CHAPTER IX.
MATTY.
"Amy, what are you pondering?"
"Men and things in general and their iniquities in particular; my own not being included, they being nothing worth speaking of," I answered, rather evasively, not being disposed at present to make public the nature of my cogitations, which really had to do with my own shortcomings.
"We will pass over the modesty of the remark," said Bessie Sanford, "but we insist upon knowing—do we not, Milly?—the tenor of the meditations which have actually kept you quiet for—let me see—I think it must be full two minutes by the clock."
"That inquisitive spirit of yours needs repression, Elizabeth," I said: "therefore I shall not yield to your demands."
"Then bid farewell to peace," was the rejoinder. And knowing Elizabeth Sanford well, I meditated a precipitate flight; but she divined my intention, and, seizing upon me, held me prisoner, and made good her threat until I succumbed, first freeing my mind of my opinion as to the conduct of my captor.
"Never mind. We will leave the results of that case to the future," she said; "the present question has only to do with yourself, and the unburdening of your secrets. Your inward communings are of such rare occurrence, that when you do indulge in them, your friends are entitled to benefit by them.—Is it not so, Milly?"
"Reap what benefit you may, then," I answered. "I was thinking how I was going to waste."
"H'm'm," said Bessie, releasing her grasp upon my shoulders, and gazing with an air of deep meditation out of the window near which we sat. "Fred Winston would doubtless feel complimented by that sage conclusion; but if you feel so decidedly that you are throwing yourself away, it is not yet too late for you to draw back, and——"
"Your remarks are too frivolous to bear the consideration of a well-balanced mind, Elizabeth," I interrupted, "and therefore I decline to notice them further than to say that you are entirely wide of the mark. Perhaps I did not express myself in language as choice as I might have used; but what I meant to say was—to quote the copy-books—that 'opportunities imply obligations,' and that, while my opportunities are many, the obligations arising therefrom havenotbeen fulfilled."
I had spoken jokingly, almost mockingly, nevertheless I really meant what I said; but any thing like a sober reflection or solemn view of life's duties was so new from me, that for a moment my sister and friend were struck dumb with astonishment.
Then Bessie gave vent to a smothered groan.
"Listen to the words of wisdom!" she ejaculated. "The depth of her! And whence and since when, may I inquire, arises thus suddenly so solemn a view of your responsibilities? They are not wont to weigh upon your mind."
"That is just it," I said. "I am in earnest, not in joke, whatever you may think. It has, rather suddenly I allow, dawned upon me, that I am a perfectly useless member of society; or rather, the conviction has been forced upon me by the words of Allie, whom I overheard informing Daisy that I was very nice and lovely, but theuselessestperson in the house. Loyal Daisy was indignant, and questioned the justice of the remark; but it opened up a field of reflection to me, and I am obliged to admit its truth. Since I left school last spring, what have I done but amuse myself, and attend readings and lectures, which amounts to the same thing, as the motive is purely selfish?"
"You have made 'food for the gods,'" said Bessie demurely.
I turned upon her.
"For that remark you shall have cause to regret that you ever were born," I retorted, "and I would not have believed it of you, Bessie. But seriously, girls, I am longing for an object in life on which I can expend some of the capabilities of which I feel myself possessed."
"I thought you had been supplied with one since the 15th of last November," said Bessie, "but——"
"Will you leave that subject out of the question?" I again interrupted. "If not, there will be trouble between the houses of Sanford and Livingstone."
"Why can't you two be what Daisy calls 'common-sensible,' and tell what is at the bottom of all this?" said Milly, joining for the first time in the conversation.
"I am sure that I am showing an unusual amount of common-sense," I rejoined, "for I have in all seriousness just awakened to a sense of my shortcomings towards humanity in general, and am longing for an object on which to expend my superfluous energies. You, Milly, have your charges, Bill and Jim, whom you have rescued from lives of shame and crime, and who are standing monuments of the efficacy of your zeal, self-sacrifice, and good sense in their behalf (no, you need not courtesy); and Bessie has her old ladies to whom she so religiously devotes one afternoon in every week, no matter what temptations assail her in other directions, and who simply adore her, and for whom she does many a little kind office at divers other times. But who, outside of our family, to whose happiness I add, of course, because I am their own Amy; and—and Fred; yes, and you, dear Bessie," as a soft little reminding hand was laid upon my arm,—"who except these is any the better or happier for my existence?"
"Lots of friends and relations, you foolish child," said Bessie, while Milly dropped a re-assuring kiss upon my forehead. "What nonsense, Amy! I do not know any one who is a more general favorite."
"Well, allowing that it is so," I said, "is it not only because I am merry and full of life, and make things a little cheerful around me? Point to one thing useful or of real lasting benefit that I have ever done, and I will thank you. I have loved Aunt Emily's hospital cottage by the sea, for her sake and for dear little Amy's, and have worked a little for that; but it has been a real pleasure and enjoyment to me, and has never involved one moment's self-sacrifice."
Modesty will not allow me to put down here all that Milly and Bessie in their partial affection said to persuade me that I was not altogether a useless member of society at large. Delightful as it was to hear, it did not succeed in quieting my newly awakened conscience or sense of responsibility; and perhaps Milly on her part did not intend that it should do so.
"She evidently must be furnished with anobject," said Bessie; "nothing else will satisfy her; and as she seems to have something of the feeling of the monks and nuns of old, that the more disagreeable the duty the greater the credit, let us satisfy her by finding her a most unpleasant one. Oh, charming! I have thought of just the thing.—Why not adopt as your particular charge, Amy, that most unattractive young cripple, Matty Blair? She will probably satisfy all your longings for self-sacrifice, in a way which can leave nothing to be desired."
"The very thing," I answered, delighted to have found so soon an "object" on which to expend the benevolent yearnings with which I had been seized,—not so suddenly as Milly and Bessie believed; for, for some time past, I had had a secret and rather unwelcome consciousness that I was not doing my share toward mitigating the general load of human misery and ignorance,—a consciousness which Allie's words had only quickened into more active life. "But, girls, I assure you that I am not at all moved by the ascetic notion of taking up the most disagreeable work I can find, as a penance for former shortcomings. I wish from my heart that Matty Blair was pretty and straight and sweet, a typical little story-book pauper, whom it would be a pleasure to befriend, and who would respond amicably to my advances. Matty, from what I know of her, will be far from being all that; nevertheless I shall take her up, and see what can be done for her."
"Consult mother first, dear," said Milly. "She may see objections: they say that Matty's parents are dreadful people, and they may choose to make trouble for you. There are cases, you know, where people expect you topayfor being allowed to confer benefits upon them."
"I wish that we could remove the child, or both the children, entirely from the father and mother," I said.
"They will never allow that while the poor little things continue to be profitable to them," said Milly.
"You have taken up something of a task, truly," said Bessie. "First you will have those wretched parents to win over, and then that unattractive little creature. And, Amy, although I would not wish to throw cold water upon your enthusiasm, I feel sure that your father and mother will never let you go to such a place as the home of the child must be. Milly's mission came to her, as it were, heaven-sent, it seems to me," she added in a reverent tone; "but you must seek this out to do Matty any good, and face those dreadful relations of hers. Your father and mother will never listen to it, and they will be right. Do not try to run a tilt against windmills, dear."
"No, neither will I make mountains out of mole-hills," I answered lightly, although I did feel the force, yes, and the truth too, of Bessie's reasoning, and had my own doubts; "and certainly I shall not have more unpromising material to deal with than Milly had when she undertook to bring up her charges in the way they should go. Moreover, I shall not attempt to beard the lions in their den; but I suppose I have to win my way into Matty's affections or confidence, or whatever it may be that proves assailable, and if I find any way to help her, I shall ask cousin Serena to go into partnership with me. She will be protection enough anywhere, for no one could think of troubling or annoying her in any way."
"Well, I'm not so sure of that, either," said Bessie; "but I'm not going to discourage you further, and time will show. But how do you mean to set to work, Amy?"
"I do not know yet; how can I?" I answered. "I have only just thought of this, and of course I have not had time to make any plans or to think of what I shall do. I shall firstly go this very afternoon to cousin Serena; and if she thinks me, as she doubtless will, a prodigy of benevolence, self-sacrifice, and generosity, and agrees to all I ask of her, I shall attack father and mother to-night. I mean to act while the frenzy is on me, lest my ardor cool, and I see the many lions in the way which you bad girls are trying to conjure up."
Knowing myself in this respect pretty well, I was really afraid that if I gave myself too much time for consideration of my new scheme, I might become appalled by the difficulty and disagreeableness which were prophesied; and I was determined to place myself in a position where—unless a higher authority interfered—I could not in pride or conscience draw back.
Milly had taken almost no part in the little discussion between Bessie and me, generally speaking only when she was appealed to; and I knew by this that she did not altogether approve. But I was a little self-willed, a state of mind not altogether of rare occurrence with me, I am afraid; and I chose to ignore the disapprobation which was implied by this silence, and asked her no questions.
And now for cousin Serena, to whom I bent my steps at once, accompanied by Bessie, who volunteered to go with me; though, to tell the truth, I could have dispensed with her society for this occasion, being afraid of the discouraging objections and criticisms she might raise. But she ventured none; on the contrary, she seemed rather inclined to aid and abet me when I broached the subject to cousin Serena, in whom I was not disappointed. She proved herself—the blessed soul—the most willing co-adjutor, even more so than I desired; for, running to a closet where she kept a bountiful provision of such articles, she began to bring forth flannel, calico, and stout muslin suitable to make clothes for poor people; whereupon my spirit shrank appalled, for, if there was one occupation which I hated more than another, it was plain sewing, especially upon coarse material.
"O cousin Serena!" I said, "I am not going to sew and make clothes for Matty. It is so much easier and more convenient to buy them ready-made."
This speech, I was sorry to see, damped cousin Serena's ardor; for this working by proxy, as it were, did not at all coincide with her old-fashioned notions; and "ready-made garments" were to her a delusion and a snare, giving opportunity to Satan to find mischief for idle hands to do. I hated to disappoint her when she was so enthusiastically preparing to cut put work for both Bessie and me; but I hated still more to sew, and held my ground, being borne out by Bessie, who was not any more partial to such work than I was. Cousin Serena shook her head, and sighed over the degeneracy of the age which could content itself with other than such exquisite "hand-sewing" as she did herself.
Having gained my point, and made her promise all that I wished, I insisted that she should go home with us to dinner, taking the little bower of Dutch Johnny, the florist, by the way for a glimpse of Matty. Cousin Serena had never seen her; but I was not afraid to have her do so, unpromising object for one's charitable sympathies though she certainly was, for, the more helpless and repulsive-looking, the more would cousin Serena's tender heart warm toward her.
Our errand to Johnny's was nominally to purchase flowers, and, of course, we did invest therein, and came out bearing some of his choicest blossoms; but cousin Serena made use of the opportunity to take a close observation of Matty as she sat at her little peanut-stand in the corner, sullen and lowering, the picture of discontent and misery, as usual.
But cousin Serena did more than this; for, with the tact which she always showed in dealing with people of this class, she succeeded in arousing a slight feeling of interest in the sullen, disagreeable little cripple.
The one gift which had been granted to Matty was a profusion of beautiful hair, which, however, was never seen to perfection, as it was always braided tightly and wound in a close coil about her head, giving to the wizened, shrunken face an even older look than was natural to it. If she had any pride in any thing, it must have been in this hair,—indeed, she had little else to be proud of,—for it was always fairly tidy. Johnny, it seemed, always exacted a certain amount of cleanliness and decency as the price of her admission into his shop; not, perhaps, that he had any inherent love for this virtue, as such, or that his own comfort and happiness depended upon them, but because he feared that his trade might be injured if his customers found there such a dirty, ragged little object as Matty had formerly been. Clean hands and faces, well-brushed hair, and as much patching of ragged clothes as the neglected, worse than motherless creatures could compass, were required from Matty and Tony. His good-natured wife sometimes befriended them in this way, and put in a few stitches for them; the result being profitable in more ways than one. It was she, and not the miserable, intemperate mother, who plaited Matty's glossy locks in the heavy braid which she then wound round her head.
Cousin Serena went up to the peanut-stand, invested in Matty's wares, the child serving her in the dull, mechanical way usual with her, and smiled kindly down at her, eliciting, however, no response.
"What pretty hair you have, Matty!" was Miss Craven's next advance; and, as she spoke, she lightly touched with her gloved finger the shining coil which many a society belle might have envied.
A gleam lighted up the dull, heavy eyes, and Matty raised them to the dear old lady's face.
"It is almost a pity to wear it so closely bound up," continued cousin Serena; while Bessie and I, apparently making an inspection of Johnny's stock while he was engaged with another customer, lent attentive ears to what passed, I feeling rather that my intended mission work had been taken up by other hands; "it would show so nicely if you wore it loose and flowing as most little girls do now. I would like to see it when it is down."
With a motion marvellously quick in one so crippled, the child raised her hands, unbound the coil from about her head, and drawing her fingers through the plait, let the rippling, waving masses fall flowing over her poor, twisted, mis-shapen shoulders.
"Amy and Bessie," said cousin Serena, pursuing her advantage of playing upon the only vanity in poor Matty's nature, "Amy and Bessie, come here and see what beautiful hair this child has. It is a good deal like yours, Amy, both in color and quantity."
With another sudden motion, Matty drew the shining waves in front of her, glanced at them lovingly, and then raising her eyes to me with the first appearance of any thing like interest in them which I had ever seen, scanned my locks, and said with something of malicious triumph in her tone and look,—
"It's prettier nor her'n."
"So it is, Matty," I said, ignoring what Daisy would have called the "discompliment" to myself, and determined to strike while the iron was hot, or at least approaching an unusual degree of warmth,—"so it is; you have the very prettiest hair I ever saw."
Matty did not smile,—I never but once saw the light of a smile on her face,—but she gave a low chuckle. Evidently we had touched a chord that would respond; an ignoble one it might be, but it was something to have gained even this.
Having dismissed his customer, Johnny now came to the front.
"'Tis goot," he said, pointing to the beautiful locks; "'tis goot. Mine wife she say 'tis pest cut off dat head; bud Maddy she so moosh lofe dat head, an' 'tis so goot, I say, leaf her keep her head. So mine wife, she say, 'yes, 'tis too pad to cut dat nice head,' an' she leafs it on her, an' mine wife she comb an' prush it for Maddy. But I tells Maddy she shall sell dat head for so moosh as fife tollars if she schuse."
"Don't ye be after tellin' me mother that," said Matty, with a sudden look of angry alarm, which was really pathetic, as one gathered from it that the child felt she would no longer be allowed to keep her one cherished possession, if any idea of its pecuniary value were suggested to her mother.
"Nein, nein," answered Johnny, shaking his head and speaking with emphasis, as if to say that this was a secret he would carefully guard from the unnatural parent. "Nein, nein," he repeated. "If I tells dat mutter any tings, 'tis as dat head is so pad as is not vort notings."
"But you would not say what is not true, even to save Matty's hair, would you?" said Miss Craven, unable to allow this more than doubtful morality to pass.
Again Johnny wagged his head, this time as one quite convinced that he was in the right, and answered: "If I tells shust one nice, leetle pit of a lie" (Johnny did not mince matters, even to his own conscience), "'tis for to keep away a great pig wrong; for if I tells dat mutter de shild's head is vort so moosh, she put dat head in de scissors de negst minit."
The kindly old Dutchman was plainly convinced that the end justified the means, and cousin Serena felt that any further discussion of the question was useless, and that it would not tend to improve Matty's moral views or those of her brother Tony, who had just come in, as both were sure to side with their friend and benefactor.
"We will hope that no one will ever touch Matty's pretty hair," she said; and I, seized with a sudden inspiration, and still appealing to Matty's vanity, said,—
"I would like to see Matty's hair flowing over a dark-blue dress. How it would set it off! Would you like a blue dress, Matty? Your hair will look so pretty over it if you wear it down."
Matty looked rather askance at me. She evidently regarded me as a rival in the matter of hair, and was not inclined to accept any advances on my part; but friendly, jolly little Tony answered for her; while she hesitated, evidently meditating some ungracious answer.
"Oh, wouldn't she though, miss! I guess she would like it, an' her hair would look awful pooty on it, an' when we goes to the Sunday-school festival,—when it's Easter, ye know,—Matty'll wear the blue dress, an' her hair down on it, an' she'll look as good as any of the girls there, an' better, 'cause there isn't one of 'em has hair like Matty's.—An' I'll tell ye, Matty, if the lady,—she's one of Jim's young ladies,—if she gives ye the blue dress, we'll keep it to Mrs. Petersen's if she'll let us, so ma can't get it for the drink.—Are ye goin' to give it to her, miss?"
"Indeed I am," I answered to the eager question. "Come now, Matty, stand up, and we'll measure you for the dress. Perhaps I can find one ready-made, and you shall have it to-morrow.—Johnny, can you lend me a yard-measure?"
Johnny produced one; and Matty, still half doubtful whether or no to be gracious, and eying me with a gaze which had some lingering viciousness in it, rose half reluctantly to her feet. Standing so, her deformity was even more visible than it was when she was seated; and it took all my nerve and power of will to take the measure of the mis-shapen shoulders without shrinking from the touch. And then I saw the improbability, I might say the impossibility, of finding in any ready-made-clothing store, a dress which would fit the twisted form. One must be made on purpose; one which would set at defiance all rules of symmetry; and how to have it completed to-morrow, even late in the day to-morrow? Where should I go to have such an order filled by the time I desired it? And I believed from what I had seen of Matty that the non-fulfilment or postponement of my hasty, ill-considered promise would be enough to excite all her enmity again. However, I said nothing until we were out of the little shop, when I exclaimed at my own want of fore-thought, and asked where I could go to have my order fulfilled without delay.
"You can't do it," said Bessie. "Even at the stores where they profess to furnish costumes at twenty-four hours' notice, they would not agree to give you, in so short a time, a dress for which they can use no ordinary pattern. Amy,"—with what seemed to be a most irrelevant change of subject,—"is any one coming to your house to dinner to-night?"
"Cousin Serena, and yourself if you will," I answered.
"Yes, I intended to suggest that you should invite me," answered Bessie, "and, had you proved obdurate, should have appealed to Milly or your mother. Well, there will be four of us: yourself, cousin Serena, Milly, and myself; and we will press the mother and Mrs. Rutherford into the service. Let us go to Arnold's, buy some suitable material,—and we all know what cousin Serena is with scissors and thimble,—coax her to cut out a dress for Matty, and we will all devote the evening, perhaps the whole night, to it. By our united exertions, I think that we can surely accomplish it in time for you to take it to her to-morrow, and your credit will be saved."
"If we were not in the street, I should fall upon you with kisses and tears of gratitude," I answered ecstatically; "as it is, consider yourself embraced.—Cousin Serena, will you help us?"
There was no question of that: cousin Serena was only too glad to give us her services; and although, as I have said, she needed to be guided and tyrannized over in the matter of style and fashion where her own dress was concerned, she was an expert in fashioning garments for the poor.
Bessie's idea was acted upon forthwith. We took our way down to Arnold's, purchased the necessary material, and, lest it should not be sent home in time, bid pride hide its head, and carried the parcels ourselves.
Jim beamed upon us when he gathered, from the conversation around the dinner-table, to what the evening was to be devoted, and became quite an overpowering nuisance with his pressing attentions to the young ladies.
The dress was so nearly completed that night that Milly and I had but little difficulty in finishing it for the next afternoon.
Father and mother gave consent to my pursuing my benevolent intentions with regard to Matty, so far as I could do it without venturing into the abode of her wretched parents, but positively forbade my going there even under the guidance and protection of cousin Serena. Indeed, the fear of them which Tony and Matty showed augured little good or encouragement for those who would benefit these children, unless some profit therefrom, was to accrue to the elder Blairs themselves.
The dress was ready in good time, and supplemented by the addition of a warm sack of the same color from mother and a little cloth cap from aunt Emily. A hood had been in the thoughts of the latter, as warmer and more suitable; but I had begged for the cap as affording better opportunity for the display of Matty's hair. "Poor little object!" I pleaded: "why not allow her the gratification of this small vanity?" and aunt Emily yielded, as she was sure to do when any one's small whims and fancies were to be satisfied.
Maria made the garments into a neat parcel for me; and I, thinking to give Jim a pleasure, summoned him on his return from school to be the bearer thereof, and to accompany me to Johnny's. That Jim was pleased, was an assured fact; and his tongue wagged incessantly though respectfully all the way until we arrived at our destination. Then while I opened the parcel, and presented Matty with the dress and other articles, he stood by in delighted contemplation, looking from me to Matty as if he would say to her, "This is my young mistress;" to me, "This is myprotégée."
As for Matty, she appeared, so far as she showed any feeling at all, to consider that the gifts were altogether due to him; and she vouchsafed no word of thanks to me. Not that I cared for expressions of gratitude; but I felt a little hopeless as I saw how entirely I had failed to make any impression on her.
Tony, however, who was present again, was profuse in his thanks, and really seemed to feel all that he said.
The shining hair fell like a shielding veil over Matty's deformity again to-day; and after this it became her practice to wear it so when she was away from home. There she wore it tightly bound up, and kept it as much out of sight as possible; fearing, poor little creature, that she might be bereft of it, should any idea of its pecuniary value enter her mother's mind.
CHAPTER X.
A COLD BATH.
"Well, Jim," I said, as I returned home in the fast-gathering twilight, with my escort trotting beside me, "how are you getting on now at school? I have not heard lately."
"I'm havin' an awful hard time just now, Miss Amy," he answered, coming nearer,—"an awful hard time."
"How is that?" I asked. "Are they pressing you too much? Have they given you too many lessons, or are those you had before becoming harder?"
"Neither, miss," he answered. "'Tain't the lessons; I don't mind them. Lessons ain't nothin'—I mean lessons ain't anything"—Jim was growing more choice in language, and taking infinite pains with his parts of speech—"when a feller has such good help as Miss Milly or Mr. Edward. If they're too hard for me, one of 'em always helps me an' makes 'em plain, an' I keep along good enough in the classes. But it's the keepin' cool, an' not flyin' out when I get provoked, 'specially with that Theodore Yorke. Miss Amy, you never saw the like of him. He's just the meanest chap ever breathed; and the way he finds out things you don't want him to know, an' keeps bringin' 'em up an' naggin' about 'em, is the worst."
"All the more credit to you, then, Jim, if you keep your temper under such provocation," I answered soothingly, "and you show yourself by far the better man of the two. You know the Bible says, 'Greater is he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.'"
"Well, Miss Amy," he said, "I guess it ain't no such rememberin' nor Bible texes that keeps me cool. It's lots of other things. First, I do want awful bad to do credit to Miss Milly; then I don't want to fight Theodore, nor have a real sharp fallin' out, on account of the captain an' Mrs. Yorke; then I'm thinkin', if I don't learn to hold my temper now, how will it be if I come to be President of these States? I s'pose there's lots of things that'll be provokin', an' hard to stand, when you're President; and if Congress don't want to mind you right spang off when you tell 'em to do a thing, an' goes to foolin' round about it, I s'pose it don't do to be flyin' out, 'cause then folks would think you wasn't fit to be President. Besides, when one's mad he can't think about the best way to do things, an' I might make foolish laws they wouldn't like. But most of all it will be a great deal better way to get even with Theodore if I come out first with Mr.——"
Here he suddenly checked himself, and even in the dim twilight I could see the color mounting to the roots of his carroty hair. He had evidently been on the verge of some disclosure which he would have regretted, and no questions succeeded in drawing forth any thing further from him.
He had been sufficiently candid, however, in admitting that he was not influenced, in the struggle with himself, by any abstract notions of right and wrong, or by any special desire to please a higher power. But that he had some motive still undeclared, and of greater weight with him than any of those he had mentioned, I was convinced; and why should he wish to keep it back?
However, my cogitations on the subject, and Jim's confidences, were now cut short by the appearance at the corner, of another escort, who took charge of me at once with a very decided remonstrance against my remaining out till this hour "with only the protection of that boy."
This was a slight which would have wounded Jim to the quick had he heard it, which he fortunately did not, as it was spoken in an undertone; and he was evidently pleased to be freed from an attendance which had become embarrassing to him by his own indiscretion.
"What do you suppose he could have meant?" I asked of Milly that night, after I had rehearsed to her, in the privacy of our own room, my conversation with Jim.
"I am sure I do not know," said my sister. "If it were possible, I should think he meant uncle Rutherford's prize; but as he does not and can not know of that, of course it cannot be. And while we must all wish that he were acting from a higher motive than any of these, still it is a great point gained, that he is so learning to control himself; the habit will be formed, and he will learn to be his own master. But I fear that Theodore Yorke is not a truthful or upright boy. Even our own boys, who see so little of him, call him a sneak; and although he has a bold, self-assertive manner, it has none of Jim's frankness. Oh, uncle Rutherford, I wish that you could have seen things differently!"
But as uncle Rutherford had not only seen things in his own light, but had acted thereon, there was nothing for us to do beyond giving Jim what help we could. There was little, however, a lady could do to help a boy in a public school in his struggle with adverse circumstances, save by advice and encouragement; and Milly did not fail him in these.
Taking a hint from what I had seen of Jim's influence over Matty, I now based my plans for her benefit and regeneration upon that, in addition to the play upon her vanity by means of that wonderful and much-prized hair. Jim, too, I knew would paint me and all my doings in glowing colors, making much of any little kindness I might do for her.
The blue dress and other decent clothes were kept at kind Mrs. Petersen's "for fear of the drink," and Matty donned them there when she found occasion to wear them; and this led me to carry out the idea of rescuing the children, Matty and Tony, entirely from the intemperate wretches who dishonored the names of father and mother, and placing them under the care of Mrs. Petersen. So long as the two little cripples brought home such portion of their weekly earnings as Jim had agreed should be allowed to Blair and his wife, the latter cared little where or how the neglected children spent their time, especially as they were now provided with their dinner as a part of the price of their services at the peanut-stand.
The disapprobation in Milly's manner, which I had noticed and wondered at, when my new enterprise was under consideration, had altogether vanished after that first afternoon; and she had not only helped with all her might in the making of the blue dress, but she had ever since been interested and full of thoughtful suggestion.
"Milly," I said to her one day soon after, "why did you seem so unwilling to have me undertake to care for that little cripple? You surely had formed a precedent for such things in our family. I never could understand your objections; for, that you had objections, I could not help seeing."
Milly laughed.
"I find that such objections as I entertained were not well founded," she answered.
"Perhaps so, but that does not tell me what they were," I insisted.
"Well," she said, "I was a little afraid that Jim might feel that you were trespassing on his preserves; and your field for charity is so large, and his so small, that I did not wish him to imagine that he was interfered with."
"Well, that is disposed of, for he is delighted with my co-operation," I said. "Now, what else was it?"
Milly was reluctant to say; but I persisted, and at last she answered,—
"I feared that it was only—that you would soon tire of it, Amy, and that the experiment would then prove good neither for you nor for Matty; but in that too I hope I was wrong."
After events left no room to prove whether or no I should have been long steadfast to my purpose of caring for poor Matty; that was taken out of my hands.
Jim's report from school had been one of unbroken credit for weeks now,—in conduct, that is; and to those who knew the boy's fiery, impulsive, and, until he fell under Milly's care, untrained, nature, the record was a remarkable one. In his classes, he was doing fairly well, and making progress of which he had no need to be ashamed, but his lessons were by no means always perfect; and, happily, it was not so much to them that we looked, as the chief means for his gaining uncle Rutherford's prize, for Theodore's standing in this respect was generally a better one than his own.
I had noticed, and Milly at length came to do so, that if the record was an unusually good one, and he received an extra amount of praise, he still always appeared sheepish and ill at ease, and as though he had something on his mind which he was half-inclined to make known. But he never came to the point of doing so, and Milly had ceased to ask him.
We were kept pretty well informed, too, of the progress and standing of Theodore Yorke; partly by uncle Rutherford's interest in the matter and the inquiries he made of the teachers every week, and also by the captain's pride in his grandson, whom he considered a prodigy of learning. The boy was certainly bright and clever, as was Jim; and the two kept fairly even in their record, both for lessons and conduct.
But while Jim continued to grow in popularity with both teachers and scholars, it was not so with Theodore, and there was a strong prejudice against him, especially among the boys. There seemed to be no particular cause of offence or instance of wrong-doing to be brought against him, but there it was; and neither masters nor schoolmates seemed to place any confidence in him.
As far as trade went, Jim was certainly making a good thing out of the school; for, owing to his persuasions, to say nothing of that leaning toward peanuts which is a marked feature of every boyish mind, the calls at Matty's stand on the way to and from the school were very frequent; and while pennies and nickels flowed in upon the small vender, peanut-shells were scattered all over the building and playground, until at last they called forth a remonstrance from the janitor. Finding this of no avail, he threatened an appeal to the higher authorities; but, as he was a good-natured old soul, he hesitated to draw reproof upon the boys, when about this time an incident occurred which made complaint unnecessary, as peanuts became prohibited altogether within school bounds.
"Jim," said a boy, coming to him one morning before the school-bell rang, "do you see the lot of peanuts Theodore Yorke has?"
"I don't pay much heed to Theodore Yorke or his havin's," answered Jim scornfully. "It's no odds to me if he has bushels of peanuts or nary a one."
"But maybe it is odds to you," answered the other boy. "I ain't a telltale; but Theodore Yorke's always buyin' peanuts off of your stand, an' you can bet he comes away from that stand with a lot more peanuts for two cents or five cents than any one of the rest of us does."
Jim turned sharply upon him.
"You don't mean Matty gives him over measure, Rob?" he said.
"She don'tgivehim over measure, but he gets over measure," replied Rob; "an' I tell you 'cause I think it's a shame to be cheatin' you an' the girl."
"What is it, then? Out with it!" exclaimed Jim. "I can see how she can cheat him givin' him short measure if she likes, but I can't see how he can cheat her gettin'overmeasure."
"S'pose when she's measurin' out what he's asked for, he puts his hand into the big basket on her other side, maybe more than once, too; how'll that do for helping himself to long measure, hey?" said Robert.
"How do you know?" asked Jim, trying to control his rising fury until he had all the facts.
"I've seen him do it more than once, an' more than twice," replied Rob. "You know we live in the same house, and mostly come on to school together, an' both him an' me is apt to stop for peanuts. And the first time I saw him do that, taking out a handful extra for himself, was one morning when I hadn't any money to buy; but he stopped in, and I staid out, 'cause it was too kind of tantalizing to go in and smell 'em all freshly roasted, and not get any; and I was looking in between the posies and plants in the shop, and when Matty was filling up her measure for him—only the two-center one—I saw him do that mean trick; on a girl, too, and she a hunchback! He slipped his hand into the basket, and carried it full to his dinner-basket. So after that I watched, whether I went in or staid out; and he never lets a time go by that he don't hook a handful, maybe two, if he gets the chance. You see, that girl's got such a lot of thick hair hanging round her, it's most like a thick veil, and would keep her from seeing what goes on behind or by the side of her. I tell you, Jim, I guess with one time and another he must have bagged two or three quarts of peanuts off of you and the hunchback, and I couldn't let it go on any longer. This very morning he bought two cents worth, and hooked as much as five."
Jim's indignation had grown higher and fiercer with every succeeding word of this story; and, unfortunately, at this moment Theodore came around a corner of the school-building upon the playground, and, as a combination of ill luck would have it, he was eating peanuts, which he extracted from a pocket whose bulging proportions showed that the stock from which he was drawing was a large one.
The sight inflamed Jim's passion beyond all bounds; and he immediately advanced upon Theodore in a manner and with a look which left no doubt as to his purpose. The culprit dodged the first blow aimed at him; but in another instant Jim's hand was upon his collar, while, with language which was neither choice nor mild, he struck him several times, and would have continued the blows had he not in his turn been seized upon by one of the masters, who had seen the whole thing, to whom it appeared to be the most unprovoked attack.
Jim's fury had so passed beyond restraint, that for a moment neither the sight of the teacher nor his stern voice calling him to order had the effect of bringing him to his senses; and he even turned upon the gentleman himself, probably believing for the moment that it was one of the other boys. His crestfallen, mortified look when he was recalled to himself did not help him in the estimation of the teacher, who took it as a sign of guilt; while Theodore, once freed from his assailant, stood by as the martyr and peaceable boy who would not strike a blow, even in self-defence. Rob, meanwhile, frightened by the consequences of his disclosures to Jim, slunk off without waiting to bear testimony to the provocation which Jim believed himself to have received.
Jim was "reported," of course, and punished; and the knowledge that this must come to the ears of Miss Milly and Mr. Rutherford did not tend to soothe his anger, nor did he feel that his desire for vengeance was yet satisfied. As he had been deprived of his recess, however, he had no immediate opportunity of gratifying it; and when school was over, the principal, who was a just though strict man, and who was particularly interested in uncle Rutherford's scheme and the two rivals for his prize, called both Jim and Theodore before him, and inquired into the cause of the disturbance.
Now, Theodore was perfectly well aware of this, for Jim had not failed to make use of his tongue as well as his fists, and he knew that in some way his petty and oft-repeated thefts had come to light; but he was not going to confess his own iniquities, and Jim was what Rob Stevens, with less reason, had asserted himself to be,—"no telltale."
He rather sulkily replied, to the questions of the principal, that "Theodore knew, and could tell if he liked;" but Theodore doggedly declared that he had given and knew of no cause of offence, and that the attack had been entirely without reason.
As Jim could not be persuaded to bring any accusation other than the scornful, ferocious looks with which he regarded Theodore; while Theodore himself was evidently uneasy and fearful lest his antagonist should speak the truth,—Mr. Rollins was convinced that the latter was really, in some way, to blame. But of course he could not punish him without reason; while Jim had been caught red-handed, and must, at least, be reprimanded and warned. The gentleman told him that he forfeited his recess for a week, and that, if he trespassed again in this manner, he would be degraded to a lower class.
Jim received his sentence in silence; but when Mr. Rollins spoke of the penalty to follow future offending, his ruddy face blanched.Thatmeant not only disgrace in the school, but, what was far worse to him, before Miss Milly and Mr. Rutherford, and the lessening of his "chance" with the latter, and Theodore's preferment above him.
As the boys were dismissed from the tribunal of justice, and turned away, Mr. Rollins caught a glance of gratified malice which Theodore cast at the other boy; and he was more than ever persuaded that there was something behind all this, and that Theodore was, perhaps, the one who was the most to blame.
They had reached the door, when Jim turned, and, coming back to the desk of the principal, said in a low tone, "Thank you, sir, for not puttin' any thing more on me than the recess. I don't mind that so much, an' I'll try hard not to break rules again; butyoucan't tell how hard it is not to get mad when the mad lies so near the top, an' you're gettin'"—"cheated" would have been the next word, but Jim checked himself ere it was spoken.
"Do I not, my boy?" answered the gentleman: then seeing that Theodore was lingering at the door as if anxious to hear what passed, he said to him, with something of sternness in his voice, born of the doubt as to which of the two boys was the greater culprit, "Go on, sir, you have no need to wait;" adding to himself, "That boy has a guilty conscience." Then, when Theodore had closed the door behind him, he turned again to Jim, and continued, "You are mistaken, Jim, if you think I do not know what it is to struggle with a quick temper."
"You, sir?" said Jim.
"Yes, I," answered Mr. Rollins; and then he followed with the story of his own struggles with a passionate temper, and the final victory over himself, with much good advice and encouragement to Jim. Encouraged the boy certainly did feel, as he left the presence of the master, fortified with new resolutions for the future.
But master Theodore was not to escape without his share of punishment.
As his own ill luck would have it,—perhaps it would be better to say, as a righteous retribution would have it,—as he was on his way home from school, and was crossing the park on which our house fronted, he fell in with three or four of his classmates, among them Rob Stevens, the witness of his thefts.
"What have you done with Jim?" asked one of the boys.
"He's getting it from the commander-in-chief," said Theodore exultantly. "He's lost his recess for a week, and is to be put down to class four if he gets into another of his rages, as he's sure to do; and now he's taking no end of a blowing-up. The commander sent me out so I wouldn't hear it. Good enough for him. I hope he'll get it hot and heavy."
"What didyouget?" asked Rob.
"What did I get? Nothing; why should I?" responded Theodore, who had not the slightest idea of the way by which Jim had learned of his thefts, or that here was his accuser.
"Didn't you tell why Jim pitched into you when you saw he was gettin' held up for it?" asked Rob.
"No!" roared Theodore, partly in fear, partly in anger, for he now could not fail to see that Rob knewsomething, but how much he could not tell. "I hadn't any thing to tell, and hadn't done any thing to Jim,—to his high-mightiness Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington, the fellow with a whole dictionary-full of names, and not a right to one of them but the Jim. I just wish he would get into a dozen tantrums, till he gets expelled from the school."
"Nothin' mean about you, is there?" said one of the other boys indignantly, although he was still ignorant of the cause of Jim's provocation.
But this was too much for Rob.
The boys had neared the fountain in the centre of the park. At this season, it was never or seldom playing; but some repairs had been found necessary, and the workmen had had the jet in action for some hours, and the large basin around it was full of water. The boys stopped beside it, not noticing a tall figure which sat upon one of the park benches near.
"Nothing mean abouthim!" repeated Rob in a loud voice, which might easily be heard on the other side of the fountain, "nothing mean about Theodore Yorke! He's the meanest sneak in our school, or out of it, either! I'll tell you why Jim pitched into him. He's been stealing peanuts off of Jim's stand when the little hunchback's head was turned. I saw him, more than once, and I wasn't going to have it any longer; so I told Jim, and I'd just told him of it when Theodore came on eating peanuts, the very ones, for all I know, that I saw him steal this morning; and no wonder Jim's spirit was up, and he pitched into him. I wish he'd had it out with him, too, before Mr. Leeds came up. If he was going to be punished, he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. And Jim's never said a word, I s'pose, or let on what he did it for; and you let him take all the blame. Bah! I wouldn't be you, for a cart-load of peanuts!"
"You didn't see me, either. I don't know what you're talking about!" stammered Theodore, so taken aback by the damaging testimony of this unexpected witness of his sin, that he lost all self-possession, and his looks proclaimed him guilty of the offence with which he was charged.
Uprose from the bench beyond the group the figure sitting there, and, striding towards the still unobservant boys, laid one hand upon Theodore's collar, the other on that of Rob; and the startled Theodore looked up into the stern, set face of his grandfather.
"Have I heerd aright?" said the old man in his righteous wrath. "Have I heerd my gran'son called a thief, an' a sneak, what let a boy like Jim be blamed for doin' what he had a right to do, if what this 'ere feller says is true?—Kin ye prove it?" turning to Rob, while he still kept a tight hold on either boy.
"Yes, I can," said Rob, maintaining his ground, although he was a little frightened by the captain's looks and tones; and once more he rehearsed the story in all its details.
By this time several persons, attracted by the somewhat unusual spectacle of an old man holding two boys by their collars, had stopped to hear what was going on; and there were symptoms of a crowd. Seeing this from afar, a policeman bore down upon the scene,—the very one who had had the dispute with the captain as to the propriety of Daisy playing peanut-vender on the street-corner.
As he came near, Captain Yorke released his hold upon Rob's collar; then tightening that upon Theodore's, the still stalwart old seaman lifted the boy from his feet, and, stepping close to the basin of the fountain, plunged him over his head in the icy water. The day had been a mild one, sunny and bright, for spring was in the air; but the water was still sufficiently cold to make such a sudden plunge any thing but pleasant, and this summary method of punishment, well deserved though most of the spectators knew it to be, was not to be tolerated in such a public place. So thought the policeman who now came running up, as the captain, having given his grandson three good dips, lifted him dripping and shivering from the basin, and placed him upon his feet.
PLUNGED HIM OVER HIS HEAD IN THE ICY WATER.
"PLUNGED HIM OVER HIS HEAD IN THE ICY WATER."—Page214.
"What's this?" asked the officer, who had long since made his peace with the old man, who was wont to hang about the park, and in the vicinity of our house, and who amused him vastly with his comments upon men and things in the city. "What are you up to now, captain?"
"Givin' this boy a duckin'; an' if I told ye what for, I donno but ye'd be for takin' of him up," answered the captain, disregarding all considerations of parental or family pride. "If ye fin' me a meaner one nor he is in this big town, I'll duck him, too, an' keep him under till he begs an' swears he'll mend his ways.—Now, git along home, sir," to the shaking Theodore. "I'd willin' pay for two suits of clo's to have the satisfaction of givin' ye yer desarvins, though I don't know as ye've got 'em yet. Git!"
Theodore, only too glad to obey, sped away like the wind; while the captain, as the policeman was about to interfere further, turned to the officer, and, taking him by the arm, as if he were going to arresthim, repeated in a friendly tone, "He's had no more than his desarvin's,—young scamp; an' them's my opinions. I'll tell ye."
"But what are you about, ducking that boy in a public fountain?" asked the officer, doubtful what course to pursue with the old original. "Don't you know such a thing is a breach of the public peace?"
"I don't know nothin' about your breaches," said the old veteran, no whit disturbed; "but I knows I got a right to duck that boy where'er I've a min' to. He's my gran'son,—more shame to me,—an' a little water ain't goin' to hurt him. His fam'ly's used to water,—good salt water, too," with a contemptuous look at the fluid in the fountain basin, "an' if I could wash the meanness outer him, I'd duck him a dozen times a day. Come along."
And still with his hand upon the policeman's arm, the captain turned away with him, soon satisfying the guardian of the peace that this was no case for arrest. Barney agreed that he had the right to take the law into his own hands, although this was hardly the place for him to do so.
Of course Theodore's thefts, and the story of the grandfather's summary punishment, went the rounds of the school the next morning, and it soon reached the ears of the teachers and principal; and Theodore was called up again before the latter, this time to receive a far sterner reprimand than had been bestowed upon Jim. As the offence had been committed out of school bounds and school hours, the punishment for it did not lie within the jurisdiction of Mr. Rollins; but, in addition to that which he had received from his grandfather, it was meted out to him on the school premises. From that time he acquired thesobriquetof "Peanuts,"—a name which, short as it was, attracted far more derision and notice than that of Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington.
And Jim, for his silence before the principal, his heroic determination to "tell no tales," was more of a favorite than ever.
Whether this tended to lessen Theodore's animosity toward him, or to soften the standing feud between them, may be judged.
The contempt and dislike which the school generally entertained for Theodore were brought to their height, when the edict was promulgated that peanuts should be no longer brought within bounds. Being a forbidden fruit, they at once acquired a value and desirableness even beyond that which they had possessed before. By some unexplained process of reasoning, the authorities had arrived at the conclusion that they were the cause of the late disturbance; and so they were tabooed, much to the displeasure of the boys, who, beside the deprivation to themselves, considered Jim a victim, as the order, of necessity, in a measure lessened his sales.