Part 8

He undoubtedly told the truth as far as he knew it; but reaching over tables is a bad habit in small boys, especially when their mothers cling to old-fashioned heirlooms of tables, which have folding leaves; so I banished Toddie to his room, supperless, to think of what he had done. With Budge alone, I had a comfortable dinner off the salvage from the wreck caused by Toddie, and then I went upstairs to see if the offender had repented. It was hard to tell, by sight, whether he had or not, for his back was to me, as he flattened his nose against the window, but I could see that my poultice was gone.

“Where is what uncle put on your arm, Toddie?” I asked.

“I ate it up,” said the truthful youth.

“Did you eat the handkerchief, too?”

“No; I froed nashty old handkerchief out the window—don’t want dirty old handkerchiefs in my nice ’ittle room.”

I was so glad that his burn had been slight that I forgave the insult to my handkerchief, and called up Budge, so that I might at once get both boys into bed, and emerge from the bondage in which I had lived all day long. But the task was no easy one. Of course my brother-in-law, Tom Lawrence, knows better than any other man the necessities of his own children, but no children of mine shall ever be taught so many methods of imposing upon parental good-nature. Their program called for stories, songs, moral conversations, frolics, the presentation of pennies, the dropping of the same, at long intervals, into tin savings-banks, followed by a deafening shaking-up of both banks; then a prayer must be offered, and no conventional one would be tolerated; then the boys performed their own devotions, after which I was allowed to depart with an interchange of “God bless yous.” As this evening I left the room with their innocent benedictions sounding in my ears, a sense of personal weakness, induced by the events of the day, moved me to fervently respond “Amen!”

Mothers of American boys, accept from me a tribute of respect, which no words can fitly express—of wonder greater than any of the great things of the world ever inspired—of adoration as earnest and devout as the Catholic pays to the Virgin. In a single day, I, a strong man, with nothing else to occupy my mind, am reduced to physical and mental worthlessness by the necessities of two boys not overmischievous or bad. And you—Heaven only knows how—have unbroken weeks, months, years, yes, lifetimes of just such experiences, and with them the burden of household cares, of physical ills and depressions, of mental anxieties that pierce thy hearts with as many sorrows as grieved the Holy Mother of old. Compared with thy endurance, that of the young man, the athlete, is as weakness; the secret of thy nerves, wonderful even in their weakness, is as great as that of the power of the winds. To display decision, thy opportunities are more frequent than those of the greatest statesmen; thy heroism laughs into insignificance that of fort and field; thou art trained in a school of diplomacy such as the most experienced court cannot furnish. Do scoffers say thou canst not hold the reins of government? Easier is it to rule a band of savages than to be the successful autocrat of thy little kingdom. Compared with the ways of men, even thy failures are full of glory. Be thy faults what they may, thy one great, mysterious, unapproachable success places thee, in desert, far above warrior, ruler or priest.

The foregoing soliloquy passed through my mind as I lay upon the bed where I had thrown myself after leaving the children’s room. Whatever else attempted to affect me mentally, found my mind a blank until the next morning, when I awoke to realize that I had dropped asleep just where I fell, and that I had spent nearly twelve hours lying across a bed in an uncomfortable position, and without removing my daily attire. My next impression was that quite a bulky letter had been pushed under my chamber-door. Could it be that my darling—I hastily seized the envelope and found it addressed in my sister’s writing, and promising a more voluminous letter than that lady had ever before honored me with. I opened it, dropping an enclosure which, doubtless, was a list of necessities which I would please pack, etc. and read as follows:—

JULY 1, 1875.

“MY DEAR OLD BROTHER:—_Wouldn’t_ I like to give you the warmest of sisterly hugs? I can’t believe it, and yet I am in ecstasies over it. To think that _you_ should have got that perfection of a girl, who has declined so many great catches—_you_, my sober, business-like, unromantic big brother—oh, it’s too wonderful! But now I think of it, you are just the people for each other. I’d like to say that it’s just what I’d always longed for, and I invited you to Hillcrest to bring it about; but the trouble with such a story would be that it wouldn’t have a word of truth in it. You always _did_ have a faculty for doing just what you pleased, and what nobody ever expected you to do, but now you’ve exceeded yourself.

“And to think that my little darlings played an important part in bringing it all about! I shall take the credit of _that_, for if it hadn’t been for me who would have helped you, sir? I shall expect you to remember both of them handsomely at Christmas.

“I don’t believe I am guilty of breach of confidence in sending the enclosed, which I have just received from my sister-in-law that is to be. It will tell you some causes of your success of which you, with a man’s conceit, haven’t imagined for a minute, and it will tell you, too, of a maiden’s first and natural fear under such circumstances—a fear which I know you, with your honest, generous heart, will hasten to dispel. As you’re a man, you’re quite likely to be too stupid to read what’s written between the lines; so I’d better tell you that Alice’s fear is that in letting herself go so easily, she may have seemed to lack proper reserve and self-respect. You don’t need to be told that no woman alive has more of these very qualities.

“Bless your dear old heart, Harry,—you deserve to be shaken to death if you’re not the happiest man alive. I _must_ hurry home and see you both with my own eyes, and learn to believe that all this wonderful, glorious thing has come to pass. Give Alice a sister’s kiss for me (if you know how to give more than one kind), and give my cherubs a hundred each from the mother that wants to see them so much.

“With love and congratulations,

“HELEN.”

The other letter, which I opened with considerable reverence and more delight, ran as follows:

“HILLCREST, June 29, 1875.

“DEAR FRIEND HELEN:—Something has happened and I am very happy, but I am more than a little troubled over it, too, and, as you are one of the persons nearly concerned, I am going to confess to you as soon as possible. Harry—your brother, I mean—will be sure to tell you very soon, if he hasn’t done so already, and I want to make all possible haste to solemnly assure you that I hadn’t the slightest idea of such a thing coming to pass, and I didn’t do the slightest thing to bring it about.

“I always thought your brother was a splendid fellow, and have never been afraid to express my mind about him, when there was no one but girls to listen. But out here, I have somehow learned to admire him more than ever. I cheerfully acquit _him_ of intentionally doing anything to create a favorable impression; if his several appearances before me _have_ been studied, he is certainly the most original being I ever heard of. Your children are angels—you’ve told me so yourself, and I’ve my own very distinct impression on the subject, but they _don’t_ study to save their uncle’s appearance. The figures that unfortunate man has cut several times—well, I won’t try to describe them on paper, for fear he might some day see a scrap of it and take offense. But he always seems to be patient with them, and devoted to them, and I haven’t been able to keep from seeing that a man who could be so lovable with thoughtless and unreasonable children must be perfectly adorable to the woman he loved, if she were a woman at all. Still, I hadn’t the faintest idea that I would be the fortunate woman. At last _the_ day came, but I was in blissful ignorance of what was to happen. Your little Charley hurt himself, and insisted upon Har—your brother singing an odd song to him; and just when the young gentleman was doing the elegant to a dozen of us ladies at once, too! If you _could_ have seen his face!—it was too funny, until he got over his annoyance, and began to feel properly sorry for the little fellow—then he seemed all at once to be all tenderness and heart, and I _did_ wish for a moment that conventionalities didn’t exist, and I might tell him that he was a model. Then your youngest playfully spilt a plate of soup on my dress (don’t be worried—’twas only a common muslin, and ’twill wash). Of course I had to change it and, as I retired, the happy thought struck me that I’d make so elaborate a toilet that I wouldn’t finish in time to join the other ladies for the usual evening walk; consequence, I would have a chance to monopolize a gentleman for half an hour or more—a chance which, no thanks to the gentlemen who don’t come to Hillcrest, no lady here has had this season. Every time I peered through the blinds to see if the other girls had started, I could see _him_ looking so distressed, and brooding over those two children as if he were their mother, and he seemed _so_ good. He seemed pleased to see _me_ when I appeared, and coming from such a man the implied compliment was fully appreciated; everything he said to me seemed a little more worth hearing than if it had come from any man not so good. Then, suddenly, your eldest insisted on retailing the result of a conversation he had had with his uncle, and the upshot was that Harry declared himself; he wasn’t romantic a bit, but he was real straightforward and manly, while I was so completely taken back that I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Then the impudent fellow kissed me, and I lost my tongue worse than ever. If I had known anything of his feelings beforehand, I should have been prepared to behave more properly; but—O Helen, I’m so glad I _didn’t_ know! I should be the happiest being that ever lived, if I wasn’t afraid that you or your husband might think that I had given myself away too hastily. As to other people, we will see that they don’t know a word about it for months to come.

“_Do_ write that I was not to blame, and make believe accept me as a sister, because I _can’t_ offer to give Harry up to any one else you may have picked out for him.

“Your sincere friend,

“ALICE MAYTON.”

Was there ever so delightful a reveille? All the boyishness in me seemed suddenly to come to the surface, and instead of saying and doing the decorous thing which novelists’ heroes do under similar circumstances. I shouted “Hurrah!” and danced into the children’s room so violently that Budge sat up in bed and regarded me with reproving eyes, while Toddie burst into a happy laugh, and volunteered as a partner in the dance. Then I realized that the rain was over, and the sun was shining—I could take Alice out for another drive, and until then the children could take care of themselves. I remembered suddenly, and with a sharp pang, that my vacation was nearly at an end, and I found myself consuming with impatience to know how much longer Alice would remain at Hillcrest. It would be cruel to wish her in the city before the end of August, yet I——

“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, “my papa says ’tisn’t nice for folks to sit down an’ go to thinkin’ before they’ve brushed their hair mornin’s—that’s what he tells _me_.”

“I beg your pardon, Budge,” said I, springing up in some confusion; “I was thinking over a matter of a great deal of importance.”

“What was it—my goat?”

“No—of course not. Don’t be silly, Budge.”

“Well, I think about him a good deal, an’ I don’t think it’s silly a bit. I hope he’ll go to heaven when he dies. Do angels have goat-carriages, Uncle Harry?”

“No, old fellow—they can go about without carriages.”

“When I goesh to hebben,” said Toddie, rising in bed, “Izhe goin’ to have lots of goat cawidjes an’ Izhe goin’ to tate all ze andjels a-widen.”

With many other bits of prophesy and celestial description I was regaled as I completed my toilet, and I hurried out of doors for an opportunity to think without disturbance. Strolling past the hen-yard, I saw a meditative turtle, and, picking him up and shouting to my nephews, I held the reptile up for their inspection. Their window blinds flew open and a unanimous though not exactly harmonious “Oh!” greeted my prize.”

“Where did you get it, Uncle Harry?” asked Budge.

“Down by the hen-coop.”

Budge’s eyes opened wide; he seemed to devote a moment to profound thought, and then he exclaimed:—

“Why, I don’t see how the hens _could_ lay such a big thing—just put him in your hat till I come down, will you?”

I dropped the turtle into Budge’s wheelbarrow, and made a tour of the flower-borders. The flowers, always full of suggestion to me, seemed suddenly to have new charms and powers; they actually impelled me to try to make rhymes,—me, a steady white-goods salesman! The impulse was too strong to be resisted, though I must admit that the results were pitifully meager:—

“As radiant as that matchless rose Which poet-artists fancy; As fair as whitest lily-blows, As modest as the pansy; As pure as dew which hides within Aurora’s sun-kissed chalice; As tender as the primrose sweet— All this, and more, is Alice.”

In inflicting this fragment upon the reader I have not the faintest idea that he can discover any merit in it; I quote it only that a subsequent experience of mine may be more intelligible. When I had composed these wretched lines I became conscious that I had neither pencil nor paper wherewith to preserve them. Should I lose them—my first self-constructed poem? Never! This was not the first time in which I had found it necessary to preserve words by memory alone. So I repeated my ridiculous lines over and over again, until the eloquent feeling of which they were the graceless expression inspired me to accompany my recital with gestures. Six—eight—ten—a dozen—twenty times I repeated these lines, each time with additional emotion and gesture, when a thin voice, very near me, remarked:—

“Ocken Hawwy, you does djust as if you was swimmin’.”

Turning, I beheld my nephew, Toddie—how long he had been behind me I had no idea. He looked earnestly into my eyes, and then remarked:—

“Ocken Hawwy, your faysh is wed, djust like a wosy-posy.”

“Let’s go right in to breakfast, Toddie,” said I aloud, as I grumbled to myself about the faculty of observation which Tom’s children seemed to have.

Immediately after breakfast I despatched Mike with a note to Alice, informing her that I would be glad to drive her to the Falls in the afternoon, calling for her at two. Then I placed myself unreservedly at the disposal of the boys for the morning, it being distinctly understood that they must not expect to see me between lunch and dinner. I was first instructed to harness the goat, which order I obeyed, and I afterward watched that grave animal as he drew my nephews up and down the carriage-road, his countenance as demure as if he had no idea of suddenly departing when my back should be turned. The wheels of the goat-carriage uttered the most heart-rending noises I had ever heard from ungreased axle; so I persuaded the boys to dismount, and submit to the temporary unharnessing of the goat, while I should lubricate the axles. Half an hour of dirty work sufficed, with such assistance as I gained from juvenile advice, to accomplish the task properly; then I put the horned steed into the shafts, Budge cracked the whip, the carriage moved off without noise, and Toddie began to weep bitterly.

“Cawwidge is all bwoke,” said he; “_wheelsh don’t sing a bittie no more_,” while Budge remarked:—

“I think the carriage sounds kind o’ lonesome now, don’t you, Uncle Harry?”

“Uncle Harry,” asked Budge, a little later in the morning, “do you know what makes the thunder?”

“Yes, Budge—when two clouds go bump into each other they make a good deal of noise, and they call it thunder.”

“That ain’t it at all,” said Budge “When it thundered yesterday it was because the Lord was riding along through the sky an’ the wheels of his carriage made an awful noise, an’ that was the thunder.”

“Don’t like nashty old funder,” remarked Toddie. “It goesh into our cellar an’ makesh all ze milk sour—Maggie said so. An’ so I can’t hazh no nice white tea for my brepspup.”

“I should think you’d like the Lord to go a-ridin’, Toddie, with all the angels running after Him,” said Budge, “even if the thunder _does_ make the milk sour. And it’s so splendid to _see_ the thunder bang.”

“How do you see it, Budge?” I asked.

“Why, don’t you know when the thunder bangs, and then you see an awful bright place in the sky?—that’s where the Lord’s carriage gives an awful pound, an’ makes little cracks through the floor of heaven, an’ we see right in. But what’s the reason we can’t ever see anybody through the cracks, Uncle Harry?”

“I don’t know, old fellow—I guess it’s because it isn’t cracks in heaven that look so bright,—it’s a kind of fire that the Lord makes up in the clouds. You’ll know all about it when you get bigger.”

“Well, I’ll feel awful sorry if ’tain’t anything but fire. Do you know that funny song my papa sings ’bout:—

“‘Roarin’ thunders, lightenin’s blazes, Shout the great Creator’s praises?’

I don’t know ’zactly what it means, but I think it’s kind o’ splendid, don’t you?”

I _did_ know the old song; I had heard it in a Western camp-meeting, when scarcely older than Budge, and it left upon my mind just the effect it seemed to have done on his. I blessed his sympathetic young heart, and snatched him into my arms. Instantly, he became all boy again.

“Uncle Harry,” he shouted, “you crawl on your hands and knees and play you was a horse, and I’ll ride on your back.”

“No, thank you, Budge, not on the dirt.”

“Then let’s play menagerie, an’ you be all the animals.”

To this proposition I assented, and after hiding ourselves in one of the retired angles of the house, so that no one could know who was guilty of disturbing the peace by such dire noises, the performance commenced. I was by turns a bear, a lion, a zebra, an elephant, dogs of various kinds, and a cat. As I personated the latter named animal, Toddie echoed my voice.

“Miauw! Miauw!” said he, “dat’s what cats saysh when they goesh down wells.”

“Faith, an’ it’s him that knows,” remarked Mike, who had invited himself to a free seat in the menagerie, and assisted in the applause which had greeted each personation. “Would ye belave it, Misther Harry, dhat young dhivil got out the front door one mornin’ afore sunroise, all in his little noight-gown, an’ wint over to dhe docthor’s an’ picked up a kitten lyin’ on dhe kitchen door-mat, an’ throwed it down dhe well. Dhe docthor wasn’t home, but dhe missis saw him, an’ her heart was dhat tindher dhat she hurried out and throwed boords down for dhe poor little baste to stand on, an’ let down a hoe on a sthring, an’ whin she got dhe poor little dhing out, she was dhat faint dhat she dhrapped on dhe grass. An’ it cost Mr. Lawrence nigh onto thirty dollars to have the docthor’s well claned out.”

“Yes,” said Toddie, who had listened carefully to Mike’s recital, “An’ kitty-kitty said, ‘Miauw! Miauw!’ when she goed down ze well. An’ Mish Doctor sed, ‘Bad boy—go home—don’t never turn to my housh no more,’—dat’s what she said to me. Now be some more animals, Ocken Hawwy. Can’t you be a whay-al?”

“Whales don’t make a noise, Toddie; they only splash about in the water.”

“Zen grop in ze cistern an’ ’plash, can’t you?”

* * * * *

Lunch-time, and after it the time for Toddie to take his nap. Poor Budge was bereft of a playmate, for the doctor’s little girl was sick; so he quietly followed me about with a wistful face, that almost persuaded me to take him with me on my drive—_our_ drive. Had he grumbled, I would have felt less uncomfortable; but there’s nothing so touching and overpowering to either gods or men, as the spectacle of mute resignation. At last, to my great relief, he opened his mouth.

“Uncle Harry,” said he, “do you s’pose folks ever get lonesome in heaven?”

“I guess not, Budge.”

“Do little boy angels’ papas an’ mammas go off visitin’, an’ stay ever so long?”

“I don’t exactly know, Budge, but if they do, the little boy angels have plenty of other little boy angels to play with, so they can’t very well be lonesome.”

“Well, I don’t b’leeve they could make _me_ happy, when I wanted to see my papa an’ mamma. When I haven’t got anybody to play with, then I want papa an’ mamma _so_ bad—so bad as if I would die if I didn’t see ’em right away.”

I was shaving, and only half-done, but I hastily wiped off my face, dropped into a rocking-chair, took the forlorn little boy into my arms, and kissed him, caressed him, sympathized with him, and devoted myself entirely to the task and pleasure of comforting him. His sober little face gradually assumed a happier appearance; his lips parted in such lines as no old master ever put upon angel lips; his eyes, from being dim and hopeless, grew warm and lustrous and melting. At last he said:—

“Uncle Harry, I’m _ever_ so happy now. An’ can’t Mike go around with me and the goat, all the time you’re away riding? An bring us home some candy, an’ marbles—oh, yes—an’ a new dog.”

Anxious as I was to hurry off to meet my engagement, I was rather disgusted as I unseated Budge and returned to my razor. So long as he was lonesome and I was his only hope, words couldn’t express his devotion, but the moment he had, through my efforts, regained his spirits, his only use for me was to ask further favors. Yet in trying the poor boy, judicially, the evidence was more dangerous to humanity in general than to Budge; it threw a great deal of light upon my own peculiar theological puzzles, and almost convinced me that my duty was to preach a new gospel.

As I drove up to the steps of Mrs. Clarkson’s boarding-house, it seemed to me a month had elapsed since last I was there, and this apparent lapse of time was all that prevented my ascribing to miraculous agencies the wonderful and delightful change that Alice’s countenance had undergone in two short days. Composure, quickness of perception, the ability to guard one’s self, are indications of character which are particularly in place in the countenance of a young lady in society, but when, without losing these, the face takes on the radiance born of love and trust, the effect is indescribably charming—especially to the eyes of the man who causes the change. Longer, more out-of-the-way roads between Hillcrest and the Falls, I venture to say, were never known than I drove over that afternoon, and my happy companion, who in other days I had imagined might one day, by her decision, alertness and force exceed the exploits of Lady Baker, or Miss Tinne, never once asked if I was sure we were on the right road. Only a single cloud came over her brow, and of this I soon learned the cause.

“Harry,” said she, pressing closer to my side, and taking an appealing tone, “do you love me well enough to endure something unpleasant for my sake?”

My answer was not verbally expressed, but its purport seemed to be understood and accepted, for Alice continued:—