Part 9

“I wouldn’t undo a bit of what’s happened—I’m the happiest, proudest woman in the world. But we _have_ been very hasty, for people who have been mere acquaintances. And mother is dreadfully opposed to such affairs—she is of the old style, you know.”

“It was all my fault,” said I. “I’ll apologize promptly and handsomely. The time and agony which I didn’t consume in laying siege to your heart, I’ll devote to the task of gaining your mother’s good graces.”

The look I received in reply to this remark would have richly repaid me, had my task been to conciliate as many mothers-in-law as Brigham Young possesses. But her smile faded as she said:—

“You don’t know what a task you have before you. Mother has a very tender heart, but it’s thoroughly fenced in by proprieties. In her day and set, courtship was a very slow, stately affair, and mother believes it the proper way now; so do I, but I admit possible exceptions, and mother does not. I am afraid she won’t be patient if she knows the whole truth, yet I can’t bear to keep it from her. I’m her only child, you know.”

“_Don’t_ keep it from her,” said I, “unless for some reason of your own. Let me tell the whole story, take all the responsibility, and accept the penalties, if there are any. Your mother is right in principle, if there _is_ a certain delightful exception that we know of.”

“My only fear is for _you_,” said my darling, nestling closer to me. “She comes of a family that can display most glorious indignation when there’s a good excuse for it, and I can’t bear to think of _you_ being the cause of such an outbreak.”

“I’ve faced the ugliest of guns in honor of one form of love, little girl,” I replied, “and I could do even more for the sentiment for which _you’re_ to blame. And for my own sake, I’d rather endure anything than a sense of having deceived any one, especially the mother of such a daughter. Besides, you’re her dearest treasure, and she has a right to know of even the least thing that in any way concerns you.”

“And you’re a noble fellow, and——” Whatever other sentiment my companion failed to put into words was impulsively and eloquently communicated by her dear eyes.

But oh, what a cowardly heart your dear cheek rested upon an instant later, fair Alice! Not for the first time in my life did I shrink and tremble at the realization of what duty imperatively required—not for the first time did I go through a harder battle than was ever fought with sword and cannon, and a battle with greater possibilities of danger than the field ever offered. I won it, as a man _must_ do in such fights, if he deserves to live; but I could not help feeling considerably sobered on our homeward drive.

We neared the house, and I had an insane fancy that instead of driving two horses I was astride of one, with spurs at my heels and a saber at my side.

“Let me talk to her _now_, Alice, won’t you? Delays are only cowardly.”

A slight trembling at my side—an instant of silence that seemed an hour, yet within which I could count but six footfalls, and Alice replied:—

“Yes; if the parlor happens to be empty, I’ll ask her if she won’t go in and see you a moment.” Then there came a look full of tenderness, wonder, painful solicitude, and then two dear eyes filled with tears.

“We’re nearly there, darling,” said I, with a reassuring embrace.

“Yes, and you sha’n’t be the only hero,” said she, straightening herself proudly, and looking a fit model for a Zenobia.

As we passed from behind a clump of evergreens which hid the house from our view, I involuntarily exclaimed, “Gracious!” Upon the piazza stood Mrs. Mayton; at her side stood my two nephews, as dirty in face, in clothing, as I had ever seen them. I don’t know but that for a moment I freely forgave them, for their presence might grant me the respite which a sense of duty would not allow me to take.

“Wezhe comed up to wide home wif you,” exclaimed Toddie, as Mrs. Mayton greeted me with an odd mixture of courtesy, curiosity and humor. Alice led the way into the parlor, whispered to her mother, and commenced to make a rapid exit, when Mrs. Mayton called her back, and motioned her to a chair. Alice and I exchanged sidelong glances.

“Alice says you wish to speak with me, Mr. Burton,” said she. “I wonder whether the subject is one upon which I have this afternoon received a minute verbal account from the elder Master Lawrence.”

Alice looked blank;—I am sure that _I_ did. But safety could only lie in action, so I stammered out:——

“If you refer to an apparently unwarrantable intrusion upon your family circle, Mrs.——”

“I do, sir,” replied the old lady. “Between the statements made by that child, and the hitherto unaccountable change in my daughter’s looks during two or three days, I think I have got at the truth of the matter. If the offender was any one else, I should be inclined to be severe; but we mothers of only daughters are apt to have a pretty distinct idea of the merits of young men, and——”

The old lady dropped her head; I sprang to my feet, seized her hand, and reverently kissed it; then Mrs. Mayton, whose only son had died fifteen years before, raised her head and adopted me in the manner peculiar to mothers, while Alice burst into tears, and kissed us both.

A few moments later, as three happy people were occupying conventional attitudes, and trying to compose faces which should bear the inspection of whoever might happen into the parlor, Mrs. Mayton observed:—

“My children, between us this matter is understood, but I must caution you against acting in such a way as to make the engagement public at once.”

“Trust me for that,” hastily exclaimed Alice.

“And me,” said I.

“I have no doubt of the intention and discretion of either of you,” resumed Mrs. Mayton, “but you cannot possibly be too cautious.” Here a loud laugh from the shrubbery under the windows drowned Mrs. Mayton’s voice for a moment, but she continued: “Servants, children,”—here she smiled, and I dropped my head—“persons you may chance to meet——”

Again the laugh broke forth under the window.

“What _can_ those girls be laughing at?” exclaimed Alice, moving toward the window, followed by her mother and me.

Seated in a semicircle on the grass were most of the ladies boarding at Mrs. Clarkson’s, and in front of them stood Toddie, in that high state of excitement to which sympathetic applause always raises him.

“Say it again,” said one of the ladies.

Toddie put on an expression of profound wisdom, made violent gestures with both hands, and repeated the following, with frequent gesticulations:—

“Azh wadiant azh ze matchless woze Zat poeck-artuss fanshy; Azh fair azh whituss lily-blowzh; Azh moduss azh a panzhy; Azh pure azh dew zat hides wiffin Awwahwah’s sun-tissed tsallish; Azh tender azh ze pwimwose tweet, All zish, an’ moah, izh Alish.”

I gasped for breath.

“Who taught you all that, Toddie?” asked one of the ladies.

“Nobody didn’t taught me—I lyned[9] it.”

[9] Learned.

“When did you learn it?”

“Lyned it zish mornin’. Ocken Hawwy said it over, an’ over, an’ over, djust yots of timezh, out in ze garden.”

The ladies all exchanged glances—my lady readers will understand just how, and I assure gentlemen that I did not find their glances at all hard to read. Alice looked at me inquiringly, and she now tells me that I blushed sheepishly and guiltily. Poor Mrs. Mayton staggered to a chair, and exclaimed:

“Too late! too late!”

Considering their recent achievements, Toddie and Budge were a very modest couple as I drove them home that evening. Budge even made some attempt at apologizing for their appearance, saying that they couldn’t find Maggie, and _couldn’t_ wait any longer; but I assured him that no apology was necessary. I was in such excellent spirits that my feeling became contagious; and we sang songs, told stories, and played ridiculous games most of the evening, paying but little attention to the dinner that was set for us.

“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, suddenly, “do you know we haven’t ever sung,—

‘Drown old Pharaoh’s Army, Hallelujah,’

since you’ve been here? Let’s do it now.”

“All right, old fellow.” I knew the song—such as there was of it—and its chorus, as _every_ one does who ever heard the Jubilee Singers render it; but I scarcely understood the meaning of the preparations which Budge made. He drew a large rocking-chair into the middle of the room, and exclaimed:—

“There, Uncle Harry—you sit down. Come along, Tod—you sit on that knee, and I’ll sit on this. Lift up both hands, Tod, like I do. Now we’re all ready, Uncle Harry.”

I sang the first line:—

“When Israel was in bondage, they cried unto the Lord,”

without any assistance, but the boys came in powerfully on the refrain, beating time simultaneously with their four fists upon my chest. I cannot think it strange that I suddenly ceased singing, but the boys viewed my action from a different standpoint.

“What makes you stop, Uncle Harry?” asked Budge.

“Because you hurt me badly, my boy; you mustn’t do that again.”

“Why, I guess you ain’t very strong: that’s the way we do to papa, an’ it don’t hurt _him_.”

Poor Tom! No wonder he grows flat-chested.

“Guesh you’s a ky-baby,” suggested Toddie.

This imputation I bore with meekness, but ventured to remark that it was bedtime. After allowing a few moments for the usual expressions of dissent, I staggered upstairs with Toddie in my arms, and Budge on my back, both boys roaring the refrain of the negro hymn:—

“I’m a-rolling through an unfriendly World!”

The offer of a stick of candy to whichever boy was first undressed, caused some lively disrobing, after which each boy received the prize. Budge bit a large piece, wedged it between his cheek and his teeth, closed his eyes, folded his hands on his breast, and prayed:—

“Dear Lord, bless papa an’ mamma, an’ Toddie an’ me, an’ that turtle Uncle Harry found; and bless that lovely lady Uncle Harry goes ridin’ with, an’ make ’em take me too, an’ bless that nice old lady with white hair, that cried, an’ said I was a smart boy. Amen.”

Toddie sighed as he drew his stick of candy from his lips; then he shut his eyes and remarked:—“Dee Lord, blesh Toddie, an’ make him good boy, an’ blesh zem ladies zat told me to say it aden”; the particular “it” referred to being well understood by at least three adults of my acquaintance.

The course of Budge’s interview with Mrs. Mayton was afterward related by that lady, as follows:—

She was sitting in her own room (which was on the parlor floor, and in the rear of the house), and was leisurely reading “Fated to be Free,” when she accidentally dropped her glasses. Stooping to pick them up, she became aware that she was not alone. A small, very dirty, but good-featured boy stood before her, his hands behind his back, and an inquiring look in his eyes.

“Run away, little boy,” said she. “Don’t you know it isn’t polite to enter rooms without knocking?”

“I’m lookin’ for my uncle,” said Budge, in most melodious accents, “an’ the other ladies said you would know when he would come back.”

“I’m afraid they were making fun of you—or me,” said the old lady, a little severely. “I don’t know anything about little boys’ uncles. Now, run away, and don’t disturb me any more.”

“Well,” continued Budge, “they said your little girl went with him, and you’d know when _she_ would come back.”

“I haven’t any little girl,” said the old lady, her indignation at a supposed joke threatening to overcome her dignity. “Now go away.”

“She isn’t a _very_ little girl,” said Budge, honestly anxious to conciliate; “that is, she’s bigger’n _I_ am, but they said you was her mother, an’ so she’s your little girl, isn’t she? _I_ think she’s lovely, too.”

“Do you mean Miss Mayton?” asked the lady, thinking she had a possible clue to the cause of Budge’s anxiety.

“Oh, yes—that’s her name—I couldn’t think of it,” eagerly replied Budge. “An ain’t she AWFUL nice—I _know_ she is!”

“Your judgment is quite correct, considering your age,” said Mrs. Mayton, exhibiting more interest in Budge than she had heretofore done. “But what makes _you_ think she is nice? You are rather younger than her male admirers usually are.”

“Why, my Uncle Harry told me so,” replied Budge, “and _he_ knows _everything_.”

Mrs. Mayton grew vigilant at once, and dropped her book.

“Who _is_ your Uncle Harry, little boy?”

“He’s Uncle Harry; don’t you know him? He can make nicer whistles than my papa can. An’ he found a turtle——”

“Who is your papa?” interrupted the old lady.

“Why, he’s papa—I thought everybody knew who _he_ was.”

“What is your name?” asked Mrs. Mayton.

“John Burton Lawrence,” promptly answered Budge.

Mrs. Mayton wrinkled her brows for a moment, and finally asked:—

“Is Mr. Burton the uncle you are looking for?”

“I don’t know any Mr. Burton,” said Budge, a little dazed; “uncle is mamma’s brother, an’ he’s been livin’ at our house ever since mamma and papa went off visitin’, an’ he goes ridin’ in our carriage, an’——”

“Humph!” remarked the old lady with so much emphasis that Budge ceased talking. A moment later she said:—

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you, little boy; go on.”

“An’ he rides with just the loveliest lady that ever was. _He_ thinks so, an’ _I_ KNOW she is. An’ he ’spects her.”

“What?” exclaimed the old lady.

”’Spects her, I say—that’s what _he_ says. _I_ say ’spect means just what I call _love_. ’Cos if it don’t, what makes him give her hugs an’ kisses?”

Mrs. Mayton caught her breath—and did not reply for a moment. At last she said:—

“How do you know he—gives her hugs and kisses?”

”’Cos I saw him, the day Toddie hurt his finger in the grass cutter. An’ he was so happy that he bought me a goat-carriage next morning—I’ll show it to you if you come down to our stable, an’ I’ll show you the goat too. An’ he bought——”

Just here Budge stopped, for Mrs. Mayton put her handkerchief to her eyes. Two or three moments later she felt a light touch on her knee, and, wiping her eyes, saw Budge looking sympathetically into her face.

“I’m awful sorry you feel bad,” said he. “Are you ’fraid to have your little girl ridin’ so long?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Mayton, with great decision.

“Well, you needn’t be,” said Budge, “for Uncle Harry’s awful careful an’ smart.”

“He ought to be ashamed of himself!” exclaimed the lady.

“I guess he is, then,” said Budge, ”’cos he’s ev’rything he ought to be. He’s awful careful. T’other day, when the goat ran away, an’ Toddie an’ me got in the carriage with them, he held on to her tight, so she couldn’t fall out.”

Mrs. Mayton brought her foot down with a violent stamp.

“I know you’d ’spect _him_, if you knew how nice he was,” continued Budge. “He sings awful funny songs, an’ tells splendid stories.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the angry mother.

“They ain’t no nonsense at all,” said Budge. “I don’t think it’s nice for to say that, when his stories are always about Joseph, an’ Abraham, an’ Moses, an’ when Jesus was a little boy, an’ the Hebrew children, an’ lots of people that the Lord loved. An’ he’s awful ’fectionate, too.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Mayton.

“When we says our prayers we prays for the nice lady what he ’spects, an’ he likes us to do it,” continued Budge.

“How do you know?” demanded Mrs. Mayton.

”’Cos he always kisses us when we do it an’ that’s what my papa does when he likes what we pray.”

Mrs. Mayton’s mind became absorbed in earnest thought, but Budge had not said all that was in his heart.

“An’ when Toddie or me tumbles down an hurts ourselves, ’tain’t no matter what Uncle Harry’s doin’, he runs right out an’ picks us up an’ comforts us. He froed away a cigar the other day, he was in such a hurry when a wasp stung me, an’ Toddie picked the cigar up and ate it, an’ it made him _awful_ sick.”

The last-named incident did not affect Mrs. Mayton deeply, perhaps on the score of inapplicability to the question before her. Budge went on:—

“An’ wasn’t he good to me to-day? Just ’cos I was forlorn, ’cos I hadn’t nobody to play with, an’ wanted to die an’ go to heaven, he stopped shavin’, so as to comfort me.”

Mrs. Mayton had been thinking rapidly and seriously, and her heart had relented somewhat toward the principal offender.

“Suppose,” she said, “that I don’t let my little girl go riding with him any more?”

“Then,” said Budge, “I know he’ll be awful, awful unhappy, an’ I’ll be awful sorry for him, ’cos nice folks oughtn’t to be made unhappy.”

“Suppose, then, that I _do_ let her go?” said Mrs. Mayton.

“Then I’ll give you a whole stomachful of kisses for being so good to my uncle,” said Budge. And assuming that the latter course would be the one adopted by Mrs. Mayton, Budge climbed into her lap and began at once to make payment.

“Bless your dear little heart! exclaimed Mrs. Mayton; “you’re of the same blood, and it _is_ good, if it _is_ rather hasty.”

As I rose the next morning, I found a letter under my door. Disappointed that it was not addressed in Alice’s writing, I was nevertheless glad to get a word from my sister, particularly as the letter ran as follows:—

“July 1, 1875.

“DEAR OLD BROTHER:—I’ve been recalling a fortnight’s experience _we_ once had of courtship in a boarding-house, and I’ve determined to cut short our visit here, hurry home, and give you and Alice a chance or two to see each other in parlors where there won’t be a likelihood of the dozen or two interruptions you must suffer each evening now. Tom agrees with me, like the obedient old darling that he is; so please have the carriage at Hillcrest station for us at 11:40 Friday morning. Invite Alice and her mother for me to dine with us Sunday,—we’ll bring them home from church with us.

“Lovingly your sister, “HELEN.

“P. S. Of course you’ll have my darlings in the carriage to receive me.

“P. S. _Would_ it annoy you to move into the best guest-chamber? I can’t bear to sleep where I can’t have _them_ within reach.”

Friday morning they intended to arrive,—blessings on their thoughtful hearts!—and _this_ was Friday. I hurried into the boys’ room and shouted:—

“Toddie! Budge! who do you think is coming to see you this morning?”

“Who?” asked Budge.

“Organ-grinder?” queried Toddie.

“No, your papa and mamma.”

Budge looked like an angel in an instant, but Toddie’s eyes twitched a little, and he mournfully murmured:—

“I fought it wash an organ-grinder.”

“O Uncle Harry!” said Budge, springing out of bed in a perfect delirium of delight, “I believe if my papa and mamma had stayed away any longer, I believe I would _die_. I’ve been _so_ lonesome for ’em that I haven’t known what to do—I’ve cried whole pillowsful about it, right here in the dark.”

“Why, my poor old fellow,” said I, picking him up and kissing him, “why didn’t you come up and tell Uncle Harry, and let him try to comfort you?”

“I _couldn’t_,” said Budge; “when I gets lonesome, it feels as if my mouth was all tied up, an’ a great big stone was right in here.” And Budge put his hand on his chest.

“If a big ’tone wazh inshide of _me_,” said Toddie, “I’d take it out an’ fro it at the shickens.”

“Toddie,” said I, “aren’t you glad papa and mamma are coming?”

“Yesh,” said Toddie, “I fink it’ll be awfoo nish. Mamma always bwings me candy fen she goes away anyfere.”

“Toddie, you’re a mercenary wretch.”

“_Ain’t_ a mernesary wetch; Izhe Toddie Yawncie.”

Toddie made none the less haste in dressing than his brother, however. Candy was to him what some systems of theology are to their adherents—not a very lofty motive of action, but sweet, and something he could fully understand; so the energy displayed in getting himself tangled up in his clothes was something wonderful.

“Stop, boys,” said I; “you must have on clean clothes to-day. You don’t want your father and mother to see you all dirty, do you?”

“Of course not,” said Budge.

“Oh, izh I goin’ to be djessed up all nicey?” asked Toddie. “Goody! goody! goody!”

I always thought my sister Helen had an undue amount of vanity, and here it was reappearing in the second generation.

“An’ I wantsh my shoes made all nigger,” said Toddie.

“What?”

“Wantsh my shoes made all nigger wif a bottle-bwush, too,” said Toddie.

I looked appealingly at Budge, who answered:—

“He means he wants his shoes blacked, with the polish that’s in the bottle, an’ you rub it on with a brush.”

“An’ I wantsh a thath on,” continued Toddie.

“Sash, he means,” said Budge. “He’s awful proud.”

“An’ Izhe doin’ to wear my takker-hat,” said Toddie. “An’ my wed djuvs.”

“That’s his tassel-hat an’ his red gloves,” continued the interpreter.

“Toddie, you can’t wear gloves such hot days as these,” said I.

A look of inquiry was speedily followed by Toddie’s own unmistakable preparations for weeping; and as I did not want his eyes dimmed when his mother looked into them I hastily exclaimed:—

“Put them on, then—put on the mantle of rude Boreas if you choose; but don’t go to crying.”

“Don’t want no mantle-o’wude-baw-yusses,” declared Toddie, following me phonetically, “wantsh my own pitty cozhesh, an’ nobody eshesh.”

“O Uncle Harry,” exclaimed Budge, “I want to bring mamma home in my goat-carriage!”

“The goat isn’t strong enough, Budge, to draw mamma and you.”

“Well, then, let me drive down to the depot, just to _show_ papa an’ mamma I’ve got a goat-carriage—I’m sure mamma would be very unhappy when she found out I had one, and she hadn’t seen it first thing.”

“Well, I guess you may follow me down, Budge; but you must drive very carefully.”

“Oh, yes—I wouldn’t get us hurt when mamma was coming for _any_thing.”

“Now, boys,” said I, “I want you to stay in the house and play this morning. If you go out of doors you’ll get yourselves dirty.”

“I guess the sun’ll be disappointed if it don’t have us to look at,” suggested Budge.

“Never mind,” said I, “the sun’s old enough to have learned to be patient.”

Breakfast over, the boys moved reluctantly away to the play-room, while I inspected the house and grounds pretty closely, to see that everything should at least fail to do my management discredit. A dollar given to Mike and another to Maggie were of material assistance in this work, so I felt free to adorn the parlors and Helen’s chamber with flowers. As I went into the latter room I heard some one at the wash-stand, which was in an alcove and, on looking in, I saw Toddie drinking the last of the contents of a goblet which contained a dark-colored mixture.

“Izhe tatin’ black medshin,” said Toddie; “I likes black medshin awfoo muts.”

“What do you make it of?” I asked, with some sympathy, and tracing parental influence again. When Helen and I were children we spent hours in soaking licorice in water and administering it as medicine.

“Makesh it out of shoda mitsture,” said Toddie.

This was another medicine of our childhood days, but one prepared according to physician’s prescription, and not beneficial when taken _ad libitum_. As I took the vial—a two-ounce one—I asked:—

“How much did you take, Toddie?”

“Took whole bottoo full—’twas nysh,” said he.