CHAPTER VII.
TWO PEANUT-VENDERS.
Allie stood before the glorious wood fire, around which we were all gathered awaiting the summons to dinner, gazing intently into its glowing depths, and evidently sunk in such deep meditation as to be oblivious, for the moment, of her surroundings, and of what she was doing; for her doll, a new and much prized Christmas-gift from uncle Rutherford, and a beauty, hung disregarded, head downwards, in the hand which had sunk unconsciously by her side, while, with the forefinger of the other pressed upon her rosy little lips, she seemed to be pondering some weighty matter.
Daisy lay stretched with her doll upon the tiger-skin, and presently, looking up, roused Allie from her distraction.
"Why, Allie," she exclaimed, "what you finking about so much? Serena Victoria is most upside down. Just look at her!"
Allie reversed her doll to its proper position; and, as she settled its costume, gave Daisy her answer, by putting into words the thought which was vexing the minds of some of her elders, but addressed herself to me, as a kindred spirit.
"Amy, do you b'lieve Mrs. Yorke will be very fit-to-be-seen to take out walking or driving on the avenue, or in the park?"
"Why, Allie," I said, weakly evading the question, and also answering by another, "do you not think your friend Mrs. Yorke is always fit to be seen?"
Still, Allie replied by a fresh query.
"Amy, have you seen Mrs. Yorke's best bonnet? her 'sabbath bonnet,' she calls it." And she turned upon me large eyes, full of solemn meaning.
Yes, I had, indeed, seen Mrs. Yorke's "sabbath bonnet;" and it was the recollection of that appalling article of attire which at the present moment was weighing on my own spirits.
Here Daisy piped up, also giving voice to the sentiments of her sisters.
"Mrs. Yorke is very nice," she said, "and we love her lots, but in her Sunday clothes she don't seem like Mrs. Yorke."
It was even so. Mrs. Yorke in her every-day costume, and Mrs. Yorke in gorgeous Sunday array, were two—and "oh the difference to me!"
"How do you know," said uncle Rutherford, "but that Santa Claus himself may have taken the matter in hand? Mrs. Yorke's Sunday bonnet may not have been to his taste, and he may have provided her with another."
"I hope, then," answered Allie, sceptically, "that he hasn't brought her a brown felt with red feathers and a terra-cotta bow."
"That would not have improved matters much, would it?" asked uncle Rutherford, with a twinkle in his eye. "No; I think his taste would run to black, perhaps. What do you say, aunt Emily?"
"I should say his fancy would lie in a black felt, with black velvet trimmings and feathers," answered aunt Emily. "How would that do, Allie?"
"Very well," said Allie, "if he brought her a black dress, too, 'stead of a' old plaid."
"And a new cloak, too," put in Daisy. "Her's isn't very pretty; I saw it once; but I'd just as lieve have Mrs. Yorke anyhow she was."
The grammar might be childishly faulty, but the feeling of the speech was without a flaw, and from the heart Daisy would have accepted Mrs. Yorke as she was, and thought it no shame or embarrassment to escort her anywhere; but bonny Allie was a lady of high degree, with an eye for appearances and the proprieties, and Mrs. Yorke's antiquated and incongruous gala costume would sorely have tried her soul, although she would doubtless have borne her company with a good grace, and with no outward show of the pangs she might be enduring. How greatly she was relieved now could be judged by the laughing light which sparkled in her eyes, the dimples which showed themselves at the corners of her mouth, and the ecstatic way in which she hugged the long-suffering doll.
"She'll be lovely and fit-to-be-seen now!" she exclaimed. "Won't she, Daisy? She'll look just like mammy."
"But," said Daisy, doubtfully, unconscious of the knowing gaze which her older little sister had fixed upon uncle Rutherford's face, a gaze which he returned with interest—"butdidSanta Claus bring Mrs. Yorke all those things, Allie?"
"Yes, he did;aSanta Claus did; I'm perfectly sure he did," said Allie. "But they didn't come in her stocking, or grow on a Christmas-tree, either,Iknow."
"I fink he was real mean if he brought her all those, and didn't bring her a muff and some gloves and a' umbulla, too," said Daisy.
Before the laugh, which followed, had subsided, Thomas appeared at one entrance to announce dinner, and mammy at the other to carry off her charges. Full of the news they had to impart to her, of Santa Claus's supposed benefactions to Mrs. Yorke, they went more willingly than usual.
Yes, Christmas had come and gone,—Christmas with all its sacred, hallowed associations, its pastimes and pleasures, its loving remembrances and family gatherings; and never had a dearer and happier one been passed beneath our roof. No, nor one more productive of choice and beautiful gifts from each one to each; and the little ones had outdone themselves for the blessed and beloved holiday.
And it was an article of the family creed, both on the Livingstone and Rutherford sides, that the good things which had been so bountifully showered upon our pathway in life should be shared with others, especially at this season of peace and good-will. So it was no surprise, although it was a great relief to some of us, to learn that Mrs. Yorke had been made presentable for the visit to the city, which would involve some attentions on our part that might have proved embarrassing had she appeared in her wonted holiday costume. Mother and aunt Emily had been the two good fairies who had wrought the transformation through the medium of a Christmas-box, which had contained bountiful gifts for the whole Yorke family.
And now Captain and Mrs. Yorke were to come to the city on the very next day, accompanied by the—to Jim, at least—objectionable Theodore. Mrs. Yorke, whose crippled condition sadly interfered with her comfort and usefulness in life, was to be placed immediately under the care of our own family physician, who had become interested in her case during a visit paid to us at the seashore during the previous summer; and aunt Emily had secured a comfortable abiding-place for her, not very far from our own home, where the children, whom she adored, and mammy could often run in to see her, and where the elder members of the family could now and then pay her a visit. The captain was to remain with her, or not, as his inclination might prompt; but uncle Rutherford thought, that, the novelty of city sights and sounds once exhausted, the old man would prefer to return to his accustomed haunts by the sea. Theodore was to board with his grandparents, and to begin school with the New Year; at the same time, and—alas! for the inexpediency of uncle Rutherford's arrangements—in the same school, with Jim.
Such were the plans which had been made for the Yorkes, and the junior portion of our household were in a state of eager expectation over their approaching arrival; the desire to witness the old seaman's first impressions of a city life, and his own conduct therein, being strong within us.
"We'll give him a good time, and get lots of fun out of it for ourselves," said Norman and Douglas, who proposed to be his pioneers.
As for Bill and Jim, there was no telling what manner of projects they might have formed for his edification, and their own amusement and his; and father considered it necessary to bid Milly give them a word of warning not to practise on the credulity of the old sailor, as they had at times been wont to do while we were at the seashore.
"And what about the mercantile enterprise of that youth, with so many irons in the fire?" asked uncle Rutherford, when dinner was over, and the door closed behind the retreating servants, while we still lingered around the table; the little girls having been allowed to come down to dessert. "How does the peanut-business flourish, Milly? You are posted, I suppose."
"Not so thoroughly as Allie and Daisy," answered Milly. "I understand that it is flourishing; but, if you wish for minute particulars, you must apply to them."
Allie, hearing what was passing, forthwith dived into the depths of her small pocket, and produced from thence a miniature account-book, saying triumphantly as she did so,—
"Jim's sold the first bag of peanuts, and bought another, and then sold that; and now he's boughttwoat once, and"—opening the book, and poring over it,—"and he's made—see, uncle Rutherford, here it is," and she pointed out a row of crooked, childish, illegible figures; to be understood, doubtless, by the initiated, but Greek to uncle Rutherford.
"How does the boy manage to keep account of his business?" asked uncle Rutherford, returning the book to Allie, as wise as when she handed it to him, but not confessing his ignorance.
"By preparing himself for a dyspeptic existence," said Milly. "He swallows his meals in haste, Thomas says, and rushes from the table, and around to the Fourth Avenue to receive Tony's report, and be back in time for his work. Nor is he always quite in time, I imagine; but Thomas is indulgent and patient, and Bill helps him. I understand that the little cripples are really making fair sales, and Jim is reaping quite a harvest."
"Yes, uncle Rutherford knows that by my 'count-book," said unsuspicious Allie. "Read it aloud, please, uncle, so they can all hear."
"Hm—hm, yes, my dear; but I do not like to read aloud after dinner," said uncle Rutherford, still forbearing to enlighten her innocence.
"It isn't somuchreading," murmured Allie, rather hurt, for she was an over-sensitive child, prone to imagine slights, and, as we know, given to ready tears. "I'll tell you, people;" and she proceeded to give the amount made by Jim since he had established the peanut-stand, with its various divisions for the separate objects of his benevolence and ambition. The latter figured under the head of "For to be President;" and if her accounts, or, rather, Jim's as set down by her, were to be trusted, he had really done very well in the stand business.
"We know two deforms," quoth Daisy, solemnly, as Allie closed; "one deform is very nice and good, and the ofer is horrid and scratching. One is Captain Yorke's, and the ofer is Jim's peanut-stand girl. But we have to be good to the cross deform, 'cause God made her that way. Allie and I are going to try and make her nice and pleasant, too."
"She thinks we're proud, and only like to go to see her, and show her our nice dolls and things, to make her feel sorry," said Allie; "Tony said so. And she turns her hump at us, and makes faces at us, andwon'tthink we want to be good to her. She thinks we're proud at her, 'cause she has to sell peanuts."
"You go and sell peanuts, then, and show her you're not too proud to do it," said Douglas, carelessly, and certainly with no thought that the suggestion would ever be acted upon.
"We needn't to have been afraid about Mrs. Yorke's fit-to-be-seenedness," said Allie, hopping delightedly around on one foot, the day after the arrival of the Yorkes, and on her return from her first visit to them. "Why, she does look so nice; just as nice as mammy in her Sunday clothes. She looks almost lady."
"Yes, she does, and it don't make any dif'ence, if shebehaveslady," said Daisy; "and I fink she always behavesverylady. Mamma," with a sudden and startling change of subject, "if somebody told you you could do somefing to help somebody, oughtn't you to do it?"
"Yes, my darling, if you can," answered mother, rather oblivious, to tell the truth, of the child's earnestness in putting the question; for she was at the moment writing an answer to a note which had been just brought in.
"And it's very nice to do the kind fing, and not speak about it, isn't it?" questioned Daisy.
"Very, dear," answered mother, still only half hearing the little one, and far from thinking that she was supposed to be giving her sanction to a most unheard of proceeding.
Mrs. Yorke's attire and general appearance proved satisfactory even to fastidious Miss Allie and myself; indeed, she would have passed muster among any hundred elderly women of the respectable middle class; and there was nothing whatever about her to attract special attention, unless one turned again for a second look at the kind, motherly old face. There was a sort of natural refinement about her, too, which made her adapt herself with some ease to her unaccustomed surroundings.
As for the captain, he was a hopeless subject for those who had an eye to fashion or the commonplace. No amount of attempts at smoothing or trimming him down, no efforts at personal adornment in his case, could make of him any thing but what he was, here in the great city, as well as at his seaside home, the typical old sea-faring man, rough, hearty, simple, and good-natured, garrulous to excess, as we had often proved, and not to be polished, or made what he called "cityfied."
"'Tain't no sort of use whitewashin' the old hulk," he asserted; "an' I guess my Sunday clo's, as is good enough for the Lord's meetin'-house up to the Pint, is got to be good enough for these messed-up city streets; an' ye can't make no bricky-bracky outer me."
To the boys he was a source of unmixed delight, both to our own young brothers, and to the two servant-lads; and no care for the eyes or comments of the world troubled any one of them when he happened to be under their escort. And little Daisy was equally independent, or perhaps too innocent to take any heed of such matters.
A feverish, influenza cold confined both Allie and mammy to the house for a day or two soon after the arrival of the Yorkes in the city, and Daisy was consequently obliged to be confided to the care of others when she took her walks.
She had been out driving one afternoon with mother and aunt Emily; and they, having an engagement for "a tea," to which they could not take her, brought her home. At the foot of our front-steps stood Captain Yorke, complacently basking in the almost April sunshine, and amusing himself by gazing up and down the street, and across the park, on which our house fronted. It was an exceptionally beautiful day for the time of year, soft, balmy, and springlike.
"Ye won't git another like it to-morrer; two sich don't come together this time o' year," said the captain, as mother, greeting him, remarked on the loveliness of the weather. "Ye kin look out for a gale to close out the year with, I reckon. There's mischief brewin' over yonder," pointing to where a bank of clouds lay low upon the southwestern horizon. "Ye'd best take yer fill of bein' out doors to-day."
"Yes," said Daisy, pleadingly, "it's so nice and pleasant. Mamma, couldn't some of the servants take me out a little more? I don't want to go in yet."
"Leave her along of me, Mis' Livin'stone," said the old man. "Me an' her'll take care of one another."
Daisy beamed at the proposition; and mother had not the heart to refuse her, or the old sailor.
"Well," she said, "you may stay out a while with the captain; but only on condition that you both promise not to go far from the house, but remain either on the Square, or on this block. You see, captain," she continued, "Daisy is too little to pilot you about, and you are too much of a stranger in the city to be a guide for her beyond the neighborhood of home. If you want to leave her, or she tires, just take her to the door, and ring the bell for her. Or perhaps you will go in yourself, and see Allie and mammy.—They cannot go astray or get into any trouble so near home," she said to aunt Emily, when she had given her orders, and the carriage moved on, leaving Daisy and the captain standing side by side on the pavement, the little one with her tiny hand clasped in the toil-worn palm of the veteran.
"Impossible!" said aunt Emily; "and the captain is as good as any nurse, you know. I would quite as soon trust her with him as with mammy."
But aunt Emily, and mother too, had forgotten to take into account the captain's deficiency of a sense of the fitness of things,—at least, of matters appertaining to a city-life.
He and Daisy rambled contentedly up and down the block, from one corner to another, for some time, she prattling away to him, and enlightening his ignorance so far as she was able, until, at last, they unfortunately touched upon Jim's affairs.
"Let's go round an' buy some peanuts outer Jim's stand," said the captain. "'Tain't far, ye know."
"No," answered obedient Daisy, "not far; but mamma said we mustn't go way from sight of our house, fear we would be lost, and we'd be way from sight of it if we went to Jim's peanut-stand. But, Captain Yorke, Matty is cross wif Allie and me, 'cause she finks we're proud 'cause we don't sell peanuts; and Douglas says I ought to sell peanuts, so she'll know I'm not proud. Do you fink we could sell a few peanuts now? I know where Jim keeps 'em."
"Wal, I reckon ye kin sell peanuts, my pretty, if ye have 'em to sell," answered the old man, seeing no reason why Daisy should not have her own way, and perhaps scenting a little diversion for himself in the project; "but if ye can't go round to t'other street, how are ye goin' to get 'em?"
"Oh, Jim keeps 'em—his bags of peanuts—out in a pantry under our back-stoop," said Daisy; "and ev'y morning Tony comes for some to sell. We'll go in, and ask some of the servants to give us some, and then we'll sell 'em."
If "some of the servants" had been found, this unprecedented plan would have met with due interference; but it so happened, that they were all scattered at their various avocations in different parts of the house, and none were in the kitchen save old Mary Jane, to whom Daisy knew better than to appeal on behalf of any interests of Jim's. She was busy grinding coffee; and the noise of the mill prevented her from hearing the footsteps of the invaders of her domain, who passed through the basement-hall, and out of the back-door, where, although they found no one to help them, Daisy, to her great delight, discovered the key of the closet in the lock. To open the door, bid the captain take down an empty basket, which hung on a hook, and to fill this with peanuts from an open bag, was but the work of a few moments; the captain's huge hands scooping up the nuts in quantities, and soon accomplishing the task. Then, arming themselves with a tin cup, which they also found near at hand, by way of a measure, the two conspirators once more stole past the unconscious Mary Jane, and out into the street, the captain bearing the basket.
TWO RATHER UNUSUAL FIGURES TO BE ENGAGED IN SUCH AN OCCUPATION.
"TWO RATHER UNUSUAL FIGURES TO BE ENGAGED IN SUCH AN OCCUPATION."—Page145.
"Shall we sell 'em on our stoop?" asked Daisy, all this time quite guiltless of any intention of wrong-doing.
"I reckon ye'd best go down to the corner there, where the two streets comes together," answered the captain, pointing to where a much-frequented cross-street intersected our avenue. "Them's my opinions, for I see lots more folks walkin' that way than this."
Unfortunately, Daisy saw the force of his reasoning; and the two innocents had presently established themselves, quite to their own satisfaction, on this public corner.
It was not long before they attracted sufficient attention, for they were two rather unusual looking figures to be engaged in such an occupation, to say nothing of the contrast between them; the weather-beaten, rugged, by no means handsome old sailor standing guard, as it were, over the daintily dressed little child with her beautiful, beaming face, and winning ways.
Custom flowed in without delay, the captain not hesitating to hail the passers-by, and to direct their attention to the tiny saleswoman before him; while she, with her sweet voice, pleading, "Please buy some peanuts to help some poor children;" and her attractive air and appearance was irresistible.
Fortunately for the pecuniary interests of the firm, or, rather, of the capitalist whom they represented, Daisy knew from the boys the price that the peanuts should be; and the captain, who, spite of his simplicity, had a keen eye to business, and who was accustomed to peddling about "the Point" during the summer season, constituted himself cash-taker, and saw that she received her dues.
But public curiosity was naturally excited by the unusual situation, and presently both Daisy and Captain Yorke were besieged with questions, which the latter resented as implying a distrust of his ability to care for the child. Truly, it might well be doubted. But this was no check upon custom, and the stock in the basket at Daisy's feet speedily dwindled down. The bottom had nearly been reached, when a policeman sauntered by on the other side of the street; and, being attracted by the gathering on the corner,—for those who came to buy, in many cases remained to admire,—he crossed over to ascertain the cause. Great was his astonishment, and small his approbation, when he discovered the state of things; for he knew our children by sight, and could not but be aware that such doings as these could not be with the approbation of Daisy's family.
"Why, that is—isn't that Mr. Livingstone's little girl?" he asked of the captain.
The captain nodded; he was too busily engaged in keeping an eye on the money Daisy received, to do more.
"Well, if ever I saw a thing like this!" ejaculated the guardian of the peace. "To see a little lady like that—my dear, do your pa and ma know what you're a doing?"
"No, not yet," answered Daisy; who looked with cordial eye upon all policemen, as being, according to her code, the defenders of the right, and avengers of the wrong.—"No, not yet; I'll tell them by and by, and they'll be glad, 'cause they like me to do a kindness, and not speak about it."
"Willthey?" said the policeman, with a clearer insight into the fitness of things, than was possessed by Daisy or the old sailor. "Now, my little lady, you've got to go straight home; I know what your pa and ma will say. You come right along home, like a good child."
"Now, you let her alone," interposed Captain Yorke. "'Tain't no case for the law, 'sposin' her folks don't like it; an' I'll wager they do."
"You old lunatic," said the policeman, "what are you encouragin' of her for? Who ever saw a little lady like that sellin' peanuts in the streets! I ain't goin' to allow it nohow; it's drawin' a crowd; and, as to the law, she nor you ain't any right to be sellin' 'em here without a license.—Come along home, little Miss."
But here a new actor appeared upon the scene, and prevented any further opposition on the part of the captain. This was Jim, who was returning from an errand; and, seeing Captain Yorke's tall figure standing by the lamp-post with an unmistakably belligerent expression in every line, he elbowed his way through the fast increasing crowd, and stood astonished and dismayed before Daisy.
"Miss Daisy, whatever do you mean by this? You sellin' peanuts here in the street!"
"Matty Blair does," faltered Daisy, beginning, by virtue of all these various protests, to see that perhaps she might have strayed from the way in which she should go.
"Matty Blair!" ejaculated Jim, again. "Well, Miss Daisy, I guess Matty Blair's one, an' you're another. Won't your pa an' ma, an' all of 'em, be mad, though!"
"So I was sayin'," said the policeman, who was quite well acquainted with Jim; "and now, youngster, the best thing you can do is to take the little lady home, and tell her folks to look out for her better than to put her under the care of this old know-nothing."
This entirely met Jim's views; and, snatching up the almost empty basket, he seized the hand of the now frightened Daisy, and hurried her homeward, leaving the policeman and the captain exchanging compliments until such time as the latter saw fit to retire from the field, and hasten to our house to deliver up the results of poor Daisy's sale.
It may be imagined what consternation reigned in the Livingstone household, when this escapade of its youngest member came to light; while the grief and bewilderment of that little damsel herself, who had, in all good faith, believed that she had mother's sanction for her course, were pitiable to witness. As for Jim, not even the gratifying pecuniary results could nullify his mortification at the disgrace which he believed to have fallen upon the family, especially his beloved Miss Daisy; and he found it hard to forgive the captain, who had encouraged and abetted her.
"Philanthropy has certainly seized upon this family to an alarming extent," said Bessie Sandford, when she heard the story, "but Iwishthat I had been there to see pet Daisy at her post acting peanut-vender."
How far Daisy's effort to prove to Matty that she "was not proud" affected that young cripple, could not be told; but she did not fail to hear of the thing from Jim.
As for Captain Yorke, he received his full share of reprimand, and caution for the future, from his wife, who, all unaccustomed as she, too, was to city ways, had far more natural sense of what was fitting and advisable.
"If I could but go round with him to keep him up to the mark, Mrs. Livingstone," she said, when apologizing to mother for the captain's share in the late escapade; "but, bless you, dear lady, he's more of a child than little Daisy herself, when he's out of his usual bearings. I think he's best off at home, with Jabez and Matildy Jane to look after him, when I can't."
And she sighed heavily, as if the responsibility were too much for her.
But the captain could not be brought to this view of the case. He was enjoying himself in his own way among the city sights and sounds.
CHAPTER VIII.
NOT ON THE PROGRAMME.
Uncle Rutherford stood at the far end of the great schoolroom, awaiting the admission of his two candidates for its privileges and opportunities. It was the opening-day after the conclusion of the Christmas holidays; and half a dozen boys, besides Theodore Yorke and Jim, had presented themselves as new scholars, and they now stood before the principal,—Theodore at one end of the line, and Jim at the other.
"What is your name?" asked the principal of Theodore; to which the boy responded simply, "Theodore Yorke," and then answered in like manner the few more questions put to him relative to age and so forth; and the gentleman passed down the line till he came to Jim.
"What is your name?"
To uncle Rutherford's consternation, Jim, straightening himself up, answered in a loud, confident tone, "Jim,"—he had meant to say "James," but the more familiar appellation escaped him,—"Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington;" and then glanced down the line as if to say, "Beat that if you can!"
A titter ran around the room, speedily checked by the stern eye of the principal, and one or two of the new boys giggled outright; but Jim, with head erect, and fearless eyes fixed upon the master, was unmoved, perhaps did not even guess that the merriment was caused by himself.
The principal found it necessary to caress his whiskers a little, then said,—
"Good names, my boy, every one of them. Try to prove worthy to bear them. Your age?"
This and the other needful preliminaries being settled, the new boys were turned over to the examiners, to have their classes and position in the school defined; and uncle Rutherford made his exit, only too thankful that the irrepressible Jim had not added to his list of high-sounding appellations, "President that is to be of these United States."
School discipline, of course, had, for the time, restrained the gibes and sneers, the open laugh, which would have greeted Jim's announcement of his adopted name or names; but the time was only deferred. The joke was, to the schoolboy mind, too good to be lost; and when the recess came, and the boys were for a while at liberty, Jim became the target for many sorry witticisms, and "Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington" was called from all sides of the playground in almost as many tones of mockery as there were boys; and Jim speedily found that he had taken too much upon himself for his own comfort. The "Grant Garfield" had been an after-thought, and he had been prompted thereto by hearing another boy give his name—to which he was probably justly entitled—as "George William Winfield Scott Jones." Jim was not going to be outdone, or to be satisfied with four names, when here was a fellow with five; hence the "Grant Garfield" on the spur of the moment.
Milly had feared that even the "Rutherford Livingstone Washington" would excite derisive comment; and when she heard uncle Rutherford's report of Jim's further adoption of great names, she groaned in spirit, and awaited with sundry apprehensions his return from school, fearing that his excitable temper might have been provoked into some manifestation, which would not only affect his creditable entrance into the school, but also his standing with uncle Rutherford.
But Jim had a check upon himself whereof Milly wot not; namely, that he knew of the prize to be secured in case he gained the approbation of uncle Rutherford,—a prize which, as we know, he was more anxious to win for the sake of defeating Theodore Yorke than for the attainment of the scholarship itself.
So, although he had to put a strong restraint upon himself, and was inwardly boiling with wrath and indignation, he bore the gibes and sneers with the utmost self-command, and apparently unfailing good-nature, till Theodore Yorke, who had made himself at home among his new surroundings as readily as Jim had done, joined in the "chaffing" with a vim and bitterness which could have their source only in a feeling of personal spite and hatred.
"Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington," he repeated; "and he hasn't a right tooneof the names, unless it's Jim. He hasn't got any name; nobody knows what his name is, or who he is, or where he came from. He hasn't got any folks, either."
This was wounding poor Jim in the tenderest point, as the amiable Theodore well knew; and it was more than his victim could well stand.
"And I'd rather have no folks at all than have such as yours," he shouted, almost beside himself with rage at this exposure of that which he considered to be his disgrace. Then suddenly recalled to a sense of his regard for this boy's grandparents, Captain and Mrs. Yorke, and of all the kindness he had received from them,—for a hearty gratitude for favors received was one of the strongest features of Jim's character,—he hastened to set matters in their true light; "at least, such a father as they tell yours was. If I had a gran'father or gran'mother like yours, there couldn't be none better; but if I had a father was such a scallywag as yours, I say a good sight better have none. And you ain't a bit like the old folks, neither; you're another such a one as your father.Iwouldn't own such a one!"
This tirade was interspersed with other expressions more forcible than choice, and which are better omitted; and, as may be supposed, it did not tend to mend matters. Recrimination followed recrimination; insults from one to another went from bad to worse, Theodore being even more of an adept in such language than Jim, who had always been considered a proficient; and one of the teachers came upon the playground just in time to see Jim deal a furious blow at his opponent, who caught sight of the master before he had returned it, which he would otherwise doubtless have done; and who immediately assumed an air of innocent, injured virtue, too lofty-minded and forgiving to return the blow.
As the rules against fighting within school bounds were particularly severe, Jim's was a heinous offence. He was sternly called to order and reprimanded with severity; and although, in consideration of his being a new boy, he was let off with this, he began his school career somewhat under a cloud; while Theodore posed as a martyr, and a boy with a regard for school discipline,—to his teachers,—but the other boys knew better, and with few exceptions espoused Jim's cause, and at once pronounced Theodore the "sneak" and "bully" that he was. But that was small comfort to Jim, who, on coming home, had to report, as he truthfully did, that he had failed to keep his temper on this the very first day of his entrance into the school.
Milly consoled and encouraged him as best she might, bidding him to take heart and to struggle even harder for the future, and being very sparing of blame for his share in the quarrel.
Fate, as short-sighted and with as dull an eye to expediency as uncle Rutherford, had decreed not only that the two boys, Jim and Theodore, should be in the same school, but, their attainments being of about the same range, that they should be put into the same class, an arrangement which did not tend to the maintenance of the peace so much to be desired.
But, in spite of his unlucky beginning, Jim speedily became a favorite in the school, both with masters and schoolmates. His frank, merry ways, obliging disposition, ready wit, and quickness at repartee, soon gained him a host of friends on the playground; while his evident desire to make progress in his studies,—wherein he had a stimulus unsuspected by any one but Bill,—his sturdy truthfulness, and general obedience to rules and regulations, won him golden opinions from those in authority. Ambition, whether for greater or lesser aims, was Jim's ruling passion, and now he had so many spurs to urge him on; for, added to his own personal aspirations and the determination to prove himself a credit to his benefactors, was the overwhelming desire to outstrip Theodore, and wrest from him the prize.
Milly noticed, whenever he reported progress to her, that there was a certain sort of repressed excitability about him, a wistful nervousness very foreign to his assured independence and self-confidence, and he several times seemed as if he were going to make some disclosure to her; all of which made his young mistress think that he had something on his mind which he was half inclined to impart to her, although he could not quite resolve to do so. She bided her time, however, being sure that it would come sooner or later, and only now and then tried to open the way by asking him if he had any thing further to tell her.
But the only result of this would be a shame-faced embarrassment and a sheepish denial, followed by an evident desire to cut short the interview.
When Jim had been at school about a month, making, according to the reports of his teachers, who were closely questioned by uncle Rutherford, fair progress with his studies, and showing a self-command and control over his temper which had not been expected from him after the fiery outburst of the first day, an incident occurred which would have afforded him an opportunity for mortifying Theodore, had he not been restrained by a motive which was stronger than his antagonism to his rival.
The vagaries and peculiarities of Captain Yorke, with his ignorance and indifference to city ways and manners, had more than once drawn public notice upon him; the episode of Daisy as a peanut-vender, with the old sailor as her aider and abetter, being but a trifling circumstance compared to some others; and Mrs. Yorke was in constant terror lest he should in some way make himself more notorious than would prove agreeable.
About this time, a celebrated actor was performing in the city in the farce of "Dundreary Married," wherein Lord Dundreary having, as the title indicates, taken to himself a wife, falls beneath the tyranny of a domineering mother-in-law, to whom he submits till submission becomes intolerable, when he turns upon her, asserts himself, and proclaims himself master in his own house.
Our boys, Norman and Douglas, having seen the farce in company with the rest of the family, and having been greatly amused by it, conceived the idea of treating the captain to a sight of the same; and, having obtained father's permission to do so, they invited the old man to an evening's entertainment.
"Wa'al," he drawled with his usual deliberation when considering any matter, "I don' care if I do. When I was a youngster, I was brung up to think play-actin' was a sin, an' I'd about as soon a thought of shakin' han's with the evil one hisself, as of goin' to the theayter; but either I've gotten wiser as I've gotten older, or else maybe the play-actin' folks has gotten better behaved; but times is changed somehow, an' I seen some play-actin' in the hotel down to the P'int, an' they was real ladies an' gentlemen did it, too. I was a peepin' in at the winders more'n once; an' the hotel-keepers, Mr. Loydd an' Mr. Field, if they didn't come, one one time, an' t'other another, an' bring me into the hall an' near to the doors where I could see fust-rate. An' I didn't see no harm onto it. The play-actors was very pretty behaved, an' I didn't see no breakin' of comman'ments. I never could see what folks wanted to purtend they was other folks for, and sometimes to go a-talkin' as if they was come out of by-gone days. But if you're for takin' me to the theayter, I reckon I won't come to no harm by it. Enyhow, I know ye've got to come to city ways when ye're to the city; folks kinder look daggers at ye ef ye don't. There's the landlady to the house where me and Mis' Yorke puts up; she's the best, an allers doin' for Mis' Yorke, an' come an' sit with her an' talk—my talk by the hour she will, straight on, like as she'd been woun' up; an' she come yesterday, all kin' of fussy like, an' her face red, an' she says, says she, 'Captain Yorke,' says she, 'ef ye wouldn't mind me askin' a little favor of ye?'"
"'Sartinly not, ma'am,' says I; an' I was reckonin' she was wantin' to borrer money. But what do ye s'pose it was, Norman? She goes and she says, says she, kinder hesitatin' like yet, 'Would ye mind, capt'in, a-eatin' with yer fork, 'stead of yer knife? Miss Jarvis, what sits next ye at the table, she's kinder narvous, an' she says it sets her teeth on edge, an' she says she can't stan' it; an' she's my best payin' boarder, bein' she has the second-story front an' back; an' it would obleege me, ef ye don't min'.'
"'Jes' as lief eat off ten forks, ma'am,' says I, 'ef it suits ye an' Mis' Jarvis. I been a-noticin' she was kinder pernikity like an' fussy, an' kinder offish with me; but if it's the difference of knives or forks, the best payin' boarder ain't goin' to be hurt by me.' But, boys! I didn't know by a long shot what I was a-promisin'. I tell ye, the knife would keep goin' up the nateral way as it was used to; an' yesterday I didn't get no kind of a dinner, nor a breakfast this mornin', thinkin' of that pesky fork. So to-day I was boun' I'd get my dinner; so I cuts it up an' spoon-victuals it, for fear of hurtin' the feelin's of the best payin' boarder. City ways is uncommon troublesome, when ye ain't let eat the way is most handy. But I don't care if I go to the theayter with ye. I never see the inside of one of them places."
"Oh, a real theatre is nothing like the dining-rooms of the hotels, where you saw the amateur theatricals," said the posted Norman; "and father wouldn't let us go if it were any harm. He said we could take you, captain."
"No; an' I reckon the governor wouldn't be for goin' to no place he shouldn't go," said the captain reflectively. "An' he was along of you t'other night, wasn't he?"
Norman and Douglas, anxious to overcome any scruples the old man might have, assured him that uncle Rutherford went quite often to the "theayter," and thus quieted any remaining qualms of conscience which he might have; for Captain Yorke pinned his faith on uncle Rutherford, and all that the governor did was right in his eyes. So the expedition to the theatre was arranged to the satisfaction of my brothers, who anticipated much amusement in watching the impression the play would make upon the unsophisticated old veteran.
But a shock was in store for them which they had not foreseen; for the amount of observation which the captain saw fit to draw upon the party was almost too much for even their well-seasoned boyish nerves.
For the sake of obtaining an uninterrupted view of the stage, the boys had secured seats which the event proved to be too conspicuous for their comfort. No sooner were they all seated than the captain began with his comments and criticisms, his "them's my opinions," in a manner and tone which they vainly strove to moderate. Fortunately they were in the main complimentary and approving; and the old seaman's quaint appearance, his evidently childlike ignorance and inexperience, diverted those of the audience who were within hearing, and led them to be indulgent to his rather obtrusive reflections upon men and things.
"Wal," he said, gazing around and above him, up at the lofty frescoed ceiling, the sparkling crystal chandelier, the rich curtains, and other adornments of the house,—"wal, it does beat all! It goes ahead of any meetin'-house I ever see; an', I say, 'tain't fair on the Almighty to be makin' a better place for to be pleasurin' in, than what we makes for him to be praised in. Yes, sir; an' them's my opinions, an' I stands by 'em. What's them folks up in them little cubby-holes fur?" pointing to the boxes. "Oh," as Douglas explained, "they's high an' mighty, be they? can't set along of the multitude? Wal, every man, an' woman too, to her own likin'; I'd as lief be here. Seems kinder conspicuous like, settin' up thar, an' whiles I ain't ashamed to show my face afore no man, I don't hanker after settin' up to be stared at."
Happily the occupants of the boxes were beyond the reach of his voice, or at least of the tenor of his remarks; but the boys were on tenterhooks lest their garrulous companion should give offence. But from the moment that the curtain went up, and the mimic scene presented itself to his gaze, he sat spell-bound and silent, perfectly absorbed in the vivid portrayal of the chief character in the drama.
The great actor appeared first in the rôle of a celebrated man of his own profession, an actor of bygone days, whose name will always be famous; and from the moment that he stepped upon the stage, it was all reality to Captain Yorke. There was no "pretendin' he was other folks," to him, as it had been when he had witnessed the amateur theatricals and tableaux at the Point; and with a hand upon either knee, he leaned eagerly forward, his eyes fixed upon the scene before him, and absolutely speechless in his breathless interest. But when the curtain came down after the first act, he broke forth again to the edification and delight of those within hearing. Ladies listened and smiled at the simple-hearted old man; and gentlemen, who were near enough, encouraged him to ramble on, evidently considering him a novel species of entertainment, second only to that which was passing upon the stage. He was a character as good as any there.
Norman, enchanted with the sensation his charge was making, would put no check upon him; but the more shrinking Douglas was not so well pleased. Still, seeing that no offence was given, but rather the contrary, he possessed his soul in patience, devoutly wishing, however, that it was time for the close of the performance, which, under these circumstances, afforded him no pleasure. And as the captain's excitement grew with each succeeding act, and the encouragement of those about him, and he grew more and more superior to considerations of time and place, Douglas would fain have quitted his seat and the theatre; and was only restrained from doing so, because he thought it would be mean to leave Norman in the lurch.
At length came the farce "Dundreary Married;" and the captain, who, it afterwards appeared, had in former years suffered divers things at the hand of an obnoxious mother-in-law, grew more excited than ever, and became furiously indignant, not only at the all-assuming lady, but also at the supine Dundreary, who allowed himself to be thus imposed upon. He grumbled and muttered, and really seemed as if he would make for the stage, as he said, "to give the old creetur a piece of his mind." Even Norman was now uneasy lest he should make more demonstration than was meet, while Douglas did his best to induce both his companions to come out; but the captain was immovable, and not to be persuaded. Indeed, he scarcely seemed to heed Douglas's arguments, so intent was he on the fortunes of the persecuted husband. His delight when that hero showed symptoms of some spirit was unbounded; and when at last he roused himself altogether from thelaisser allerwhich had suffered so long and patiently, and fairly bade the lady leave his house and his wife to his own authority and protection, the old man sprang to his feet, and, waving his hat in the air, exclaimed in a voice which rang in stentorian tones through the house,—
"Pitch into her, my lad! Give it to her! That's right. Pitch into the mother-in-law!"
The effect, as may be imagined, was electric. There was a moment's pause, then a laugh; then, as Norman and Douglas fairly dragged and hustled the captain into his seat, the inimitable actor bowed and waved his hand to the old man, who had, as it were, paid such an involuntary tribute to his powers; and the next moment a storm of applause broke forth, in compliment to both, it would appear,—to the gratified actor, who had thrown his spell over the guileless old sailor to such an extent as to render him insensible to aught else, and to the innocent spectator who had been thus impressed by his matchless impersonations. As the performance came to a close, and the audience were leaving the house, the captain the centre of all eyes around him, an usher made his way to him, bearing a request from the star that he would step behind the scenes and shake hands with him.
Nothing loath, the captain readily consented, inviting the boys to go with him; but this Douglas, much disturbed by the notoriety of the evening, flatly refused, while bold Norman, who had no fear of man before his eyes, agreed to accompany him. Indeed, it was not safe to lose sight of him; there was no knowing of what vagaries the captain might be guilty if he were left entirely to his own devices. Norman felt that he was capable of any thing, and that he must keep a secure hold upon him. Moreover, the old man was not at all familiar with the city streets, and he must be guided safely to his boarding-house.
When they arrived behind the scenes, the great actor shook hands heartily with the old seaman, thanking him for the tribute which he had paid him. But here the captain's enthusiasm fell flat. Meeting the object of his sympathy face to face, and as man to man, and finding that the interesting scenes he had just witnessed were but an inimitable mimicry, was a great disappointment; and he seemed to feel wronged and defrauded in some way.
"There warn't nothin' real about it," he said indignantly and in a hurt tone to the boys, as they took their way homeward. "There warn't nothin' true at all. There bean't no mother-in-law, nor wife, nor nothin'; there warn't even any chap with the long whiskers, for it warn't hisself at all, though he said it was—that t'other one shook han's with me, and said I'd give him a big compliment. 'Twas all purtendin' an' makin' b'lieve. It's a shame an' a sin for to go makin' out so life-like ye are what ye ain't, an' takin' folks in so. It's kinder cheatin' play,Ithink; an' Mis' Yorke, she wurn't jes' so easy in her min' 'bout me goin' to the theayter, an' I reckon I've come to her way of thinkin'; an' thank ye kindly, boys, but there'll be no more theayter-goin' fur me. The Scriptur says, 'A fool an' his money is soon parted,' an'—meanin' no ungratefulness to you, boys—I've faith to b'lieve it; for it's not good manners, neither good deeds, to make out that way, an' take folks in. An' them's my opinions, an' I'll stan' by 'em!"
The last thing the boys heard, as the door of his temporary home closed upon him, was, "No more theayters for me; they're clean agin' Scriptur."
This, of course, was great fun for our frolicsome Norman, always ready for a joke or a good story; and although Douglas had not taken unalloyed pleasure in the events of the evening, he, too, could see the droll side of them now that they were over. They were rehearsed with great glee at the breakfast-table the next morning; and it occurred to me that here, if he chose to use it, was the opportunity for Jim to revenge himself for some of the sneers cast upon him by Theodore Yorke. I was wicked enough, however, not to suggest the idea to any one else, lest a word of warning or counsel should restrain him; and in the sequel Jim proved himself far the better Christian of the two, in spite of the superior advantages which had always been mine.
This happened to be Friday, when he brought home from school his weekly report, which he always took at once to Milly. The record for this week proved an unusually favorable one; but he had more to add to this.
"Miss Milly," he said, after she had expressed her pleasure at the progress he was making and at his standing in "conduct,"—"Miss Milly, I was real forgivin' an' like livin' up to the mark you sot us for doin' unto others, in school to-day. But it does come awful hard, when you get the chance to pay off a feller, to let it slip; an' I don't know as I could have done it if it hadn't been for thinkin' of the old captain himself, an' how good he'd been to me, an' that I wouldn't like to go back onhim."
Light flashed upon Milly. The boy had been tempted to make use of the occurrences of the preceding evening to revenge himself upon Theodore Yorke for his previous slights and insults; and had refrained, chiefly from loyalty to his old friend, it is true, but, perhaps, partly prompted by the wish to do right.
It had so happened, that two boys in the class had been at the theatre also, and had been witnesses of the captain's antics, but without knowing who he was, or of his connection with Theodore. In recess they told the story, doubtless with more or less of exaggeration, of the old countryman who had made himself so conspicuous and—according to their showing—so ridiculous at last night's entertainment.
Of course Jim at once recognized the hero of the tale; but not so Theodore, his grandfather having, for a wonder, preserved a discreet silence on the subject, being totally unaware that he had exhibited himself in an unusual way on the occasion. Perhaps the poor captain had felt a little mortified that he had been so carried away by that which was, after all, "on'y pretendin'," and did not care to rehearse his experience.
However that may be, Theodore had heard nothing of it, and laughed and jeered with the other boys at the more than graphic relation of his two schoolmates.
Strong was the temptation to Jim to expose him, and to draw upon his enemy the laugh which must follow; but, to his credit be it said, he refrained, except in so far as to give him a knowing look which conveyed to that amiable youth the conviction that it was no other than his grandfather who was furnishing food for merriment to half the school, and that Jim was aware of it and held this rod over him. The knowledge that this was so was not calculated to soften Theodore's animosity toward Jim. Disposed as he was to raise a laugh or a sneer at the expense of another, he could not endure them himself; and to feel that he was thus in the power of the boy whom he hated, was intolerable to him. From this time, however, it gave him a wholesome awe of Jim, and proved a check upon him; and "Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington" rang less often over the playground, now that he ceased to lead in the cry upon the claimant of so many names.