Chapter VIII: Roma’s Delusive Joy

When gray-haired Amos Merritt burst in upon Roma Fronde on that early April day, and, with almost boyish exultation, exclaimed, “I have good news for you! Will Harcourt is found!” great throbs of joy pulsated through her frame, almost depriving her of the power of speech. She who had borne the heaviest shocks of fate without losing her self-command, was almost overcome by this sudden joy. She started to her feet, and uttered but one syllable:

“Where?”

“At Lone Lodge, with Mrs. Harcourt,” replied the lawyer.

“How?” she panted.

“In good health. Both mother and son are at present the guests of the Wynthrops. I had a letter to-day from Miss Margaret. She writes that they——”

“Stop!” exclaimed Roma, recovering her self-possession with great effort. “I must write immediately to catch the mail. I will hear details later.”

And she hastened to her desk and wrote the letter which we have already seen, asking Will Harcourt to meet her as soon as possible at Goblin Hall, for which she was about to start.

She closed and directed the letter, and was about to leave the room to put it in the house box for the mail messenger, when Mr. Merritt arrested her steps by saying:

“Give it to me. I am going directly back to my chambers, and I will post it on the way.”

“Thank you; but I thought you were going to tell me all about the Harcourts?”

“So I was; but, on second thoughts, I will leave Miss Wynthrop’s letter with you. Here it is. You see, I really ought to be at my office. It is now ten minutes after ten, and I have to meet a client at eleven. Are you still resolved to leave the city to-morrow morning?”

“Oh, yes. I have written to Will Harcourt to meet me at Goblin Hall immediately. That means as soon as steam can take him there, of course.”

“Then I shall return to spend the last evening with you. Good-morning, my child.”

“Good-morning, good friend.”

The lawyer left the room.

Little Owlet, who had been sitting demurely on a hassock, nursing a black bull pup Tom had given her, now looked up and asked:

“What is it all about?”

“A dear, very dear friend, whom I have not seen for months,” replied Roma.

“So I thought, from what the lawyer said; but he did say, too, that somebody had been found. Now, nobody could be found unless they had been lost, could they?”

“Of course not.”

“Was it your friend who was lost?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And his name was Will something or other. I remember that much.”

“Will Harcourt.”

“Oh, yes! That was it! Who lost him?”

“He himself, I think.”

“Was he a very little boy?”

“No, dear; he is a man.”

“Then, if he is a man, he is not possessed of common sense, to go and lose himself. Who found him?”

“I don’t know, dear. I wish to read this letter, which will tell me, perhaps.”

“Well, read it, and I will go and take George Thomas out for a walk on the pavement,” said the child; and she arose and carried the puppy, on whom she had bestowed the double name, out of the room.

Roma read Margaret Wynthrop’s letter, giving the account of Harcourt’s sudden arrival at Lone Lodge, and of his distress at finding the mind of his aged mother failing, even though that failure was attended by a happy hallucination. From the tone of the letter Roma judged that Harcourt had never mentioned his defeated marriage, and that the Wynthrops were ignorant of it.

This circumstance seemed very strange to Roma, and if it did not deepen the mystery of that unparalleled marriage ceremony, it certainly threw no light upon its darkness.

But she would soon see Harcourt, and learn the truth from him, she said to herself, as she laid aside Miss Wynthrop’s letter and set about completing her last preparations for her journey.

In the midst of packing her traveling bag she was interrupted by the entrance of Owlet with her puppy in her arms.

“I thought you were going to read your letter? If I had known you were going to work I would have stayed to help you” said Owlet solemnly.

“I have finished my letter, dear, and now I am only putting up a few things in my bag for use during our journey,” Roma explained.

“Well, then, let me help you. You sit down in your big easy-chair, and I will put George Thomas to bed in his basket. He is very sleepy. And I will bring you all the things you want to pack in the bag,” Owlet insisted. And she laid her pet in his nest, and came and stood before her benefactress in an attitude of attention.

“But I have quite finished now, dear, and there is nothing more to do,” Roma explained.

“Well, if I can’t be useful I might as well be dead,” said Owlet with an aggrieved air.

“Dear child! Why should you say such things?”

“I heard Mrs. Brown talking to somebody, and she said people who are of no use in the world had better be out of it.”

“But that was a hard saying; besides, do you not think that the Lord knows when it is best to take any one out of the world?”

“You’ve got me there,” said Owlet. “I give in.”

“That is right.”

“And anybody who would not give in when they are wrong is not possessed of common sense,” concluded Owlet.

At eight o’clock Mr. Merritt came to spend his last evening with Roma.

Owlet was allowed to sit up with them.

“I wonder what you will do with this child?” inquired the lawyer in an aside to Roma.

“I shall do with her, if I should be permitted to keep her, just what I should do with a little orphan sister, if I were blessed with one.”

“Well, now, Roma, my child, I did not come here to loaf. What can I do for you in the way of preparation for to-morrow? Any trunk to cord up, or to sit down on, or to be dispatched to the express office? In short, anything to be done that I can do for you?” inquired Mr. Merritt.

“No, nothing, thank you. Our baggage has all been sent off, and you have nothing to do except to sit here and give us your company, so long as you can spare the time,” Roma replied.

“Yes,” added Owlet, striking into the conversation, “you need not think we only like to see you for what you can do for us. We like to see you because we like you.”

“Thank you, ma’am; that is very complimentary,” laughed the old lawyer.

“I meant it to be,” said Owlet solemnly.

“Now, Roma, my dear,” said Mr. Merritt, as he rose to bid them good-night, “instead of meeting you at the depot at nine o’clock to-morrow morning, as I had first intended to do, I shall call here with a carriage at half-past eight to take you and the child there.”

“Oh, dear friend, do not put yourself to that trouble,” Roma objected.

“But, my child, it will give me half an hour more to spend in your company, and that will be a great boon to a poor old fellow who is about to lose you, for heaven knows how many months,” sighed the old lawyer, lugubriously.

“You take a holiday every summer, I suppose?”

“Last summer contained the first holiday I have had since my college days.”

“But you will certainly take a holiday this summer?”

“Oh, yes, and every summer henceforth, so long as I live, please the Lord.”

“Then come and spend this next one with us among the wooded hills of Maryland.”

“May I? Thank you! I certainly will do so, with pleasure, if I am spared. Good-night, my dear. Good-night, little Owl!”

So, after shaking hands with Roma, and kissing Owlet, the lawyer left the room.

Soon after this Roma rang her bell, and when it was answered by Tom she gave him a parting “remembrance” for himself and one for his mother.

Tom grinned with delight, and then suddenly “boo-hooed” at the thought that his friends were going away.

“Don’t cry. I dare say you and auntie can come and spend your summer holiday with us, too,” said Owlet.

“Oh, yes, Tom,” added Roma, “if ever you or your mother would like to change city work for country work, come to me, and you shall have employment. Stay, I will give you my address, so that you can write or get a letter written whenever you please.”

She took a card, wrote her full address, and gave it to the boy.

Tom stopped howling as he pocketed it, and said:

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Mammy like to go back to de country, mammy do, as the city ain’t wot it’s cracked up to be, nohow, mammy say.”

“I suppose your mother has gone to bed now, but tell her she can come and take leave of me any time to-morrow between seven and half-past eight o’clock. Now, good-night, Tom. God bless you,” said Roma very gently as she dismissed him.

“Good-night, ma’am—and—little Miss—oh, boo-hoo-woo!” howled the boy as he ran out of the room.

“Now, my little Owlet, we must go to bed if we wish to get up early in the morning,” Roma explained.

And in twenty minutes more the lady and the child had retired; but only Owlet went to sleep. Roma was kept wide awake with thoughts of the coming interview and explanation between herself and Harcourt. It was near morning when she first fell into a fitful sleep, from which she was soon fully aroused by the restlessness of Owlet, who had got up and dressed herself, and was fidgeting about the room in a manner wholly inconsistent with her usually still and staid demeanor.

“Oh, you are awake!” she said when she heard Roma stir and saw her eyes open. “It is after seven o’clock, and you told Tom’s mother that she might come any time between seven and half-past eight.”

“You extremely literal Owlet, has the woman been up to see me?” inquired Roma.

“No, ma’am, she hasn’t; but I hear her coming now,” Owlet said.

Roma also heard the cheery voice of the cook as she came along the hall, talking to some one in her company, who did not answer.

Roma stepped out of bed, drew on her dressing-gown, thrust her feet into slippers, and sat down in her armchair to receive the visitors.

Owlet opened the door before they had time to rap, and admitted Tom and his mother.

“Gwine away dis mornin’, young mist’ess? I’s orful sorry to year it, an’ I’se orful busy, long o’ de breakfas’, too, dough dere ain’t mo’ dan one-quarter ob de people in de house as dere was in de winter, neider. Still, breakfas’ is breakfas’, an’ it has fo’ to be got,” said Lucy, with a succession of old country courtesies, as she stood respectfully before the lady.

“I am sorry to part with you, too,” Roma replied.

“An’ young mist’ess, I do fank yo’ so much fo’ dat same gif’ yo’ gib me. I ain’t had no sich a gif’ sence ebber I lef’ de ole Snake in ye ole times ’fo’ de wo’, I ain’t, fo’ de trufe; an’ I fank yo’, young mist’ess, fo’ dat same fibe-dollar gol’ piece.”

“You are very welcome; but the ‘Snake,’ did you say?”

“De ole Sarpint—yes, mist’ess.”

“What old Serpent?” inquired Roma, for though she knew very well what Lucy meant, having heard from Tom that he and his “mammy” had come from the Isle of Storms, yet she wished to draw the woman out, to make an opening by which she might naturally disclose her own connection with that place, which she had not wished to do until now, when she was about to leave Washington.

“De islan’, young mist’ess, w’ere de fambly ob de Guyon libbed ebber sence de ole times ’fo’ de wo.”

“Did you live with the Guyons?”

“Lor’, yes, young mist’ess; I ’longed to dem. Did yo’ know ’em, young mist’ess?”

“Very slightly, I regret to say, though my dear mother, who died when I was a babe, was Romaine Guyon, the sister of Henry Guyon, who died three years ago.”

Lucy’s eyes opened to their widest extent, and for a moment she seemed deprived of the power of speech, and then she exclaimed:

“Now de Lor’ hab mercy on my po’ ole soul! Young mist’ess, yo’ ain’t nebber de darter ob Miss Yomaine, wot married dat young man f’om de Wes’, named F’onde?”

“Yes, I am her daughter.”

“Well, Lor’, I might ’a’ knowed it by de likeness, well as de manners—so I might. To fink ob meetin’ ob yo’ yere, in dis bressed house, in dis furrin city ob Washington! Well, wunners will nebber cease! An’ jes’ as I hab foun’ yo’ out yo’s gwine to leabe!”

And here Lucy put her apron up to her eyes and sobbed aloud.

“See here, I did not tell you this to distress you, but to open a way for better days to come. I know that many of you elderly colored people who came to the city to live and find work are disappointed, either in work or wages, or in the ability of adapting yourselves to the new circumstances.”

“Wot dat yo’ say, young mist’ess? Please say it ober ag’in. I doane quite take it all in.”

“I meant that some of you come to the city and don’t find what you want, and would rather go back to the country, if you could.”

“Dat’s so! Lor’, ’tain’t ’cause people ain’t good to me, ’cause dey is. But—no—’tain’t ’cause dey doane gib good wages, ’cause dey does; but, honey, it’s f’eedom one way, an’ not f’eedom ’nudder way.”

“What do you mean by that, Lucy?”

“Dis a way, honey; I yearns my own libin’, an’ has my own money, an’ w’en my work is done I kin go an’ comt putty much as I p’ease; but, Lor’, honey, dere ain’t no place to go an’ come to but streets an’ streets, an’ houses an’ houses; an’ I sort ob miss de fiel’s an’ de woods an’ de country all t’rough. Dat’s wot’s de matter ’long ob me.”

“I thought so. Well, at any time you please you may come to me at Goblin Hall, and I will give you employment about the house.”

“Oh, fanky, honey! An’ Tom, too?”

“And Tom, too.”

“Now, oh, Lor’! I’s got to yun down an’ ten’ to breakfas’. Sary Ann is down dere, for true, but she ain’t wuff much. Wot shill I sen’ yo’ up, young mist’ess, or would yo’ yudder come down to de yestyant, now dere ain’t hardly anybody dere, ’specially at dis airly hour ob de mornin’? Airly fo’ de city, min’ yo’, young mist’ess. ’Twould be ’sidered moughty late fo’ de country.”

“I will go down, Lucy.”

“Den I will try to see yo’ ag’in, if it’s only frough de do’. Fank de Lor’ as de kitchen is jus’ ’hind de yestyant!” said the cook, as with a half suppressed sob she left the room.

“Here, Tom!” exclaimed Roma, as the boy was about to follow. “Take all these things down to the hall. I shall not return to this room after leaving it.”

And she gave her traveling bag, umbrella and shawls to the boy, who, with a half smothered howl, took them and went out.

Then Roma hastened to dress herself for her journey, and when she had done so she collected all her remaining effects, put them in a second bag, and then took a long, last look around the rooms she had occupied for four months, and might never see again. She opened the west window and looked out upon the bit of woods which the march of improvement had still spared behind this newly opened street in the northwestern suburb of “the city of magnificent distances.”

She hoped that it would yet be spared, and inclosed in a park, rather than be swept away.

Then she invoked a blessing on the house and on all who might come into it.

Roma, in some moods of her mind, was devout almost to the verge of fanaticism, and had been more than once accused of superstition.

“Come, darling, we will go down now,” she said, and took her little Owlet by the hand and led her out, the child carrying the dog basket in which the pup was to travel.

On the elevator she remembered the lad who ran the machine, and gave him a gift.

“You asked everybody else to come to see us in the country, why don’t you ask poor Titus? He is an orphan boy, too,” said Owlet.

“So I will,” said Roma. Then, turning to the lad, who could not have been more than ten years old, though he did run the elevator, she said:

“Titus, what is your full name, dear?”

“Titus Blair, ma’am.”

“Do you lodge here, or only come by the day?”

“I lodge here, ma’am.”

“Well, Titus, if you should ever have a holiday, and would like to enjoy it in the country, you just tell Mr. Merritt—you know him, and you know where he lives—and he will send you to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. That would be too good!” exclaimed the lad, breaking into a broad grin.

“Here we are on the landing. Good-by, now, Titus,” said Roma, shaking hands with him as they left the elevator.

“Good-by, Titus. Mind, when your holidays come, you are to ask Lawyer Merritt to send you down to Goblin Hall. He’ll do anything for our lady here. I reckon he will marry her some day, and maybe I’ll marry you, Titus, when we grow up,” said Owlet, as she took Roma’s hand and passed into the dining-room.

Roma sometimes felt a little shocked at the child’s freedom, and even rudeness, of speech, but she could not yet find it in her heart to rebuke the newly bereaved orphan. She would defer all training until they should reach Goblin Hall, when she would begin it in the spirit of love.

“Is there any one else you would like to invite to Goblin Hall, ma’am?” she inquired, with sly humor, as she led Owlet into the dining-room and they sat down at one of the tables.

“Of course not,” replied the child, looking at the questioner in grave wonder. “There are Mr. Merritt, Lucy, Tom and Titus. They are enough. We can’t have all the world at Goblin Hall! ‘There is reason in roasting eggs.’”

“I stand corrected,” said Roma.

“There is Mr. Merritt now!” exclaimed Owlet, as the lawyer came in, and, without any ceremony, took a seat at the same table with them, saying:

“Good-morning, my dear. Good-morning, Miss Catherine. I have come to breakfast with you.”

“We are very glad to see you, I am sure. Are we not, Owlet?” Roma said, shaking hands with her old friend.

“He knows we are. It’s no use telling him,” the child added.

“Fact is, Roma, I had no appetite at the early hour at which I ordered the carriage, but thought I should get one by the time I had driven from one end of the city to the other, and I have. Ah! here’s Tom! What have you to serve up to us in the way of new luxuries? Fresh shad, by the powers! And fine strawberries! I am glad I came.”

There was no one else in the dining-room at this early hour but our party, so not only could Tom give them his undivided attention, but Lucy came in on every excusable occasion for the sake of seeing and speaking with her own young mistress as often as possible.

When breakfast was over the lady and child once more took leave of their colored friends and went out, attended by the lawyer, who placed them in the carriage, where they found their effects placed by the careful hands of Tom.

Half an hour’s drive brought them to the Baltimore & Ohio Railway depot, where they found the train for the west almost ready to start.

Mr. Merritt saw Roma and Owlet comfortably seated in a drawing-room car, and there took an affectionate leave of them.