The opportune arrival of the child inaugurated a season of comparative prosperity in the home of Timothy Harding. To persons accustomed to live in their frugal way, five hundred dollars seemed a fortune. Nor, as might have happened in some cases, did this unexpected windfall tempt the cooper or his wife to enter upon a more extravagant mode of living.
Let us save something against a rainy day, said Mrs. Harding.
We can if I get work soon, answered her husband. "This little one will add but little to our expenses, and there is no reason why we shouldn't save up at least half of it."
So I think, Timothy. The child's food will not amount to a dollar a week.
There's no tellin' when you will get work, Timothy, said Rachel, in her usual cheerful way. "It isn't well to crow before you are out of the woods."
Very true, Rachel. It isn't your failing to look too much at the sunny side of the picture.
I'm ready to look at it when I can see it anywhere, answered his sister, in the same enlivening way.
Don't you see it in the unexpected good fortune which came with this child? asked Timothy.
I've no doubt you think it very fortunate now, said Rachel, gloomily; "but a young child's a great deal of trouble."
Do you speak from experience, Aunt Rachel? asked Jack.
Yes, said his aunt, slowly. "If all babies were as cross and ill-behaved as you were when you were an infant, five hundred dollars wouldn't begin to pay for the trouble of having them around."
Mr. Harding and his wife laughed at the manner in which the tables had been turned upon Jack, but the latter had his wits about him sufficiently to answer: "I've always heard, Aunt Rachel, that the crosser a child is, the pleasanter he will grow up. What a very pleasant baby you must have been!"
Jack! said his mother, reprovingly; but his father, who looked upon it as a good joke, remarked, good-humoredly: "He's got you there, Rachel."
But Rachel took it as a serious matter, and observed that, when she was young, children were not allowed to speak so to their elders.
But I don't know as I can blame 'em much, she continued, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, "when their own parents encourage 'em in it."
Timothy was warned, by experience of Rachel's temper, that silence was his most prudent course. Anything that he might say would only be likely to make matters worse than before.
Aunt Rachel sank into a fit of deep despondency, and did not say another word till dinner time. She sat down to the table with a profound sigh, as if there was little in life worth living for. Notwithstanding this, it was observed that she had a good appetite. Indeed, Miss Harding appeared to thrive on her gloomy views of life and human nature. She was, it must be acknowledged, perfectly consistent in all her conduct, so far as this peculiarity was concerned. Whenever she took up a newspaper, she always looked first to the space appropriated to deaths, and next in order to the column of accidents, casualties, etc., and her spirits were visibly exhilarated when she encountered a familiar name in either list.
The cooper continued to look out for work; but it was with a more cheerful spirit. He did not now feel as if the comfort of his family depended absolutely on his immediate success. Used economically, the money he had by him would last eight months; and during that time it was hardly possible that he should not find something to do. It was this sense of security, of having something to fall back upon, that enabled him to keep up good heart. It is too generally the case that people are content to live as if they were sure of constantly retaining their health, and never losing their employment. When a reverse does come, they are at once plunged into discouragement, and feel the necessity of doing something immediately. There is only one way of fending off such an embarrassment; and that is, to resolve, whatever may be the amount of one's income, to lay aside some part to serve as a reliance in time of trouble. A little economy--though it involves self-denial--will be well repaid by the feeling of security it engenders.
Mr. Harding was not compelled to remain inactive as long as he feared. Not that his line of business revived--that still remained depressed for a considerable time--but another path was opened to him.
Returning home late one evening, the cooper saw a man steal out from a doorway, and attack a gentleman, whose dress and general appearance indicated probable wealth.
Seizing him by the throat, the villain effectually prevented his calling for help, and at once commenced rifling his pockets, when the cooper arrived on the scene. A sudden blow admonished the robber that he had more than one to deal with.
What are you doing? Let that gentleman be!
The villain hesitated but a moment, then springing to his feet, he hastily made off, under cover of the darkness.
I hope you have received no injury, sir, said Mr. Harding, respectfully, addressing the stranger he had rescued.
No, my worthy friend; thanks to your timely assistance. The rascal nearly succeeded, however.
I hope you have lost nothing, sir.
Nothing, fortunately. You can form an idea of the value of your interference, when I say that I have fifteen hundred dollars with me, all of which would doubtless have been taken.
I am glad, said Timothy, "that I was able to do you such a service. It was by the merest chance that I came this way."
Will you add to my indebtedness by accompanying me with that trusty club of yours? I have some distance yet to go, and the money I have with me I don't want to lose.
Willingly, said the cooper.
But I am forgetting, continued the gentleman, "that you will yourself be obliged to return alone."
I do not carry enough money to make me fear an attack, said Mr. Harding, laughing. "Money brings care, I have always heard, and the want of it sometimes freedom from anxiety."
Yet most people are willing to take their share of that.
You are right, sir, nor I can't call myself an exception. Still I would be satisfied with the certainty of constant employment.
I hope you have that, at least.
I have had until three or four months since.
Then, at present, you are unemployed?
Yes, sir.
What is your business?
I am a cooper.
I will see what I can do for you. Will you call at my office to-morrow, say at twelve o'clock?
I shall be glad to do so, sir.
I believe I have a card with me. Yes, here is one. And this is my house. Thank you for your company. Let me see you to-morrow.
They stood before a handsome dwelling house, from whose windows, draped by heavy crimson curtains, a soft light proceeded. The cooper could hear the ringing of childish voices welcoming home their father, whose life, unknown to them, had been in such peril, and he felt grateful to Providence for making him the instrument of frustrating the designs of the villain who would have robbed the merchant, and perhaps done him further injury. Timothy determined to say nothing to his wife about the night's adventure, until after his appointed meeting for the next day. Then, if any advantage accrued to him from it, he would tell the whole story.
When he reached home, Mrs. Harding was sewing beside the fire. Aunt Rachel sat with her hands folded in her lap, with an air of martyr-like resignation to the woes of life.
I've brought you home a paper, Rachel, said her brother, cheerfully. "You may find something interesting in it."
I shan't be able to read it this evening, said Rachel, mournfully. "My eyes have troubled me lately. I feel that it is more than probable I am getting blind; but I trust I shall not live to be a burden to you, Timothy. Your prospects are dark enough without that."
Don't trouble yourself with any fears of that sort, Rachel, said the cooper, cheerily. "I think I know what will enable you to use your eyes as well as ever."
What? asked Rachel, with melancholy curiosity.
A pair of spectacles.
Spectacles! retorted Rachel, indignantly. "It will be a good many years before I am old enough to wear spectacles. I didn't expect to be insulted by my own brother. But I ought not to be surprised. It's one of my trials."
I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Rachel, said the cooper, perplexed.
Good-night! said Rachel, rising and taking a lamp from the table.
Come, Rachel, don't go up to bed yet; it's only nine o'clock.
After what you have said to me, Timothy, my self-respect will not allow me to stay.
Rachel swept out of the room with something more than her customary melancholy.
I wish Rachel wasn't quite so contrary, said the cooper to his wife. "She turns upon a body so sudden it's hard to know how to take her. How's the little girl, Martha?"
She's been asleep ever since six o'clock.
I hope you don't find her very much trouble? That all comes on you, while we have the benefit of the money.
I don't think of that, Timothy. She is a sweet child, and I love her almost as much as if she were my own. As for Jack, he perfectly idolizes her.
And how does Rachel look upon her?
I am afraid she will never be a favorite with Rachel.
Rachel never took to children much. It isn't her way. Now, Martha, while you are sewing, I will read you the news.
The card which had been handed to the cooper contained the name of Thomas Merriam, No. ---- Pearl Street.
Punctually at twelve, he presented himself at the countingroom, and received a cordial welcome from the merchant.
I am glad to see you, he said, affably. "You rendered me an important service last evening, even if the loss of money alone was to be apprehended. I will come to business at once, as I am particularly engaged this morning, and ask you if there is any way in which I can serve you?"
If you could procure me a situation, sir, you would do me a great service.
I think you told me you were a cooper?
Yes, sir.
Does this yield you a good support?
In good times it pays me two dollars a day, and on that I can support my family comfortably. Lately it has been depressed, and paid me but a dollar and a half.
When do you anticipate its revival?
That is uncertain. I may have to wait some months.
And, in the meantime, you are willing to undertake some other employment?
I am not only willing, but shall feel very fortunate to obtain work of any kind. I have no objection to any honest employment.
Mr. Merriam reflected a moment.
Just at present, he said, "I have nothing better to offer you than the position of porter. If that will suit you, you can enter upon its duties to-morrow."
I shall be very glad to undertake it, sir. Anything is better than idleness.
As to the compensation, that shall be the same that you have been accustomed to earn by your trade--two dollars a day.
I only received that in the best times, said Timothy, conscientiously.
Your services as porter will be worth that amount, and I will cheerfully pay it. I will expect you to-morrow morning at eight, if you can be here at that time.
I will be here promptly.
You are married, I suppose? said the merchant, inquiringly.
Yes, sir; I am blessed with a good wife.
I am glad of that. Stay a moment.
Mr. Merriam went to his desk, and presently came back with a sealed envelope.
Give that to your wife, he said.
Thank you, sir.
Here the interview terminated, and the cooper went home quite elated by his success. His present engagement would enable him to bridge over the dull time, until his trade revived, and save him from incurring debts, of which he had a just horror.
You are just in time, Timothy, said Mrs. Harding, cheerfully, as he entered. "We've got an apple pudding to-day."
I see you haven't forgotten what I like, Martha.
There's no knowing how long you'll be able to afford puddings, said Rachel, dolefully. "To my mind it's extravagant to have meat and pudding both, when a month hence you may be in the poorhouse."
Then, said Jack, "I wouldn't eat any if I were you, Aunt Rachel."
Oh, if you grudge me the little I eat, said his aunt, in serene sorrow, "I will go without."
Tut, Rachel! nobody grudges you anything here, said her brother; "and as to the poorhouse, I've got some good news to tell you that will put that thought out of your head."
What is it? asked Mrs. Harding, looking up brightly.
I have found employment.
Not at your trade?
No; but at something else which will pay equally well till trade revives.
Here he told the chance by which he was enabled to serve Mr. Merriam the evening previous, and then he gave an account of his visit to the merchant's countingroom, and the engagement which he had made.
You are indeed fortunate, Timothy, said his wife, her face beaming with pleasure. "Two dollars a day, and we've got nearly the whole of the money left that came with this dear child. Why, we shall be getting rich soon!"
Well, Rachel, have you no congratulations to offer? asked the cooper of his sister, who, in subdued sorrow, was eating as if it gave her no pleasure, but was rather a self-imposed penance.
I don't see anything so very fortunate in being engaged as a porter, said Rachel, lugubriously. "I heard of a porter once who had a great box fall upon him and kill him instantly; and I was reading in the _Sun_ yesterday of another out West somewhere who committed suicide."
The cooper laughed.
So, Rachel, you conclude that one or the other of these calamities is the inevitable lot of all who are engaged in this business?
You may laugh now, but it is always well to be prepared for the worst, said Rachel, oracularly.
But it isn't well to be always looking for it, Rachel.
It'll come whether you look for it or not, retorted his sister, sententiously.
Then suppose we waste no time thinking about it, since, according to your admission, it's sure to come either way.
Rachel did not deign a reply, but continued to eat in serene melancholy.
Won't you have another piece of pudding, Timothy? asked his wife.
I don't care if I do, Martha, it's so good, said the cooper, passing his plate. "Seems to me it's the best pudding you ever made."
You've got a good appetite, that is all, said Mrs. Harding, modestly disclaiming the compliment.
Apple puddings are unhealthy, observed Rachel.
Then what makes you eat them? asked Jack.
A body must eat something. Besides, life is so full of sorrow, it makes little difference if it's longer or shorter.
Won't you have another piece, Rachel?
Aunt Rachel passed her plate, and received a second portion. Jack winked slyly, but fortunately his aunt did not observe it.
When dinner was over, the cooper thought of the sealed envelope which had been given him for his wife.
Martha, he said, "I nearly forgot that I have something for you."
For me?
Yes, from Mr. Merriam.
But he don't know me, said Mrs. Harding, in surprise.
At any rate, he first asked me if I was married, and then handed me this envelope, which he asked me to give to you. I am not quite sure whether I ought to allow strange gentlemen to write letters to my wife.
Mrs. Harding opened the envelope with considerable curiosity, and uttered an exclamation of surprise as a bank note fell out, and fluttered to the carpet.
By gracious, mother! said Jack, springing to get it, "you're in luck. It's a hundred-dollar bill."
So it is, I declare, said his mother, joyfully. "But, Timothy, it isn't mine. It belongs to you."
No, Martha, I have nothing to do with it. It belongs to you. You need some clothes, I am sure. Use part of it, and I will put the rest in the savings bank for you.
I never expected to have money to invest, said Mrs. Harding. "I begin to feel like a capitalist. When you want to borrow money, Timothy, you'll know where to come."
Merriam's a trump and no mistake, said Jack. "By the way, when you see him again, father, just mention that you've got a son. Ain't we in luck, Aunt Rachel?"
Boast not overmuch, said his aunt. "Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall."
I never knew Aunt Rachel to be jolly but once, said Jack under his breath; "and that was at a funeral."
One of the first results of the new prosperity which had dawned upon the Hardings, was Jack's removal from the street to the school. While his father was out of employment, his earnings seemed necessary; but now they could be dispensed with.
To Jack, the change was not altogether agreeable. Few boys of the immature age of eleven are devoted to study, and Jack was not one of these few. The freedom which he had enjoyed suited him, and he tried to impress it upon his father that there was no immediate need of his returning to school.
Do you want to grow up a dunce, Jack? said his father.
I can read and write already, said Jack.
Are you willing to enter upon life with that scanty supply of knowledge?
Oh, I guess I can get along as well as the average.
I don't know about that. Besides, I want you to do better than the average. I am ambitious for you, if you are not ambitious for yourself.
I don't see what good it does a feller to study so hard, muttered Jack.
You won't study hard enough to do you any harm, said Aunt Rachel, who might be excused for a little sarcasm at the expense of her mischievous nephew.
It makes my head ache to study, said Jack.
Perhaps your head is weak, Jack, suggested his father, slyly.
More than likely, said Rachel, approvingly.
So it was decided that Jack should go to school.
I'll get even with Aunt Rachel, thought he. "She's always talking against me, and hectorin' me. See if I don't."
An opportunity for getting even with his aunt did not immediately occur. At length a plan suggested itself to our hero. He shrewdly suspected that his aunt's single blessedness, and her occasional denunciations of the married state, proceeded from disappointment.
I'll bet she'd get married if she had a chance, he thought. "I mean to try her, anyway."
Accordingly, with considerable effort, aided by a school-fellow, he concocted the following letter, which was duly copied and forwarded to his aunt's address:
"DEAR GIRL: Excuse the liberty I have taken in writing to you; but I have seen you often, though you don't know me; and you are the only girl I want to marry. I am not young--I am about your age, thirty-five--and I have a good trade. I have always wanted to be married, but you are the only one I know of to suit me. If you think you can love me, will you meet me in Washington Park, next Tuesday, at four o'clock? Wear a blue ribbon round your neck, if you want to encourage me. I will have a red rose pinned to my coat. Don't say anything to your brother's family about this. They may not like me, and they may try to keep us apart. Now be sure and come. DANIEL.""
"This letter reached Miss Rachel just before Jack went to school one morning. She read it through, first in surprise, then with an appearance of pleasure.
Who's your letter from, Aunt Rachel? asked Jack, innocently.
Children shouldn't ask questions about what don't concern 'em, said his aunt.
I thought maybe it was a love letter, said he.
Don't make fun of your aunt, said his father, reprovingly.
Jack's question is only a natural one, said Rachel, to her brother's unbounded astonishment. "I suppose I ain't so old but I might be married if I wanted to."
I thought you had put all such thoughts out of your head long ago, Rachel.
If I have, it's because the race of men are so shiftless, said his sister. "They ain't worth marrying."
Is that meant for me? asked the cooper, good-naturedly.
You're all alike, said Rachel, tossing her head.
She put the letter carefully into her pocket, without deigning any explanation.
I suppose it's from some of her old acquaintances, thought her brother, and he dismissed the subject.
As soon as she could, Rachel took refuge in her room. She carefully locked the door, and read the letter again.
Who can he be? thought the agitated spinster. "Do I know anybody of the name of Daniel? It must be some stranger that has fallen in love with me unbeknown. What shall I do?"
She sat in meditation for a short time. Then she read the letter again.
He will be very unhappy if I frown upon him, she said to herself, complacently. "It's a great responsibility to make a fellow being unhappy. It's a sacrifice, I know, but it's our duty to deny ourselves. I don't know but I ought to go and meet him."
This was Rachel's conclusion.
The time was close at hand. The appointment was for that very afternoon.
I wouldn't have my brother or Martha know it for the world, murmured Rachel to herself, "nor that troublesome Jack. Martha's got some blue ribbon, but I don't dare to ask her for it, for fear she'll suspect something. No, I must go out and buy some."
I'm goin' to walk, Martha, she said, as she came downstairs.
Going to walk in the forenoon! Isn't that something unusual?
I've got a little headache. I guess it'll do me good, said Rachel.
I hope it will, said her sister-in-law, sympathetically.
Rachel went to the nearest dry-goods store, and bought a yard of blue ribbon.
Only a yard? inquired the clerk, in some surprise.
That will do, said Rachel, nervously, coloring a little, as though the use which she designed for it might be suspected.
She paid for the ribbon, and presently returned.
Does your head feel any better, Rachel? asked Mrs. Harding.
A little, answered Rachel.
You've been sewing too steady lately, perhaps? suggested Martha.
Perhaps I have, assented Rachel.
You ought to spare yourself. You can't stand work as well as when you were younger, said Martha, innocently.
A body'd think I was a hundred by the way you talk, said Rachel, sharply.
I didn't mean to offend you, Rachel. I thought you might feel as I do. I get tired easier than I used to.
I guess I'll go upstairs, said Rachel, in the same tone. "There isn't anybody there to tell me how old I am gettin'."
It's hard to make Rachel out, thought Mrs. Harding. "She takes offense at the most innocent remark. She can't look upon herself as young, I am sure."
Upstairs Rachel took out the letter again, and read it through once more. "I wonder what sort of a man Daniel is," she said to herself. "I wonder if I have ever noticed him. How little we know what others think of us! If he's a likely man, maybe it's my duty to marry him. I feel I'm a burden to Timothy. His income is small, and it'll make a difference of one mouth. It may be a sacrifice, but it's my duty."
In this way Rachel tried to deceive herself as to the real reason which led her to regard with favoring eyes the suit of this supposed lover whom she had never seen, and about whom she knew absolutely nothing.
Jack came home from school at half-past two o'clock. He looked roguishly at his aunt as he entered. She sat knitting in her usual corner.
Will she go? thought Jack. "If she doesn't there won't be any fun."
But Jack, whose trick I am far from defending, was not to be disappointed.
At three o'clock Rachel rolled up her knitting, and went upstairs. Fifteen minutes later she came down dressed for a walk.
Where are you going, Aunt Rachel? asked Jack.
Out for a walk, she answered, shortly.
May I go with you? he asked, mischievously.
No; I prefer to go alone, she said, curtly.
Your aunt has taken a fancy to walking, said Mrs. Harding, when her sister-in-law had left the house. "She was out this forenoon. I don't know what has come over her."
I do, said Jack to himself.
Five minutes later he put on his hat and bent his steps also to Washington Park.
Miss Rachel Harding kept on her way to Washington Park. It was less than a mile from her brother's house, and though she walked slowly, she got there a quarter of an hour before the time.
She sat down on a seat near the center of the park, and began to look around her. Poor Rachel! her heart beat quicker than it had done for thirty years, as she realized that she was about to meet one who wished to make her his wife.
I hope he won't be late, she murmured to herself, and she felt of the blue ribbon to make sure that she had not forgotten it.
Meanwhile Jack reached the park, and from a distance surveyed with satisfaction the evident nervousness of his aunt.
Ain't it rich? he whispered to himself.
Rachel looked anxiously for the gentleman with the red rose pinned to his coat.
She had to wait ten minutes. At last he came, but as he neared her seat, Rachel felt like sinking into the earth with mortification when she recognized in the wearer a stalwart negro. She hoped that it was a mere chance coincidence, but he approached her, and raising his hat respectfully, said:
Are you Miss Harding?
What if I am? she demanded, sharply. "What have you to do with me?"
The man looked surprised.
Didn't you send word to me to meet you here?
No! answered Rachel, "and I consider it very presumptuous in you to write such a letter to me."
I didn't write you a letter, said the negro, astonished.
Then what made you come here? demanded the spinster.
Because you wrote to me.
I wrote to you! exclaimed Rachel, aghast.
Yes, you wrote to me to come here. You said you'd wear a blue ribbon on your neck, and I was to have a rose pinned to my coat.
Rachel was bewildered.
How could I write to you when I never saw you before, and don't know your name. Do you think a lady like me would marry a colored man?
Who said anything about that? asked the other, opening his eyes wide in astonishment. "I couldn't marry, nohow, for I've got a wife and four children."
Rachel felt ready to collapse. Was it possible that she had made a mistake, and that this was not her unknown correspondent, Daniel?
There is some mistake, she said, nervously. "Where is that letter you thought I wrote? Have you got it with you?"
Here it is, ma'am.
He handed Rachel a letter addressed in a small hand to Daniel Thompson.
She opened it and read:
"Mr. Thompson: I hear you are out of work. I may be able to give you a job. Meet me at Washington Park, Tuesday afternoon, at four o'clock. I shall wear a blue ribbon round my neck, and you may have a red rose pinned to your coat. Otherwise I might not know you. RACHEL HARDING.""
"Some villain has done this, said Rachel, wrathfully. "I never wrote that letter."
You didn't! said Daniel, looking perplexed. "Who went and did it, then?"
I don't know, but I'd like to have him punished for it, said Rachel, energetically.
But you've got a blue ribbon, said Mr. Thompson. "I can't see through that. That's just what the letter said."
I suppose somebody wrote the letter that knew I wear blue. It's all a mistake. You'd better go home.
Then haven't you got a job for me? asked Daniel, disappointed.
No, I haven't, said Rachel, sharply.
She hurriedly untied the ribbon from her neck, and put it in her pocket.
Don't talk to me any more! she said, frowning. "You're a perfect stranger. You have no right to speak to me."
I guess the old woman ain't right in her head! thought Daniel. "Must be she's crazy!"
Poor Rachel! she felt more disconsolate than ever. There was no Daniel, then. She had been basely imposed upon. There was no call for her to sacrifice herself on the altar of matrimony. She ought to have been glad, but she wasn't.
Half an hour later a drooping, disconsolate figure entered the house of Timothy Harding.
Why, what's the matter, Rachel? asked Martha, who noticed her woe-begone expression.
I ain't long for this world, said Rachel, gloomily. "Death has marked me for his own."
Don't you feel well this afternoon, Rachel?
No; I feel as if life was a burden.
You have tired yourself with walking, Rachel. You have been out twice to-day.
This is a vale of tears, said Rachel, hysterically. "There's nothin' but sorrow and misfortune to be expected."
Have you met with any misfortune? I thought fortune was smiling upon us all.
It'll never smile on me again, said Rachel, despondently.
Just then Jack, who had followed his aunt home, entered.
Have you got home so quick, Aunt Rachel? he asked. "How did you enjoy your walk?"
I shall never enjoy anything again, said his aunt, gloomily.
Why not?
Because there's nothing to enjoy.
I don't feel so, aunt. I feel as merry as a cricket.
You won't be long. Like as not you'll be took down with fever to-morrow, and maybe die.
I won't trouble myself about it till the time comes, said Jack. "I expect to live to dance at your wedding yet, Aunt Rachel."
This reference was too much. It brought to Rachel's mind the Daniel to whom she had expected to link her destiny, and she burst into a dismal sob, and hurried upstairs to her own chamber.
Rachel acts queerly to-day, said Mrs. Harding. "I think she can't be feeling well. If she don't feel better to-morrow I shall advise her to send for the doctor."
I am afraid it was mean to play such a trick on Aunt Rachel, thought Jack, half repentantly. "I didn't think she'd take it so much in earnest. I must keep dark about that letter. She'd never forgive me if she knew."
For some days there was an added gloom on Miss Rachel's countenance, but the wound was not deep; and after a time her disappointment ceased to rankle in her too sensitive heart.
Seven years slipped by unmarked by any important change. The Hardings were still prosperous in an humble way. The cooper had been able to obtain work most of the time, and this, with the annual remittance for little Ida, had enabled the family not only to live in comfort, but even to save up one hundred and fifty dollars a year. They might even have saved more, living as frugally as they were accustomed to do, but there was one point in which they would none of them consent to be economical. The little Ida must have everything she wanted. Timothy brought home nearly every day some little delicacy for her, which none of the rest thought of sharing. While Mrs. Harding, far enough from vanity, always dressed with extreme plainness, Ida's attire was always of good material and made up tastefully.
Sometimes the little girl asked: "Mother, why don't you buy yourself some of the pretty things you get for me?"
Mrs. Harding would answer, smiling: "Oh, I'm an old woman, Ida. Plain things are best for me."
No, I'm sure you're not old, mother. You don't wear a cap. Aunt Rachel is a good deal older than you.
Hush, Ida. Don't let Aunt Rachel hear that. She wouldn't like it.
But she is ever so much older than you, mother, persisted the child.
Once Rachel heard a remark of this kind, and perhaps it was that that prejudiced her against Ida. At any rate, she was not one of those who indulged her. Frequently she rebuked her for matters of no importance; but it was so well understood in the cooper's household that this was Aunt Rachel's way, that Ida did not allow it to trouble her, as the lightest reproach from Mrs. Harding would have done.
Had Ida been an ordinary child, all this petting would have had an injurious effect upon her mind. But, fortunately, she had the rare simplicity, young as she was, which lifted her above the dangers which might have spoiled her otherwise. Instead of being made vain and conceited, she only felt grateful for the constant kindness shown her by her father and mother, and brother Jack, as she was wont to call them. Indeed it had not been thought best to let her know that such were not the actual relations in which they stood to her.
There was one point, much more important than dress, in which Ida profited by the indulgence of her friends.
Martha, the cooper was wont to say, "Ida is a sacred charge in our hands. If we allow her to grow up ignorant, or only allow her ordinary advantages, we shall not fulfill our duty. We have the means, through Providence, of giving her some of those advantages which she would enjoy if she had remained in that sphere to which her parents doubtless belong. Let no unwise parsimony on our part withhold them from her."
You are right, Timothy, said his wife; "right, as you always are. Follow the dictates of your own heart, and fear not that I shall disapprove."
Humph! said Aunt Rachel; "you ain't actin' right, accordin' to my way of thinkin'. Readin', writin' and cypherin' was enough for girls to learn in my day. What's the use of stuffin' the girl's head full of nonsense that'll never do her no good? I've got along without it, and I ain't quite a fool."
But the cooper and his wife had no idea of restricting Ida's education to the rather limited standard indicated by Rachel. So, from the first, they sent her to a carefully selected private school, where she had the advantage of good associates, and where her progress was astonishingly rapid.
Ida early displayed a remarkable taste for drawing. As soon as this was discovered, her adopted parents took care that she should have abundant opportunity for cultivating it. A private master was secured, who gave her lessons twice a week, and boasted everywhere of the progress made by his charming young pupil.
What's the good of it? asked Rachel. "She'd a good deal better be learnin' to sew and knit."
All in good time, said Timothy. "She can attend to both."
I never wasted my time that way, said Rachel. "I'd be ashamed to."
Nothing could exceed Timothy's gratification, when, on his birthday, Ida presented him with a beautifully drawn sketch of his wife's placid and benevolent face.
When did you do it, Ida? he asked, after earnest expressions of admiration.
I did it in odd minutes, she answered, "when I had nothing else to do."
But how could you do it, without any of us knowing what you were about?
I had a picture before me, and you thought I was copying it, but, whenever I could do it without being noticed, I looked up at mother as she sat at her sewing, and so, after a while, I finished the picture.
And a fine one it is, said the cooper, admiringly.
Mrs. Harding insisted that Ida had flattered her, but this Ida would not admit.
I couldn't make it look as good as you, mother, she said. "I tried, but somehow I didn't succeed as I wanted to."
You wouldn't have that difficulty with Aunt Rachel, said Jack, roguishly.
Ida could not help smiling, but Rachel did not smile.
I see, she said, with severe resignation, "that you've taken to ridiculing your poor aunt again. But it's only what I expect. I don't never expect any consideration in this house. I was born to be a martyr, and I expect I shall fulfill my destiny. If my own relations laugh at me, of course I can't expect anything better from other folks. But I shan't be long in the way. I've had a cough for some time past, and I expect I'm in consumption."
You make too much of a little joke, Rachel, said the cooper, soothingly. "I'm sure Jack didn't mean anything."
What I said was complimentary, said Jack.
Rachel shook her head incredulously.
Yes, it was. Ask Ida. Why won't you draw Aunt Rachel, Ida? I think she'd make a very striking picture.
So I will, said Ida, hesitatingly, "if she will let me."
Now, Aunt Rachel, there's a chance for you, said Jack. "Take my advice, and improve it. When it's finished it can be hung up in the Art Rooms, and who knows but you may secure a husband by it."
I wouldn't marry, said Rachel, firmly compressing her lips; "not if anybody'd go down on their knees to me."
Now, I'm sure, Aunt Rachel, that's cruel of you, said Jack, demurely.
There ain't any man I'd trust my happiness to, pursued the spinster.
She hasn't any to trust, observed Jack, _sotto voce_.
Men are all deceivers, continued Rachel, "the best of 'em. You can't believe what one of 'em says. It would be a great deal better if people never married at all."
Then where would the world be a hundred years hence? suggested her nephew.
Come to an end, most likely, answered Aunt Rachel; "and I'm not sure but that would be the best thing. It's growing more and more wicked every day."
It will be seen that no great change has come over Miss Rachel Harding, during the years that have intervened. She takes the same disheartening view of human nature and the world's prospects as ever. Nevertheless, her own hold upon the world seems as strong as ever. Her appetite continues remarkably good, and, although she frequently expresses herself to the effect that there is little use in living, she would be as unwilling to leave the world as anyone. It is not impossible that she derives as much enjoyment from her melancholy as other people from their cheerfulness. Unfortunately her peculiar mode of enjoying herself is calculated to have rather a depressing influence upon the spirits of those with whom she comes in contact--always excepting Jack, who has a lively sense of the ludicrous, and never enjoys himself better than in bantering his aunt.
I don't expect to live more'n a week, said Rachel, one day. "My sands of life are 'most run out."
Are you sure of that, Aunt Rachel? asked Jack.
Yes, I've got a presentiment that it's so.
Then, if you're sure of it, said her nephew, gravely, "it may be as well to order the coffin in time. What style would you prefer?"
Rachel retreated to her room in tears, exclaiming that he needn't be in such a hurry to get her out of the world; but she came down to supper, and ate with her usual appetite.
Ida is no less a favorite with Jack than with the rest of the household. Indeed, he has constituted himself her especial guardian. Rough as he is in the playground, he is always gentle with her. When she was just learning to walk, and in her helplessness needed the constant care of others, he used, from choice, to relieve his mother of much of the task of amusing the child. He had never had a little sister, and the care of a child as young as Ida was a novelty to him. It was perhaps this very office of guardian to the child, assumed when she was young, that made him feel ever after as if she were placed under his special protection.
Ida was equally attached to Jack. She learned to look to him for assistance in any plan she had formed, and he never disappointed her. Whenever he could, he would accompany her to school, holding her by the hand, and, fond as he was of rough play, nothing would induce him to leave her.
How long have you been a nursemaid? asked a boy older than himself, one day.
Jack's fingers itched to get hold of his derisive questioner, but he had a duty to perform, and he contented himself with saying: "Just wait a few minutes, and I'll let you know."
I dare say you will, was the reply. "I rather think I shall have to wait till both of us are gray before that time."
You will not have to wait long before you are black and blue, retorted Jack.
Don't mind what he says, Jack, whispered Ida, fearing that he would leave her.
Don't be afraid, Ida; I won't leave you. I'll attend to his business another time. I guess he won't trouble us to-morrow.
Meanwhile the boy, emboldened by Jack's passiveness, followed, with more abuse of the same sort. If he had been wiser, he would have seen a storm gathering in the flash of Jack's eye; but he mistook the cause of his forbearance.
The next day, as they were going to school, Ida saw the same boy dodging round the corner with his head bound up.
What's the matter with him, Jack? she asked.
I licked him like blazes, that's all, said Jack, quietly. "I guess he'll let us alone after this."
Even after Jack left school, and got a position in a store at two dollars a week, he gave a large part of his spare time to Ida.
Really, said Mrs. Harding, "Jack is as careful of Ida as if he was her guardian."
A pretty sort of a guardian he is! said Aunt Rachel. "Take my word for it, he's only fit to lead her into mischief."
You do him injustice, Rachel. Jack is not a model boy, but he takes the best care of Ida.
Rachel shrugged her shoulders, and sniffed significantly. It was quite evident that she did not have a very favorable opinion of her nephew.
About eleven o'clock one forenoon Mrs. Harding was in the kitchen, busily engaged in preparing the dinner, when a loud knock was heard at the front door.
Who can it be? said Mrs. Harding. "Aunt Rachel, there's somebody at the door; won't you be kind enough to see who it is?"
People have no business to call at such an hour in the morning, grumbled Rachel, as she laid down her knitting reluctantly, and rose from her seat. "Nobody seems to have any consideration for anybody else. But that's the way of the world."
Opening the outer door, she saw before her a tall woman, dressed in a gown of some dark stuff, with strongly marked, and not altogether pleasant, features.
Are you the lady of the house? inquired the visitor, abruptly.
There ain't any ladies in this house, answered Rachel. "You've come to the wrong place. We have to work for a living here."
The woman of the house, then, said the stranger, rather impatiently. "It doesn't make any difference about names. Are you the one I want to see?"
No, I ain't, said Rachel, shortly.
Will you tell your mistress that I want to see her, then?
I have no mistress, said Rachel. "What do you take me for?"
I thought you might be the servant, but that don't matter. I want to see Mrs. Harding. Will you call her, or shall I go and announce myself?
I don't know as she'll see you. She's busy in the kitchen.
Her business can't be as important as what I've come about. Tell her that, will you?
Rachel did not fancy the stranger's tone or manner. Certainly she did not manifest much politeness. But the spinster's curiosity was excited, and this led her the more readily to comply with the request.
Stay here, and I'll call her, she said.
There's a woman wants to see you, announced Rachel.
Who is it?
I don't know. She hasn't got any manners, that's all I know about her.
Mrs. Harding presented herself at the door.
Won't you come in? she asked.
Yes, I will. What I've got to say to you may take some time.
Mrs. Harding, wondering vaguely what business this strange visitor could have with her, led the way to the sitting room.
You have in your family, said the woman, after seating herself, "a girl named Ida."
Mrs. Harding looked up suddenly and anxiously. Could it be that the secret of Ida's birth was to be revealed at last? Was it possible that she was to be taken from her?
Yes, she answered, simply.
Who is not your child?
But I love her as much. I have always taught her to look upon me as her mother.
I presume so. My visit has reference to her.
Can you tell me anything of her parentage? inquired Mrs. Harding, eagerly.
I was her nurse, said the stranger.
Mrs. Harding scrutinized anxiously the hard features of the woman. It was, at least, a relief to know that no tie of blood connected her with Ida, though, even upon her assurance, she would hardly have believed it.
Who were her parents?
I am not permitted to tell.
Mrs. Harding looked disappointed.
Surely, she said, with a sudden sinking of the heart, "you have not come to take her away?"
This letter will explain my object in visiting you, said the woman, drawing a sealed envelope from a bag which she carried in her hand.
The cooper's wife nervously broke open the letter, and read as follows:
MRS. HARDING: Seven years ago last New Year's night a child was left on your doorsteps, with a note containing a request that you would care for it kindly as your own. Money was sent at the same time to defray the expenses of such care. The writer of this note is the mother of the child, Ida. There is no need to explain here why I sent away the child from me. You will easily understand that it was not done willingly, and that only the most imperative necessity would have led me to such a step. The same necessity still prevents me from reclaiming my child, and I am content still to leave Ida in your charge. Yet there is one thing I desire. You will understand a mother's wish to see, face to face, her own child. With this view I have come to this neighborhood. I will not say where I am, for concealment is necessary to me. I send this note by a trustworthy attendant, Mrs. Hardwick, my little Ida's nurse in her infancy, who will conduct Ida to me, and return her again to you. Ida is not to know who she is visiting. No doubt she believes you to be her mother, and it is well that she should so regard you. Tell her only that it is a lady, who takes an interest in her, and that will satisfy her childish curiosity. I make this request as IDA'S MOTHER.
Mrs. Harding read this letter with mingled feelings. Pity for the writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear, adopted daughter, superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief at the assurance that Ida was not to be permanently removed--all these feelings affected the cooper's wife.
So you were Ida's nurse? she said, gently.
Yes, ma'am, said the stranger. "I hope the dear child is well?"
Perfectly well. How much her mother must have suffered from the separation!
Indeed you may say so, ma'am. It came near to breaking her heart.
I don't wonder, said sympathizing Mrs. Harding. "I can judge of that by my own feelings. I don't know what I should do, if Ida were to be taken from me."
At this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house. He had come home on an errand.
It is my husband, said Mrs. Harding, turning to her visitor, by way of explanation. "Timothy, will you come here a moment?"
The cooper regarded the stranger with some surprise. His wife hastened to introduce her as Mrs. Hardwick, Ida's old nurse, and placed in her husband's hands the letter which we have already read.
He was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through the letter. He laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful.
This is indeed unexpected, he said, at last. "It is a new development in Ida's history. May I ask, Mrs. Hardwick, if you have any further proof? I want to be careful about a child that I love as my own. Can you furnish any other proof that you are what you represent?"
I judged that the letter would be sufficient. Doesn't it speak of me as the nurse?
True; but how can we be sure that the writer is Ida's mother?
The tone of the letter, sir. Would anybody else write like that?
Then you have read the letter? asked the cooper, quickly.
It was read to me before I set out.
By whom?
By Ida's mother. I do not blame you for your caution, said the visitor. "You must be deeply interested in the happiness of the dear child, of whom you have taken such excellent care. I don't mind telling you that I was the one who left her at your door, seven years ago, and that I never left the neighborhood until I saw you take her in."
And it was this that enabled you to find the house to-day?
You forget, corrected the nurse, "that you were not then living in this house, but in another, some rods off, on the left-hand side of the street."
You are right, said Timothy. "I am inclined to believe in the truth of your story. You must pardon my testing you in such a manner, but I was not willing to yield up Ida, even for a little time, without feeling confident of the hands she was falling into."
You are right, said Mrs. Hardwick. "I don't blame you in the least. I shall report it to Ida's mother as a proof of your attachment to the child."
When do you wish Ida to go with you? asked Mrs. Harding.
Can you let her go this afternoon?
Why, said the cooper's wife, hesitating, "I should like to have a chance to wash out some clothes for her. I want her to appear as neat as possible when she meets her mother."
The nurse hesitated, but presently replied: "I don't wish to hurry you. If you will let me know when she will be ready, I will call for her."
I think I can get her ready early to-morrow morning.
That will answer. I will call for her then.
The nurse rose, and gathered her shawl about her.
Where are you going, Mrs. Hardwick? asked the cooper's wife.
To a hotel, was the reply.
We cannot allow that, said Mrs. Harding, kindly. "It's a pity if we cannot accommodate Ida's old nurse for one night, or ten times as long, for that matter."
My wife is quite right, said the cooper, hesitatingly. "We must insist on your stopping with us."
The nurse hesitated, and looked irresolute. It was plain she would have preferred to be elsewhere, but a remark which Mrs. Harding made, decided her to accept the invitation.
It was this: "You know, Mrs. Hardwick, if Ida is to go with you, she ought to have a little chance to get acquainted with you before you go."
I will accept your kind invitation, she said; "but I am afraid I shall be in your way."
Not in the least. It will be a pleasure to us to have you here. If you will excuse me now, I will go out and attend to my dinner, which I am afraid is getting behindhand.
Left to herself, the nurse behaved in a manner which might be regarded as singular. She rose from her seat, and approached the mirror. She took a full survey of herself as she stood there, and laughed a short, hard laugh. Then she made a formal courtesy to her own reflection, saying: "How do you do, Mrs. Hardwick?"
Did you speak? asked the cooper, who was passing through the entry on his way out.
No, answered the nurse, rather awkwardly. "I may have said something to myself. It's of no consequence."
Somehow, thought the cooper, "I don't fancy the woman's looks; but I dare say I am prejudiced. We're all of us as God made us."
When Mrs. Harding was making preparations for the noonday meal, she imparted to Rachel the astonishing information which has already been detailed to the reader.
I don't believe a word of it, said Rachel, resolutely. "The woman's an impostor. I knew she was, the very minute I set eyes on her."
This remark was so characteristic of Rachel, that her sister-in-law did not attach any special importance to it. Rachel, of course, had no grounds for the opinion she so confidently expressed. It was consistent, however, with her general estimate of human nature.
What object could she have in inventing such a story? asked Mrs. Harding.
What object? Hundreds of 'em, said Rachel, rather indefinitely. "Mark my words; if you let her carry off Ida, it'll be the last you'll ever see of her."
Try to look on the bright side, Rachel. Nothing is more natural than that her mother should want to see her.
Why couldn't she come herself? muttered Rachel.
The letter explains.
I don't see that it does.
It says that same reasons exist for concealment as ever.
And what are they, I should like to know? I don't like mysteries, for my part.
We won't quarrel with them, at any rate, since they enable us to keep Ida with us.
Aunt Rachel shook her head, as if she were far from satisfied.
I don't know, said Mrs. Harding, "but I ought to invite Mrs. Hardwick in here. I have left her alone in the front room."
I don't want to see her, said Rachel. Then, changing her mind suddenly: "Yes, you may bring her in. I'll soon find out whether she's an impostor or not."
The cooper's wife returned with the nurse.
Mrs. Hardwick, she said, "this is my sister, Miss Rachel Harding."
I am glad to make your acquaintance, ma'am, said the visitor.
Rachel, I will leave you to entertain Mrs. Hardwick, while I get ready the dinner.
Rachel and the nurse eyed each other with mutual dislike.
I hope you don't expect me to entertain you, said Rachel. "I never expect to entertain anybody ag'in. This is a world of trial and tribulation, and I've had my share. So you've come after Ida, I hear?" with a sudden change of tone.
At her mother's request, said the nurse.
She wants to see her, then?
Yes, ma'am.
I wonder she didn't think of it before, said Rachel, sharply. "She's good at waiting. She's waited seven years."
There are circumstances that cannot be explained, commenced the nurse.
No, I dare say not, said Rachel, dryly. "So you were her nurse?"
Yes, ma'am, answered the nurse, who did not appear to enjoy this cross-examination.
Have you lived with Ida's mother ever since?
No--yes, stammered the stranger. "Some of the time," she added, recovering herself.
Umph! grunted Rachel, darting a sharp glance at her.
Have you a husband living? inquired the spinster.
Yes, answered Mrs. Hardwick. "Have you?"
I! repeated Rachel, scornfully. "No, neither living nor dead. I'm thankful to say I never married. I've had trials enough without that. Does Ida's mother live in the city?"
I can't tell you, said the nurse.
Humph! I don't like mystery.
It isn't any mystery, said the visitor. "If you have any objections to make, you must make them to Ida's mother."
So I will, if you'll tell me where she lives.
I can't do that.
Where do you live yourself? inquired Rachel, shifting her point of attack.
In Brooklyn, answered Mrs. Hardwick, with some hesitation.
What street, and number?
Why do you want to know? inquired the nurse.
You ain't ashamed to tell, be you?
Why should I be?
I don't know. You'd orter know better than I.
It wouldn't do you any good to know, said the nurse. "I don't care about receiving visitors."
I don't want to visit you, I am sure, said Rachel, tossing her head.
Then you don't need to know where I live.
Rachel left the room, and sought her sister-in-law.
That woman's an impostor, she said. "She won't tell where she lives. I shouldn't be surprised if she turns out to be a thief."
You haven't any reason for supposing that, Rachel.
Wait and see, said Rachel. "Of course I don't expect you to pay any attention to what I say. I haven't any influence in this house."
Now, Rachel, you have no cause to say that.
But Rachel was not to be appeased. It pleased her to be considered a martyr, and at such times there was little use in arguing with her.
Later in the day, Ida returned from school. She bounded into the room, as usual, but stopped short in some confusion, on seeing a stranger.
Is this my own dear child, over whose infancy I watched so tenderly? exclaimed the nurse, rising, her harsh features wreathed into a smile.
It is Ida, said the cooper's wife.
Ida looked from one to the other in silent bewilderment.
Ida, said Mrs. Harding, in a little embarrassment, "this is Mrs. Hardwick, who took care of you when you were an infant."
But I thought you took care of me, mother, said Ida, in surprise.
Very true, said Mrs. Harding, evasively; "but I was not able to have the care of you all the time. Didn't I ever mention Mrs. Hardwick to you?"
No, mother.
Although it is so long since I have seen her, I should have known her anywhere, said the nurse, applying a handkerchief to her eyes. "So pretty as she's grown up, too!"
Mrs. Harding glanced with pride at the beautiful child, who blushed at the compliment, a rare one, for her adopted mother, whatever she might think, did not approve of openly praising her appearance.
Ida, said Mrs. Hardwick, "won't you come and kiss your old nurse?"
Ida looked at her hard face, which now wore a smile intended to express affection. Without knowing why, she felt an instinctive repugnance to this stranger, notwithstanding her words of endearment.
She advanced timidly, with a reluctance which she was not wholly able to conceal, and passively submitted to a caress from the nurse.
There was a look in the eyes of the nurse, carefully guarded, yet not wholly concealed, which showed that she was quite aware of Ida's feeling toward her, and resented it. But whether or not she was playing a part, she did not betray this feeling openly, but pressed the unwilling child more closely to her bosom.
Ida breathed a sigh of relief when she was released, and moved quietly away, wondering what it was that made the woman so disagreeable to her.
Is my nurse a good woman? she asked, thoughtfully, when alone with Mrs. Harding, who was setting the table for dinner.
A good woman! What makes you ask that? queried her adopted mother, in surprise.
I don't know, said Ida.
I don't know anything to indicate that she is otherwise, said Mrs. Harding. "And, by the way, Ida, she is going to take you on a little excursion to-morrow."
She going to take me! exclaimed Ida. "Why, where are we going?"
On a little pleasure trip; and perhaps she may introduce you to a pleasant lady, who has already become interested in you, from what she has told her.
What could she say of me? inquired Ida. "She has not seen me since I was a baby."
Why, answered the cooper's wife, a little puzzled, "she appears to have thought of you ever since, with a good deal of affection."
Is it wicked, asked Ida, after a pause, "not to like those who like us?"
What makes you ask?
Because, somehow or other, I don't like this Mrs. Hardwick, at all, for all she was my old nurse, and I don't believe I ever shall.
Oh, yes, you will, said Mrs. Harding, "when you find she is exerting herself to give you pleasure."
Am I going with her to-morrow morning?
Yes. She wanted you to go to-day, but your clothes were not in order.
We shall come back at night, shan't we?
I presume so.
I hope we shall, said Ida, decidedly, "and that she won't want me to go with her again."
Perhaps you will feel differently when it is over, and you find you have enjoyed yourself better than you anticipated.
Mrs. Harding exerted herself to fit Ida up as neatly as possible, and when at length she was got ready, she thought with sudden fear: "Perhaps her mother will not be willing to part with her again."
When Ida was ready to start, there came upon all a little shadow of depression, as if the child were to be separated from them for a year, and not for a day only. Perhaps this was only natural, since even this latter term, however brief, was longer than they had been parted from her since, in her infancy, she had been left at their door.
The nurse expressly desired that none of the family should accompany her, as she declared it highly important that the whereabouts of Ida's mother should not be known.
Of course, she added, "after Ida returns she can tell you what she pleases. Then it will be of no consequence, for her mother will be gone. She does not live in this neighborhood. She has only come here to see her child."
Shall you bring her back to-night? asked Mrs. Harding.
I may keep her till to-morrow, said the nurse. "After seven years' absence her mother will think that short enough."
To this, Mrs. Harding agreed, though she felt that she should miss Ida, though absent but twenty-four hours.