AFTER THREE MONTHS.
THREE months passed, and Tom was still a boarder with the Middletons.
The academy—for there was one in the town—was in session, and Tom was
numbered among the pupils. James Davenport, his sister Imogene, and Mary
Somers, also attended. Edwin, who had only been on a visit, had returned
to his home in the city.
Our hero had easily gained an ascendency in the school. His physical
prowess made his companions shy of opposing him, and I am compelled to
say that he showed a disposition to assert authority over his
school-fellows. He oftentimes insisted on carrying his point, when it
would have been in better taste to consult the wishes of others. There
was evidently some ground for the name which he had won in his former
home, that of the bully of the village. But Tom had redeeming traits. He
always sided with the weaker against the stronger. Though he domineered
over the smaller boys, he allowed no one else to do so. He had more than
once interfered to protect younger boys from the exactions of the
lawyer’s son, who was also inclined to be despotic, but was mean as
well. James was always compelled to give in to Tom, partly because he
was afraid of him, but partly, also, because he respected Tom’s wealth.
“A boy who is rich has a right to command,” thought James. Still he did
not like Tom, nor did Tom like him, but James thought it best to
preserve the peace between them. As for Imogene, she partly liked and
partly hated our hero. He was rich, and she was ambitious of receiving
his attentions, but she hated him because he would often neglect her and
devote himself to Mary Somers, who, poor girl, received more than one
angry lecture from her jealous cousin.
“Was it my fault that Tom chose to go home with me?” she asked on one
occasion.
“Probably you invited him?” sneered Imogene.
“I did not.”
“Then you looked as if you wanted him to come. I know your sly ways,
miss.”
“You are too bad, Imogene. Go and speak to Tom, if you want to—I am not
to blame. Besides, doesn’t he go home with you sometimes?”
“That is different. I am his social equal. He is rich, and so am I. But
you are as poor as poverty.”
“It isn’t very kind to be reminding me of that all the time.”
“I wouldn’t if you didn’t forget your place. You seem to forget that you
have got to earn your own living.”
“I wish I could now,” said Mary rather bitterly. “I would rather work
among strangers, no matter how hard, than to be a dependent, and be
continually twitted with my poverty.”
“There’s gratitude for you,” said Imogene sarcastically.
“I would defy any one to feel grateful to _you_,” said Mary with some
spirit.
“I wish pa would follow my advice and send you to a boarding-school,”
said Imogene.
“I wish he would,” answered her cousin. “I might get a little peace
then.”
“Fine talk, miss. You wouldn’t be willing to leave your darling Tom.”
Mary was about to reply, when both girls started, for it so happened
that our hero was close behind them.
“Who is talking about me?” he asked roguishly, for he had heard the word
“darling.”
“Imogene,” said Mary quickly.
“Thank you for your flattering opinion of my humble self,” said Tom,
bowing low.
“It’s a mistake,” said Imogene. “I was alluding to Mary’s unwillingness
to go to a boarding-school because she would be separated from you.”
“Is that true?” asked Tom, turning to Mary with evident pleasure.
“It is true that I should miss you, Tom,” said Mary frankly.
“I am glad to hear that.”
“But still there are reasons why I should be willing to go to a
boarding-school.”
“Couldn’t we go together?” asked Tom insinuatingly.
“I am afraid you couldn’t pass for a girl,” said Mary laughing.
“I am afraid not,” said Tom reflectively. “My mustache would betray me.”
“There isn’t enough of it to do any harm,” said Mary saucily.
“I will be revenged for that,” said Tom. “When you slight my mustache
you touch me in my tenderest point.”
“Mary,” said Imogene sharply, “I wish you would stop talking nonsense.”
Imogene disliked particularly the familiarity that marked Mary’s
conversation with our hero. Though she had known him equally long, she
did not venture upon a similar tone, nor would she have succeeded very
well in _badinage_, for she had little sense of humor. It made her angry
to think Tom was more intimate with her poor cousin than with herself.
“Let us be serious, then,” said Tom. “Is it true that you are going to a
boarding-school, Mary?”
“Ask Imogene.”
Tom turned to Imogene.
“Very probable,” said Imogene snappishly.
“And shall you go too?”
“Oh, no,” answered the young lady. “I should not be willing to give up
my fine home for the shabby accommodations of a boarding-school.”
“Then why is your cousin to go?”
“Her case is different.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you,” answered Mary, her lip curling, “and spare Imogene the
trouble. I am a poor relation. Some time I’ve got to work for my living.
It doesn’t matter much about me. The shabby accommodations of a
boarding-school will suit me very well.”
“That is perfectly true,” said Imogene sharply, “though you probably
don’t mean it. As you can’t expect anything better than a common home
when you are grown up, it would be better that you should prepare for it
in a boarding-school than to become accustomed to luxury in my father’s
house.”
“You are extremely considerate, Imogene,” said Mary. “I suppose I ought
to feel grateful to you for thinking so much about what would be best
for me.”
“I don’t expect any gratitude from you, miss,” retorted Imogene, “though
my papa does board you and pay all your bills.”
“Tom must feel very much interested in our conversation,” said Mary,
flushing with mortification.
“Uncommonly,” said Tom. “Do I understand that you mean to earn your
living some day?”
“Yes, if I get the chance.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Be a teacher—seamstress—anything.”
“Good!” said Tom. “I’ll engage you to give me lessons.”
“In what?”
“Sewing,” said Tom gravely; “or would you recommend knitting?”
Mary laughed.
“I should prefer sewing, as I understand it better; but I am afraid you
won’t be patient enough.”
“Try me.”
By this time they had reached the lawyer’s house, and the two girls
entered. Imogene was thoroughly in earnest in her resolution to get rid
of Mary.
That evening a family conclave was held; the papers were examined for
the advertisement of a cheap boarding-school, the cheapest was selected,
and early the next week Mary Somers started by the coach for a new home.
As the coach whirled away Imogene looked after it with exultation.
“I’ve got rid of her,” she exclaimed, “and now I shall have Tom all to
myself.”
But Tom’s own stay in Plympton was to be short, though she did not know
it, nor he either.
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