come up in their stead; but the cheery smile which had warmed her heart so, burned into it now like a red-hot iron. And Tim’s words, too,—those bad, cruel words, “It’s no better than stealing, not a bit; and you would not be a thief, Berty,”—came back again and again. And so the night wore on,—the most wretched night which, with all her troubles, poor Berty had ever known.
Towards morning she fell into an uneasy slumber, and dreamed that the strange gentleman, in a policeman’s dress, with the cheery smile still upon his face, hunted her up and down through crowded streets and lonely alleys, while Tim and all the people cried “Stop thief!” and woke to find it morning, and Lieb calling her to get up and asking again those weary questions about the basket and the broom.
She put him off with a story of Tim’s taking care of them, gave him his breakfast, and sent him away to his work; then dressed little Fritz, and, leaving Lina and Rose to take care of him and put the room to rights, started out, with not much notion where she was going,—only somewhere to get away from herself. Tim was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, with his new basket full of apples in one hand, and his own old rag-basket and broom in the other. The faithful little sentinel had waked with the first peep of day, and gone out to the earliest market-stall to purchase his little store before Berty was stirring.
“Good morning, Berty,” said he, pleasantly. “You left your basket and broom in the street yesterday. I forgot all about it till just now; and they’re quite gone before this. You can take mine, though. I sha’n’t want ’em any more, you know.”
Berty nodded, and took them without speaking. It seemed that she scarcely needed such tools now, rich as she was; but she should feel lost without them, and they might help to occupy her mind until she had decided what to do with all that money. So she set off for the crossing, while Tim followed close at her heels, very uncomfortable, but quite determined to keep her in sight. He had gotten no farther through his puzzle, poor boy, than this first determination; and this playing the policeman upon Berty was not at all to his taste.
And Berty liked it as little as he; for more than anything else she dreaded to meet those eyes, the only ones which had seen her hidden treasure,—more than anything else she wished to avoid a talk with their owner, the only person in all New York who knew her uncomfortable secret. She thought perhaps he would leave her at the crossing, and go on to the ferry if she took no notice; so she began to hunt very carefully among the rubbish in the gutter, as if she had eyes and thoughts for nothing else; but she could not help looking round slyly at last, and there was Tim posted at the corner with his basket, though there could be very little chance for customers among the few early passers-by. Presently, when the crowd began to thicken, she began to sweep the crossing with her back towards the sidewalk; but, ever and anon, as she glanced over her shoulder, she would catch sight, between the flitting figures, of her little policeman, never looking for customers at all, never speaking, never coming nearer, but watching, watching still.
It was very provoking. What could Tim mean by it? She would not have him watching there; she would send him away. But if she once spoke to him, what might he not say to her? what might he not do? It was a new feeling, this being afraid of Tim, and not by any means a pleasant one; but one thing was certain: she could never come to any decision,—she could never do anything with the money while Tim was watching there. Berty was just thinking of running away herself, when a stage stopped at the crossing directly in front of her, and out stepped the pleasant-looking gentleman, with the old cheery smile upon his face. That decided her; she dropped her broom in a twinkling, and scampered away up the street.