"Don't call yourself such names, Richard. The hand that made me, made you; and He has commanded us to love one another," said the boy, sweetly.
"And you can love me, you? Hih! no, no, no, I wasn't born to be loved, only to be kicked round the world like a football while I live, and when I die to be kicked into a pauper's grave. Hard lot! deformed, friendless, wretched, poor. Nothing to love, no one to love me, hih! wonder what I was born for. Monsieur, what hurt you?"
Guly smiled at the sudden transition in the dwarf's manner, and replied briefly that he had been hurt with broken glass.
"Hih! that's bad. I must get down and go away-make you talk too much-'hurt your head.' Always hurt people's heads, I do-that part where their eyes are. Adieu, Monsieur."
The dwarf, after some labor, reached the floor, and succeeded in tucking a crutch under either arm.
"Hope you'll get well, Monsieur."
"Be round to-morrow I hope, Richard; thank you."
"Hope so. Adieu."
"Adieu."
He swung away, and reached the door, but hobbled back to the bed again, and raising his red, skinny fingers, took Guly's hand in his.
"You meant what you said, Monsieur, about loving one another?"
"Yes. Truly so, Richard."
"And I may think of you as loving even me?"
"As loving you, Richard. As loving you for one of the Great God's cherished works, sent here expressly to call forth our love, and awaken the dormant sympathies of our nature."
"May that Great God, bless you, Monsieur. Hih! hih! Adieu."
Once more he gained the door, and this time it closed behind him, shutting him out. And Guly fell asleep, with the earnest blessing of the poor deformed one brightening his dreams, and the holy words, "Love ye one another," ringing sweetly through his heart.
CHAPTER XXVII.
The Friday night, which had been set aside by Clinton for his meeting with Arthur, arrived. It came in "clouds, and storm, and darkness," with darting lightning and crashing thunder, and all the wild fierceness which ever characterizes a thunder-storm in that climate.
Arthur had been nervous and ill at ease all day; a fact which all noticed, but which was attributed to anxiety on Guly's account, who, contrary to expectation, was still unable to be about.
Evening came, the store was closed, and all the clerks were out, save Quirk, Arthur, and Wilkins, who still lingered within, talking of Guly, and commenting on the unusual wildness of the storm. Through the day, Quirk had managed to slip a scrap of writing-paper into Arthur's hand, which had been duly read, and destroyed, and both now waited an opportunity to act upon what it contained.
Quirk quietly lighted a cigar, and, seating himself, turned good-naturedly to Wilkins, remarking:-
"I suppose you know, old boy, that I got my discharge from these premises t'other day."
"Indeed!" returned the head-clerk, coldly, striking a match to light a cigar for himself.
"Yes, cleared out, within a fortnight, bag and baggage; all on account of that deuced little spree we had here the other night. By-the-by, Mr. Wilkins, I believe you have had a finger in this pie. How could you treat a fellow so?"
"I told you I would report you."
"Well, 'twasn't hardly fair, I vum. I didn't do more than the rest, but I suffer all alone. However, I don't bear anybody any ill will, and hope when we part it will be on good terms."
"I hope so, I'm sure."
"I've a bottle of prime old Port left of the other night; what say you to taking a drink this stormy time, to our future good friendship?"
"I've no objections-most certainly."
Quirk went to the other end of the store, and took a bottle and some glasses from under the counter. He filled three of the glasses, and handed one to each of his friends, and kept the other for himself.
"Here's oblivion to the past, and brightness for the future."
Wilkins smiled, nodded, and the glasses were drained to the bottom.
At this moment Quirk caught sight of Jeff, who had just been in to see Guly, but who now stood with his great eyes fixed upon the group before him, with a mixture of wonder and sadness in his glance.
"Ah, Jeff! oughtn't to forget you to-night. Have some?"
"Don't care, massa."
Quirk filled another glass to the brim.
"Now, Jeff, you must give us a toast, or you can't have the wine."
"Guy, massa, who ever heard of a nigga's toastin' white folks," replied Jeff, showing his whole range of ivories.
"Must give us something."
"Well, den, massa, if I must, I must. Here's hopin' you'll never be less de brack man's fren dan now you am."
The negro's toast was drunk with a hearty good-will, Quirk only pausing, thoughtfully, to ask if he spoke in general terms of the colored race, or referred to himself singly; to which Jeff merely said "Yes," leaving the matter as obscure as before.
When his cigar was finished, Quirk buttoned his coat to the throat, and, taking an umbrella, shook hands with Arthur and Wilkins, and proceeded toward the door.
"You might stay, and share Arthur's bed to-night," said Wilkins, calling after him. "It's a dreadful storm to go out in, and he is alone, you know-Guly being in my bed."
"Thank you," returned the other, "not to-night."
"I wish you would," joined in Arthur; "that's a gloomy old room to be alone in, in such a noisy night as this."
"Hope you ain't afraid of spirits," laughed Quirk. "I would really like to stay, but I have an engagement to meet a friend at the St. Louis bar-room to-night, and I ought to have been there half an hour ago. Good-night."
He opened the door, and passed out, while a gust of wind and rain swept in through the opening.
Arthur shuddered. "Really," said he, speaking to Wilkins, "I believe I am nervous to-night; I feel as fidgetty as an old woman; yet I have seen the time when I could glory in such a storm as this, and climb to the summit of old Cro'nest, on the Hudson, in its midst."
"You have been dissipating a little of late, you know," returned the other, patting his shoulder; "that makes a difference. Then, you have, no doubt, been anxious about your brother, and that makes a difference. Perhaps Jeff had better take his bed to your room to-night, and lie there. He will be better than no company, with the lightning and thunder on such a spree about one's ears. What say you?"
"But Jeff is needed here."
"No, he isn't. He only lies behind that door in the capacity of a big watch-dog," returned the other, laughing, "to bark if he hears any one breaking in, and he hasn't had cause to do that since I've been here. Jeff, take your mattress to Master Pratt's room, and sleep there to-night."
Jeff obeyed, glad himself to be near somebody during this fierce battle of the elements; and Arthur told him to go on up stairs with the light, and he would be with him presently.
Leaving Wilkins smoking in the store, Arthur stole softly into Guly's sick chamber. A night-lamp was burning on the table, casting its mellow light faintly through the apartment, and displaying the sufferer's pale features, as he lay asleep, with his bright hair floating back upon his pillow.
Arthur knelt by the bedside, and took one of his brother's burning hands in his, and bowed his head upon it. He uttered no word, heaved no sigh, but knelt motionless and silent-so silent that his heavy heart-throbs were audible. When he raised his head, tears were on his cheeks, and, as he bent to press his lips to Guly's, those tears fell down upon that fair, pale brow, and glittered there like gems.