This eBook was produced by Pat Castevens
and David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
"Please, sir, be this note for you?" asked the waiter.
"For me,—yes; it is my name."
I did not recognize the handwriting, and yet the note was from one whosewriting I had often seen. But formerly the writing was cramped, stiff,perpendicular (a feigned hand, though I guessed not it was feigned); nowit was hasty, irregular, impatient, scarce a letter formed, scarce aword that seemed finished, and yet strangely legible withal, as the handwriting of a bold man almost always is. I opened the note listlessly,and read,—
"I have watched for you all the morning. I saw her go. Well! I did notthrow myself under the hoofs of the horses. I write this in a public-house, not far. Will you follow the bearer, and see once again theoutcast whom all the rest of the world will shun?"
Though I did not recognize the hand, there could be no doubt who was thewriter.
"The boy wants to know if there's an answer," said the waiter.
I nodded, took up my hat, and left the room. A ragged boy was standingin the yard, and scarcely six words passed between us before I wasfollowing him through a narrow lane that faced the inn and terminated ina turnstile. Here the boy paused, and making me a sign to go on, wentback his way whistling. I passed the turnstile, and found myself in agreen field, with a row of stunted willows hanging over a narrow rill.I looked round, and saw Vivian (as I intend still to call him) halfkneeling, and seemingly intent upon some object in the grass.
My eye followed his mechanically. A young unfledged bird that had leftthe nest too soon stood, all still and alone, on the bare short sward,its beak open as for food, its gaze fixed on us with a wistful stare.Methought there was something in the forlorn bird that softened me moreto the forlorner youth, of whom it seemed a type.
"Now," said Vivian, speaking half to himself, half to me, "did the birdfall from the nest, or leave the nest at its own wild whim? The parentdoes not protect it. Mind, I say not it is the parent's fault,—perhapsthe fault is all with the wanderer. But, look you, though the parent isnot here, the foe is,—yonder, see!"
And the young man pointed to a large brindled cat that, kept back fromits prey by our unwelcome neighborhood, still remained watchful, a fewpaces off, stirring its tail gently backwards and forwards, and withthat stealthy look in its round eyes, dulled by the sun,—half fierce,half frightened,—which belongs to its tribe when man comes between thedevourer and the victim.
"I do see," said I; "but a passing footstep has saved the bird!"
"Stop!" said Vivian, laying my hand on his own, and with his old bittersmile on his lip,—"stop! Do you think it mercy to save the bird? Whatfrom; and what for? From a natural enemy,—from a short pang and aquick death? Fie! is not that better than slow starvation,—or, if youtake more heed of it, than the prison-bars of a cage? You cannotrestore the nest, you cannot recall the parent. Be wiser in yourmercy,—leave the bird to its gentlest fate."
I looked hard on Vivian: the lip had lost the bitter smile. He rose andturned away. I sought to take up the poor bird; but it did not know itsfriends, and ran from me, chirping piteously,—ran towards the very jawsof the grim enemy. I was only just in time to scare away the beast,which sprang up a tree and glare