EIGHT years slipped by, unmarked by any important event. The Crumps 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 upon which none of them would consent to be economical. The
little Ida must have everything she wanted. Timothy brought home daily
some little delicacy for her, which none of the rest thought of sharing.
While Mrs. Crump, far enough from vanity, always dressed with exceeding
plainness, Ida's attire was always rich and tasteful. She would
sometimes ask, “Mother, why don't you buy yourself some of the pretty
things you get for me?”
Mrs. Crump 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.”
But Mrs. Crump would always playfully evade the child's questions.
Had Ida been an ordinary child, all this petting would have had an
injurious effect upon her mind. But, fortunately she had that rare
simplicity, young as she was, which lifted her above the dangers to
which many might have been subjected. Instead of being made vain, she
only felt grateful for the many kindnesses bestowed upon 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 was not
the relation in which they really stood to her.
There was one point, more important than dress, in which Ida profited by
the indulgence of her friends.
“Wife,” the cooper was wont to say, “Ida is a sacred charge in our
hands. If we allow her to grow up ignorant, or afford her only ordinary
advantages, we shall not fulfil our duty. We have the means, through
Providence, to give her some of those advantages which she would enjoy
if 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 always
are. Follow the dictates of your own heart, and fear not that I shall
disapprove.”
Accordingly Ida was, from the first, sent to a carefully-selected
private school, where she had the advantage of good associates, and
where her progress was astonishingly rapid.
She early displayed a remarkable taste for drawing. As soon as this was
discovered, her foster parents took care that she should have abundant
opportunity for cultivating it. A private master was secured, who gave
her daily lessons, and boasted everywhere of his charming little pupil,
whose progress, as he assured her friends, exceeded anything he had ever
before known.
Nothing could exceed the cooper'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 said; “in the evening.”
“But how could you do it without any one 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 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 would
not 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 taken
to ridiculing your poor aunt again. But it's 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 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't
be long in the way. I've had a cough for some time past, and I expect
I'm in a consumption.”
“You make too much of a little thing, Rachel,” said the cooper. “I don't
think 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'd
make 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 you
to 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 if
anybody'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'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,” said Aunt Rachel; “and I don't know 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 Crump
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, probably she would be
as unwilling to leave the world as any one. I am not sure that she does
not derive as much enjoyment from her melancholy as other people from
their cheerfulness. Unfortunately, her peculiar way 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.
Ida is no less a favorite with Jack than with the other members of the
household. Rough as he is sometimes, Jack is always gentle with Ida.
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
so young, that made him feel ever after as if she was placed under his
special protection.
And Ida was equally attached to Jack. She learned to look up to him for
assistance in anything which she had at heart, 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 nurse-maid?” 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 contented himself with saying, “Just wait a few
minutes, and I'll let you know.”
“I dare say,” was the reply. “I rather think I shall have to wait till
both of us are gray before that time.”
“You won't have to wait long before you are black and blue,” retorted
Jack.
“Don't mind what he says, Jack,” whispered Ida, fearful lest he should
leave her.
“Don't be afraid, Ida; I won't leave you; I guess he won't trouble us
another day.”
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 again 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.”