CHAPTER XX
DOUBTS AND FEARS
"Well, what kept you so long?" asked Peg, impatiently, as Ida rejoined her at the corner of the street. "I thought you were going to stay all the forenoon. And Where's your gingerbread?"
"He wouldn't let me have it," answered Ida.
"And why wouldn't he let you have it?" said Peg.
"Because he said the money wasn't good."
"Stuff and nonsense! It's good enough. However, it's no matter. We'll go somewhere else."
"But he said the money I gave him last week wasn't good, and I promised to bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me go."
"Well, where are you going to get your dollar?"
"Why, won't you give it to me?" said the child.
"Catch me at such nonsense!" said Mrs. Hardwick, contemptuously. "I ain't quite a fool. But here we are at another shop. Go in and see if you can do any better there. Here's the money."
"Why, it's the same bill I gave you."
"What if it is?"
"I don't want to pass bad money."
"Tut! What hurt will it do?"
"It's the same as stealing."
"The man won't lose anything. He'll pass it off again."
"Somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said Ida.
"So you've taken up preaching, have you?" said Peg, sneeringly. "Maybe you know better than I what is proper to do. It won't do for you to be so mighty particular, and so you'll find out, if you stay with me long."
"Where did you get the dollar?" asked Ida; "and how is it you have so many of them?"
"None of your business. You mustn't pry into the affairs of other people. Are you going to do as I told you?" she continued, menacingly.
"I can't," answered Ida, pale but resolute.
"You can't!" repeated Peg, furiously. "Didn't you promise to do whatever I told you?"
"Except what was wicked," interposed Ida.
"And what business have you to decide what is wicked? Come home with me."
Peg seized the child's hand, and walked on in sullen silence, occasionally turning to scowl upon Ida, who had been strong enough, in her determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the woman whom she had so much reason to dread.
Arrived at home, Peg walked Ida into the room by the shoulder. Dick was lounging in a chair.
"Hillo!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's frowning face. "What's the gal been doin', hey?"
"What's she been doing?" repeated Peg. "I should like to know what she hasn't been doing. She's refused to go in and buy gingerbread of the baker."
"Look here, little gal," said Dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn't this rayther undootiful conduct on your part? Ain't it a piece of ingratitude, when Peg and I go to the trouble of earning the money to pay for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't even willin' to go in and buy it?"
"I would just as lieve go in," said Ida, "if Peg would give me good money to pay for it."
"That don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist. "It's your dooty to do just as she tells you, and you'll do right. She'll take the risk."
"I can't," said the child.
"You hear her!" said Peg.
"Very improper conduct!" said Dick, shaking his head in grave reproval. "Little gal, I'm ashamed of you. Put her in the closet, Peg."
"Come along," said Peg, harshly. "I'll show you how I deal with those that don't obey me."
So Ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. Yet in the midst of her desolation, child as she was, she was sustained and comforted by the thought that she was suffering for doing right.
When Ida failed to return on the appointed day, the Hardings, though disappointed, did not think it strange.
"If I were her mother," said the cooper's wife, "and had been parted from her for so long, I should want to keep her as long as I could. Dear heart! how pretty she is and how proud her mother must be of her!"
"It's all a delusion," said Rachel, shaking her head, solemnly. "It's all a delusion. I don't believe she's got a mother at all. That Mrs. Hardwick is an impostor. I know it, and told you so at the time, but you wouldn't believe me. I never expect to set eyes on Ida again in this world."
The next day passed, and still no tidings of Jack's ward. Her young guardian, though not as gloomy as Aunt Rachel, looked unusually serious.
There was a cloud of anxiety even upon the cooper's usually placid face, and he was more silent than usual at the evening meal. At night, after Jack and his aunt had retired, he said, anxiously: "What do you think is the cause of Ida's prolonged absence, Martha?"
"I can't tell," said his wife, seriously. "It seems to me, if her mother wanted to keep her longer it would be no more than right that she should drop us a line. She must know that we would feel anxious."
"Perhaps she is so taken up with Ida that she can think of no one else."
"It may be so; but if we neither see Ida to-morrow, nor hear from her, I shall be seriously troubled."
"Suppose she should never come back," suggested the cooper, very soberly.
"Oh, husband, don't hint at such a thing," said his wife.
"We must contemplate it as a possibility," said Timothy, gravely, "though not, as I hope, as a probability. Ida's mother has an undoubted right to her."
"Then it would be better if she had never been placed in our charge," said Martha, tearfully, "for we should not have had the pain of parting with her."
"Not so, Martha," her husband said, seriously. "We ought to be grateful for God's blessings, even if He suffers us to retain them but a short time. And Ida has been a blessing to us all, I am sure. The memory of that can't be taken from us, Martha. There's some lines I came across in the paper to-night that express just what I've been sayin'. Let me find them."
The cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns of the daily paper till he came to these beautiful lines of Tennyson, which he read aloud:
"'I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.'"
"There, wife," he said, as he laid down the paper; "I don't know who writ them lines, but I'm sure it's some one that's met with a great sorrow and conquered it."
"They are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and I dare say you're right, Timothy; but I hope we mayn't have to learn the truth of them by experience. After all, it isn't certain but that Ida will come back."
"At any rate," said her husband, "there is no doubt that it is our duty to take every means that we can to recover Ida. Of course, if her mother insists upon keepin' her, we can't say anything; but we ought to be sure of that before we yield her up."
"What do you mean, Timothy?" asked Martha.
"I don't know as I ought to mention it," said the cooper. "Very likely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel more anxious."
"You have already aroused my anxiety. I should feel better if you would speak out."
"Then I will," said the cooper. "I have sometimes been tempted," he continued, lowering his voice, "to doubt whether Ida's mother really sent for her."
"How do you account for the letter, then?"
"I have thought—mind, it is only a guess—that Mrs. Hardwick may have got somebody to write it for her."
"It is very singular," murmured Martha.
"What is singular?"
"Why, the very same thought has occurred to me. Somehow, I can't help feeling a little distrustful of Mrs. Hardwick, though perhaps unjustly. What object can she have in getting possession of the child?"
"That I can't conjecture; but I have come to one determination."
"What is that?"
"Unless we learn something of Ida within a week from the time she left here, I shall go on to Philadelphia, or else send Jack, and endeavor to get track of her."
CHAPTER XXI
AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS
The week slipped away, and still no tidings of Ida. The house seemed lonely without her. Not until then did they understand how largely she had entered into their life and thoughts. But worse even than the sense of loss was the uncertainty as to her fate.
"It is time that we took some steps about finding Ida," the cooper said. "I would like to go to Philadelphia myself, to make inquiries about her, but I am just now engaged upon a job which I cannot very well leave, and so I have concluded to send Jack."
"When shall I start?" exclaimed Jack.
"To-morrow morning," answered his father.
"What good do you think it will do," interposed Rachel, "to send a mere boy like Jack to Philadelphia?"
"A mere boy!" repeated her nephew, indignantly.
"A boy hardly sixteen years old," continued Rachel. "Why, he'll need somebody to take care of him. Most likely you'll have to go after him."
"What's the use of provoking a fellow so, Aunt Rachel?" said Jack. "You know I'm 'most eighteen. Hardly sixteen! Why, I might as well say you're hardly forty, when we all know you're fifty."
"Fifty!" ejaculated the scandalized spinster. "It's a base slander. I'm only thirty-seven."
"Maybe I'm mistaken," said Jack, carelessly. "I didn't know exactly how old you were; I only judged from your looks."
At this point, Rachel applied a segment of a pocket handkerchief to her eyes; but, unfortunately, owing to circumstances, the effect instead of being pathetic, as she intended it to be, was simply ludicrous.
It so happened that a short time previous, the inkstand had been partially spilled upon the table, through Jack's carelessness and this handkerchief had been used to sop it up. It had been placed inadvertently upon the window seat, where it had remained until Rachel, who was sitting beside the window, called it into requisition. The ink upon it was by no means dry. The consequence was, that, when Rachel removed it from her eyes, her face was discovered to be covered with ink in streaks mingling with the tears that were falling, for Rachel always had a plentiful supply of tears at command.
The first intimation the luckless spinster had of her mishap was conveyed in a stentorian laugh from Jack.
He looked intently at the dark traces of sorrow on his aunt's face—of which she was yet unconscious—and doubling up, went off into a perfect paroxysm of laughter.
"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly, for she had not observed the cause of his amusement, "it's improper for you to laugh at your aunt in such a rude manner."
"Oh, I can't help it, mother. Just look at her."
Thus invited, Mrs. Harding did look, and the rueful expression of Rachel, set off by the inky stains, was so irresistibly comical, that, after a hard struggle, she too gave way, and followed Jack's example.
Astonished and indignant at this unexpected behavior of her sister-in-law, Rachel burst into a fresh fit of weeping, and again had recourse to the handkerchief.
"This is too much!" she sobbed. "I've stayed here long enough, if even my sister-in-law, as well as my own nephew, from whom I expect nothing better, makes me her laughingstock. Brother Timothy, I can no longer remain in your dwelling to be laughed at; I will go to the poorhouse and end my miserable existence as a common pauper. If I only receive Christian burial when I leave the world, it will be all I hope or expect from my relatives, who will be glad enough to get rid of me."
The second application of the handkerchief had so increased the effect, that Jack found it impossible to check his laughter, while the cooper, whose attention was now drawn to his sister's face, burst out in a similar manner.
This more amazed Rachel than Martha's merriment.
"Even you, Timothy, join in ridiculing your sister!" she exclaimed, in an "Et tu, Brute" tone.
"We don't mean to ridicule you, Rachel," gasped her sister-in-law, "but we can't help laughing."
"At the prospect of my death!" uttered Rachel, in a tragic tone. "Well, I'm a poor, forlorn creetur, I know. Even my nearest relations make sport of me, and when I speak of dying, they shout their joy to my face."
"Yes," gasped Jack, nearly choking, "that's it exactly. It isn't your death we're laughing at, but your face."
"My face!" exclaimed the insulted spinster. "One would think I was a fright by the way you laugh at it."
"So you are!" said Jack, with a fresh burst of laughter.
"To be called a fright to my face!" shrieked Rachel, "by my own nephew! This is too much. Timothy, I leave your house forever."
The excited maiden seized her hood; which was hanging from a nail, and was about to leave the house when she was arrested in her progress toward the door by the cooper, who stifled his laughter sufficiently to say: "Before you go, Rachel, just look in the glass."
Mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon a face streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every direction.
In her first confusion Rachel jumped to the conclusion that she had been suddenly stricken by the plague. Accordingly she began to wring her hands in an excess of terror, and exclaimed in tones of piercing anguish:
"It is the fatal plague spot! I am marked for the tomb. The sands of my life are fast running out."
This convulsed Jack afresh with merriment, so that an observer might, not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent danger of suffocation.
"You'll kill me, Aunt Rachel! I know you will," he gasped.
"You may order my coffin, Timothy," said Rachel, in a sepulchral voice; "I shan't live twenty-four hours. I've felt it coming on for a week past. I forgive you for all your ill-treatment. I should like to have some one go for the doctor, though I know I'm past help."
"I think," said the cooper, trying to look sober, "you will find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the plague spots, as you call them."
Rachel turned toward him with a puzzled look. Then, as her eyes rested for the first time upon the handkerchief she had used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was enabled to account for her own.
Somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly, and did not make her appearance again till the next morning.
After this little episode, the conversation turned upon Jack's approaching journey.
"I don't know," said his mother, "but Rachel is right. Perhaps Jack isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake such a mission."
"Now, mother," expostulated Jack, "you ain't going to side against me, are you?"
"There is no better plan," said his father, quietly.
CHAPTER XXII
THE FLOWER GIRL
Henry Bowen was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned the farm on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing his favorite profession. He was not competent to achieve the highest success. But he had good taste and a skillful hand, and his productions were pleasing and popular. He had formed a connection with a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable work in his way.
"Have you any new commission to-day?" inquired the young artist, on the day before Ida's discovery that she had been employed to pass off spurious coin.
"Yes," said the publisher, "I have thought of something which may prove attractive. Just at present, pictures of children seem to be popular. I should like to have you supply me with a sketch of a flower girl, with, say, a basket of flowers in her hand. Do you comprehend my idea?"
"I believe I do," answered the artist. "Give me sufficient time, and I hope to satisfy you."
The young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he had undertaken. He had conceived that it would be an easy one, but found himself mistaken. Whether because his fancy was not sufficiently lively, or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to produce the effect he desired. The faces which he successively outlined were all stiff, and though beautiful in feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive and lifelike.
"What is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, impatiently. "Is it impossible for me to succeed? It's clear," he decided, "that I am not in the vein. I will go out and take a walk, and perhaps while I am in the street something may strike me."
He accordingly donned his coat and hat, and emerged into the great thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng. It was only natural that, as he walked, with his task uppermost in his thoughts, he should scrutinize carefully the faces of such young girls as he met.
"Perhaps," it occurred to him, "I may get a hint from some face I see. It is strange," he mused, "how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be called models of beauty. That child, for example, has beautiful eyes, but a badly cut mouth. Here is one that would be pretty, if the face were rounded out; and here is a child—Heaven help it!—that was designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances have pinched and cramped it."
It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.
The artist looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own lighted up with sudden pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as he had begun to despair of it.
"The very face I have been looking for!" he exclaimed to himself. "My flower girl is found at last."
He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at a shop window to examine some articles which were on exhibition there.
"It is precisely the face I want," he murmured. "Nothing could be more appropriate or charming. With that face the success of the picture is assured."
The artist's inference that Peg was Ida's attendant was natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to her companion. Peg thought that this would enable her, with less risk, to pass spurious coin.
The young man followed the strangely assorted pair to the apartments which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had the guardianship of the child. This made his course clearer. He mounted the stairs and knocked at the door.
"What do you want?" demanded a sharp voice.
"I should like to see you just a moment," was the reply.
Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man suspiciously.
"I don't know you," she said, shortly.
"I presume not," said the young man, courteously. "We have never met, I think. I am an artist. I hope you will pardon my present intrusion."
"There is no use in your coming here," said Peg, abruptly, "and you may as well go away. I don't want to buy any pictures. I've got plenty of better ways to spend my money than to throw it away on such trash."
No one would have thought of doubting Peg's word, for she looked far from being a patron of the arts.
"You have a young girl living with you, about seven or eight years old, have you not?" inquired the artist.
Peg instantly became suspicious.
"Who told you that?" she demanded, quickly.
"No one told me. I saw her in the street."
Peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the fact that the child had been lured away from home; possibly he might be acquainted with the cooper's family? or might be their emissary.
"Suppose you did see such a child on the street, what has that to do with me?"
"But I saw the child entering this house with you."
"What if you did?" demanded Peg, defiantly.
"I was about," said the artist, perceiving that he was misapprehended, "I was about to make a proposition which may prove advantageous to both of us."
"Eh!" said Peg, catching at the hint. "Tell me what it is and we may come to terms."
"I must explain," said Bowen, "that I am an artist. In seeking for a face to sketch from, I have been struck by that of your child."
"Of Ida?"
"Yes, if that is her name. I will pay you five dollars if you will allow me to copy her face."
"Well," she said, more graciously, "if that's all you want, I don't know as I have any objections. I suppose you can copy her face here as well as anywhere?"
"I should prefer to have her come to my studio."
"I shan't let her come," said Peg, decidedly.
"Then I will consent to your terms, and come here."
"Do you want to begin now?"
"I should like to do so."
"Come in, then. Here, Ida, I want you."
"Yes, Peg."
"This gentleman wants to copy your face."
Ida looked surprised.
"I am an artist," said the young man, with a reassuring smile. "I will endeavor not to try your patience too much, or keep you too long. Do you think you can stand still for half an hour without too much fatigue?"
He kept her in pleasant conversation, while, with a free, bold hand he sketched the outlines of her face.
"I shall want one more sitting," he said. "I will come to-morrow at this time."
"Stop a minute," said Peg. "I should like the money in advance. How do I know you will come again?"
"Certainly, if you desire it," said Henry Bowen.
"What strange fortune," he thought, "can have brought them together? Surely there can be no relation between this sweet child and that ugly old woman!"
The next day he returned and completed his sketch, which was at once placed in the hands of the publisher, eliciting his warm approval.