Almost a man

Chapter I. A Talk Of The Future

“ I hope you will be a comfort to your father. You are almost a man !”

Harry Westbrooke looked up as the gentle voice fell upon his ears, wondering a little at the words, and still more at the earnest tone.

A comfort to his father ! Because, and his eyes filled with tears at this thought, his mother was dead.

Harry could scarcely realize that his father could be comforted by any act of love offered by a son. To him, the words father and mother bore none of the sweet and sacred associations that ought to cling to them in the hearts of all children. His mother, a woman of fashion, had given Harry to the care of nurses, governesses, and teachers, rarely spending more than a few minutes in the nursery from which four little ones had been carried

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to Greenwood, till only Harry a lad of seventeen and Etta a winsome little maiden of four years, remained to call Mrs. Westbrooke mother.

Harry’s memories of her were not the memories of morning or evening prayer learned from her lips, of wise counsel and of loving guidance. He thought of her in rich beautiful dresses, walking with him in crowded promenades, or driving with him seated beside her, also handsomely dressed. He remembered her in evening dress, brushing his cheek in a careless good-night kiss as she left for ball or opera. She had taken a severe cold at her last ball, which had resulted in pneumonia, and Harry shuddered as he recalled the touch of her cold lips as she lay beautiful and pale in her coffin.

His father, who had seldom denied him any extravagant wish of his boyish heart, who kept him supplied with money, and gave him a caress when they met, was to Harry only an indulgent guardian, who sometimes required a little coaxing for an especial favor. But it was a new and startling thought that there could ever exist that close companionship implied by the word comfort.

“I don’t know, Aunt Ellen,” the lad said at last, slowly, “how I could comfort papa”

A TALK OF THE FUTURE.

Miss Westbrooke sighed, softly stroking her nephew’s brown curls. In the three short weeks during which she had been an inmate of her brother’s splendid house, she had seen how little home love there was in the family ; but she knew too that her brother had dearly loved his wife, had been proud of her beauty and accomplishments, and sorrowed deeply for her loss, seeing none of a Christian’s comfort in his bereavement.

“I have been here so little, Harry,” she said, “ that I could not tell you as well as you will know yourself what will best please your father. But he will naturally look to his children now for companionship and comfort.”

She passed on as she spoke, leaving Harry to think over her words. What would please his father ?

The boy asked himself the question very seriously. Touched by the solemnity of the death scenes just over, in his mother’s funeral, his naturally affectionate disposition craved some new outlet, and his aunt’s words suggested one. He would like to please the grave sad man who was seated alone in the library, waiting the end of the long day. But how could he do so ?

He had told him of winning the Latin prize ;

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of being complimented for his uniformly gentlemanly conduct at the Academy where he was preparing for college ; of his success in conquering the obstinacy of the horse that was his last birthday gift. All these things had seemed to please his father at the time he heard them, but there was nothing new to add to the list. For four dreary days, between his mother’s death and her funeral, he had been confined to the house, weeping often, and yet without any of the sense of bitter loss that a loving, tender mother would have left in the heart of her only son. Something very beautiful and bright was gone from the house, that was all.

Very slowly Harry went to the library, feeling that it was a duty suggested by his aunt’s words, but without any hope of really giving comfort to his father. To his surprise, Mr. Westbrooke looked up eagerly at his entrance, and held out his hand. “ My son,” he said tenderly, and drew him close beside him.

After a moment of silence he began to talk of his dead wife, evidently thankful to pour out his love and sorrow to a sympathizing heart ; and Harry, listening respectfully and sorrowfully, felt that he was obeying his aunt’s desire, and comforting his father.

A TALK OF THE FUTURE.

“She was proud of her boy,” the father said, .holding the lad’s hand fast in a loving clasp ; “ she looked forward to your coming of age, Harry, to your being at some future day my partner in business ! Well ! well ! It seems but yesterday you were a baby, and now you are seventeen, almost a man !”

Here was a new duty opened to Harry with the same words his aunt had used. It was not a prospect he liked. A partnership in his father’s business meant probably that he would have to pass his time in a dull countinghouse, reading and answering business letters, attending to customers and clerks, a dry routine, even worse than the drudgery of school. For there were vacations and resting hours in school-life, but Harry could not remember that his father ever rested or took a vacation.

If his mother took him with Etta and the servants to a watering place for the summer, Mr. Westbrooke remained in the city, working at the countinghouse in the hot days as well as the cold ones. In the evening, while Harry studied or had young friends to entertain, or while Mrs. Westbrooke was at some gay party, Mr. Westbrooke was usually in the library, occupied with letters or papers, or receiving business calls.

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Harry’s visions of a future manhood had been very different from this prospect of absorption in business. He had looked forward to greater freedom after the restraints of school and college were over ; to the possession of fast horses, more manly attire, perhaps the tour of Europe to complete his gentlemanly education. After a childhood and boyhood of utterly selfish gratification, he was but ill prepared for duty that would require thought for another, even if that other was an indulgent parent.

He listened, respectfully indeed, but with a very rebellious heart, while his father talked for some time of that future of business life that had been one of his own cherished hopes for years, but which was entirely a new idea to his son’s mind.

“ But am I not to go to college, sir ?” he asked at length.

“ Oh, yes, and then you had better have a year’s tuition in a commercial college, unless indeed I decide to put you under old Poulson, who has been my own head clerk for twenty-five years. He can well instruct you. I am not a young man, Harry, ■nearing seventy, my son, and I look forward to your introduction to the business to put new life and enterprise into it.”

“ I am afraid, sir, I shall prove but a poor business man. I have no taste for accounts or the dull routine of trade.”

“You will find your interest will grow with your success. I was not the son of a rich man, taken as partner into a business already in a flourishing condition. I started with the lowest drudgery of the warehouse, making the fires, sweeping the floors, before I was sixteen. But I worked my way from one position to another, trying to do my work faithfully, carefully saving a portion of every dollar I earned, till I stood at the head of the very firm where I commenced my career. My employers, my senior partners have died or retired, till I am alone, keeping for my son a partnership which many have sought ! It has been my dream since you were a babe in long white frocks, Harry. Your mother wanted you to be a gentleman, with accomplishments and a first-rate education, so we will not change your school or habits, but when you graduate and are of age, I hope to see you begin a successful business career, and double the fortune your father has made.”

That sounded pleasant. Knowing that Mr. Westbrooke had made a sufficient fortune to live in luxury for many years, Harry liked the sound of those last words. Double his father’s fortune !

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That was worth some sacrifice surely, worth giving years of life to dull routine and ceaseless work. And after all, he would enter into business life a gentleman, junior partner in the firm, above the clerks and salesmen, not an office-boy, under the orders of even the porters. Harry’s long face brightened a little. “ I suppose there will be a great deal to learn, sir,” he said.

“ Yes, a great deal. But we will make it easy for you, Harry. I never want to see you slaving as your father slaved for years. Your path will be made smoother for you, though you must remember there is no great success without industry and perseverance, even if you need not practise the close economy that gave me my first capital. I was a poor boy and I am a rich man, and I owe it to the favor of no man, but to my own hard work, strict honesty and perseverance. I hope to to see you succeed with the same qualities.”

Yet Harry had been educated in self-indulgence, ease, and extravagance ; had been petted at school for his intelligence and love of books, foolishly flattered at home for his handsome face and gentlemanly address ; had servants to save him from lifting a finger to help himself, and owed his present freedom from positive vice solely to a fastidious

A TALK OF THE FUTURE.

repugnance to anything low or vulgar, not to any principle, nor to any higher teaching than that of expediency or regard to appearances.

He left the library after some further conversation on the same topic, and went to his own room. The next day he would resume his interrupted studies, and he busied himself with his books and papers, studying closely until dinner-time as he had done every day, hoping to retain the position in his classes that he had won by close application to books he loved.

Mental indolence was no temptation to Harry Westbrooke. He loved to trace out intricate problems, to conquer difficulties of study, and to hold up his head proudly in the schools where he was a student. Inclined to arrogance, he looked down upon boys intellectually his inferiors, as he looked down upon those who wore shabby clothes and soiled their hands by menial work.

To thank God for his active intellect, to humbly own his mental powers as a gift from his Creator, was a lesson Harry Westbrooke had never learned. In his proud estimation, his mind was his own possession, his progress the result of his own application ; and he relied solely upon his perseverance and study to keep the head of his classes, and out-

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strip his rivals in the schools. What was difficult, he was proud of conquering; what was easy, he was rather contemptuous of knowing.

“ I think,” was his thought as the dinner-bell, silent for four days, summoned him from a long Latin composition, “I think I have gained rather than lost since I left school. It has been so very quiet in the house, that I could study famously, and I am pretty sure Mr. Huber will not count my absence against me, for such a reason as kept me at home. Poor mamma!” and he sighed as the train of thought brought back the sorrow to his mind; “poor mamma! she was very proud of my Latin prize. She made father buy my watch the very next day ”

It was strange, but entirely true, that the lad’s only sweet memories of his mother were associated with costly presents, or some fond proud praise of his acquirements to friends. Mrs. Westbrooke had not left that most precious of all maternal legacies, tender motherly kisses, gentle Christian influence and teaching, caresses straight from a heart full of mother love. Her children loved her only as a faroff beautiful vision, attired in dresses too costly for baby fingers to touch, sitting in rooms far too expensively furnished for children’s plays, busied with gayeties from which little folks were strictly banished.

Harry, as he came out from the nursery to more advanced boyish pursuits and studies, had sometimes been admitted to his mother’s sittingroom, when he was carefully dressed, and would behave with strict propriety, and was usually very glad to escape from the restraint, to his games and young companions.

Yet even with these he was always under the eyes of a nurse or governess, until he was twelve years old, when he entered the Academy, and had acquired a fastidious dislike to all things rough or rude. A hearty game of romps he considered low, and his little affectations of foppishness would have been ludicrous if they were not painful to a thoughtful observer. He was careful about his dress, neat to dandyism, and only saved from being a silly fop by a true love of study, and an active vigorous intellect.

He put aside his pen, arranged his papers, and was brushing his hair, when an impatient little fist pounded upon the door of his room.

“ Harry, ’et me in !” cried a sweet baby voice. “ I ’se doing to dinner wiv ’oo.”

“ You ! Oh no, Etta,” Harry said, opening the i6

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door, and lifting his little sister in his arms. “ Little girls do n’t come to the table.”

“But I is,” the child persisted. “Aunt Ellen asked papa, an’ papa said ’ess.”

“He did. Come along then. Shall I carry you ?”

“ No. Put Etta down an’ she ’ll ’alk by ’oo like a big lady to dinner. Do n’t ’oo see I ’m all spandy clean for dinner. Oh my !” And full of the importance of this first introduction to her father’s table, Etta tossed back the long golden curls from her face, smoothed her snowy dress and broad black sash, and walked gravely beside her tall brother, her blue eyes full of earnest triumph at this great step in her baby-life.

“Aunt Ellen says little dirls ’aint bothers if they ’have nice,” she said, in a confidential whisper ; “ an’ she do n’t wear shiny fings little dirls must n’t touch, like mamma, but tooked me in her lap an’ told me a booful, booful ’tory ’bout a bad child an’ a dood child, same as me when I ’m bad an’ dood. An’ she finks dolls a’ n’t same as folks, ’cause they do n’t know about fings.”

“ What things, Etta ?”

“Black sashes an’ fwocks an’ hats, same as mine.

But here Ettas confidences were cut short by opening the diningroom door, and the explanation must be made in another chapter.

Miss Ellen Westbrooke, who had consented to remain for a time with her brother, had won his consent to having Etta with the family at mealtimes, and had provided a high chair for her. And her father missing the beautiful face of his wife, and the usual guests around his table, was well pleased to see the baby face, grave with importance and the necessity of perfect decorum.

Without a word of silent or spoken blessing the Westbrookes sat down to their luxurious meal.

Almost A Man.

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Chapter II. Aunt Ellen

When Miss Westbrooke had left Harry in the drawingroom, she had gone directly to the nursery where Etta slept, played, ate, and in short lived, with her nurse Margaret, a middle-aged woman who had the sole charge of the child, although Etta took a daily walk or drive with a smart French nurse, whose ungrammatical and ignorant use of her native language was expected to give the child a good foundation for her future education.

This young woman Miss Westbrooke found seated before a fancy table covered with black materials, while upon her lap lay a large and expensive doll. Margaret working busily at the other side of the room was evidently not favorably inclined towards Jeannette or her occupation.

“ What are you doing ?” Miss Westbrooke asked, seeing the maid measuring the large doll with the sombre materials.

“ But, mam’selle,” said the nurse, " I make ze black for ze doll. Ze canary is dead !”

“Canary dead, all deaded!” chimed in Etta’s

AUNT ELLEN.

sweet baby voice, “an’ Jeannette is doin’ to put all ’e dollies in black, same as Etta !”

Miss Westbrooke stood aghast. In her quiet country life she had heard of fashionable follies, and in the few short weeks she had spent in her brother’s house, had seen many things that surprised and grieved her ; but the hideous mockery of this nursery mourning was like a blow to her sensitive nature. “ Etta darling,” she said quickly, “dollies do not know or feel, dear! Tell Jeannette to put away all that crape and black, and dress your beautiful dolly as she was dressed before.”

“ But my canary is dead !” persisted Etta. “ And Daisy Martin’s dollies all weared black dresses when her poodle doggie died.”

“ It ’s just awful,” said Margaret, “ that’s what it is, ma’am. I ’m not here long, only seven months, but what ’s spent in this nursery would keep two families in food and clothes. I ’m not saying I ’d take a child’s toys away ; but to go and buy the best of crape and bombazine to put mourning on a doll is downright sinful, to my thinking.”

“ And to mine,” said Miss Westbrooke gravely, “ I must insist upon your putting those things away, Jeannette ; and say no more, if you please to Etta, about changing her doll’s dress.”

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“ May I put on her dewlry then ?” asked Etta.

“ Yes, dear !”

“ Where is it, Jeannette ?” the child asked.

Jeannette, not altogether sorry to put by her work, took from a small locked box a set of jewelry, tiny and exquisite, and handed it to Miss Westbrooke.

“ Mees Etta might might break ze clasps,” she said ; “ and Mrs. Westbrooke have said to me, she not to touch ze jewels herself.”

“ They are not real ?” cried Miss Westbrooke.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Margaret, “Miss Etta’s papa had them made to order for the large doll on Christmas. Pure gold and real stones ! That dollie’s trunk of clothes and jewel case, cost hundreds of dollars.”

“Turn an’ see,” said Etta, pulling her aunt to a small trunk which she opened. It was full of dolls’ clothing of expensive materials, beautifully made, and the wardrobe comprised every article used by a lady of fashion, in miniature. Tiny fans, scent bottles, embroidered handkerchiefs, kid gloves, every detail for most elaborate toilets for morning, dinner, walking, and ball dresses, lay before Miss Westbrooke’s eyes. “Are you very fond of playing with your doll ?” she asked Etta.

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“ Tan’t pay wiv her. Beak her all to pieces !” was the reply. “Jeannette dresses her, and puts her to bed an’ all’e fings. Etta holds her vewy tarefully !”

Miss Westbrooke thought of the rag-baby that had been her chief toy more than fifty years before, of the care she had bestowed upon its one calico dress, of the nights she had cuddled it in her arms to sleep, of the love she had given to it, and was sorry for this baby, whose splendid playthings could only be handled by a French maid, and touched by their owner very carefully. Delighted to display her treasures, Etta led her aunt to her cabinet of toys, to show her the costly array, more or less damaged, but all of the most expensive kind. And yet it was evident that the little golden-haired child found little real pleasure in her miniature bazaar.

“You see, ma’am,” Margaret said, “Miss Etta is not allowed to touch the mechanical toys, and she does not care for the tea-sets and furniture sets when* she is alone. Her mamma let her have a party sometimes, and the little ladies had tea in the nursery out of the cups and saucers. But, bless you, they turn up their noses at nurseries after they are six years old, and are dancing in drawing-rooms

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like grown people, all tricked out in finery. We had a doll’s party last winter, and the dolls were dressed like ladies and gentlemen, real jewelry, real lace and all. Miss Etta’s doll was one of the handsomest, I will say, and Jeannette was one entire week making and trimming the dress. The Honiton lace on it cost no trifle, and yet children are .starving in garrets in this very city !”

Jeannette gave her shoulders a shrug, as she always did when Margaret expressed her opinion of the luxuries of the nursery, and Etta looked up with a puzzled face, wondering if she was being scolded.

Miss Westbrooke made no comment, unwilling to seem to censure her sister-in-law to her servants, and yet feeling shocked at the waste around her : useless waste, for Etta herself evidently found no real pleasure in the possession of so-oalled playthings too costly to play with, and dolls’ dresses whose value was entirely beyond her baby comprehension.

“ Etta’s weal dolly, all booful, Margar-et f rowed away,” she said presently.

“A dead mouse, ma’am, that she found in the closet, and pinned up in a pocket handkerchief. She nursed it all one morning, but I had to throw •it away.”

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“Poor child,” said Miss Westbrooke, smiling. “ I should like to have her in the country with me, to pet the little chickens and kittens.”

“ Oh,” said Etta, drawing close to her aunt.

“ Shall I tell you about them ? Come sit on my lap,” said her aunt, taking her up very lovingly.

Then she told the little one of her country home, of the flowers in the garden, the fruits on bushes and trees, the little downy chickens, and great hens, the gray cat and four little kitties. And the child listened with delight, often asking eager questions, and quite willing to leave ail her toys to listen to the sweet voice.

“Do you like stories, Etta?” Miss Westbrooke asked.

“ Do n’t know,” was the reply.

“ Shall I tell you one ?”

“ ’Ess,” was the quick and very emphatic answer. “ Etta likes to hear ’00 talk.”

“ Do you, dear ?”

“’Ess, and Etta likes to sit in ’00 lap, ’cause ’00 a’ n’t ’fwaid of bein’ mussed as Jeannette is, and ’00 a’ n’t too busy, as Margaret is, and ’00 a’ n’t dot shiny fings to be broked if ’ittle dirls touch.”

Loving arms clasped the child close, loving lips pressed her baby face, and Miss Westbrooke’s eyes

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were dim as she lifted her heart in silent prayer for this little one, whose childhood was deprived of childhood’s sweetest privilege, a mother’s caresses, a mother’s true love. No French dolls, no costly toys, could give little Etta the perfect happiness she felt as she nestled in her aunt’s arms, and knew the pleasure of a loving embrace.

Margaret went down stairs to see about some fine ironing on Etta’s dresses. Jeannette, seeing the child cared for, went to her own room, to devote an hour or two to her own sewing, and in the quiet room Miss Westbrooke told Etta simple stories suited to her comprehension, about little girls and boys.

Presently she was interrupted, the child sitting erect upon her knee, to ask, “ But, auntie, what did Mawy pway for ?”

“To ask God to take care of her, and make her be good.”

Still the child looked puzzled.

“ Do n’t you ask Jesus to love you and keep you, and to make you a good girl, Etta ?”

“No. Margaret took Etta to church one day, and a man in a high box talked, and Margaret said he was saying pwayers. Do ’ittle dirls like me dit in high boxes and talk ?”

AUNT ELLEN.

“ No, darling,” said Miss Westbrooke wondering if missionary work was not as much needed in that luxurious home in a Christian city, as in Africa itself. “ No, darling, little girls do not pray aloud in a pulpit, but every little girl may kneel down in her own room and ask Jesus to bless her ”

“Ask Jesus to bess her?” repeated the child imitating her aunt’s grave tone.

“Shall auntie tell you about Jesus who loves little children ?” asked Miss Westbrooke.

“’Ess”

And then, as all children will, Etta listened with deep pleasure to the beautiful story of the nativity ; the story children never tire of hearing, of that tender Saviour who took little children in his arms and blessed them. The questions Etta asked proved how entirely new the lovely narrative was to her, how utterly ignorant she was of all Christian teaching : and yet her sweet, serious face, her evident interest proved as well that her aunt had succeeded in suiting her words perfectly to the child’s comprehension.

The afternoon was over, and the twilight of a late spring day had set in, when Miss Westbrooke, putting the child down, after teaching her a short simple prayer, called Margaret to dress her for dinner.

Almost a Man.

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The nurse was surprised to hear that Etta was to be allowed to sit at the table, but well pleased at the prospect of loving care being extended to her.

“For indeed, ma’am, the fine ironing and the plain sewing keep me busy, and Jeannette has all the dressmaking and hat-trimming to do, when she is not walking with Miss Etta. And the child’s troublesome, because she ’s lonesome. I ’m glad to hear you are going to stay, ma’am.”

“ I shall stay for the present,” said Miss Westbrooke, “ and I will get Etta some patchwork to teach her to sew, and a doll she can dress herself, to amuse her. The toys can stay as they are to look at, but I will give my little niece something to play with, and some trifling work to do. She will be happier if she is employed.”

Margaret, who was a well-meaning Christian woman, but afraid to interfere with the rules of the nursery, listened to the lisping, but reverent version Etta gave her of the holy story that had sunk deep into her baby mind.

“And Margy,” the child said, “Jesus is way up in ’e booful sky, and he can hear if Etta asks him to take dood care of her and make her a dood dirl.”

“Yes, deary, he can hear.”

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“ And he loves ’ittle dirls. And he tooked ’em in his arms to love ’em, same as auntie tooked Etta. A’ n’t auntie nice, Margy ?”

“ Very nice, such aunties as yours.”

“ I love her. I love her better ’n all ’e fings in ’e cabinet or dollies or anyfing. And she’s doin’ to have Etta to bekfus and dinner wiv papa and brover Hawwy. And I ’m doin’ to tell Hawvvy, my hair ’s all curled, and my dress on.”

In the meantime, Miss Westbrooke, in her own room, was kneeling in fervent prayer for guidance and strength in the duties before her, which she approached with trembling, knowing that her own strength was far too feeble to meet them.

Younger than her brother, she was but a child when he left his country home to seek his fortune in the great city. As years rolled by she heard of his prosperity, but saw him very seldom, once at the funeral of their mother, once before his marriage when she made him a brief visit. Her own duties as teacher in a district school, kept her at home ; and after her brother’s marriage she was shy of ’•meeting his fashionable wife, being herself no longer young, and knowing nothing of the life of the wealthy in the great metropolis.

She had gratefully accepted her brother’s gift

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of a sum trifling to him, but affording her an income more than sufficient for her simple wants ; and she had given up her school, and lived her quiet useful life upon the farm her father had left her, thinking of no change, until the letter came announcing Mrs. Westbrooke's dangerous illness, and begging her to come to the city.

It had given her deep pleasure, that in the hour of sorrow, almost the first deep grief of his prosperous life, her brother had turned to her for help and comfort, and she answered the call at once. It was touching to see how the old man met her, with the old boy love reviving in his heart, and with a strange sense of dependence upon her quiet good judgment and grave nature.

“ You will know just what to do, Ellen,” he said, “ and I can leave Louisa in your care with an easy mind. I cannot trust her entirely to hired nurses, and she has no near relatives.”