CONFLICTING IDEAS.
Towsley was now fully awake; and, what was better, he seemed to have
lost his shyness during his nap.
"Um'm. Home. That's where folks live that has 'em. This is yours, I
s'pose. Well, I'm much obliged to you, ma'am, and I'll be getting on,
I guess. Must be dark out-doors, else you wouldn't have the lamps lit,
and I must have slept a good while. It was terrible warm and nice, and
I couldn't help it. I hope I haven't done no harm, ma'am, and
good-night."
This was Miss Lucy's opportunity; her last chance, as she realized.
The waif had not at all comprehended her meaning when she spoke of
"home," and so she had not committed herself. Many thoughts surged
through her troubled mind. She remembered that she was the last of an
old, aristocratic family, which had always believed in its womenkind
being domestic and not at all strong-minded. She had been inclined to
think that other women, who instituted "homes," or engaged in any sort
of public charity, rather stepped beyond the limits of good breeding,
and had felt herself superior to them.
Then there were the neighbors. It was an old-fashioned, handsome
"square" on which her house stood, and everybody owned his or her
home. It was the pride of these people that there was never a house to
let. And, indeed, it was a charming locality. Each residence stood
upon a double lot, which gave a pretty, open-air sort of appearance to
the place; and since there were so few families which could live upon
the block, yet remained there so long, each became thoroughly
acquainted with the habits and circumstances of the others.
This was sometimes unfortunate. Miss Lucy felt it so now. She went
through the long drawing-room and peered between her own lace curtains
into the park which filled the centre of the square, and was another
of its aristocratic features. She noticed that the trees were loaded
with the snow which was accumulating rapidly; and, as a car rattled
by, its roof was heaped with a light drift, and the motorman was
slapping his breast with his free arm to keep himself warm.
"Those horrid cars!" thought the little lady. "With all our efforts to
prevent, we couldn't keep them off the Avenue. They are so distinctly
plebeian--yet convenient. I suppose it would upset the whole
neighborhood worse than they did if I should do it. They might even
come and remonstrate; and I should die of shame if I did anything to
make myself objectionable to the neighbors. My grandfather's was the
first house built here. It was his taste selected and perfected that
square, and his firmness which kept it so exclusive till the land
about was all sold and its future assured. What would he say if I
should do it! Yet, why shouldn't I? I'm lonesome much of the time, and
now that Sir Christopher is gone there's nobody left. I--I----"
Just then a great gust of wind caught up an armful of snow, so to
speak, and tossed it against the shining window where Miss Lucy stood.
That decided her; and it was like the little lady to be extremely
cautious and timid up to a certain point, then to rush energetically
toward the opposite extreme. She turned from the spot with a jerk and
hurried into the inner room.
Not a moment too soon. Towsley had taken his ragged cap in his hand,
fastened his torn jacket by its one button, and was shuffling
carefully along the hall toward the front door. Miss Armacost espied
him just in time.
"Wait, child. I've something to say to you. Come back into the light
and warmth. It's cold and dark outside."
"Yes'm. So I s'pose," he answered, obeying her rather reluctantly.
"Don't you want to stay? Isn't it pretty here?"
"Oh, yes'm. It's mighty pretty. But, you see, if I don't get down to
the office early, the other kids'll get my place. If I lose it once I
mayn't never get it again."
"The office? Your place? What do you mean?"
"Down to th' _Express_. There's some steam holes in the sidewalk, you
know, and they're as warm as summer. We newsboys lie around 'em,
waiting for our papers, and sleep there till they're ready. Each of us
has his own spot, and mine's an inside one, close to the wall of the
building. You ain't so likely to get trod on if you're inside, and the
whole crew's after my 'bed.' If I shouldn't get there to look out for
it, and another fellow got it, it'd be all day for Towsley. So I'll be
going, ma'am, and much obliged for the stuff."
Poor Miss Lucy's face had grown very white. She had never heard
anything so pitiful as this, yet the lad explained his circumstances
in a cheery, matter-of-fact way that showed he found nothing
depressing in them.
"Do you mean to stand there and tell me that that story is true?"
"What about it? I ain't meaning anything, only telling why I've got to
hurry. Could you, please, ma'am, say the time of night?"
"It's a little after nine."
"That all? Then I can take it easy. Too late for the night papers, and
the mornings ain't out till four o'clock, about."
"To go to such a 'bed,' on such a night, after a supper of ice-cream
and cake! I've always skipped such articles in the newspapers, for
they're so unpleasant, and I've never half believed them. But you mean
it, do you?"
"That I must go? I don't know what you want me to say. I guess I've
slept my wits away, as Molly says."
"Towsley, ring that bell. My! what a name!"
But the lady was pleased to see that he had remembered how to summon
Mary, and as soon as that young woman appeared she was directed to get
a supper ready in the breakfast-room.
"At once. Put on any cold meat there happens to be, and warm up the
soup was left from dinner. I couldn't touch it, you know, I was
feeling so sad. Get plenty of bread and butter, and milk--and, yes, a
piece of mince pie. Mrs. Livingston, across the square, never gives
her children pie. She believes in oatmeal as a staple diet, but their
grandmother indulges them when they visit her. For once, I fancy, it
won't hurt, and in the future I'll--Oh! what a lot I shall have to
learn; and how delightfully exciting it all is! Mary, don't stare at
me like that. It's impertinent. I know you don't mean it so, and you
think I'm a little flighty. Well, I am. Very flighty, indeed!
But--fancy old Madame Satterlee's face!"
"Ma'am?" asked the puzzled servant, really afraid that grief for Sir
Christopher had upset her mistress' mind.
"I said: Get a supper ready in the breakfast-room. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am. For one or two?"
"For two. For this young gentleman and myself."
"The land's sake!" ejaculated the waitress, as she obeyed, though more
astonished than ever. "Young gentleman, says she!"
Towsley began to understand that he was to have supper. He would
not have troubled about such a small matter, of his own accord,
remembering the cream and cake; but since it was mentioned he did
feel a sort of emptiness inside, and his hazel eyes grew eager again.
Miss Lucy's own eyes were looking at the fire in the grate, and she
was not, therefore, offended a second time by the child's greediness.
She was seeing pictures in the coals, and all of them were of
Towsley--though such a different Towsley from the real one. Presently
a doubt arose in her mind. Supposing that there should be some
obstacle to her carrying out the plans which the pictures in the fire
suggested? She turned suddenly and rather sharply upon the lad:
"Have you any people?"
"Ma'am?"
"Child, never say that. 'Ma'am' is vulgar and belongs to servants.
Gentlefolks use the person's name instead. You should have said,
'Miss Armacost?' or 'Miss Lucy?'"
"Miss Lucy?"
"That's right. You are quick-witted. That's in your favor. I asked
about your people; who they are and where they live."
"I don't know as I've got any. There's Molly--she's about the nicest
one I know. Of course, there's Mother Molloy, up alley, where I stay
sometimes, with the other kids. That's when I have the cash to pay up.
Mother don't take in nobody for nothing, Mother don't. Can't blame
her, neither. It's business. And once when I fell and got scared of
the hospital she was real good to me. She made me tea and done up my
head and treated me real square. When I got well I gave her something.
Course I wanted to buy her a shirt waist, but they hadn't any big
enough, so I bought her a ring with a red stone. The ring was too
small, but she could put it away for a keepsake. She's dreadful fat,
Mother Molloy is. She gets real good stuff to eat, 'cause the kids she
keeps regular are on the best streets; and the 'coons' that live in
the big houses save a lot for them. One of the boys works your
kitchen, I believe. And--there's Mary."
Miss Armacost rose and led the way to the basement. She was very much
perplexed. Not that she wavered in her decision to take in this
homeless boy and provide for his welfare, but because he did not at
all fit in with her previous ideas of what such a child should be. He
was neither humble nor bold, and now that he had forgotten his shyness
was keen and business-like. He neither complained of his poverty nor
was ashamed of it; and his manner as he walked toward the table and
drew out a chair for Miss Armacost was as gallant as possible.
"That's the checker!" he said to himself. "That's the way I've seen
the gentlemen do in the hotel dining-rooms when I've been peeking
through, or the waiters, I mean. The gentlemen would have done it, if
the waiters hadn't been there, and it goes. Some day, when I own the
papers I sell now, I'll know just how to act. Ma'am--I mean, Miss
Armacost? Did you speak?"
"I--Yes, I did. I thought that as you had had a nap since--since you
had made your toilet, it would be as well to make yourself fresh
before meat. There's a bowl and water in that closet; and towels."
"Well, I declare!" thought the watchful Mary. "If that don't beat all!
'Stead of ordering the little chap to wash himself, or even me to do
it for him, she's treating him same's if he was a Livingston or
Satterlee, himself. And--he's doing it! My land! he's doing it."
Towsley retired to the pantry and drew some water in the bowl. Such
lavatories were familiar enough to him, among the railway stations and
hotel corridors which he frequented to sell his papers, but he had
never seen one more richly appointed than this. He was rather short
for the stationary bowl, but he succeeded in wetting the tips of his
very dirty fingers and drawing them down over his face. This operation
left streaks of a lighter color upon the dusty cheeks and several
dingy marks upon the damask towel which he applied to dry them. With
the silver-backed brush which lay beside the bowl he made a frantic
dab at his tangled hair, shook himself deeper into his over-large
jacket, and presented himself before his hostess.
Concealing a smile at his peculiar appearance she motioned him to his
place, with the remark:
"It is so long past the regular dinner hour that I hardly know which
of these dishes you would like first. But suppose we take the soup.
Shall we begin with that? Eh? No? Don't you care for soup?"
"I like pie better."
Mary smiled, and both mistress and guest observed it. She was promptly
dismissed with the statement that Miss Armacost would herself attend
upon the table, and the request to go to the third floor and make a
warm bath ready there.
Towsley was grateful for her departure, but suspicious of its object.
Like most others of his class he hated water, save in summer when he
could go swimming. However, he was not a boy who went half-way to meet
trouble. The bath was a future possibility and the pie a delightfully
present one.
"Which sort? Mince or apple?"
Two possibilities, in fact!
"Mince, please. I had that once at a dinner the rich folks gave us. I
tell you it was prime!"
Miss Lucy smiled again. The little lad with his honest, outspoken ways
interested her greatly. She remembered that when she was a child
herself she had used to wish her dinners might always begin with the
dessert. But they never had. She resolved that Towsley should escape
this disappointment of her own early days, and drawing the pie toward
her divided it into quarters. It was a large pie and might easily have
been served in eighths without any skimpiness; but she gave him a
quarter. Then she offered him the cheese, which he declined by a
negative wave of his grimy hand; his mouth being at the instant too
much occupied for speech.
Before Miss Armacost had carved a slice of beef, as a second course
for the young gentleman, his pie plate was empty.
"Would you like another piece, Towsley?"
"I'd like it, if you can spare it."
"Oh! certainly. I am glad you enjoy it. Chloe does make rather nice
pastry, I think."
"Should say she did! Is that the black one, 'at stuck her head in the
door curtain and sniffed?"
"She is the black one. Yes. I did not observe the sniffing."
The lad did not explain. He was biting the last mouthful from the
second quarter of the pie, which he had held in his hand as he ate it.
This was the custom at the sidewalk table where he generally dined,
and where forks were things unknown.
Miss Armacost gazed at the boy in astonishment. He had now consumed a
half pie, yet seemed as eager as ever. She resolved that he should
have the whole of it, if he so desired, but that she would instil a
bit of instruction along with the mince-meat. She placed the third
quarter upon a fresh plate and ostentatiously laid a fork beside it.
Towsley accepted this third portion and being in less haste attempted
to use the fork, as Miss Lucy's action had suggested. He succeeded
fairly well, considering his inexperience, and his hostess was
delighted by his aptness. As soon as the third piece had disappeared
she gave him the fourth, and all that remained.
"There!" she thought; "by the time that is gone he will have learned
the fork lesson completely!"
But the fourth quarter went slowly. Towsley eyed it lingeringly, even
lovingly, yet the passes toward his crumby lips were few and far
between. The lady grew somewhat disturbed, for, from his previous
exhibition of it, she had supposed there could be no limit to the
child's appetite.
"Is there anything wrong with it, Towsley? Doesn't it taste as nicely
as the rest?"
"Well, ma'am--Miss Armacost, not quite. I think it's getting--getting
a little--little bitter."
The hostess checked another smile and proffered the beef which she had
carved. This was declined. So was everything else she suggested, and
they rose from the table.
Miss Lucy rang the bell that summoned Jefferson, who was not only
coachman but a man-of-all-work in the quiet establishment. When this
gray-headed "boy" appeared, the newsboy was put into his charge with
the order:
"Take him to the third floor bath. He is to sleep in the front hall
bedroom. After you have attended him to bed, come to me. I will have
something else for you to do."
Jefferson was good-natured and devoted to Miss Armacost; but he liked
things to go along in an orderly way. Commonly, he would have been
through with all his tasks for the day, and he looked with something
like disgust at this dirty street arab who was thus turning the
household "all tipsy-topsy." But he dared not show his feelings to his
mistress, and with a gruff "Come along, then," he guided Towsley
toward the top of the house.
An hour later Miss Lucy called Mary.
"Did he take his bath nicely? Was he troublesome to Jefferson? I
thought I heard voices--rather loud ones."
"Yes, ma'am, I guess you did. They had some words, them two. No,
ma'am, he didn't take his bath. He didn't even touch to do it.
Jefferson says the kid shut the door in his face, and the next he
knew he heard the water running out the tub. 'Twasn't a minute then,
before he hopped right into the middle of that lovely clean bed with a
kind of a yell. 'I'm a gentleman for one night, I am!' says he, 'and
when I'm a man I'll be one all the time!' But the dirty little scamp!
Fooling old Jeff that way."
"Well, he'll do better after a little. He's a very bright child. I can
see that distinctly."
"After a while, ma'am? Is he to stop--then?"
"Yes, Mary. He is to live here if he will. Do you know how early the
stores are open in the morning?"
"Oh! along about eight o'clock, ma'am, I think."
"Call me at seven, if you do not hear me stirring before. I suppose
Jefferson could hardly have the horse ready so early?"
"He'd think it a great hardship, ma'am, and he'd be cross as two
sticks all day after."
"Yes, I suppose he would. I wish people were born without tempers."
"'Twould be a fine thing," assented the housemaid, recalling some
occasions when Miss Lucy had been a little "sharp" herself.
"Well, you may go now. No; I shall need nothing more. I am going up
into the storeroom to look over some trunks. In the morning I will
take a car down-town and we'll have a late breakfast afterward.
Good-night."
"Good-night, ma'am. But I'm thinking I wouldn't count too much on the
cars being early to-morrow, ma'am. It's a regular blizzard snowing,
and the tracks are getting blocked."
"Humph! that's always the way. After our admitting the railway on this
avenue the company run their cars to suit themselves, not our
convenience. Because I happen to need a car in the morning, they will,
of course, not be running. Well, I must not be unjust. I suppose they
lose more by stopping than I do by having them stop."
Miss Armacost climbed to the storeroom at the back of the top of her
house. In this room were rows of trunks and boxes, and two big
wardrobes hung full of cast-off clothing. The garments had belonged to
dead and gone Armacosts, of various ages, and after some hesitation
the lady knelt before one leather-covered chest that bore the initials
"L. A." painted in red upon its cover.
"He was a dear little boy!" sighed Miss Lucy, as she turned a key and
raised the lid. "My only brother's only son. Well, brother was always
a generous fellow, and he had less of family pride than most of us. I
mean of the silly kind of pride. He wouldn't do anything to disgrace
his name, but he--well, he fancied the Armacosts were not the only
people in the world! He used to say: 'It doesn't matter about birth,
so long as a man is a "gentleman,"' and 'gentleman,' in his mind,
meant everything that was brave and strong and noble. I believe that,
dearly as he loved his boy, he would be pleased to have these useless
garments do somebody some good. I've often thought of giving away a
lot of the things up here, yet could never quite make up my mind to do
it. Now the Lord has sent me the need, and I must supply it."
Thus thinking, Miss Lucy lifted several suits of small clothing, and
finally selected a black velvet blouse and knickers, with a pair of
red silk stockings, some dainty kid shoes, and a broad-brimmed hat
decorated by a long, drooping feather.
Having made her choice, Miss Armacost closed and locked the trunk,
turned off the light, and descended to her own room. There she
carefully brushed and arranged the fantastic costume and made herself
ready for bed.
But she found herself exceedingly restless, and before seeking her own
couch she decided to visit her new charge and see if all was well with
him; though she had lingered over her task till midnight.
"That pie might disagree with him; who knows? and as he is so strange
to the house he might lie and suffer without disturbing anybody by
calling for help."
She need not have worried. It would have taken more than one pie to
have injured the digestion of such a boy as Towsley. He lay in
beatific slumber, his sunny hair gleaming in the rays from his
visitor's candle, his long lashes sweeping his dirty cheeks, and his
lips parted in a happy smile.
Miss Lucy's heart bounded with delight. "What a beauty he is, or will
be when he's clean! How I shall love him! I will give him our Lionel's
own name and bring him up to take Lionel's own place. Surely, that was
a happy accident which sent him tumbling against me on his one
borrowed skate. Though nothing which the Lord permits is ever an
accident," she corrected herself.
Now the lady had a habit of talking to herself, and Towsley was a
light sleeper. He presently opened his eyes and regarded her
curiously. She seemed to him, at first, some fellow newsboy, strangely
transformed. Then his ideas righted themselves, and he inquired,
respectfully:
"Were you calling me, Miss Armacost?"
"No, you darling. I was just looking at you."
Abashed, Towsley dug his head into the pillow and drew the covers over
his face.
"I've brought you a nice suit of clothes to put on in the morning.
They will be rather too good for every-day wear, but on account of the
storm we can't do better for to-morrow. There will be another bath
made ready for you, when you are called, and to please me I hope
you'll take it. Then dress yourself in these things and come quietly
down-stairs. We always have prayers before breakfast, and I expect you
to be present. One thing more. What is your last name?"
"I don't know, ma'am--I mean, Miss Lucy. The kids call me Towhead.
Towsley Towhead is all I know, though Mother Molloy, she thinks it may
be Smith or Jones or something. Why, ma'am? I haven't done any harm,
have I?"
"No, child. No, none at all. I merely wish to have everything
understood from the beginning. I am going to adopt you. You are to be
my little boy hereafter. You are no longer Towsley Towhead. You are
Lionel Armacost. You are to have no further connection with Mother
Molloy or any other objectionable person. Your home is now at Number
One-thousand-and-one, Washington Avenue, West. Good night. I would
like to kiss you, but your face is too dirty. To-morrow, at breakfast,
when you are in proper condition, I will do so. Good-night."
Towsley listened in increasing astonishment and--terror. Whether owing
to a diet of mince pie exclusively or to the unusual daintiness of his
surroundings, he had not rested as well as he was accustomed to do
upon the steam hole of the _Express_ office cellar. He had never seen
anybody that looked just like Miss Lucy, with her high-crowned night
cap, her long trailing wrapper, her gleaming glasses, and her air of
stern determination, which the flare of her candle flame seemed to
accentuate. This grim expression, had he known it, was due mainly to
the fact that her fastidious gaze had become riveted upon his very
black finger-nails, as they clutched the white spread, and her
resolution to alter their aspect as soon as daylight dawned. But he
did not know this, of course, and he watched her go away--glide, he
fancied--till she melted into the dimness of the hall beyond, and
finally slipped, slipped, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, in her cloth shoes,
down the stairs and out of hearing.
Then he sat up. The room was very warm and comfortable and it made him
drowsy. Yet he could not now afford this drowsiness. While that queer
little old lady was safely out of the way he must act, and act
quickly.
As noiselessly as a cat the child stole out of bed, and fumbled around
for his clothes--his own clothes; the familiar rags and tatters which,
at Jefferson's command, he had removed outside the bathroom door, and
from which he had never before been separated since they came into his
possession, the "cast-offs" of a bigger companion.
Of course he did not find them. Jefferson had taken the best of care
that he should not, and they had already been consumed among the coals
of the great furnace which heated the house.
When he became convinced that he could not recover his own attire,
Towsley accepted that which Miss Lucy had provided. He drew on the
underwear with a gratified sense of its comfort and daintiness, but
with the idea that he was only "borrowing."
"Adopted me, did she? I know what that means. Peter-the-Cripple he got
adopted, that time he was run over by a lady's carriage. She adopted
him, and he went to a big house and he died. No, siree! there isn't
anybody going to catch me that way! least of all a little wizzly old
lady like her! No, siree! Of course, I'll have to wear these things
till I get down-town and can borrow some more of a kid, and then I'll
send 'em back. Say, if I'm a swell like she said I was, and my name's
Lionel Armacost, if you please, what's the matter with my pressing the
button and getting a little light on a dark subject?"
Towsley's bright eyes had observed where the electric button was, when
Jefferson had lighted the hall bedroom earlier in the night, and he
now manipulated it for his own benefit. A soft radiance promptly
filled the pretty room and showed him where each article lay. In a
wonderfully brief time the waif had arrayed himself from head to foot,
and coolly surveyed himself in the long mirror that stood upon its
rollers in one corner.
"Pshaw! Ain't I a guy! But--but--it's sort of tasty, too. I wonder
what the fellows'll say! Wait till they see that feather and feel that
velvet! Cracky! then you'll hear them howl! I wonder what time it is?
I wonder if I'm too late to get my papers? If I'm not, what a haul
I'll make in these duds! Maybe enough to buy a suit for myself down at
Cheap John's store. Then I'd have these wrapped in brown paper and
sent back to Miss Armacost with my compliments. The compliments of
Mister Towsley Lionel Towhead Armacost, esquire! Hi! ain't that a
notion! But plague take these shoes! They aren't half as comfortable
as my own old holeys! But it all goes! And she really is a dear little
old lady. I'd like to oblige her if I could, but--adopted! No, siree!"
A country child of Towsley's age would have been puzzled how to escape
from the well-locked and bolted mansion; but the keen-witted gamin of
the city's streets had little difficulty. True, the great front door
did open rather slowly to his puny grasp, but that was on account of
the storm.
The wind swept and howled around the corner where the big house stood,
and the white marble steps were heaped with snow. A great mass of the
snow was dislodged by the movement of the door and fell in clouds
over Towsley's big hat and fine costume; also the tight shoes upon his
feet seemed to make him stumble and stagger sadly; but he was not to
be deterred by such trifles as these. The cold breath of the wind was
delightful to him, the rush of outer air meant freedom.
All the delightful interests of his vagabond life rose up to beguile
him; all its miseries were forgotten. He must get to the office right
away. This was a blizzard, sure enough! and that meant "extras" to
cry, sidewalks to shovel, a mad haste to get ahead of his mates and
gather in more nickels than they, maybe stolen rides behind livery
sleighs when the storm was over, and a thousand and one enjoyable
things such as poor Miss Armacost could never even dream of!
"Hi! Here's for it!" shouted the happy boy, and leaped forward into
the night and the storm, which silently received him.