CHAPTER II.
MUTUAL CONFIDENCES; AND PHILIP TURNS
RED IN THE FACE.
"THIS has been my first summer at the Ossokosee," said Gerald, as the wagon trundled on. "Papa and I live in New York, in the Stuyvesant Hotel. We have always been to Shelter Island until this year."
"I have lived quite a good deal in New York myself," remarked Philip. "You see, I have nobody to look after me except Mr. Marcy. My mother died several years ago. In three or four weeks from this time Mr. Marcy takes me down to the city with him when this house is shut."
"Is Mr. Marcy your uncle?"
"O, no! No relation at all. I often feel as if he was, though. He has kept watch of me and helped me with my education ever since my mother's death."
Touchtone's eyes lost their happy light an instant.
"During the summer, of course, I have no time to do any studying, and not too much in the winter. I have a great deal else to busy me, helping Mr. Marcy."
"Why, what do you help him with?" inquired Gerald, with interest, remembering Touchtone in the office and the dining-room, and indeed every-where about the Ossokosee, except the parlors.
"Well, Mr. Marcy calls me a kind of aid-de-camp to him and Mrs. Ingraham, the housekeeper, too, particularly when there is danger of the kitchen running short of supplies. Now and then, if the farmers around here fail us, I have to spend half the day driving about the country, or you might starve at supper-table all at once. O, and then I look after one or two books in the office!"
Gerald laughed.
"Papa has kept me here because he heard so much about the table; and because Mr. Marcy told him there were so few boys that I couldn't get into mischief. Papa used to be a broker, but he don't do any thing now. I believe he retired, or whatever they call it, a year or so ago. He's been camping out with a party of gentlemen from the Stock Exchange ever since midsummer away up in Nova Scotia. I haven't any mother either."
"Why didn't you go with them?" inquired Philip, guiding Nebuchadnezzar skillfully through an irregular series of puddles. The view of the rolling green country, dotted with farm-houses and gray or red barns, was now worth looking at as they came out on the flat hill-top.
"I should have liked to go very much; but papa said that they were all expecting to 'rough it,' and the weather might be too cold for me. He was afraid I would be sick or something, and I know I'd be a good deal of trouble to him. Hasn't it stayed hot, though? I suppose they are having a splendid time up there all by themselves hunting and fishing. He wrote me that there wasn't a house within five miles of them. In October we are to meet in New York again. School begins next week; but I'm not to hurry back this year."
Gerald spoke of the "splendid time" rather wistfully. The little fellow had been lonely in the big Ossokosee, Philip fancied.
"What school do you go to?" inquired Gerald after a moment; "that is, when you are in New York?"
"Not to any now," soberly responded Philip, with a frown coming over his forehead. It was the secret grief of his spirit that he had not been able to advance further in a thorough education. When Gerald spoke of his holidays coming to an end; he involuntarily envied this boy. "But before I came to live so much with Mr. Marcy, and when my mother was alive, I went to the Talmage School."
"Why, that's my school now!" exclaimed Gerald, smiling. "How queer! But it's a pretty old school."
And then came interrogations as to what pupils or teachers had been there in Philip's school-days.
To Gerald, who was quite wide awake to reflections upon a good many more problems than thinkers of his age often pause over, already there seemed to be something like a mystery hanging around this young Touchtone. He made up his mind that his new friend did not appear a shade out of place this morning driving around a hotel-wagon after butter and eggs from the farms. But he also decided if he should meet Philip in a tennis-suit with a group of the most "aristocratic" lads of Murray Hill, or see him marching about the floor at some crowded "reception" given by the school, why, Touchtone would look just as much in his proper surroundings—only more so. While he was assenting to these ideas something else occurred to make the younger boy puzzled about the older one.
A buggy came spinning along the road to meet them. From the front leaned out a young man, ten or twelve years older than Touchtone, wearing a brown beard. He checked his horse as he approached and called out some words that Gerald at once knew were German. Philip laughed and answered them in the same language quite as fluently. The occupant of the buggy—Gerald rightly supposed him the young German doctor that lived in the village—began quite a chat with Touchtone entirely in German. Both spoke so rapidly that Gerald found his study of the language at the Talmage School did not help him to catch more than an occasional "ja" or "nein."
The young doctor rode on.
"How well you must know German," said Gerald, admiringly. "Did you learn it across the water?" the boy added, half in joke.
"Yes," responded Touchtone, to the astonishment of the other lad. "I learned it in Hanover, when I was there, before we lived near New York."
Gerald happened to glance at Philip's face. It was oddly red, and his voice sounded strangely. All this time, too, there was certainly one particular person to whom he had not so much as referred. But after Gerald had bethought himself of this omission and put his next question he would have given a great deal not to have uttered it. The regret did not come until he had asked Philip point-blank:
"I think you said that your—your father was dead, didn't you? Was that after you came back?"
Philip made no reply. A blush reddened his frank face painfully. His pleasant expression had given place to an angry look. He gave unoffending Nebuchadnezzar a sharp cut with the long whip, as if to conceal mortification in showing his feelings, whatever they arose from, to a comparative stranger. He looked away from Gerald's startled blue eyes toward the flag-crowned gables of the Ossokosee House, that now were in full sight, as the wagon turned into one of the graveled avenues leading to the kitchen.
"My father died after we came home," he said, as if he had to face himself to speak of something that he could hardly bear to think of. "I was born in Germany, and lived there until we sailed."
"I—I beg your pardon," said Gerald, blushing in his turn.
"What for?"
"Because I think I asked you something that—that there was no reason for me to be told."
"O, don't mention it," returned Touchtone. He recovered his self-possession so curiously lost. "It is just as well that you did, I rather believe. Some day, perhaps, I can explain about it to you. No harm done. "Pompey! Pompey!" he called out in his pleasant voice to a tall servant walking across the back piazza of the dining-room. "Come here, please, and help take some of these things to Mrs. Ingraham's store-room. If you will wait a moment," he continued, to Gerald. "I'll walk around to the front with you. I want to see Mr. Marcy."
The contents of the wagon were disposed of among the servants. Nebuchadnezzar set out by himself for the stables, at a word of command from Philip.
On the front steps were some groups chatting, reading, writing, or watching the nearer of two games of tennis, played at a little distance, out upon the wide lawn. The Ossokosee was to close for the season within about a fortnight, and only the uncommon heat of the September weather kept it still fairly full.
"Halloa, Philip!" called Mr. Marcy from the desk. The office inclosure was a handsome addition to the hall, with its cheerful stained glass, carved railings, rows of letter and key boxes and bell signals, "Where did you light upon that young gentleman? I'm not sorry, Gerald. Your father has left you in my charge, and you're too heavy a responsibility. I think I'll turn you over to Philip there. You might make a pretty fair guardian, Philip."
"All right," returned Gerald, gayly. "I say, guardian," he continued, turning with mischievous eyes to Touchtone, "can't you come up to my room after you get through your luncheon? Harry Dexter and I are going down to the lake at four o'clock to see them practice for the regatta. But we'll have plenty of time first."
"I am going to the lake myself," said Philip. I belong to the Ossokosee crew that rows, you know."
"O, yes; so you do. Then we can all go together. You'll come, wont you?" And he seemed so anxious that Touchtone answered, "Yes," and "Thank you," at once.
Philip turned into the office, where he began giving the gentlemen there the history of the battle at Wooden's Ravine. "Served him right, Philip!" heartily exclaimed the genial book-keeper, Mr. Fisher, on hearing of the stick throwing, "and you'll find that little fellow a youngster worth your knowing."
Meantime Gerald was running lightly up the broad, smoothly polished oak stairs and entering the room that the father had engaged for his son's use. Not being able, or thinking he was not, to have the boy with him in Nova Scotia, he had wished to make Gerald as luxuriously comfortable as a lad could be. The gay Ossokosee House had, nevertheless, a perfectly new interest to Gerald now. The little boy had been welcomed by a good many of the guests stopping there. There were a few of his own age that had been his chums, for want of others. But now that he had met Touchtone things began to look all at once more enjoyable.
And what could be the reason that so openhearted and jolly a companion should be so alone in the world, and feel so terribly cut, and blush in that embarrassed fashion because of a simple question concerning his father?
Philip came up to Number 45 in due time that afternoon. He looked over Gerald's foreign photographs and his coin collection. And so the time sped on, and interest in the acquaintance mutually prospered.
The next day they did not meet until after supper. Mr. Marcy had only three or four letters he wished Philip to write. When these were finished he and Gerald walked out into the hotel grounds, talking of the coming regatta and feeling quite like old companions. Two crews only were to row—the Ossokosee Boat Club and the Victory Rowing Association—and much interest was attached to the race. Mr. Marcy had offered a prize of two hundred dollars to the winners, and, furthermore, the Ossokosee Club were determined not to be beaten for the fourth year. The last three regattas had resulted, one after another, in the triumph of the elated Victors. Philip was a zealous member of the Ossokosees, and found it hard work to keep in any kind of training, what with his duties at the hotel. But then the whole affair was not so "professional" as it might have been, and Touchtone's natural athletic talents and Mr. Marcy's indulgence helped him to pull his oar as skillfully and enduringly as any other of the six.
Gerald listened with all his ears to his friend's account of their last year's defeat. All at once Philip remembered a message for Mrs. Ingraham about the flowers from the conservatory.
"Please stand here by the arbor one moment?" he asked. I'll just run to the dining-room and find her."
Now, there was a long rustic seat outside the thick growth of vines, running over the same arbor. Gerald sat down upon this bench. Some guests of the house were grouped inside, conversing together. No secrets were being told. Gerald did not feel himself an eavesdropper. In fact, he did not pay any heed to the talking going on just back of his head until he heard a slow voice that was a certain General Sawtelle's.
"O, young Touchtone, you mean? Yes, yes; a remarkably fine young fellow! Any father might be proud of such a son—and any son ashamed of such a father as he had."
Gerald started almost to his feet.
"Why, who was his father?" asked another indolent voice. "What did he do?"
Gerald was a boy of delicate honor. He was about to hurry away, eager as he was to sympathize with his attractive "guardian's" trouble. He scorned to play the eavesdropper, and he equally scorned to be told this secret until Philip would utter it. But before he could step to the soft turf, and so slip cut of ear-shot, Philip Touchtone himself came up beside him. Philip had stepped with unintentional lightness to the bench where he had left his little protégé and caught the last clearly spoken sentences.
Gerald would have drawn him away, too; but Philip took the hand of the younger boy and made a sign to him to remain and hear what General Sawtelle would reply. He put his finger upon his lips.
"Why," responded the general, from within the arbor, "his father was Touchtone—Reginald Touchtone—who was so badly involved in the famous robbery of the Suburban Trust Company, years ago, in X, just outside of New York."
"O," returned the other speaker, "I remember. Touchtone was the cashier."
"Yes; the man that turned out to be a friend of the gang that did the business," another speaker chimed in.
"Certainly. They were sure that the scamp opened the safe for them. They made out a clear case against him. He went to the penitentiary with the rest of 'em."
Gerald was trembling, and held Philip's cold hand as the two lads stood there to hear words so humiliating to one of them. But Philip whispered, "Don't go!" and still restrained him.
"Yes, it was as plain as daylight. The fellow opened the safe for the rogues! At first the indictment against him was rather shaky. He was tried, and got off with a light sentence; only a year or so, I believe."
"Convicted, all of 'em, on State's evidence, weren't they?"
"Yes, this Touchtone included. One of the crowd decided to speak what he knew. I presume Touchtone had had his share of what they all got. But it didn't do the man much good."
"Why, what became of him?" asked another voice.
"O, he and his wife rented a little cottage up here. They left their house near New York, or in it, and came here till Touchtone died. He had consumption. Marcy was an old friend of the lad's mother, and helped them along, I understand, till this boy, Philip, was left alone by her dying, too. She was a fine woman, I've been told. Stuck to her husband and to his innocence, till the last. After that, Marcy took Phil with him. I think he expects to adopt him."
"Well, he's a nice boy, anyway," came the other voice, "and Marcy's proud of him, I can see. I guess he'll turn out a credit in spite of his father. What time is it? My watch has stopped."
"Come," said Philip, softly. He walked away with Gerald. Neither spoke.
At length Gerald said, gently, "Is that all, Philip? You made me listen!"
"All?" replied young Touchtone, bitterly. "Isn't it enough? Yes, I made you listen! I wanted you to know the story before you saw any more of me. There's another side to it, but that isn't the one you will find people trouble themselves over. I wanted you to hear what you did. But I couldn't tell you myself. I am the son of—of—my father. I don't care for mere outsiders, who know it already and think none the worse of me for it. But other people, if I care any thing about them, why, they must know with whom they are taking up."
It cost him a struggle to say this. Gerald was younger than he. But the manly, solitary little guest of the Ossokosee had gained in these two days a curious hold over him. Philip had never had a brother. If he had ever thought of one, the ideal conjured up would have been filled by Gerald. He felt it now as he stopped and faced the latter in the moonlight.
But Gerald looked straight up into Philip's face. He smiled and said, "Philip, I believe your father didn't do that."
Touchtone put out his hand with a quick gesture of intense surprise.
"Gerald!" he cried as their two palms met in a clasp that hurt the smaller one, "what in the world made you say that?" There was something solemn, as well as eager, in his tone.
"O, nothing particular," the heir of the Saxton impulsiveness answered, simply; "but I don't believe it, that's all! I don't!"
"He don't believe it either," Gerald heard Philip say, as if to himself, "and I don't. What a little trump you are, Gerald Saxton!" They walked a little further in silence; then Philip again spoke, in a tone from which all the sudden joy and cheerfulness were gone: "Well, Gerald, you and I may be able to prove it together some day to the people. But I don't know—I don't know!"
Certainly they were to accomplish many strange things together, whether that was to be one of them or not.