A CALL FROM AIRY
The Judge was a gentleman, and he was in his own house, so he got up,
motioned her to a seat, and said, politely, “Good evening.”
“Good-night,” she said, curtly, then she looked about her.
O, the bitter envy and discontent of her face! The Judge averted his
eyes. It was not pleasant to see that expression on the face of a child,
for she was scarcely more.
“Why hev you got all this?” she said, suddenly, “and why hev I nothin’?”
The Judge made no reply except that of a mournful shake of his head.
“And why,” she went on, leaning eagerly forward from her chair and
pinching the thin sleeve of her jacket, “do I hev to wear shoddy cloth
an’ you wear broadcloth?”
“Only Oxford cloth,” said the Judge, protestingly, “only Oxford in this
house suit.”
“How much did you pay for it?” she asked, grimly.
He made no reply, and she continued. “How much did you lay out on that
diamond neck pin; how much did your house cost and this fine furniture?”
The Judge discreetly evaded an answer by a protesting wave of his hand,
and at the same time thought that a few months previous to this he would
have bowed the saucy little girl from the room. Now, although he wanted
to get back to his reading, and he gazed wistfully at the heap of new
literature on his table, he was really anxious to hear what the girl had
to say. Something lay under this—so much he had learned of youthful
ways. How the little wretches understood that he was interested in their
confidences. They were as sharp as grown people.
“My girl,” he said, kindly, “what have you come here for?”
Before she answered him she pointed half angrily, half curiously at
Sukey. “What’s that, an’ what’s it starin’ at me for, like as if I had
no right to be here?”
The pigeon, to the Judge’s amusement, had resented Airy’s entrance as
much as Bethany had done, but instead of retreating she advanced,
stepping high, and curling each pink claw with indignation. The look on
her high-bred face was delicious, coming from a pigeon. Her
greenish-yellow eyes were stony, every feather in her hood quivered and
seemed to close more protectingly about the little white head.
Once or twice before, the Judge had seen her act so in the presence of
poor people, and he had laid her indignation down to a sense of smell,
like that of the average dog, who hates a poor or dirty person. But Airy
was a very clean child. The Judge knew what kind of a mother Mrs.
Tingsby was, so his theory of smell would scarcely hold good in this
case.
Possibly Sukey was sympathizing with Bethany, whom she had got to love
devotedly. Anyway, the Judge must answer the child, so he said, kindly,
“The bird is a pigeon; she is called a Jacobin.”
“She’s an ugly thing, anyway,” replied Airy, sulkily, “an’ she hates me.
Shoo!” and she clapped her hands.
The indignant Sukey, who was no heroine, turned tail and scuttled under
Bethany’s table, where the Judge heard a low growl of welcome greet her.
Then, his two pets safely disposed of, he looked expectantly at Airy,
hoping that she would remember his question as to her motive for calling
on him.
She did remember, and, sinking back in her chair with a weary gesture,
she said, “I’ve come to tell you that I wants to be a lady.”
“Poor child!” murmured the Judge, involuntarily. Then he tried to
realize the enormity of the question thrust upon him.
“Why warn’t I born a lady?” pursued Airy, uncompromisingly. “Why warn’t
I born your darter?”
“Well,” said the Judge, hesitatingly, “well, I suppose it pleased
Providence to place you in another sphere.”
“Sphere!” she repeated, sneeringly, “that’s no word I ever heard. ’Pears
to me you rich folks make up words to suit yourselves. But if I don’t
know ‘sphere,’ I do not know one word, an’ that’s ‘Fiddlesticks!’”
“Well,” replied the Judge, with a polite movement of his head, “your
word is a good old English one used by Southey, Thackeray, and others,
though I believe it is unknown just how and why it became an expression
of contempt.”
“I don’t know what you’re drivin’ at,” replied Airy, wearily, “but I’m
goin’ to say my proposition over again: I wants to be a lady!”
The Judge, having heard the announcement before, bore it this time with
fortitude.
“An’ what’s more,” she went on, “I wants you to help me.”
“What can I do?” inquired the Judge, in mild surprise.
“You can gab a bit with me now an’ then,” she said, earnestly. “Why, I
took to you the first time I see you.”
“Did you,” replied the Judge. “Well—ahem!—I fancied that you were not
much taken with me.”
“I was mad with you,” she said, frankly, “mad because I figgered that
you was returnin’ Bethany on us. Then I was mad to think you didn’t get
mad.”
“Do you get mad easily?”
“Awful easy. I’m mad ’most all the time. You see, I’m kind of sickly,
an’ I hevn’t much relish for what I eats, an’ nothin’ makes you mad like
pickin’ at yer food.”
“Poor child!” said the Judge, sympathetically.
“But I’m goin’ to be a lady,” she said, and her little sharp face
hardened, “if I lives. If I dies it don’t matter.”
She was silent for a few seconds, being employed in a search among her
patched and darned but clean garments for a rag of a handkerchief, as
white as the morsel of linen peeping from the Judge’s own pocket.
“And what steps have you taken in the matter?” inquired the Judge,
knowing that he was expected to take an interest in this question of
ladyhood.
“Fust of all, I’ve quit work,” she replied. “What air you laughin’ at?”
for the Judge was unable to conceal his amusement.
“Just at the idea of a lazy lady,” he replied; “go on, please.”
“Did I say I was goin’ to be lazy?” she returned, fiercely. “I’ve just
stopped shopgirlin’ it, but I’m a-studyin’ like sixty.”
“O, going to school?”
“Yes, sir. Onct before I went, before I got into Moses & Brown’s big Dry
Goods Emporium—all the latest fashions in ladies’ neckwear, underwear,
street wear, house wear, weddin’ wear, funeral wear, summer wear, winter
wear, an’ so on.”
The Judge drew a long breath. “Indeed!”
“Yes, I’m a-schoolin’ it. I tell you, when I saw where Bethany had come,
an’ when that boy of yours come hurryin’ down River Street with books
an’ things for us an’ hurryin’ off again like as we was poisoned, I
begun to think, ‘It’s time I was lookin’ higher.’”
A doubtful expression passed over the Judge’s face, but instead of
resenting it she went hurriedly on: “So the next time Barry Mafferty
comes in, says I to him, ‘Barry, I wants to be a lady.’ Says he, ‘Then
quit yer shop an’ go to school, an’ I’ll teach you Latin an’ French,
’cause you’ll not get them in the fust grades of the public.’ An’ he
gave me a book. I can say _mensa_ now—_mensa_, _mensæ_, _mensæ_,
_mensam_, _mensa_, _mensa_. _Mensæ_, _mensarum_, _mensis_, _mensas_,
_mensæ_, _mensis_. An’ _musa_, too,” and she glibly rattled off the
declension of _musa_.
“And do you know what _musa_ means?” inquired the Judge, somewhat
helplessly, when she at last paused for want of breath.
“_Musa_, amuse,” she replied, quickly.
“And what is a muse?” pursued the Judge.
“You don’t know what amuse is at your time of life!” she said, sharply.
“Come on, now, you’re just foolin’ me.”
“Ask Mafferty to tell you about the Muses the next time you go to him,”
said the Judge. “At present you have a wrong idea of the meaning of the
word.”
“Hev I?” she said, sharply. “I’ll find out better. Want to hear some
French?”
“If you like,” replied the Judge, politely.
“_Javvey_, _tavvey_, _lavvey_, _nouzaviong_, _vouzaviez_, _ilzong_. Do
you know what that means?”
“I can guess,” replied her friend, calmly.
“You want ter laugh,” she said, suddenly; “you’re bustin’, I can see,
but wait till I’m gone. I hate to be larfed at.”
The Judge guiltily hung his head.
“Now,” she said, in a businesslike way, “I don’t want yer for teachin’
me French nor langwidges, nor grammar. What I wants is ladyness from
yer. Come on, now, what’s the fust thing in bein’ a lady?”
She was intensely, terribly in earnest, and the Judge braced up.
“Well,” he said, seriously, “first of all, before I can give you one
single word of advice, I want to know what you intend to make of young
ladyhood—providing you attain to it.”
“Don’t understand all yer big words,” she said, “but I catches yer
meanin’. What do I want to be a lady for? I wants to be a lady so as to
make you an’ other men stand round.”
“Very good,” murmured the Judge; “but go on, pray.”
“What does you care for me now?” she said, disdainfully. “My name’s mud
to you. I’m a River Street rat. Aint it so?”
“Well,” said the Judge, in a puzzled voice, “you are so extreme that I
will have to qualify your statement.”
“It’s true,” she said, grimly, “you ’spises me. That makes me mad,
’cause I know the Lord made us both. That my mother has taught me, an’ I
believe her. The Lord loves me as much as he loves you, but that don’t
satisfy me. I’m goin’ to make you love me, too.”
The Judge shuddered, despite himself. This little sharp-voiced,
bad-tempered, ambitious, plain-featured specimen of humanity was
extremely repellent to him. It was really an act of Christian charity on
his part to sit and listen to her.
But he must subdue his dislike. The poor little creature was unhappy. If
he sent her away uncomforted and unaided he would have a sleepless
night. Happily or unhappily for himself, he had so humored his
conscience through life that he was obliged slavishly to obey its
dictates or suffer the consequences.
Therefore he said, kindly, “What other object have you in becoming a
lady besides that of making men stand round?”
“I wants to help my mother,” she said, solemnly, “an’ get her out of
River Street. I wants a little home out among the fields for her where
the ’lectrics run past an’ she can come in town fer her shoppin’. She’s
a faithful mother, sir; she’s brought us up good.”
The Judge’s eyes filled with tears. Poor little, weak, frail creature,
and yet not weak, for a noble spirit animated her sickly body.
“Now I am with you, my girl,” he exclaimed. “Now I will help you, for
this aspiration is noble.”
The touch of sympathy caused a smile to break over her face. “An’ the
children, sir,” she said, “could play. There’s grass out there where
they could play. There aint no grass on River Street.”
“Don’t they play in the park that Mrs. Everest got for the River Street
children?”
“O, yes, sir, but there be so many feet an’ so little grass. It’s all
tramped down afore it has time to grow. Now, sir, please tell me, for I
must be goin’, what is the fust thing, in your opinion, to be a lady?”
The Judge considered a minute, then he said: “Let us take your call in
sections. When you came in the house I heard your voice away up here
shrill and insistent. Now, what was there unladylike about that?”
“I ought to ’a’ spoke low,” she said, eagerly, “soft an’ low.”
“A real lady always speaks in a sweet voice, my child. Don’t scream when
talking.”
“The real ladies did that when they come a-shoppin’,” she replied. “They
said, ‘Please show me some white lace,’ jus’ as soft as milk.”
“Then take that as your first rule,” said the Judge. “Pitch your voice
low. Next I would say that your manner was aggressive when you came in.”
“An’ what are you tryin’ to give me there?” she said, quickly. “What’s
aggressive?”
The Judge was intensely amused. Her words were rude, but so well had she
remembered his advice that her voice was pitched in a low, almost a
sweet, key.
“Rule two,” he observed, “be respectful. Now, I am a much older person
than you. You should not address me in the rude, flippant tone in which
you address a street urchin. But I am perhaps wrong here. In the course
of my life I have observed how popular are the persons who have respect
for everyone—even their own servants. One human being has no right to
treat another human being with disrespect. Just wait a minute and I will
give you an object lesson,” and getting up he rang the bell.
Presently there was a knock at the door.
“You hear that?” he said to Airy. “The maid knocks at the door of this
room because it is not a public but a private room. She knocks at our
bedroom doors also. She does not knock at the dining room or the parlor
door. That is one way of being respectful. Now see how politely she will
answer me when she enters,” and he said in a clear voice, “Come in.”
Jennie stepped inside and stood in her neat gown and white apron looking
expectantly at him.
“Has a parcel come for me this evening from the druggist’s?” inquired
the Judge.
“Yes, sir, quite a large parcel. Would you like to have it here?”
“No, thank you; in my bedroom.”
“Very well, sir. Is that all?”
“Yes, Jennie; but no—go to the sitting room and ask Master Dallas to
come here.”
“Certainly, sir,” and with a pleasant look she closed the door and went
away.
The Judge looked at Airy. Her lips were parted, her eyes were intense.
“Now you will see a polite, respectful boy,” he said, and at that
instant there was another knock at the door.
“Come in,” said the Judge, and Dallas appeared.
“My boy,” said the Judge, “this young girl is a daughter of a woman who
was very kind to Bethany.”
Dallas turned to Airy and made her such an exquisite bow that she caught
her breath and gasped, “O, my!”
The Judge bit his lip. “Miss Airy Tingsby and Mr. Dallas de Warren. Now
you will know each other the next time you meet. How have you been
getting on with your studies this evening, Dallas?”
“Very well, sir, though perhaps not as well as usual, on account of the
Higby affair. It amused Titus.”
“Will you give Miss Airy an account of it?” said the Judge. “It is not
polite for two persons to talk before a third of something that he or
she does not understand.”
In a perfectly calm and courteous way Dallas, without appearing to
notice that his new acquaintance belonged to one of the poorest classes
in society, gave her an account of the unfortunate Higby’s fright.
Airy hung on his words in entranced silence. Never before in her young
life had anyone addressed her with so much deference. A delightful
sensation ran through her veins. She could have sat till midnight
listening to that mellifluous voice.
“And now we must not keep you,” said the Judge, when Dallas, having
finished his recital, turned to him. “By the way, though, what are you
reading in Latin just now?”
“The first book of the Æneid, sir.”
“You find it interesting?”
“Intensely so, sir. Æneas had so many adventures.”
“This young girl is also studying Latin,” said the Judge. “Airy, can you
decline _mensa_ for Dallas?”
In a low, gentle voice, and with a manner so full of caution that it was
almost terrified, Airy got through her task with credit to herself and
her friend. Dallas listened politely and showed not a sign of a smile.
After she finished he thanked her, and then turned to the Judge again,
who dismissed him by a smile.
“I will say good-night, sir,” said Dallas, “then I will not need to
disturb you later on.”
“Very well, good-night,” and the Judge extended a hand.
Dallas shook hands with him, bowed to Airy, and left the room.
The little girl drew a long breath and rose to her feet. “I’ve had
enough for to-night. Sir, if ever I get rich and you get poor, just you
come to me an’ I’ll help you.”
The Judge smiled mournfully. Poor child—how easy to bridge the gulf
between them by words, and yet she was an apt pupil.
“You are a little girl to be out alone in the evening,” he said. “By the
way, how old are you?”
“Thirteen, sir; ’most fourteen.”
“How are you going to get home?”
“Some one is waitin’ for me, sir, across the street. He’s a boy does odd
jobs for us. When can I come agin, sir?” she went on, eagerly.
“When would you like to come?”
“Say this night week, sir. I’ll hev to shine up my manners till then.
My! but it’ll be hard not to yell in River Street. It’s easy enough to
be soft here, ’cause you’ve no one to yell at you.”
“This night week, then,” replied the Judge; “good-bye.”
“Good-bye, sir,” and to his amusement she awkwardly shook hands with
him, then darted from the room like a bird.
“I’ll have to teach her to go slowly next lesson,” said the Judge, with
a smile, and leisurely stepping into the hall he looked out of the
window.
Airy was just joining her escort, or escorts, for there were two. To the
Judge’s dismay the electric light across the street shone full on the
faces of Brick, the colored boy, and the spotted dog.
Both had probably spent the last hour in front of his house, and Bethany
was only a few steps away. Suppose she had gone to the window; and
retracing his steps the Judge went into his study and sitting down began
to think over the visit he had just had.
The tablecloth waving violently attracted his attention. “Hello, little
girl,” he said, affectionately, “come out. Daddy Grandpa is alone.”
There was no response beyond a continuance of low growling.
The Judge had made a mistake. It was not Bethany under the table; it was
Bylow.
“Good dog,” he said, “come here.”
She immediately crawled out on all fours, snapping and snarling at every
object she passed, and accompanied by Sukey, who also was in a bad
temper and pecked at everything near her.
On Bethany’s way to the Judge she suddenly caught sight of a piece of
wrapping paper that had come round a book and had fallen to the floor.
Seizing it in her hands, she tore it to pieces. The Judge thought that
her small teeth also aided in the work of destruction. Not till the
paper was in ribbons, and she herself was damp with perspiration from
the violence of her emotion, did she give up her dog incarnation and
become demure little Bethany again.
The Judge stared. He had never seen her in a rage before. However, she
was quite self-possessed now, and putting the grumbling pigeon in her
basket and seating herself beside her she began softly to stroke and
smooth her disturbed feathered friend.
After a time she addressed a gentle remark to the Judge over her
shoulder. “So you have had ‘Airy Mary, so contrary,’ here this evening?”
“Yes, I have,” he returned. “Why did you not stay out and see her; don’t
you like her?”
“Airy once slapped Bethany,” she remarked, meditatively.
The Judge made no reply. Evidently the two girls were not affinities.
“Annie never slapped Bethany,” the child presently remarked.
Annie, the Judge knew, was Mrs. Tingsby’s second daughter. However, once
more he did not feel called upon to give an expression of opinion, and
Bethany went on: “To-night week I shall go to the country with Ellen and
Susie.”
The Judge rang the bell. “Jennie,” he said, when the parlor maid
appeared, “here is a little girl that wants to go to bed.”
Bethany got up sweetly. She kissed Sukey good-night, then she went to
the Judge and threw her arms round his neck. “Good-night, dear Daddy
Grandpa.”
“Good-night, my child,” he responded, and as he spoke he felt how dear
indeed the little affectionate, jealous creature had become to him.
She seemed to part from him with reluctance. However, she took Jennie’s
hand agreeably enough, but in the doorway she turned and fired a parting
shot that immensely amused the unfortunate man attacked.
“Daddy Grandpa,” she said, sternly, “ladies is born, not made,” then she
disappeared with Jennie.
The Judge sat down in his big chair, alone at last with what remnant of
calm these children had left him. Which was the more remarkable, Bethany
or Airy? Bethany with her queer, old-fashioned, precocious, yet
strangely childlike ways, or the bitter, repellent Airy?
How strange that through his life he had heard so little about child
study! He must find out what books there were on the subject. However,
books or no books, these children bade fair to make a psychologist of
him.