A CABLEGRAM.
"Mornin', boys; mornin', little ones; mornin', Miss Amy," said the
captain, regardless alike of my seniority to the rest of the group, and
of any claims of social position over the servants. "Where's pa?" This
to me.
"Mr. Livingstone is out driving," I answered, with what I intended to
be crushing dignity; for, much as I liked Captain Yorke, it always
vexed me to have my father and mother spoken of thus familiarly.
"Ma in, then?" he asked, quite unabashed; and indeed, quite unconscious
of any reproof.
"No; Mrs. Livingstone is with Mr. Livingstone," I answered again.
"Wal," drawled the captain, "that's likely enough. If ye see one on 'em
drivin' or walkin' roun', you're like enough to see t'other, for
they're lover-like yet, if they has got a big fam'ly part grown up. I
declar', yer pa an' ma is as like me an' Mis' Yorke as two peas is like
two more peas, allus kind of hankerin' to be together, jes' as if we
was all young folks yet, an' doin' our courtin'. Not that pa an' ma is
sech old folks as me an' Mis' Yorke, but they'll get to it bimeby if
they lives long enough."
I passed over the compliment to my parents without comment, merely
asking,--
"Can you leave your message with me, captain?"
"'Twill keep," he answered; "an' I've got a bit of business with Jim
here. Yer projeck ain't no secret, be it, Jim?"
"No," replied Jim. "I was just tellin' Miss Amy, an' askin' her to do
up the sums about it; but"--lowering his voice, and ignorant of the
laws of acoustics, by virtue of which I heard every word from my
position--"she ain't none too smart at sums if she has had such a lot
of schoolin', an' she didn't make it out real nice and clear like. But
you can speak out. She knows, an' is agreeble, an' says she'll help.
She's awful generous, like the rest of 'em, Miss Amy is."
With this little salve to the wounds which my filial pride and personal
vanity had received, he raised his voice once more, quite
unnecessarily, and continued,--
"Miss Amy, Captain Yorke's got somethin' to say' bout what we was just
talkin' of. Go on, captain; Miss Amy don't mind."
"I was jes' goin' to tell you what I been an' done," drawled the old
man, raising his hat with one hand, and rubbing up his grizzled locks
with the other, as was his wont when he was talking at length,--he
generally did talk at length when he talked at all. "You've jes' about
made up yer mind to do that undertakin', haven't yeou? That
peanut-undertakin', I mean."
Jim gave a prompt and decided assent.
"All right. So far so good, an' better too," said the captain, rather
illogically; "for if you hadn't, maybe I'd a been a little _too_
forehanded, as it were; but it was my opinions you'd made up yer mind
for it, so I acted accordin' an' brought 'em along."
"Brought _who_ along?" asked Jim impatiently.
"I'm jes' goin' to tell ye," continued the old man. "Don't yeou be in
too great a hurry. Things takes time to tell when there's any thin' in
'em worth tellin'; not that I'm no great hand on a long story, for I
allers was a man of few words; an' Mis' Yorke she can allers tell a
story more to the pint than me, or than any one I know on--bless her
heart."--Certainly the old man's loyalty to, and affection for, his
dear motherly wife was beautiful to see and hear.--"But she ain't here
to tell, an', what's more, she don't know nothin' 'bout it to tell. She
ain't the kind to go on talkin', talkin' 'bout things she don't know
nothin' 'bout; or, s'pose she does know somethin' 'bout 'em, to go
yarnin', yarnin' on forever an' a day, an' never gettin' to the pint,
like to Mis' Clay,--ye've seen Mis' Clay, ain't ye? She's Mis' Yorke's
cousin, comes over from Millville now an' then, an' the powerfullest
han' to talk, an' never comin' to the pint, an' never givin' anybody
else the chance."
Mrs. Clay was the captain's pet grievance, and almost the only person
of whom we ever heard him speak disparagingly; his objection to her
probably being founded on the ground that she never gave him "a
chance."
"_Such_ a tongue," rambled on the captain, "an' so fast an' confused
like she's wuss than the Tower of Babel itself, an' jes' as like to
scatter the folks what's livin' around her. But if ye've got a thing to
tell that's got a pint, folks mostly likes to hear the ins an' outs of
it, 'thout the trouble of askin' no questions, an' I'd as lieve tell
'em to 'em. So I'll tell ye all about it, Jim, an' all of ye."
"Well, if it's any thin' about my business, would you mind havin' it
out right quick, Cap?" said Jim.
"An' ain't I a doin' it?" responded the captain. "Don't be in sech a
hurry, boy. I got to get my breath to talk, after walkin' up the hill
for to rest Sanky Pansy a bit, for the cart was powerful full this
mornin', an' he did have a load, an' he's gettin' old an' has to be
eased off a bit like myself, an' I felt kind of blowed an' puffy-like.
Soon's I can talk good, I will. Young folks is allers got to be
impatient. There's my darter, Matildy Jane, she ain't none too patient,
you know--leastways, not onless it's with you, Jim,"--here a wink of
the eye at Jim made evident the playful irony of the exception, for Jim
was Matilda's _bête noir_, and a chronic warfare waged between the
two,--"an' she says to me this mornin', says she, 'Pa,' says she,--an'
ye might think I hadn't never learned her the Ten Comman'ments,
leastways the one about honorin' her father an' mother; but young folks
is different behaved from what they was in my day--at least them's my
opinions. I was jest a tellin' her an' Mis' Yorke how Peter Slade got
his boat capsized last night; an' 'Pa,' says she, 'it's time my bread
was took out of the oven, an' if you've got any thin' to say'--I
declar', Miss Amy, if she didn't give me a message about yer clothes;
how when the wind riz up last night, some of 'em was carried off the
lines into the sand, an' she had 'em to wash over again, an' wouldn't
have 'em home jes' up to time. Now, where was I, Jim?"
"Out on the sands, an' upset in Slade's boat, an' talkin' to Matilda
Jane; an' where you're goin' to is more than me or any one else can
tell, Cap," answered Jim, saucily. "You started to tell us something
about my peanut-business, I believe; but you've got considerable off
the line."
"To-o be sure, to-o be sure," said the old man, no whit offended or
displeased by the boy's pertness; for the spirit of _bon camaraderie_
which existed between them was not easily disturbed. "Well, now, I'm
jes' comin' to it right spang off. Well, ye see, I been over to
Millville this mornin' in the boat, accordin' to custom, when the water
ain't too rough, an' bein' off extry early, too, for I'd more 'n common
to market for,--Mis' Douglas she told me to bring her cowcumbers for
picklin'; an' Mis' Stewart she wanted some chany dishes an' some
glasses outer the crockery store,--an' that's considerable way from the
dock, you know; an' Mis' Yorke she gimme some bit of flannen she wanted
matched,--an' such like arrands takes time. So I says, says I, I'll
jes' run over to the station an' see what's doin' there, more by token,
as it was near time for the express, an' it kind of livens ye up a bit
to see them express-trains come in,--they're nice an' bustlin' like,
with a sort of go in 'em; an' after she come in, there was a
freight-train come, an' there was lots of freight put off, an'--guess
what I see, Jim, among it."
"Peanuts, I suppose," answered Jim, "an' I guess I'll get at the whole
story jest as quick by guessing it out myself, as by waitin' for you,
Cap."
The captain gave Jim a friendly nod, still no whit disturbed by the
freedom of his criticisms, and rambled on again,--
"Yes, peanuts, bags of 'em, half a dozen or more, I reckon, though I
didn't take the trouble to count 'em; an' the way I foun' out--how do
ye s'pose I knew what was in them bags?"
"Smelled 'em," said Jim; "Sampled 'em," said Bill, in a breath.
"How was I to sample 'em when they was--I mean, if they was fastened up
in the bags?" continued the captain; "nor it wasn't no smell, either.
There ain't much smell outer peanuts 'thout they're cookin'. Mis'
Yorke, she's a master hand to roast peanuts, does 'em jes' to a turn,
an' then ye can smell 'em clear down to the beach, an' fustrate it is,
too. I'd rather smell 'em than all the fine parfumery things they puts
up in bottles."
"What about the peanuts?" urged Jim. "Then how _did_ you know, an' what
did you do? Hurry up."
"There was a feller--one of the freight-hands--a pitchin' of the things
outer the cars; an' one of them bags hit against a barrow stood there,
an' got cut right through, the bag did,--an' what do you s'pose come a
pourin' outer that bag, Jim?"
"Think I can guess that riddle. Peanuts," answered Jim.
"Yes, peanuts," said the captain; "an' it was a lucky thing for Sam
Bates, to who they was consigned, that there wasn't a raft of
youngsters roun' that freight-house as there is most times of the day.
There's a Sunday-school clam-bake comin' off up to the Pint to-day, an'
I reckon most of the Millville boys was gettin' ready for to go to
that, so they wasn't on hand. Sam himself was there, though, an' it
beat all, the takin' he was in over them peanuts; an', to be sure, it
was enough to make any creetur' mad, to see them good peanuts go
rollin' an' hoppin' over the platform, an' Sam he in a' awful hurry to
load up an' go home, for he's a darter gettin' married this arternoon.
Ye didn't never hear about Sam Bates' darter, an' her city young man,
did ye? Well, ye see, Sam Bates' darter, her that is called----"
"But the peanuts; tell us what became of the peanuts first, Cap,"
interrupted Jim, determined to check the old sailor's wanderings, and
keep him to the "_pint_."
"Why, ye see," meandered on the captain, "when I see them peanuts
a-rollin' round, an' Sam in that takin', I says to myself, Sam ain't
got no time to lose a-pickin' up of them peanuts, an' maybe he'd be
glad to get rid of 'em for what he give for 'em an' no profits, an' let
Jim have the profits, an' no freight to pay on 'em but me to get 'em
picked up. 'Sam,' says I, as he was fussin' round, 'the Scriptur'
says,'--Sam's a deacon in the church, an' I thought mebbe a little
Scriptur' would fetch him, and keep the price down,--'the Scriptur'
says, Whatever a man can get, therewith let him be content; an' I take
it the moral of that is, make the best of a bad bargain. An' there's
another teks that says, Don't ye fret over spilt milk; an', bein' a
pillar of the church, I reckon you'd like to practise 'em, an' let your
light shine afore men.' Now if there's one thing more'n another that
Sam prides himself on, its bein' a deacon, an' livin' up to it; an' my
speakin' Scriptur' to him was jest a word in season, for he quiets down
an' falls to reckonin'. 'Give 'em to me for what you give by the lot,
an' throw in the freight,' says I, seein' he meant to make on 'em, 'an'
I'll take 'em an' see to the pickin' 'em up, an' you can load up the
cart an' start off home.' He jes' took to it at once, for, with the lot
he had, one bag didn't make so much differ out half a dozen--he buys
'em that way mostly, for ye know he keeps a' eatin' house; temperance
strict it is, up to Stony Beach, where there's lots of clambakes an'
picnics holdin' all the time, an' the folks eats heaps of peanuts. So
Sam came to my terms, an' I made thirty cents on the bag of nuts, an'
the freight throwed in for ye, Jim; an' me an' Taylor an' Shepherd
picked up all the nuts, an' I brought 'em along in a basket Taylor lent
me."
Jim turned expectant eyes towards the donkey-cart.
"No," said Captain Yorke, seeing the direction of his glance, "they
bean't here in the cart, nor nowheres here; they're down into the
lighthouse. Perry was comin' over in his boat 'thout no load; an', as I
was pretty well filled up, he brought 'em over, an' he's took 'em to
his own landin'. Soon's I'm rid of my load I'll go after 'em. Hello!"
as a blue-coated, brass-buttoned boy from the chief hotel of the place
came running into our grounds, and up to the house. "Hello, here's a
telegraph for some on ye! Hope 'tain't no bad news. I don't like them
telegraphs; ill news comes fast enough of its own accord, an' good news
is jes' as good for a little keepin', an' ain't goin' to spile. Mis'
Yorke she says----"
But Mrs. Yorke's sayings, valuable though they might be, were lost upon
me as I took the yellow-covered message from the hand of the messenger.
Telegrams were matters of such almost daily occurrence in our family
that the sight of one rarely excited any apprehension; and, as all of
our immediate household were at present here at our seaside home, I
knew that the message could bring no ill news of any one of them. But
my heart sank as I saw that this was a cablegram, for a dearly loved
uncle and aunt were over the sea, and my fears were at once excited for
them.
But fear was quickly changed to joy when, opening the cablegram in the
absence of my parents, to whom it was addressed, I read these words,--
"We take 'Scythia' to-morrow for home, direct to you at the Point. All
well."
As we had not expected the dear absentees for at least six weeks or
perhaps two months, this news was not only a relief, but a joyful
surprise, and I gave a little shriek of delight, which called forth
eager inquiries from the children, while Captain Yorke and Bill and Jim
were alert to catch my answer.
"Uncle Rutherford and aunt Emily are coming home, now, right away; they
will be here in a week or so, and they are coming to us, here to this
house!" I exclaimed, waving aloft the paper, in the exuberance of my
joy.
Daisy forgot her downfall, and her bandaged head, as she and Allie
seized one another by the hands, and went capering up and down the
piazza in an improvised dance; and Captain Yorke's face beamed, as he
said,--
"That's the best news I've heered this summer, leastways next to
hearin' Jim was likely to get well that time, for the Pint ain't the
Pint when the Governor and the Madam ain't on to it. But, Miss Amy, I
wouldn't be for turnin' your folks out afore ye'd go to the city
anyhow; for, take ye for all in all, ye're a pretty likely set, an' I'd
miss Jim an' Bill a heap."
There was no fear of that: we were tenants for the season in the dear
old seaside homestead, where we had been guests for more or less of
every previous summer; and the beloved uncle and aunt whose home-coming
from a European trip we were now rejoicing over, would, in their turn,
be now our much prized and welcome visitors. It would not be for long,
however; for, to the great regret of the whole household, our summer
sojourn by the sea would in a few weeks come to a close. I said the
whole household; but there was one exception, for father had privately
sighed all summer for our own country home, where he had his fancy
farm, extensive and beautifully cultivated grounds, and superb old
trees in which his soul delighted. We told him that a branch of one of
these last was, in his eyes, worth the whole broad ocean, in which his
family so revelled; and he did not deny the soft impeachment. But his
patience was not to be much longer tried, for we were to spend a couple
of months at Oaklands after leaving the seashore, and before we settled
down for the winter in our city home. Nevertheless, absence from his
beloved Oaklands had been more than compensated for by the roses which
the invigorating sea-breezes had brought to the cheeks of the two
youngest of the household, Allie and Daisy, who had been brought here
pale, feeble, and drooping, from the effects of the scarlet-fever, but
who were now more robust than they had been before the dreadful scourge
had laid its hand upon them.
Nor had the summer been one of unmixed enjoyment, even to those members
of the family who gloried in the sea and the seashore; for
circumstances had arisen which had been productive, not only of great
anxiety and trouble to us all, but which had involved bodily injury,
and all but fatal consequences, to poor Jim. And although his name and
character had come out scatheless from the trying ordeal of doubt and
suspicion which had fallen upon them at that time, it had been
otherwise with those of one who had been received as no other than a
favored friend and guest in our household; and a young girl whose
advantages had outweighed a thousand-fold those of the once neglected
waif rescued by our Milly from a life of evil, had gone forth from
among us with a record of shame and wrong-doing which had forfeited,
not only her own good name, but also the respect and liking of all who
had become cognizant of the shameful tale.
To those who have read "Uncle Rutherford's Attic," these circumstances
will be familiar; to those who have not, a few words will suffice for
explanation.
In the early part of the summer, my aunt, Mrs. Rutherford, had sent to
me a pair of very valuable diamond earrings, old family jewels, and an
heirloom. They came to me by virtue of my baptismal name, Amy
Rutherford, which I had inherited from several successive grandmothers
on my mother's side; the young cousin to whom they would have
descended, the only daughter of aunt and uncle Rutherford, having died
some years since, when a very little girl. She was exactly of my own
age; and this, with the fact that she too was an Amy, had caused me to
be regarded by my uncle and aunt, especially the latter, with a
peculiar tenderness; and they seemed to feel that to me, the only
living representative of the family name once borne by their lost
darling, belonged all the rights and privileges which would have fallen
to their own Amy Rutherford. It may be imagined how I had prized a gift
precious, not only for its own intrinsic value, but for the many
associations which clustered about it.
Scarcely, however, had the earrings become my personal property, than
there followed in their train such a course of sin, sorrow, and
tribulation, that my pleasure in them was quite destroyed; and, for a
long time, the very sight of them became hateful to me.
Ella Raymond, a ward of my father's, and a girl somewhat older than
myself, had come to make us a visit just about the time that the
beautiful jewels came into my hands. Incited by vanity, and an
inordinate love of dress, this unhappy girl had recklessly allowed
herself to become heavily involved in debt,--debt from which she saw no
means of escape, and which she was resolved not to confess to her
guardians. The sight of my diamonds aroused within her the desire to
possess herself of them, not for her own personal adornment, but that
she might dispose of the jewels, replacing them with counterfeit
stones, and so obtaining the means to satisfy her creditors.
Unrestrained by principle, honor, or the laws of hospitality, the wish
became but the precursor to the actual carrying-out of the evil
thought. Thanks to my heedlessness, and the careless way in which I had
guarded the earrings, she obtained them with little trouble; and after
an amount of duplicity and deceit, terrible and shameful to contemplate
in a woman so young, had contrived to carry out her purpose, to have
the stones changed, and then to convey the earrings back to my
possession, without drawing suspicion upon herself.
Nor, was this the worst; for when, by a most unfortunate series of
events, suspicion was forcibly directed toward Jim, she failed to
exonerate him by acknowledging her own guilt; and but for the merest
accident, which brought about the proverbial "Murder will out" and
fixed the crime without a shadow of doubt upon her, would have suffered
the innocent boy to bear all the penalties and disgrace which by right
belonged to her.
So it will be seen that the summer, spite of its many pleasures and
much happiness, had not been without a large share of care and
perplexity.
That all this was over, and that our fears for Jim's moral and physical
well-being had come to an end, we were most thankful; and the most of
us still clung lovingly to the grand old ocean, and our summer-home on
its shore.
But autumn gales would, ere many weeks, be sweeping over this exposed
coast; and already the summer-guests were flitting from the large
hotels, although the cottagers would probably hold their ground for
some little time longer. But what would it matter to us if we should be
left the very last of the summer-residents upon the Point, so long as
dear aunt and uncle Rutherford were to be with us? They were a host in
themselves, especially the latter, who always seemed to pervade the
whole house with his jovial, hearty presence, and who was the first of
favorites with all the young people of the family.
There would be much for them to hear, too: all the sad story related
above in brief, to be told, with all its minor particulars; for it had
been kept from them hitherto, as I had been very sensitive on the
subject, my own carelessness having been partially in fault, and I had
preferred that they should hear nothing of it until their return. Aunt
Emily would not have been severe with me, I knew; but I had wished that
the face and the voice, which she always associated with her own lost
Amy, should speak and plead for my shortcomings in the matter, when it
should come to her knowledge. And oh! was I not thankful beyond
measure, for her sake, even more than for my own, that the jewels had
been recovered, and were once more safe in my own possession, before
she learned of the perils they had passed through. If I felt somewhat
shamefaced and repentant, as it was, what would it have been if they
had been lost beyond recovery!
The joy at the unexpected return of the absentees was not confined to
their own family or circle, for the "Governor"--uncle Rutherford had
years since held that dignity in the State, and was still "the
Governor" to all the denizens of the Point--was greatly beloved by all
who knew him well; and the old residents of the place, which had for so
many years been his summer-home, considered themselves to be his
intimate acquaintances. He was an authority and a law to each one among
them. What "the Governor" did, was invariably right in their eyes; from
what "the Governor" said, there was no appeal. He would, indeed, have
been a daring man who should question the right or wisdom of uncle
Rutherford's words or deeds in the presence of any of these stanch
adherents.
And dear aunt Emily was not less beloved in her way, for the simple
people of the Point all but adored her,--true, wise friend that she had
proved to them; and among them none were more ardent in their devotion
and admiration than Captain and Mrs. Yorke.
So it was no wonder that the captain's face beamed with delight, nor
that, being somewhat after the manner of the Athenians of old, who
delighted in some new thing to tell or to hear, he should now be in
haste to despatch his daily business, and take his departure to spread
the news about the Point. Indeed, he would scarcely wait until I--who
regained my senses before it was too late--furnished him with the list
for the next day's supplies, which mother had confided to my keeping.
In fact, in the midst of the excitement and pleasant anticipations
which uncle Rutherford's cablegram had called forth, Jim's
"peanut-undertakin'" was for the present entirely lost sight of, unless
it was by the lad himself and his faithful chum and ally, Bill.
No need to give here the reasons which had influenced uncle
Rutherford's unexpected return; they were purely of a business nature,
and would interest no one else.