EIGHT years slipped by, unmarked by any important event. The Crumps werestill prosperous in an humble way. The cooper had been able to obtainwork most of the time, and this, with the annual remittance for littleIda, had enabled the family not only to live in comfort, but even tosave up one hundred and fifty dollars a year. They might even have savedmore, living as frugally as they were accustomed to do, but there wasone point upon which none of them would consent to be economical. Thelittle Ida must have everything she wanted. Timothy brought home dailysome little delicacy for her, which none of the rest thought of sharing.While Mrs. Crump, far enough from vanity, always dressed with exceedingplainness, Ida's attire was always rich and tasteful. She wouldsometimes ask, "Mother, why don't you buy yourself some of the prettythings you get for me?"
Mrs. Crump would answer, smiling, "Oh, I'm an old woman, Ida. Plainthings are best for me."
"No, I'm sure you're not old, mother. You don't wear a cap."
But Mrs. Crump would always playfully evade the child's questions.
Had Ida been an ordinary child, all this petting would have had aninjurious effect upon her mind. But, fortunately she had that raresimplicity, young as she was, which lifted her above the dangers towhich many might have been subjected. Instead of being made vain, sheonly felt grateful for the many kindnesses bestowed upon her by herfather 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 was notthe relation in which they really stood to her.
There was one point, more important than dress, in which Ida profited bythe indulgence of her friends.
"Wife," the cooper was wont to say, "Ida is a sacred charge in ourhands. If we allow her to grow up ignorant, or afford her only ordinaryadvantages, we shall not fulfil our duty. We have the means, throughProvidence, to give her some of those advantages which she would enjoyif she 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 Mrs. Crump; "right, as you alwaysare. Follow the dictates of your own heart, and fear not that I shalldisapprove."
Accordingly Ida was, from the first, sent to a carefully-selectedprivate school, where she had the advantage of good associates, andwhere her progress was astonishingly rapid.
She early displayed a remarkable taste for drawing. As soon as this wasdiscovered, her foster parents took care that she should have abundantopportunity for cultivating it. A private master was secured, who gaveher daily lessons, and boasted everywhere of his charming little pupil,whose progress, as he assured her friends, exceeded anything he had everbefore known.
Nothing could exceed the cooper's gratification when, on his birthday,Ida presented him with a beautifully-drawn sketch of his wife's placidand benevolent face.
"When did you do it, Ida?" he asked, after earnest expressions ofadmiration.
"I did it in odd minutes," she said; "in the evening."
"But how could you do it without any one of us knowing what you wereabout?"
"I had a picture before me, and you thought I was copying it, butwhenever I could do it without being noticed, I looked up at mother asshe sat at her sewing, and so, after awhile, I made this picture."
"And a fine one it is," said Timothy, admiringly.
Mrs. Crump insisted that Ida had flattered her, but this the child wouldnot admit. "I couldn't make it look as good as you, mother," she said."I tried to, but somehow I couldn't succeed as well as I wanted to."
"You wouldn't have that difficulty with Aunt Rachel," said Jack,roguishly.
Ida, with difficulty, suppressed a laugh.
"I see," said Aunt Rachel, with severe resignation, "that you've takento ridiculing your poor aunt again. But it's what I expect. I don'tnever expect any consideration in this house. I was born to be a martyr,and I expect I shall fulfil my destiny. If my own relations laugh at me,of course I can't expect anything better from other folks. But I sha'n'tbe long in the way. I've had a cough for some time past, and I expectI'm in a consumption."
"You make too much of a little thing, Rachel," said the cooper. "I don'tthink Jack meant anything."
"I'm sure, 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'dmake a capital picture."
"So I will," said Ida, hesitatingly, "if she will let me."
"Now, Aunt Rachel, there's a chance for you," said Jack. "I advise youto improve it. When it's finished, it can be hung up at the Art Rooms,and who knows but you may secure a husband by it?"
"I wouldn't marry," said his aunt, firmly compressing her lips, "not ifanybody'd go down on their knees to me."
"Now I am sure, Aunt Rachel, that's cruel in you."
"There ain't any man that I'd trust my happiness to."
"She hasn't any to trust," observed Jack, _sotto voce_.
"They're all deceivers," pursued Rachel, "the best of 'em. You can'tbelieve what one of 'em says. It would be a great deal better if peoplenever married at all."
"Then where would the world be a hundred years hence?" suggested hernephew.
"Come to an end, most likely," said Aunt Rachel; "and I don't know butthat would be the best thing. It's growing more and more wicked everyday."
It will be seen that no great change has come over Miss Rachel Crumpduring the years that have intervened. She takes the same dishearteningview of human nature and the world's prospects, as ever. Nevertheless,her own hold upon the world seems as strong as ever. Her appetitecontinues remarkably good, and although she frequently expresses herselfto the effect that there is little use in living, probably she would beas unwilling to leave the world as any one. I am not sure that she doesnot derive as much enjoyment from her melancholy as other people fromtheir cheerfulness. Unfortunately, her peculiar way of enjoying herselfis calculated to have rather a depressing influence upon the spirits ofthose with whom she comes in contact--always excepting Jack, who has alively sense of the ludicrous, and never enjoys himself better than inbantering his aunt.
Ida is no less a favorite with Jack than with the other members of thehousehold. Rough as he is sometimes, Jack is always gentle with Ida.When she was just learning to walk, and in her helplessness needed theconstant care of others, he used, from choice, to relieve his mother ofmuch 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 wasso young, that made him feel ever after as if she was placed under hisspecial protection.
And Ida was equally attached to Jack. She learned to look up to him forassistance in anything which she had at heart, and he never disappointedher. Whenever he could, he would accompany her to school, holding her bythe hand; and fond as he was of rough play, nothing would induce him toleave her.
"How long have you been a nurse-maid?" asked a boy, older than himself,one day.
Jack's fingers itched to get hold of his derisive questioner, but he hada duty to perform, and contented himself with saying, "Just wait a fewminutes, and I'll let you know."
"I dare say," was the reply. "I rather think I shall have to wait tillboth of us are gray before that time."
"You won't have to wait long before you are black and blue," retortedJack.
"Don't mind what he says, Jack," whispered Ida, fearful lest he shouldleave her.
"Don't be afraid, Ida; I won't leave you; I guess he won't trouble usanother day."
Meanwhile the boy, emboldened by Jack's passiveness, followed, with moreabuse of the same sort. If he had been wiser, he would have seen a stormgathering in the flash of Jack's eye; but he mistook the cause of hisforbearance.
The next day, as they were again going to school, Ida saw the same boydodging round the corner, with his head bound up.
"What's the matter with him, Jack?" she asked.
"I li
cked him like blazes, that's all," said Jack, quietly.
"I guess he'll let us alone after this."
CHAPTER VIII. A STRANGE VISITOR.
Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life Page 7
