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By Mrs. Wiggin.
THE BIRDS' CHRISTMAS CAROL. Illustrated. Square 12mo, boards, 50 cents.
THE STORY OF PATSY, Illustrated. Square 12mo, boards, 60 cents.
A SUMMER IN A CAÑON. A California Story. Illustrated. New Edition. 16mo,
$1.25.
TIMOTHY'S QUEST. A Story for Anybody, Young or Old, who cares to read
it. 16mo, $1.00.
THE STORY HOUR. A Book for the Home and Kindergarten. By Mrs. Wiggin and
Nora A. Smith. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.00.
CHILDREN'S RIGHTS. A Book of Nursery Logic. 16mo, $1.00.
A CATHEDRAL COURTSHIP, and PENELOPE'S ENGLISH EXPERIENCES. Illustrated.
16mo, $1.00.
POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM. Illustrated, 16mo, $1.00.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
TIMOTHY'S QUEST
_A STORY FOR ANYBODY, YOUNG OR OLD,
WHO CARES TO READ IT_
BY
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
AUTHOR OF "BIRDS' CHRISTMAS CAROL," "THE STORY OF PATSY,"
"A SUMMER IN A CAÑON," ETC.
[Illustration: The Riverside Press logo.]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1894
Copyright, 1890,
BY KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
_All rights reserved._
THIRTY-SEVENTH THOUSAND
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
To
NORA
DEAREST SISTER, STERNEST CRITIC,
BEST FRIEND.
CONTENTS.
SCENE I.
PAGE
FLOSSY MORRISON LEARNS THE SECRET OF DEATH
WITHOUT EVER HAVING LEARNED THE SECRET
OF LIFE 7
SCENE II.
LITTLE TIMOTHY JESSUP ASSUMES PARENTAL RESPONSIBILITIES 17
SCENE III.
TIMOTHY PLANS A CAMPAIGN, AND PROVIDENCE
MATERIALLY ASSISTS IN CARRYING IT OUT, OR
VICE VERSA 26
SCENE IV.
JABE SLOCUM ASSUMES THE RÔLE OF GUARDIAN
ANGEL 39
SCENE V.
TIMOTHY FINDS A HOUSE IN WHICH HE THINKS A
BABY IS NEEDED, BUT THE INMATES DO NOT
ENTIRELY AGREE WITH HIM 51
SCENE VI.
TIMOTHY, LADY GAY, AND RAGS PROVE FAITHFUL
TO EACH OTHER 63
SCENE VII.
MISTRESS AND MAID FIND TO THEIR AMAZEMENT
THAT A CHILD, MORE THAN ALL OTHER GIFTS,
BRINGS HOPE WITH IT, AND FORWARD LOOKING
THOUGHTS 74
SCENE VIII.
JABE AND SAMANTHA EXCHANGE HOSTILITIES, AND
THE FORMER SAYS A GOOD WORD FOR THE
LITTLE WANDERERS 87
SCENE IX.
"NOW THE END OF THE COMMANDMENT IS CHARITY,
OUT OF A PURE HEART" 100
SCENE X.
AUNT HITTY COMES TO "MAKE OVER," AND SUPPLIES
BACK NUMBERS TO ALL THE VILLAGE
HISTORIES 112
SCENE XI.
MISS VILDA DECIDES THAT TWO IS ONE TOO MANY,
AND TIMOTHY BREAKS A HUMMING-BIRD'S EGG 126
SCENE XII.
LYDDY PETTIGROVE'S FUNERAL 143
SCENE XIII.
PLEASANT RIVER IS BAPTIZED WITH THE SPIRIT OF
ADOPTION 152
SCENE XIV.
TIMOTHY JESSUP RUNS AWAY A SECOND TIME,
AND, LIKE OTHER BLESSINGS, BRIGHTENS AS
HE TAKES HIS FLIGHT 166
SCENE XV.
LIKE ALL DOGS IN FICTION, THE FAITHFUL RAGS
GUIDES MISS VILDA TO HIS LITTLE MASTER 179
SCENE XVI.
TIMOTHY'S QUEST IS ENDED, AND SAMANTHA SAYS,
"COME ALONG, DAVE" 189
TIMOTHY'S QUEST.
SCENE I.
_Number Three, Minerva Court. First floor front._
FLOSSY MORRISON LEARNS THE SECRET OF DEATH WITHOUT EVER HAVING LEARNED
THE SECRET OF LIFE.
Minerva Court! Veil thy face, O Goddess of Wisdom, for never, surely,
was thy fair name so ill bestowed as when it was applied to this most
dreary place!
It was a little less than street, a little more than alley, and its only
possible claim to decency came from comparison with the busier
thoroughfare out of which it opened. This was so much fouler, with its
dirt and noise, its stands of refuse fruit and vegetables, its dingy
shops and all the miserable traffic that the place engendered, its
rickety doorways blocked with lounging men, its Blowsabellas leaning on
the window-sills, that the Court seemed by contrast a most desirable and
retired place of residence.
But it was a dismal spot, nevertheless, with not even an air of faded
gentility to recommend it. It seemed to have no better days behind it,
nor to hold within itself the possibility of any future improvement. It
was narrow, and extended only the length of a city block, yet it was by
no means wanting in many of those luxuries which mark this era of modern
civilization. There were groceries, with commodious sample-rooms
attached, at each corner, and a small saloon, called "The Dearest Spot"
(which it undoubtedly was in more senses than one), in the basement of a
house at the farther end. It was necessary, however, for the bibulous
native who dwelt in the middle of the block to waste some valuable
minutes in dragging himself to one of these fountains of bliss at either
end; but at the time my story opens a wide-awake philanthropist was
fitting up a neat and attractive little bar-room, called "The Oasis," at
a point equally distant between the other two springs of human joy.
This benefactor of humanity had a vaulting ambition. He desired to slake
the thirst of every man in Christendom; but this being impossible from
the very nature of things, he determined to settle in some arid spot
like Minerva Court, and irrigate it so sweetly and copiously that all
men's noses would blossom as the roses. To supply his brothers' wants,
and create new ones at the same time, was his purpose in establishing
this Oasis in the Desert of Minerva Court; and it might as well be
stated here that he was prospered in his undertaking, as any man is sure
to be who cherishes lofty ideals and attends to his business
industriously.
The Minerva Courtier thus had good reason to hope that the supply of
liquid refreshment would bear some relation to the demand; and that the
march of modern progress would continue to diminish the distance between
his own mouth and that of the bottle, which, as he took it, was the
be-all and end-all of existence.
At present, however, as the Oasis was not open to the public, children
carrying pitchers of beer were often to be seen hurrying to and fro on
their miserable errands. But there were very few children in Minerva
Court, thank God!--they were not popular there. There were frowzy,
sleepy-looking women hanging out of their windows, gossiping with their
equally unkempt and haggard neighbors; apathetic men sitting on the
doorsteps, in their shirt-sleeves, smoking; a dull, dirty baby or two
sporting itself in the gutter; while the sound of a melancholy accordion
(the chosen instrument of poverty and misery) floated from an upper
chamber, and added its discordant mite to the general desolation.
The sidewalks had apparently never known the touch of a broom, and the
middle of the street looked more like an elongated junk-heap than
anything else. Every smell known to the nostrils of man was abroad in
the air, and several were floating about waiting modestly to be
classified, after which they intended to come to the front and outdo the
others if they could.
That was Minerva Court! A little piece of your world, my world, God's
world (and the Devil's), lying peacefully fallow, awaiting the services
of some inspired Home Missionary Society.
In a front room of Number Three, a dilapidated house next the corner,
there lay a still, white shape, with two women watching by it.
A sheet covered it. Candles burned at the head, striving to throw a
gleam of light on a dead face that for many a year had never been
illuminated from within by the brightness of self-forgetting love or
kindly sympathy. If you had raised the sheet, you would have seen no
happy smile as of a half-remembered, innocent childhood; the smile--is
it of peaceful memory or serene anticipation?--that sometimes shines on
the faces of the dead.
Such life-secrets as were exposed by Death, and written on that still
countenance in characters that all might read, were painful ones. Flossy
Morrison was dead. The name "Flossy" was a relic of what she termed her
better days (Heaven save the mark!), for she had been called Mrs.
Morrison of late years,--"Mrs. F. Morrison," who took "children to
board, and no questions asked"--nor answered. She had lived forty-five
years, as men reckon summers and winters; but she had never learned, in
all that time, to know her Mother, Nature, her Father, God, nor her
brothers and sisters, the children of the world. She had lived
friendless and unfriendly, keeping none of the ten commandments, nor yet
the eleventh, which is the greatest of all; and now there was no human
being to slip a flower into the still hand, to kiss the clay-cold lips
at the remembrance of some sweet word that had fallen from them, or drop
a tear and say, "I loved her!"
Apparently, the two watchers did not regard Flossy Morrison even in the
light of "the dear remains," as they are sometimes called at country
funerals. They were in the best of spirits (there was an abundance of
beer), and their gruesome task would be over in a few hours; for it was
nearly four o'clock in the morning, and the body was to be taken away at
ten.
"I tell you one thing, Ettie, Flossy hasn't left any bother for her
friends," remarked Mrs. Nancy Simmons, settling herself back in her
rocking-chair. "As she didn't own anything but the clothes on her back,
there won't be any quarreling over the property!" and she chuckled at
her delicate humor.
"No," answered her companion, who, whatever her sponsors in baptism had
christened her, called herself Ethel Montmorency. "I s'pose the
furniture, poor as it is, will pay the funeral expenses; and if she's
got any debts, why, folks will have to whistle for their money, that's
all."
"The only thing that worries me is the children," said Mrs. Simmons.
"You must be hard up for something to worry about, to take those young
ones on your mind. They ain't yours nor mine, and what's more, nobody
knows who they do belong to, and nobody cares. Soon as breakfast's over
we'll pack 'em off to some institution or other, and that'll be the end
of it. What did Flossy say about 'em, when you spoke to her yesterday?"
"I asked her what she wanted done with the young ones, and she said, 'Do
what you like with 'em, drat 'em,--it don't make no odds to me!' and
then she turned over and died. Those was the last words she spoke, dear
soul; but, Lor', she wasn't more'n half sober, and hadn't been for a
week."
"She was sober enough to keep her own counsel, I can tell you that,"
said the gentle Ethel. "I don't believe there's a living soul that knows
where those children came from;--not that anybody cares, now that there
ain't any money in 'em."
"Well, as for that, I only know that when Flossy was seeing better days
and lived in the upper part of the city, she used to have money come
every month for taking care of the boy. Where it come from I don't
know; but I kind of surmise it was a long distance off. Then she took to
drinking, and got lower and lower down until she came here, six months
ago. I don't suppose the boy's folks, or whoever it was sent the money,
knew the way she was living, though they couldn't have cared much, for
they never came to see how things were; and he was in an asylum before
Flossy took him, I found that out; but, anyhow, the money stopped coming
three months ago. Flossy wrote twice to the folks, whoever they were,
but didn't get no answer to her letters; and she told me that she should
turn the boy out in a week or two if some cash didn't turn up in that
time. She wouldn't have kept him so long as this if he hadn't been so
handy taking care of the baby."
"Well, who does the baby belong to?"
"You ask me too much," replied Nancy, taking another deep draught from
the pitcher. "Help yourself, Ettie; there's plenty more where that came
from. Flossy never liked the boy, and always wanted to get rid of him,
but couldn't afford to. He's a dreadful queer, old-fashioned little kid,
and so smart that he's gettin' to be a reg'lar nuisance round the
house. But you see he and the baby,--Gabrielle's her name, but they call
her Lady Gay, or some such trash, after that actress that comes here so
much,--well, they are so in love with one another that wild horses
couldn't drag 'em apart; and I think Flossy had a kind of a likin' for
Gay, as much as she ever had for anything. I guess she never abused
either of 'em; she was too careless for that. And so what was I talkin'
about? Oh, yes. Well, I don't know who the baby is, nor who paid for her
keep; but she's goin' to be one o' your high-steppers, and no mistake.
She might be Queen Victory's daughter by the airs she puts on; I'd like
to keep her myself if she was a little older, and I wasn't goin' away
from here."
"I s'pose they'll make an awful row at being separated, won't they?"
asked the younger woman.
"Oh, like as not; but they'll have to have their row and get over it,"
said Mrs. Simmons easily. "You can take Timothy to the Orphan Asylum
first, and then come back, and I'll carry the baby to the Home of the
Ladies' Relief and Protection Society; and if they yell they can yell,
and take it out in yellin'; they won't get the best of Nancy Simmons."
"Don't talk so loud, Nancy, for mercy's sake. If the boy hears you,
he'll begin to take on, and we sha'n't get a wink of sleep. Don't let
'em know what you're goin' to do with 'em till the last minute, or
you'll have trouble as sure as we sit here."
"Oh, they are sound asleep," responded Mrs. Simmons, with an uneasy look
at the half-open door. "I went in and dragged a pillow out from under
Timothy's head, and he never budged. He was sleepin' like a log, and so
was Gay. Now, shut up, Et, and let me get three winks myself. You take
the lounge, and I'll stretch out in two chairs. Wake me up at eight
o'clock, if I don't wake myself; for I'm clean tired out with all this
fussin' and plannin', and I feel stupid enough to sleep till kingdom
come."