CHAPTER V.
THE "MORNING BUGLE."
"Look at this disconsolate pair; melancholy has evidently marked them for her own," said Bessie Sanford, as she and I crossed the corner of the square, bound for an afternoon walk; aimless, except in the search for fresh air and exercise.
The "disconsolate pair" were my little sisters, Allie and Daisy, who now approached, trundling their dolls' perambulators in front of them, and followed by mammy, who came limping after, also wearing a most lugubrious expression; but whereas their distress was plainly mental, her's was physical, drawn forth by pain.
"Old mammy has an attack of her pet bunion," I said, "and I suppose that the children are, in consequence, debarred from their walk, and they have but just come out. Poor little things! What do you say, Bessie, to taking them with us? They would be enchanted."
"So should I. By all means let us take them," answered Bessie, who had a love for children and their company, only second to my own.
"O, sister Amy!" cried both the little ones, dropping the perambulators, and rushing up to us as soon as their eyes fell upon us, "Mammy's bunion hurts so, she can't take us to walk, and it's such a lovely day, and we want to go Jim's peanut-stand."
And the ever ready tears rushed to the eyes of Allie, who was prone to weep upon slight provocation; and even Daisy, who was more philosophical, though younger, looked heart-broken.
Sunshine speedily succeeded the showers, however, for my proposal that they should accompany us was received with rapture; and, taking their dolls into their arms, they abandoned the perambulators to the care of mammy, who hobbled towards home with them. This bunion was mammy's choice grievance, and she doubtless suffered much from it; but it was an article of the family faith, that, when for any reason she was disinclined to take her walks abroad with the children, the bunion sympathized with this reluctance, and crippled her to an unusual extent.
"And where do you want to go?" I asked of the beaming pair, who were now hanging, the one on Bessie's arm, the other on mine. "Bessie and I do not much care which way we go."
"Oh," said Daisy, ecstatically, "if you would only take us to Jim's peanut-stand! Mother said we might go, and then mammy couldn't take us."
"It's not fash'nable, but it's very respectable, Amy," said Allie, impressively.
"But we cannot go to a peanut-stand, even though it belongs to Jim," I expostulated.
"But it's not in the street; it's—you know Johnny, the flower-man, sister?" said Allie.
"Johnny the flower-man" was a German florist on a small scale, who had a little glass-enclosed stand on the corner of the avenue next to that on which we lived, and who was extensively patronized by our family and many of our neighbors. His box of a place, cosey, warm, and fragrant, was a favorite resort of our children; and much of their pocket-money went to the purchase of the potted plants and cut flowers which he sold to them at a wonderfully reasonable rate. But what had the little German to do with Jim and his peanut-stand? Allie soon enlightened us.
"Jim was going to have the stand on that corner," she said, "and he had leave to do it; but mamma and aunt Emily said it would not do for Tony and Matty to sit out of doors in the cold weather; it would kill Matty, they said. And Jim was so disappointed, and he didn't know what to do; and one day when sister Milly sent him to Johnny's, he told him about it, and about Tony and Matty; and that lovely old Johnny,—Daisy and I ask God to bless him every night when we've done our own people,—he told Jim he could have a little corner of his store where it was all glass, and the stand could be seen from the street; and then Matty could sit there, and people would come in and buy her peanuts. Wasn't it good in him? We love Johnny, if he does squint, and smell of tobacco, and can't talk very plain."
"And then," said Daisy, taking up the tale in her turn, as Allie paused for breath, "and then there wasn't room there for the roaster, 'cause it's pretty squeezed up in Matty's corner, and in Johnny's store, too, wif the stand there; so Johnny's wife, who lives just a little bit of a way off, lets Tony have the roaster up in her room, and roast the peanuts, and then he runs very quick wif 'em over to Matty, or, if it's a nice, pleasant day, he has it put outside the door. But the smell of the peanuts gets mixed up wif the smell of the flowers, and that isn't so very nice."
"But Jim is making lots of money, he says," continued Allie; "'cause most always when people come in to buy flowers, Johnny tells 'em they'd better buy peanuts, too; and Jim printed a sign in German about peanuts inside, and put the meaning in English beneath, and he says he thinks he is doing a better business than if Matty sat outside. Norman and Douglas buy lots, but," with a little sigh, "mother don't like Daisy and me to eat peanuts. It would be a good way to do charity if she would let us; but sometimes we buy some, and give them to the servants."
Jim and his "peanut undertakin'," as Captain Yorke had called it, had, in the press of other and greater interests, almost passed from my mind, and I had made no inquiries about it lately; but, as visions of numerous peanut-shells in the most unheard of places returned to my recollection, I could not doubt the truth of Allie's assertion in regard to my brothers.
While the children had been talking, we had been gradually walking on towards the desired haven,—the corner where the German florist had his tiny store; and presently we came to it. The little glass enclosure was one mass of vivid green, and brilliant, glowing color; for Johnny was remarkably successful in the treatment of his plants, and they always wore a thrifty, healthy aspect, delightful to behold.
Without, just at the side of the door of entrance, hung the sign described by Allie; and Daisy at once drew our attention to it.
The "German" legend ran thus:—
"Goot rost benuts ish incite, nein sents a quoort.Shtep in unt py."
"Goot rost benuts ish incite, nein sents a quoort.Shtep in unt py."
"Goot rost benuts ish incite, nein sents a quoort.
Shtep in unt py."
The English translation followed:—
"Good roost peanuts is inside, nine cents a quart.Step in and by."
"Good roost peanuts is inside, nine cents a quart.Step in and by."
"Good roost peanuts is inside, nine cents a quart.
Step in and by."
Bessie and I were inwardly amused, but did not let it appear to the admiring children. Allie, however, had her own misgivings as to the absolute correctness of the sign, and said, doubtfully,—
"I suppose the German must be all right, because Jim says that is the way Johnny talks; but the English is not spelled quite right, is it, sister Amy?"
"Not altogether," I answered; "but perhaps it attracts more attention than it would do if it were quite correct, Allie, and that, you know, is the object of a sign or notice."
"Yees," said Allie, doubtfully, lingering behind a moment to scan the sign as I opened the door, and still inclined to criticise; "ye-es, but somebody might laugh if it is not spelled quite right."
"That is of no consequence so long as it does not hurt business," I said, shamelessly indifferent to the orthographical merits of the case. "Come in, Allie, we must not keep the door open too long."
At the farthest end of the crowded little cubby-hole,—all the more crowded, of course, for the accommodation which the good-hearted German had afforded to Jim's beneficiaries,—sat the little deformed Matty, behind her stand, on which were displayed a tempting pile of freshly roasted peanuts, and various bright, new measures. Outside, on the street, could be seen Tony, grinding away at his revolving roaster; for the day was so exceptionally lovely, that there could be nothing in the air to injure him, and he doubtless preferred its freshness, and the brilliant sunshine, to the presumably dark and stuffy quarters of Mrs. Johnny.
AT THE FARTHEST END SAT THE LITTLE DEFORMED MATTY.
"AT THE FARTHEST END SAT THE LITTLE DEFORMED MATTY."—Page96.
Poor, poor Matty! Deformed, shrunken, and wizened, she was a painful contrast to all the beauty and brightness surrounding her in the little conservatory. Beyond the sympathy unavoidably drawn forth by her helpless and crippled condition, there was absolutely nothing to attract one toward her. She looked peevish and fretful, too, so far as there was any expression in the dull, heavy face. Was it to be wondered at? There had been but little of brightness in her young life; and as I looked from her to my little sisters, our petted household darlings, carefully guarded and shielded, so full of life and joyousness, so free from all pain or care, my heart swelled with thankfulness, that to them had been allotted no such fate, and with the desire to brighten the lot of this little unfortunate.
It was not so with her brother Tony: he was the jolliest, most active little cripple that ever hobbled round on one leg and a crutch. The celerity of his movements was something surprising; his voice was merry and cheery; and his ugly young face, despite the many hardships of his lot, generally wore a smile.
Now and then he would be seen with his face pressed against the glass, with a nod of good-fellowship to his sister or Johnny, or staring at such customers as happened to be within; and, if these proved to be Matty's patrons, he would watch the progress of the sale with great interest. Then he would turn to his roaster, and work it violently for a few moments, then be off to the curbstone or crossing, exchanging some, probably not very choice, joke with some other street-gamin, or the conductor or driver of a passing street-car.
The children, Allie and Daisy, made their investments while I was taking these observations, and Bessie was purchasing cut-flowers from the old German. She was a good German scholar, and delighted the heart of the old man with the familiar language of the fatherland, which flowed glibly from her tongue. The consequence was, that that politic young woman left the florist's with three times the amount of flowers that I had, although I had spent just twice as much money. But, then, I could not speak German.
"I am going to take my flowers to cousin Serena," I said, after we had left the florist's, and exchanged a word or two with jolly little Tony as we passed. "Will you come and see her, Bessie?"
Bessie assented, and the two little ones were only too glad to accompany us. A visit to cousin Serena was always a treat to them.
"And we will give her the peanuts we bought; she likes peanuts," said Daisy, who, as well as Allie, had maintained a silence, quite unusual with them, during several minutes.
"But we'd like her and all our people to understand," said Allie, loftily, "that we buy peanuts because of Jim, and not at all because of Matty. She's the most unchristianest child we ever saw; and I think her soul is hunchback, too, just as well as herself."
I had seen that Matty had repelled the advances of the children, who had wished to show her their dolls, and to be kind to her; and I endeavored to soothe them, and excuse her, by telling them how much she had to suffer, and how her disposition might have been spoiled by all that she had undergone.
But my words made no impression; the children were not to be mollified. Allie still wore an air of outraged and offended dignity; and Daisy not only maintained that solemn silence, but she looked grieved and hurt. Our little ones were not accustomed to be snubbed, and took it hard when such an experience did befall them; but there was a preternatural gravity about them now, which excited my wonder.
"Why, Daisy," exclaimed Bessie, suddenly, "what is the matter with your cheek? It is all red and scratched. What have you been doing to yourself?"
"She didn't do it to herself," said Allie, indignantly, and before Daisy could speak. "We didn't want to tell tales; but, sister Amy and cousin Bessie, I think you are not verynoticeable, not to see Daisy's cheek before this. We are very much disappointed in you."
We apologized humbly, saying that Daisy's broad felt hat had prevented us from seeing the state of her cheek before this, and inquired more minutely into the cause thereof.
With some reluctance the children told, that, while Bessie and I had been making our purchases of flowers, they had, after buying their peanuts, tried to make themselves agreeable to Matty; but she had proved far from responsive, and would not even look at the beautiful dolls which they proffered for her admiration. Believing that shyness alone was the cause of this ungraciousness, and filled with pity for her condition, Daisy had at last raised Matty's arm and placed her doll within it, when the cripple suddenly turned upon her, and drew the nails of the disengaged hand viciously down poor little Daisy's soft cheek, while, with the other, she threw the doll from her. Fortunately, the doll was not hurt; but the insult to her cherished darling had grieved Daisy more deeply than did the injury to herself. She had heroically refrained from crying out, or making any complaint, lest Johnny should be moved to espouse her cause, and avenge it on Matty; but it had gone to her heart, and to Allie's as well, that, after such forbearance, neither Bessie nor I should have noticed her plight. However, we made up for it now by an outburst of indignation and resentment, especially violent on my part; whereupon, the sage Allie turned my own moral lecture, so lately delivered, upon myself, recalling my exhortations to the effect that we should be patient and forgiving with one so sorely afflicted as Matty Blair.
When we reached cousin Serena's, a little arnica and some French bonbons healed Daisy's wounds, both mental and physical; but when happiness and peace were once more restored, and she was seated upon Miss Craven's lap, with Allie beside her, and the box of chocolates between them, cousin Serena herself was discovered to be in a state of no small flutter and excitement.
"My dears," she said, "have you seen the 'Morning Bugle' of to-day?"
"No," I said, emphatically. "Father would not allow that paper to come into our house."
"Nor would my father," said Bessie.
"He says it is a scandalous sheet," I added. "He would not have it if there were not another newspaper in the city."
"Nor would I in my own house," said Miss Craven; "but," apologetically, "when one is in a boarding-house, my loves, you know one cannot control other people."
"I should think not," said Bessie. "It would be hard, indeed, if you were held responsible for the morals, or the literary tastes, of Mrs. Dutton's other boarders."
"But you dearest of Serenas," I said, "you know you need not read the 'Morning Bugle' because some of the other people in the house take it. O Serena, Serena," reproachfully, "I thought better things of you! Thatyoushould allow your mind and morals to be poisoned in that way!"
"My dear Amy! My dear children!" exclaimed the dear, matter-of-fact old lady, who never knew when she was being teased, which made it all the more delightful to tease her. "My dear loves, you do not think I read that scandalous sheet! Why, this morning I should have said that nothing would induce me to touch it; but when Mrs. Dutton came up with the paper in her hand, and said, 'Is not this meant for your friends?' what could I do? I had to take it, and read the paragraph; and, my dears, here it is. Oh, I have been so unhappy all day about it! What will your father and brother do? Mrs. Dutton let me cut this out, when she saw how I felt about it."
I took the scrap of paper which she handed to me; and the blood rushed to my heart, as I read an item with the following heading:—
"A MADISON-SQUARE SENSATION."
It was a garbled and scurrilous account of the late little incident at our house, implying, indeed openly asserting, that there had been a wholesale attempt at poisoning. Names were not given, not even the initials under which the reporters of such gossip often pretend to disguise publicity, and in a measure avoid responsibility; but, to the initiated, there could be no doubt that the paragraph referred to my unlucky cookery. Further particulars, it was said, would be given at a later date, although it was difficult to obtain information, as the parties concerned had endeavored to hush up the matter; and "money is a power in this community."
I turned faint and giddy as I read; while Bessie, who looked over my shoulder, burst into a tempest of indignant exclamation.
"Dear child! Don't turn so white, Amy, my dear; I am so sorry I showed it to you," cried Miss Craven, aghast at my alarm and agitation. "It is outrageous, scandalous; but it cannot hurt you: you see no names are given. But I shall never forgive myself, for I told Mrs. Dutton about the 'food for the gods'. She was interested, you know, when you were here with me learning to make it, and asked me how it turned out. But she is discretion itself; she would not say a word, nor let any one know—Oh! my dear child, what shall I do? What shall we all do?"
But the vivid imagination with which I was credited by my friends, and which not unseldom did cause me many a needless foreboding, was rampant now; and visions arose before me of disgrace to the family, if those dreadful newspaper people did, as they threatened, "give further particulars," and perhaps go to greater lengths, and even print my name in their horrible sheet. Should I ever be able to hold up my head again? I sat in dumb, terrified astonishment.
But here, Bessie, with her practical common sense, came to the front, and brought me back to reason.
"So that is the way you meant to make such a success of your 'food for the gods,' is it, you fraud?" she said, putting her hands on my shoulders, and playfully shaking me, "coming here and practising with cousin Serena, forsooth; and the rest of us experimenting with our first efforts. O Amy, Amy, I would not have believed it of you. And the gods themselves turned against you. Their mills did grind exceeding sure that time, and not so slowly, either; vengeance followed, swift and sure. You deserve this. Cheating play never prospers, Amy; and 'honesty is the best policy,' and all that."
Meanwhile, the children were gazing from one to another of their elders, not knowing what to make of all this,—Allie uncertain whether or no she had better call upon her ever ready tears, Daisy bewildered, and at a loss to know upon whom to bestow her sympathy, cousin Serena or me; for I had not yet put my miserable imaginings into words, and my startled looks alone appealed to her; while Miss Craven was in a half-frantic state of excitement; and, as for Bessie, she had at first appeared furiously angry, and now, with a sudden change, was turning the whole thing into a laugh. What could it all be about? wondered these innocents.
"Oh," I gasped at last, "what shall we do? What will papa say? What will uncle Rutherford say? What will Edward say? What will——"
"Yes, my dear, what will Fred say?" Bessie completed my unfinished sentence, as I paused, overwhelmed. "They will each and every man of them settle this matter, to the anguish of that editor, if I know them, and without one word of trouble or publicity to you, or any one of the family. You dear goose, you, to make such a personal matter of it. Why not, Jim; why not still more, Mary Jane?"
"I must go home," I said, feeling a burning desire to find at once my natural protectors, and to place the matter in their hands; and go I would and did, cousin Serena accompanying me, with Bessie and the children. We paused by the way, to knock at Mrs. Dutton's door, and to ask her if she had called the attention of any of the other boarders to that shameful paragraph.
Mrs. Dutton, motherly, gentle, refined, a lady in birth, education, and manner, and with a warm corner in her heart for the girls, big and little, who ran in and out on their visits to Miss Craven, assured us that she had not done so; and, in answer to my anxious inquiries, said, also, that she had never mentioned the incident of the "food for the gods" to any one.
It is not necessary to state, that my mankind were incensed when they saw the objectionable paragraph, although they did make light before me of my terrors and apprehensions; and it remained a fact, that Edward went at once to a friend and brother lawyer, to request him to take steps to prevent any further annoyance or developments in the matter. It so happened, said this gentleman, that he had a hold upon the editor of the "Morning Bugle," which that personage would be very sorry to have him use to his disadvantage; and he assured Edward that he would settle the affair in such a way that none of us need fear any future trouble or publicity.
How the thing had become known so as to afford matter for newspaper gossip, we could not tell, and did not much care to know; probably, through the talk of the servants, who had, of course, been acquainted with all the particulars of the unfortunate incident. Exaggeration, and a wilful desire to falsify a trifle to the discredit of those concerned had done the rest; but our lawyer friend's remedy proved effectual, and the "Morning Bugle" was silenced.
CHAPTER VI.
UNCLE RUTHERFORD'S PRIZE.
Uncle Rutherford, the most generous, the most benevolent, of men, had, nevertheless, the most exasperating way of carrying out his kindnesses. He would suggest or hint at something delightful, and which just met the views or desires of his hearers, dwell upon it for a time, then, after leading one to the very height of expectation, would apparently put the matter entirely from his thoughts, and for days, weeks, or months, nothing further would be heard of it.
To urge its fulfilment, or to endeavor to discover what his intentions might be, was never productive of any good; on the contrary, his intimates believed that this still further deferred the wished-for result. Even aunt Emily, his much beloved and trusted wife, had learned to possess her soul in patience, when he was supposed to be revolving any thing of this nature in his mind.
The question of Jim's future had never been alluded to by him since that day last September, when it had been discussed at our seaside-home; and now it was nearly Christmas, and Milly was on tenter-hooks to know if there was any thing favorable in store for herprotégé. She knew better, as I have said, than to hurry matters, or to ask any questions. That uncle Rutherford had not forgotten it, however, was evident from the way in which he watched, and apparently studied, the boy's ways and character; Jim all the while quite unconscious of such scrutiny.
"Milly," he said, on the evening of the day following that of the episode of the "Morning Bugle,"—"Milly, I see that boy Jim has a temper which needs some curbing."
Now, "a temper" was uncle Rutherford'sbête noir, albeit his own was not of the most placid type, and that it was liable to be roused to what he called "just indignation," on that which to others appeared small provocation. The flash was always momentary, but it was severe while it lasted; and it had ever been a cross and a stumbling-block to him, spite of the polite name by which he called its manifestations. It was probably the recollection of the trouble it had brought to him, and of the struggles which even now it cost him, an elderly man, which made him so intolerant of its existence in others, especially the young. It is not necessary for the reader to quote the oft-repeated proverb about dwellers in glass houses, for uncle Rutherford was perfectly conscious of the exceeding fragility of his own panes; and his only wish was to warn and help those who were cursed with a fiery, impetuous spirit like his own.
That Jim was a victim to this, no one could deny, and Milly did not attempt to dispute it now; she merely assented meekly, and acknowledged that Thomas and Bill were constantly rescuing him from street-fights, and other escapades of that nature. And there were times when, in some of his rages with his fellow-servants, the raised tones of his furious voice had penetrated to the upper regions, and called for interference from the higher powers; but these occasions were becoming more and more rare. His devotion and loyalty to Milly and the other members of the family who had befriended him were not infrequently the occasion of these outbursts; for, at the smallest real or fancied injury or slight to any one among us, he was up in arms, and his tongue and his fists were only too ready to avenge us. He was very impatient, too, of any allusion by others to his own origin, or to the state of degradation from which Milly had rescued him and Bill, although he would discuss it more or less freely with her, and with his boon companion and chum.
"What has Jim been doing now, uncle?" asked Milly; her hopes for the advancement of the boy through uncle Rutherford's means falling, as she wondered if he were noticing only to find out the flaws in a by no means faultless character.
"Just that; been in a street-fight, or what would have proved a street-fight, if I had not come upon the scene just in time to call him to his senses, and to order him into the house instanter," said our uncle; "and, from what I could learn, he attacked a boy much larger than himself, on very small provocation,—merely, that the boy disputed his claim to the name of Livingstone, by which it appears he chooses to dub himself."
"He does not know his own name," said Milly, apologetically.
"That is no reason that he should call himself by yours," rejoined uncle Rutherford.
"It is something of the old feeling of feudal times, or that which used to make our Southern slaves adopt the surnames of their masters, I think," said Edward. "Jim thinks that 'them as belongs to Livingstones ought to be called Livingstone.'"
"Captain Yorke proposed to him to take his," said I, "but Jim declined, on the ground that Yorke was not so nice a name as Livingstone for the 'President of these States.' He has it in his heart, too, to confer honor upon our family name by the reflected glories of the position to which he aspires."
"The boy's spirit of gratitude and appreciation, at least, are worthy of all credit," said aunt Emily.
"And, whatever he may owe to Milly and the family, he has already repaid the debt with interest," said mother; her thoughts, doubtless, recurring to Jim's heroic rescue of the youngling of her flock—her baby Daisy—from a frightful death; to say nothing of his sturdy fidelity to the welfare of our household and property under circumstances of great temptation and fear during the last summer.
"I had thought," said uncle Rutherford, slowly, and Milly's face lighted up; was it coming at last? "I had thought, if you judged well of it," turning to mother, "of having him go to the public grammar-school for this year, and there to test his capabilities, not only in the way of learning, but even more in his power and desire to control this temper of his. If he gives satisfaction, and proves himself worthy of it, let him continue at school until he is fitted for it, when I will give him a scholarship which I own in the School of Mines. At present it is filled, but will fall vacant about the time that Jim will be ready to take it. There is another boy on whom I have my eye, who has the same bent for a calling that Jim has, and whom I wish to befriend and help; but he, too, has faults which I hope to see him correct,—faults in some respects more serious than Jim's,—and the prize will lie between these two. Whoever proves himself most worthy and capable, the most steady, reliable, and best master of himself, shall take the scholarship. But, if Jim goes regularly to school, he will, of course, have to resign, in a great measure, his duties as a household servant. Are you willing to have him do this? For I do not wish or intend to inconvenience you. What is your opinion of the whole matter?"
"Ask Milly," said mother, "she is the arbitress of his fate."
And uncle Rutherford looked to that young damsel.
"What say you, Milly?"
There was little need of words. Milly's sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks spoke for her. This was so much beyond any thing she had hoped for on behalf of the boy, that at first it seemed to her almost too good to be true. And, yet, there were lions in the way. And, after a moment's consideration, she answered, somewhat hesitatingly,—
"I hardly know what to say, sir."
We all looked in astonishment. Most of the family thought that Milly's hopes and ideas for the future of herprotégéswere rather quixotic and unreasonable, aiming at taking them out of their proper sphere. But here her clear judgment and good sense saw some objections to uncle Rutherford's plan.
"You are very kind, more than kind, uncle," she continued. "Such an offer is, indeed, a 'chance' for Jim such as I had never dreamed of, and there could be no question between this, and his training as a household servant; but I fear for the effect of the emulation upon him. If he is to gain this prize by outstripping or defeating another, the spirit of victory for victory's sake will take possession of him, and he will make every thing give way to it."
"Then he will not prove himself worthy of the prize," said uncle Rutherford, who had a fancy for inciting young people to efforts of this nature, and who was always holding out some prize to be striven for.
"I don't know," said Milly, a little wistfully; "he is so impulsive, so eager, so almost passionate, in the pursuit of any object on which he has set his mind, that I am afraid too much of the spirit of rivalry will enter into his efforts to win this."
"And," put in Norman, "he will be so cock-a-hoop if he is set to study for a scholarship, that there will be no bearing him, and——"
But Norman was brought to an abrupt silence, by a quick reprimand from father; while uncle Rutherford took no notice of the interruption, but continued to urge upon Milly the acceptance of his project. It undoubtedly presented so many advantages for Jim, that these finally outweighed her scruples, and she agreed thereto with earnest thanks.
"Who is the other fellow, uncle?" asked Norman the irrepressible, "any one whom we know?"
"Yorke's eldest grandson," said uncle Rutherford.
"That sneak!" ejaculated Norman.
"So that is your opinion of him," said uncle, turning towards Norman. "Well, I have not myself much confidence in the boy. There is something about him which I do not like; he is not frank and outspoken. He is a bright lad, however, ambitious, and disposed to make the most of any opportunities which fall in his way; and, for old Yorke's sake, I would like to help him. Yorke pinched and saved and denied himself, to give that boy's father an education, and illy he was repaid by the graceless scoundrel, who dissipated his father's hard-earned savings, and half broke his heart, and that of his poor mother. The captain is building on this boy's future, now; and, if he does not show himself fit for a college course, he may, at least, when he has had sufficient schooling, be taught a trade, and share the burden of the family support. We shall see which will win the prize, Jim or Theodore."
Douglas began to laugh in his quiet way, but Norman spoke out again.
"Won't there be jolly rows, when those two come to be pitted against one another," he said. "Either one will do his best to keep the other from winning it, even if he don't care for it himself."
There was too much reason to believe that Norman's prophecy would prove true. From the time that Theodore Yorke had appeared at his grandfather's, a pronounced state of antagonism had declared itself between the two boys; and this had continued up to the time of our leaving the Point. Jim, who was a great favorite with the old captain and his wife, seemed to look upon Theodore as an interloper, and trespasser upon his preserves; and the latter at once resented the familiar footing on which he found Jim established in his grandfather's house, although he himself had never been there before, and had hitherto been a stranger to all of his father's family.
It had required the exercise of the strictest authority to maintain any thing like a semblance of peace during the remainder of our stay at the seaside; and there were occasional outbreaks, which tended to any thing but comfort to Captain Yorke's household. Our house and grounds were forbidden to Theodore Yorke, in consequence of this feud; but Jim's duties called him, at times, to the home of the old sailor, whence he was accustomed to bring the daily supply of milk for the consumption of the family, and where he had been wont to linger as long as he dared when sent on this errand. More than once had he returned with a black eye, cut lip, or other adornment of a warlike nature; and several milk-pails had been degraded from things of usefulness, by reason of being used as weapons of offence and defence.
And, although he knew all this, here was uncle Rutherford actually setting up these two already belligerent lads as rivals in the race for learning and character, with such a prize in the future to the winner. His object would defeat itself. Was it to be supposed that tempers would be controlled, that any little tendency to take advantage of an enemy would be smothered, under these circumstances?
"Dear uncle," said Milly, whose face had fallen when she heard who was to be the rival candidate, "Jim is my charge; and you will not think me ungracious, if I say that I cannot consent to let him enter the lists against Theodore Yorke. I know only too well that it would arouse all his bad passions. As I said before, rivalry in any case would not be best for him, but, against Theodore, it would be simply ruinous; and I would rather see him remain under Thomas's tuition, learning to be a thorough and efficient servant, and to control his temper because right is right, than to have him take the first honors in any college in the world, if these are to be purchased by the fostering of an envy and jealousy which I am sure would be the result of your plan."
"Saint Millicent is right, as usual, when her brands snatched from the burning are concerned," said father, putting his arm over her shoulder. "I quite agree with her, Rutherford. We shall always see that both those boys, Jim and Bill, are well provided for; and neither of them shall lack for such an amount of education as may fit him to make his way in some respectable calling. To Jim we owe a debt which far outbalances the benefit he has received at our hands." And papa's eye turned, with lingering tenderness, to the far corner of the room, where Allie and Daisy, unconscious of the weighty matters which were being discussed among their elders, were absorbed in happy play with dolls and dog. "When he is old enough and steady enough, we will set him up in some line of business which he may choose—eh, Milly?—that is, if he shows any aptitude for a mercantile life; and he may work his way thence to the Chief Magistracy, if he find the path which he imagines lies open to him. As for Bill, he runs Wall Street, you know; and his voice, and talent for music, would makehisway in the world. There is something that must be cultivated."
"Do you mean, Millicent, that you are actually going to refuse my offer for Jim?" said uncle Rutherford, in a tone of deep displeasure; for he did not like to be circumvented when he had set his mind upon a thing, especially if it chanced to be one of his philanthropic schemes. And that same quick temper, which he had found his own bane, showed itself now, in the flush which mounted to his brow, and the sudden flash which shot from his eyes. "Then, my dear, all I have to say is——"
Thatwas all he had to say; and Milly escaped something which would have hurt her feelings, and which uncle Rutherford himself would have regretted when another moment should have passed, for aunt Emily laid her hand upon his arm, half-whispering, as a noted imperial wife was once wont to do to her impetuous and fiery lord, "Nicholas, Nicholas!" and with a like, calming effect, for further words were arrested on his lips.
There was a little awkward silence for a moment; then, as if by a sudden inspiration, uncle Rutherford said pleasantly,—
"How absurd we all are! What need for either boy to know that he is a rival to the other? Put the reward before each one, and tell him that the winning of it depends upon himself, and then we shall see."
So, then, was it settled, to the satisfaction of all; uncle Rutherford, it is true, a little disappointed that the stimulus of emulation was not to enter into the contest; and the discussion was here brought to a close by the appearance of Bill with a box of flowers "for Miss Amy."
But there was a factor in the case, upon which we had not counted.
In the privacy of their room over the stable, Bill and Jim held converse that night; and this was the substance of their communing, divested of unnecessary adornments of speech, with which those young gentlemen were wont to garnish their conversation when removed from the restraints of polite society.
"There's a big thing up for you, Jim," said Bill. "You'll hear of it yourself soon, I guess, from Miss Milly or Mr. Rutherford; but I got first word of it."
"What is it?" asked Jim.
"You're goin' to school; you and Theodore Yorke," said Bill.
"I ain't goin' to no school with Theodore Yorke," interrupted Jim. "There ain't no school would hold me an' him."
"Yes, you are, if you know what's good for yourself," said Bill; "and there's some kind of a big prize for whichever comes out best man."
"Then I'll go, if Miss Milly lets me; an' beat him, too, if it was just for the sake of beatin'," said Jim, verifying the prophecy of his young mistress. "But how do you know so much, an' what do you mean, Bill?"
"I didn't hear all they was sayin', and I s'pose I wasn't meant to hear none of it," answered Bill. "It was all the fam'ly folks, 'cept the children, was talkin'. Mr. Brady sent me to open the front-door when the bell rang, and it was some flowers for Miss Amy; and, when I went to the door with 'em, they was all talkin' so busy they didn't hear me knock. I couldn't make out just what it all was; but you're to get schoolin', you and Theodore, and whichever does the best is to get more schoolin', and some prize at the end when the schoolin's done; but Miss Milly, she didn't want you nor him to know you was fightin' for it, 'cause she didn't think 'twould be good foryou. She thought you'd be too set on it, maybe, just to spite Theodore. She knows him and you, you see."
"Yes, she might ha' knowed I wouldn't lethimget the best of me," said Jim, viciously. "And you say I wasn't to be let know I was set on to beat him."
"No, them was Miss Milly's orders; and I take it Mr. Rutherford didn't like it too much," answered Bill. "He wanted you to know, and be set on yer mettle. But Miss Milly, she's boss ofus, you know, and she got her own way. So, as I say, they ain't goin' to tell you nothin' about Theodore."
"Then, maybe you oughtn't to ha' told me," said Jim, musingly. "I don't believe you ought."
"I don't see the harm," said Bill. "I wasn't told not to tell; they didn't know I heard."
"All the same," said Jim, "you oughtn't to ha' told, when Miss Milly didn't want me to know. I am glad I do know, so as I can set out to beat Theodore; and, Bill, this is goin' to give me a first-rate chance. You see if I don't get to be President, now. An', when I do, you'll see what'll be done to Theodore Yorke."
"What?" asked Bill.
"I don' know, I've got to think," answered Jim; "but jus' you wait till I get to be top man of these States. Won't Theodore get it!"
"Miss Milly didn't want you to know, 'cause she thought you'd be so set against him, and she thought you was bad enough that way a'ready," said Bill.
"I feel kinder sneaky to know it when she didn't want me to," said Jim. "I guess, after all, I'm sorry you tole me, Bill; you hadn't a right to, I guess. You come by it yourself kinder listenin'."
Here the question of conscience and honor was broken in upon by the coachman, who slept in an adjoining room, and who bade the boys cease their chattering, as they disturbed him.
Uncle Rutherford had left to Milly the telling of his plans for Jim's future; and the following morning she called the boy to her, and set them forth before him.
He was to go to school this winter, beginning as soon as the Christmas holidays were over. With many earnest warnings, she pressed upon him the necessity for self-control, as well as attention to his studies; telling him of the prize to be won if his course should prove satisfactory to Mr. Rutherford, but making no mention, of course, of the other candidate. He promised over and over again, that he would do his very best to prove a credit to her, and to make her "awful proud" of him in the future, and that she should have no cause for complaint, either with his temper, or his lack of diligence.
That he was enchanted with the opportunity thus offered to him, there could be no doubt, but he did not appear as much surprised as Milly imagined that he would be; and there was something in his manner, which, at the time, struck Milly as rather strange,—a something repressed, as it were, but excited; and, all the while, there was a gleam of mischief in his eye. In the light of later developments, the cause of this was made plain; but now it was a mystery.
"And now, Jim," continued his young mistress, when she had told him of all that lay within his grasp, and had added a gentle and persuasive modicum of moral suasion,—"now that you are going out into the world to make a way, it may be a name, for yourself, you must choose what that name shall be. You remember," soothingly, for this was a sore point with the boy,—"you remember that we know you only as Jim."
"It's Livin'stone, Jim—no, I mean James Rutherford Livin'stone," said the boy, decidedly. "I'm goin' to put in the Rutherford on account of Mr. Rutherford bein' so good to me, Miss Milly; an' won't you an' him be set up when you see Rutherford Livin'stone names onto a President of these States? I ain't never goin' to disgrace them names, that I ain't."
But Milly, mindful of the prejudices of her relatives, and of the objections which she foresaw from both sides of the family, found it needful to decline the compliment. In order to avoid hurting the boy's pride, however, she went about it most diplomatically.
"Do you not think, Jim," she said, "that it would be a good thing for you to call yourself by the name of Washington, the first and greatest of our Presidents?"
"Jim George Washington, Miss Milly?" answered the lad. "Well, that would sound nice; but, you see, I wanted to put the compliment onyou, an' to show what lots of gratitude I've got for you an' your folks, Miss Milly."
"The best compliment you could pay to me, and to my care for you, Jim, would be to show yourself in any way worthy of bearing the name of that great and good man," said Milly, non-plussed how to carry her point, and still not to wound her charge. "And," she continued, "that name might always prove a reminder to you of the truth and uprightness, the bravery and self-control, which distinguished him."
"Miss Milly," Jim broke forth, irrelevantly, it would seem, "you know Bill gets time for lots of readin' an' studyin' down at the office. When Mr. Edward don't have any thin' for him to do, an' he might be just loafin' round, he's doin' his 'rithmetic, or his jography or spellin', an', if he wants a bit of help, Mr. Edward gives it to him, if he ain'ttoobusy just then; so Bill, he's comin' on with his learnin' heaps faster than me; he's gettin' splendid at figgers, an' he reads the paper, too, on'y Mr. Edward, he don't like him to read the murders an' the hangin's, and themveryinterestin' things; but Bill read the other day in the paper how a man said George Washington had a big temper, an' could get as mad—as mad as any thin'. But Bill, he said he'd heard Mr. Edward an' some other gentleman talkin' 'bout how folks was always tryin' now to be upsettin' of hist'ry; an' Bill says he reckons that 'bout George Washington was just another upsettin', an' him an' me ain't goin' to believe it."
"That's right, Jim, keep your faith in Washington, and show that you do so by adopting his name," said Milly.
Do not let it be thought that Milly slighted the Father of her country, by thus turning over to him the "compliment" she declined for herself and her family; for, in the multitude of namesakes who have helped to perpetuate that illustrious memory, poor Jim could reflect but an infinitesimal share of credit or discredit.
Jim pondered. The advantages of the world-renowned historic cognomen were, doubtless, great. But the "compliment" to his friends! could he defraud them of that?
Suddenly his face lighted; a brilliant idea had struck him. He could combine both.
"Miss Milly," he said, "I'll tell you. Now, I'll be named James Rutherford Livin'stone Washin'ton, an' stick to that till I get inter President polyticks; then I'll put the Livin'stone last, James Rutherford Washin'ton Livin'stone, so folks'll be sure I belong to you. Bill says folks can change their names, if they has a mind to, when they come twenty-one. Bill's learned lots of law down to Wall Street, Miss Milly; he's up in it, I can tell you."
"Very well, that will be best," said Milly, content to defer to the doubtful future the risk of having the family names appear in "President polyticks;" and so it was arranged, and her charge prepared to face the world as James Washington.