"WELL, what kept you so long?" asked Peg, impatiently, as Ida rejoinedher at the corner of the street, where she had been waiting for her."And where's your gingerbread?"
"He wouldn't let me have it," said Ida.
"And why not?"
"Because he said the money wasn't good."
"Stuff! it's good enough," said Peg, hastily. "Then we must go somewhereelse."
"But he said the dollar I gave him last week wasn't good, and I promisedto bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me go."
"Well, where are you going to get your dollar to carry him?"
"Why, won't you give it to me?" said Ida, hesitatingly.
"Catch me at such nonsense! But here we are at another shop. Go in andsee whether you can do any better there. Here's the money."
"Why, it's the same piece."
"What if it is?"
"I don't want to pass bad money."
"Tut, what hurt will it do?"
"It is the same as stealing."
"The man won't lose anything. He'll pass it off again."
"Somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said Ida, whose truthfulperceptions saw through the woman's sophistry.
"So you've taken up preaching, have you?" said Peg, sneeringly. "Maybeyou know better than I what is proper to do. It won't do to be so mightyparticular, and so you'll find out if you live with me long."
"Where did you take the dollar?" asked Ida, with a sudden thought; "andhow is it that you have so many of them?"
"None of your business," said her companion, roughly. "You shouldn't pryinto the affairs of other people."
"Are you going to do as I told you?" she demanded, after a moment'spause.
"I can't," said Ida, pale but resolute.
"You can't," repeated Peg, furiously. "Didn't you promise to do whateverI told you?"
"Except what was wicked," interrupted Ida.
"And what business have you to decide what is wicked? Come home withme."
Peg, walked in sullen silence, occasionally turning round to scowl uponthe unfortunate child, who had been strong enough, in her determinationto do right, to resist successfully the will of the woman whom she hadevery reason to dread.
Arrived at home, Peg walked Ida into the room by the shoulder.
Dick was lounging in a chair, with the inevitable pipe in his mouth.
"Hilloa!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's movements, "what's thegal been doing, hey?"
"What's she been doing?" repeated Peg; "I should like to know what shehasn't been doing. She's refused to go in and buy some gingerbread ofthe baker, as I told her."
"Look here, little gal," said Dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn'tthis rayther undootiful conduct on your part? Ain't it a piece ofingratitude, when we go to the trouble of earning the money to pay forgingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't willing to go in and buy it?"
"I would just as lieves go in," said Ida, "if Peg would give me goodmoney to pay for it."
"That don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist; "jest doas she tells you, and you'll do right. She'll take the risk."
"I can't!" said the child.
"You hear her?" said Peg.
"Very improper conduct!" said Dick, shaking his head. "Put her in thecloset."
So Ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. Yet, in the midstof her desolation, there was a feeling of pleasure in thinking that shewas suffering for doing right.
When Ida failed to return on the expected day, the Crumps, thoughdisappointed, did not think it strange.
"If I were her mother," said Mrs. Crump, "and had been parted from herso long, I should want to keep her as long as I could. Dear heart! howpretty she is, and how proud her mother must be of her!"
"It's all a delusion," said Aunt Rachel, shaking her head. "It's all adelusion. I don't believe she's got a mother at all. That Mrs. Hardwickis an imposter. I knew it, and told you so at the time, but you wouldn'tbelieve me. I never expect to set eyes on Ida again in this world."
"I do," said Jack, confidently.
"There's many a hope that's doomed to disappointment," said Aunt Rachel.
"So there is," said Jack. "I was hoping mother would have apple-puddingfor dinner to-day, but she didn't."
The next day passed, and still no tidings of Ida. There was a cloudof anxiety, even upon Mr. Crump's usually placid face, and he was moresilent than usual at the evening meal.
At night, after Rachel and Jack had both retired, he said, anxiously,"What do you think is the cause of Ida's prolonged absence, Mary?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Crump, seriously. "It seems to me, if hermother wanted to keep her longer than the time she at first proposed,it would be no more than right that she should write us a line. She mustknow that we would feel anxious."
"Perhaps she is so taken up with Ida that she can think of nothingelse."
"It may be so; but if we neither see Ida to-morrow, nor hear from her, Ishall be seriously troubled."
"Suppose she should never come back," said the cooper, sadly.
"Oh, husband, don't think of such a thing," said his wife, distressed.
"We must contemplate it as a possibility," returned Timothy, gravely,"though not, I hope, as a probability. Ida's mother has an undoubtedright to her; a better right than any we can urge."
"Then it would be better," said his wife, tearfully, "if she had neverbeen placed in our charge. Then we should not have had the pain ofparting with her."
"Not so, Mary," said the cooper, seriously. "We ought to be grateful forGod's blessings, even if he suffers us to possess them but a short time.And Ida has been a blessing to us, I am sure. How many hours have beenmade happy by her childish prattle! how our hearts have been filled withcheerful happiness and affection when we have gazed upon her! That can'tbe taken from us, even if she is, Mary. There's some lines I met with inthe paper, to-night, that express just what I feel. Let me find them."
The cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns ofthe paper, till he came to these beautiful lines of Tennyson, which heread aloud,--
"I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all."
"There, wife," said he, as he laid down the paper; "I don't know whowrit them lines, but I'm sure it's some one that's met with a greatsorrow, and conquered it."
"They are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and I dare sayyou're right, Timothy; but I hope we mayn't have reason to learn thetruth of them by experience. After all, it isn't certain but that Idawill come back. We are troubling ourselves too soon."
"At any rate," said the cooper, "there is no doubt that it is our dutyto take every means to secure Ida if we can. Of course, if her motherinsists upon keeping her, we can't say anything; but we ought to besure, before we yield her up, that such is the case."
"What do you mean, Timothy?" asked Mrs. Crump, with anxious interest.
"I don't know as I ought to mention it," said her husband. "Verylikely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel moreanxious."
"You have already aroused my anxiety," said his wife. "I should feelbetter if you would tell me."
"Then I will," said the cooper. "I have sometimes doubted," hecontinued, lowering his voice, "whether Ida's mother really sent forher."
"And the letter?" queried Mrs. Crump, looking less surprised than hesupposed she would.
"I thought--mind it is only a guess on my part--that Mrs. Hardwick mighthave got somebody to write it for her."
"It is very singular," murmured Mrs. Crump, in a tone of abstraction.
"What is singular?"
"Why, the very same thought occurred to me. Somehow, I couldn't helpfeeling a little suspicious of Mrs. Hardwick, though perhaps unjustly.But what object could she have in obtaining possession of Ida?"
"That I cannot conjecture; but I have come to one determination."
"And what is that?"
CHAPTER XV. AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS.
Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life Page 14