CHAPTER IV MRS. PRESTON
Whenever Godfrey Preston had any difficulty with his father, he always went to his mother, and from her, right or wrong, he was sure to obtain sympathy. So in the present instance, failing to receive from his father that moral support to which he deemed himself entitled, on entering the house he sought out his mother.
Mrs. Preston, who was rather a spare lady, with thin lips and a sharp, hatchet-like face, was in her own room. She looked up as Godfrey entered.
"Well, Godfrey, what's the matter?" she asked, seeing on her son's face an unmistakable expression of discontent.
"Matter enough, mother. Father's always against me."
"I know it. He appears to forget that you are his son. What is it now?"
"He came up just as I was thrashing a boy down in the yard."
"What boy?"
"Nobody you know, mother. It was only an Irish boy."
"What was your reason for punishing him?" asked Mrs. Preston, adopting Godfrey's version of the affair.
"He was impudent to me. He was leaning against the fence, and I ordered him away. He was a ragged boy, with a bundle on a stick. Of course, when he wouldn't move, I went out and thrashed him."
"Was your father there?"
"He came up in the midst of it, and, instead of taking my part, he took the part of the Irish boy."
"I don't see how Mr. Preston can be so unfair," said his wife. "It is his duty to stand by his family."
"I felt ashamed to have him scold me before the impudent boy. Of course, he enjoyed it, and I suppose he will think he can be impudent to me again."
"No doubt. I will speak to your father about it. He really shouldn't be so inconsiderate. But what is that stain on your coat, Godfrey? I should think you had been down on your back on the ground."
"Oh," said Godfrey, rather embarrassed, "I happened to slip as I was wrestling with the fellow, and fell on my back. However, I was up again directly and gave it to him, I can tell you. If father hadn't stopped me I'd have laid him out," he continued, in a swaggering tone.
It will be seen that Godfrey did not always confine himself to the truth. Indeed, he found it rather hard at all times to admit either that he had been in the wrong or had been worsted. Even if his mother sometimes suspected that his accounts were a trifle distorted, she forbore to question their accuracy. Mother and son had a sort of tacit compact by which they stood by each other, and made common cause against Colonel Preston.
"Don't you know the boy? Doesn't he live in the neighborhood?" asked Mrs. Preston, after a pause.
"He's just come into the town, but I'll tell you who he is. He's the son of that woman that comes to work for you once a week."
"Mrs. Burke?"
"Yes; he told me that his name was Andy Burke."
"He ought to know his place too well to be impudent to one in your position."
"So I think."
"I shall speak to Mrs. Burke about her son's bad behavior."
"I wish you'd discharge her. That's a good way to punish the boy."
"I shouldn't object to doing that, Godfrey, but Mrs. Burke is a capital hand at ironing shirts. Yours and your father's never looked so nice as they have since she has been here."
Godfrey looked a little discontented. Being essentially mean, he thought it would be an excellent plan to strike the son through the mother.
"You might threaten her, mother, a little. Tell her to make her boy behave himself, or you'll discharge her."
"I will certainly speak to her on the subject, Godfrey."
At the table Mrs. Preston introduced the subject of Godfrey's wrongs.
"I am surprised, Mr. Preston, that you took part against Godfrey when he was rudely assaulted this morning."
"I thought Godfrey in the wrong, my dear. That was my reason."
"You generally appear to think your own son in the wrong. You are ready to take part with any stranger against him," said Mrs. Preston, in a complaining manner.
"I don't think you are quite right just there," said her husband, good-humoredly. "I must say, however, that Godfrey generally is in the wrong."
"You are very unjust to him."
"I don't mean to be. I would be glad to praise him, but he is so overbearing to those whom he considers his inferiors, that I am frequently ashamed of his manner of treating others."
"The boy has some reason to feel proud. He must maintain his position."
"What is his position?"
"I don't think you need to ask. As our son he is entitled to a degree of consideration."
"He will receive consideration enough if he deserves it, but this is a republic, and all are supposed to be on an equality."
Mrs. Preston tossed her head.
"That's well enough to say, but don't you consider yourself above a man that goes round sawing wood for a living?"
"At any rate I would treat him with courtesy. Because I am richer, and have a better education, it is no reason why I should treat him with contempt."
"Then I don't share your sentiments," said Mrs. Preston. "I am thankful that I know my position better. I mean to uphold the dignity of the family, and I hope my son will do the same."
Colonel Preston shrugged his shoulders as his wife swept from the room. He knew of old her sentiments on this subject, and he was aware that she was not likely to become a convert to his more democratic ideas.
"I am afraid she will spoil Godfrey," he thought. "The boy is getting intolerable. I am glad this Irish boy gave him a lesson. He seems a fine-spirited lad. I will help him if I can."
"Ellen," said Mrs. Preston the next morning, "when Mrs. Burke comes let me know."
"Yes, ma'am."
"She's come," announced Ellen, half an hour later.
Mrs. Preston rose from her seat and went into the laundry.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Preston," said Mrs. Burke.
"Good-morning," returned the other, stiffly. "Mrs. Burke, I hear that your son behaved very badly to my Godfrey yesterday."
"It isn't like Andy, ma'am," said the mother, quietly. "He's a good, well-behaved lad."
"Godfrey tells me that he made a brutal assault upon him, quite forgetting his superior position."
"Are you sure Master Godfrey didn't strike him first?" asked the mother.
"Even if he had, your son shouldn't have struck back."
"Why not?" asked Mrs. Burke, her eyes flashing with spirit, meek as she generally was.
"Because it was improper," said Mrs. Preston, decisively.
"I don't see that, ma'am. Andy isn't the boy to stand still and be struck."
"Do I understand," said Mrs. Preston, in a freezing tone, "that you uphold your son in his atrocious conduct?"
"Yes, ma'am. I stand up for Andy, for he's a good boy, and if he struck Master Godfrey it was because he was struck first."
"That is enough," said Mrs. Preston, angrily. "I shall not require your services after to-day, Mrs. Burke."
"Just as you like, ma'am," said Mrs. Burke, with quiet pride, but she thought, with a sinking heart, of the gap which this would make in her scanty income.
CHAPTER V A PROFITABLE JOB
After finishing her work at Colonel Preston's Mrs. Burke went home. She did not see Mrs. Preston again, for the latter sent her the money for her services by Ellen.
"Mrs. Preston says you're not to come next week," said Ellen.
"She told me so herself this morning. She is angry because I took the part of my boy against Master Godfrey."
"Godfrey's the hatefulest boy I ever see," said Ellen, whose grammar was a little defective. "He's always putting on airs."
"He struck my Andy, and Andy struck him back."
"I'm glad he did," said Ellen, emphatically. "I hope he'll do it again."
"I don't want the boys to fight. Andy's a peaceable lad; and he'll be quiet if he's let alone. But he's just like his poor father, and he won't let anybody trample on him."
"That's where he's right," said Ellen. "I'm sorry you're not coming again, Mrs. Burke."
"So am I, Ellen, for I need the money, but I'll stand by my boy."
"You iron real beautiful. I've heard Mrs. Preston say so often. She won't get nobody that'll suit her so well."
"If you hear of anybody else that wants help, Ellen, will you send them to me?"
This Ellen faithfully promised, and Mrs. Burke went home, sorry to have lost her engagement, but not sorry to have stood up for Andy, of whom she was proud.
Andy was at home when she returned. He had found enough to do at home to occupy him so far. The next day he meant to go out in search of employment. When his mother got back she found him cutting some brush which he had obtained from the neighboring woods.
"There, mother," he said, pointing to a considerable pile, "you'll have enough sticks to last you a good while."
"Thank you, Andy, dear. That'll save Mary and me a good deal of trouble."
There was nothing in her words, but something in her tone, which led Andy to ask:
"What's the matter, mother? Has anything happened?"
"I've got through working for Mrs. Preston, Andy."
"Got through? For to-day, you mean?"
"No; I'm not going to work there again."
"Why not?"
"She complained of you, Andy."
"What did she say, mother?" asked our hero, listening with attention.
"She said you ought not to have struck Godfrey."
"Did you tell her he struck me first?"
"Yes, I did."
"And what did she say, thin?"
"She said that you ought not to have struck him back."
"And what did you say, mother?"
"I said my Andy wasn't the boy to stand still and let anybody beat him."
"Good for you, mother! Bully for you! That's where you hit the nail on the head. And what did the ould lady say then?"
"She told me I needn't come there again to work."
"I'm glad you're not goin', mother. I don't want you to work for the likes of her. Let her do her own ironin', the ould spalpeen!"
In general, Andy's speech was tolerably clear of the brogue, but whenever he became a little excited, as at present, it was more marked. He was more angry at the slight to his mother than he would have been at anything, however contemptuous, said to himself. He had that chivalrous feeling of respect for his mother which every boy of his age ought to have, more especially if that mother is a widow.
"But, Andy, I'm very sorry for the money I'll lose."
"How much is it, mother?"
"Seventy-five cents."
"I'll make it up, mother."
"I know you will if you can, Andy; but work is hard to get, and the pay is small."
"You might go back and tell Mrs. Preston that I'm a dirty spalpeen, and maybe she'd take you back, mother."
"I wouldn't slander my own boy like that if she'd take me back twenty times."
"That's the way to talk, mother," said Andy, well pleased. "Don't you be afeared—we'll get along somehow. More by token, here's three dollars I brought home with me yisterday."
Andy pulled out from his pocket six silver half-dollars, and offered them to his mother.
"Where did you get them, Andy?" she asked, in surprise.
"Where did I get them? One way and another, by overwork. We won't starve while them last, will we?"
Andy's cheerful tone had its effect upon his mother.
"Perhaps you're right, Andy," she said, smiling. "At any rate we won't cry till it's time."
"To-morrow I'll go out and see if I can find work."
"Suppose you don't find it, Andy?" suggested his sister.
"Then I'll take in washing," said Andy, laughing. "It's an iligant washer I'd make, wouldn't I now?"
"Nobody'd hire you more than once, Andy."
By and by they had supper. If they had been alone they would have got along on bread and tea; but "Andy needs meat, for he's a growing boy," said his mother.
And so Mary was dispatched to the butcher's for a pound and a half of beefsteak, which made the meal considerably more attractive. Mrs. Burke felt that it was extravagant, particularly just as her income was diminished, but she couldn't bear to stint Andy. At first she was not going to eat, herself, meaning to save a part for Andy's breakfast; but our hero found her out, and declared he wouldn't eat a bit if his mother did not eat, too. So she was forced to take her share, and it did her good, for no one can keep up a decent share of strength on bread and tea alone.
The next morning Andy went out in search of work. He had no very definite idea where to go, or to whom to apply, but he concluded to put in an application anywhere he could.
He paused in front of the house of Deacon Jones, a hard-fisted old farmer, whose reputation for parsimony was well known throughout the village, but of this Andy, being a newcomer, was ignorant.
"Wouldn't you like to hire a good strong boy?" he asked, entering the yard.
The deacon looked up.
"Ever worked on a farm?"
"Yes."
"Can you milk?"
"Yes."
"Where did you work?"
"In Carver."
"What's your name?"
"Andy Burke."
"Where do you live?"
"With my mother, Mrs. Burke, a little way down the road."
"I know—the Widder Burke."
"Have you got any work for me?"
"Wait a minute, I'll see."
The deacon brought out an old scythe from the barn, and felt of the edge. There was not much danger in so doing, for it was as dull as a hoe.
"This scythe needs sharpening," he said. "Come and turn the grindstone."
"Well, here's a job, anyhow," thought Andy. "Wonder what he'll give me."
He sat down and began to turn the grindstone. The deacon bore on heavily, and this made it hard turning. His arms ached, and the perspiration stood on his brow. It was certainly pretty hard work, but then he must be prepared for that, and after all he was earning money for his mother. Still the time did seem long. The scythe was so intolerably dull that it took a long time to make any impression upon it.
"Kinder hard turnin', ain't it?" said the deacon.
"Yes," said Andy.
"This scythe ain't been sharpened for ever so long. It's as dull as a hoe."
However, time and patience work wonders, and at length the deacon, after a careful inspection of the blade of the scythe, released Andy from his toil of an hour and a half, with the remark:
"I reckon that'll do."
He put the scythe in its place and came out.
Andy lingered respectfully for the remuneration of his labor.
"He ought to give me a quarter," he thought. But the deacon showed no disposition to pay him, and Andy became impatient.
"I guess I'll be goin'," he said.
"All right. I ain't got anything more for you to do," said the deacon.
"I'll take my pay now," said Andy, desperately.
"Pay? What for?" inquired the deacon, innocently.
"For turning the grindstone."
"You don't mean ter say you expect anything for that?" said the deacon in a tone of surprise.
"Yes I do," said Andy. "I can't work an hour and a half for nothing."
"I didn't expect to pay for such a trifle," said the old man, fumbling in his pocket.
Finally he brought out two cents, one of the kind popularly known as bung-towns, which are not generally recognized as true currency.
"There," said he in an injured tone. "I'll pay you, though I didn't think you'd charge anything for any little help like that."
Andy looked at the proffered compensation with mingled astonishment and disgust.
"Never mind," he said. "You can keep it. You need it more'n I do, I'm thinkin'!"
"Don't you want it?" asked the deacon, surprised.
"No, I don't. I'm a poor boy, but I don't work an hour and a half for two cents, one of 'em bad. I'd rather take no pay at all."
"That's a cur'us boy," said the deacon, slowly sliding the pennies back into his pocket. "I calc'late he expected more just for a little job like that. Does he think I'm made of money?"
As Andy went out of the yard, the idea dawned upon the deacon that he had saved two cents, and his face was luminous with satisfaction.
CHAPTER VI THE TWO OLD MAIDS
"He's the meanest man I ever saw," thought Andy. "Does he think I work on nothing a year, and find myself? Divil a bit of work will I do for him agin, if I know it." But better luck was in store for Andy. Quarter of a mile farther on, in a two-story house, old-fashioned but neat, lived two maiden ladies of very uncertain age, Misses Priscilla and Sophia Grant. I am not aware that any relationship existed between them and our distinguished ex-President. Nevertheless, they were of very respectable family and connections, and of independent property, owning bank stock which brought them in an annual income of about twelve hundred dollars, in addition to the house they occupied, and half a dozen acres of land thereunto pertaining. Now, this was not a colossal fortune, but in a country place like Crampton it made them ladies of large property.
Priscilla was the elder of the two, and general manager. Sophia contented herself with being the echo of her stronger-minded sister, and was very apt to assent to her remarks, either by repeating them, or by saying: "Just so." She was a mild, inoffensive creature, but very charitable and amiable, and so little given to opposition that there was always the greatest harmony between them. They kept a gardener and out-of-door servant of all work, who cultivated the land, sawed and split their wood, ran of errands, and made himself generally useful. He had one drawback, unfortunately. He would occasionally indulge to excess in certain fiery alcoholic compounds sold at the village tavern, and, as natural consequence, get drunk. He had usually the good sense to keep out of the way while under the influence of liquor, and hitherto the good ladies had borne with and retained him in their employ.
But a crisis had arrived. That morning he had come for orders while inebriated, and in his drunken folly had actually gone so far as to call Miss Priscilla darling and offer to kiss her.
Miss Priscilla was, of course, horrified, and so expressed herself.
"Law, Sophia," she said, "I came near fainting away. The idea of his offering to kiss me."
"Just so," said Sophia.
"So presuming."
"Just so."
"Of course, I couldn't think of employing him any longer."
"Couldn't think of it."
"He might have asked to kiss me again."
"Just so."
"Or you!"
"Just so," said Sophia, in some excitement of manner.
"The neighbors would talk."
"Just so."
"So I told him that I was very sorry, but it would be necessary for him to find work somewhere else."
"But who will do our work?" inquired Sophia, with a rare, original suggestion.
"We must get somebody else."
"So we must," acquiesced Sophia, as if she had suddenly received light on a very dark subject.
"But I don't know who we can get."
"Just so."
At that moment there was a knock at the door. Priscilla answered it in person. They kept no domestic servant, only a gardener.
"I've brought the load of wood you ordered, ma'am," said the teamster.
"Where shall I put it?"
"In the backyard. John—no, John has left us. I will show you, myself."
She put on a cape-bonnet and indicated the place in the yard where she wanted the wood dumped.
Then she returned to the house.
"It's very awkward that John should have acted so," she said, in a tone of annoyance. "I don't know who is to saw and split that wood."
"We couldn't do it," said Sophia, with another original suggestion.
"Of course not. That would be perfectly absurd."
"Just so."
"I don't believe there is enough wood sawed and split to last through the day."
"We must have some split."
"Of course. But I really don't know of anyone in the neighborhood that we could get."
"John."
"John has gone away. You know why."
"Perhaps he wouldn't kiss us if we told him not to," suggested Sophia.
"I am afraid you are a goose," said Priscilla, composedly.
"Just so," slipped out of Sophia's mouth from force of habit, but her sister was so used to hearing it that she took no particular notice of it on the present occasion.
It was just at this time that Andy, released from his severe and unrequited labor for Deacon Jones, came by. He saw the wood being unloaded in the back yard, and an idea struck him.
"Maybe I can get the chance of sawin' and splittin' that wood. I'll try, anyway. I wonder who lives there?"
He immediately opened the front gate, and marching up to the front door, knocked vigorously.
"There's somebody at the door," said Sophia.
"Perhaps it's John come back," said Priscilla. "I am afraid of going to open it. He might want to kiss me again."
"I'll go," said Sophia, rising with unwonted alacrity.
"He might want to kiss you."
"I'll tell him not to."
"We'll both go," said Priscilla, decisively.
Accordingly, the two sisters, for mutual protection, both went to the door, and opened it guardedly. Their courage returned when they saw that it was only a boy.
"What do you want?" asked Priscilla.
"Just so," chimed in Sophia.
"You've got a load of wood in the back yard," commenced Andy.
"Just so," said Sophia.
"Do you want it sawed and split?"
"Just so," answered the younger sister, brightening up.
"Can you do it?" inquired Priscilla.
"Try me and see," answered Andy.
"You're not a man."
"Just so," chimed in her sister.
"Faith, and I soon will be," said Andy. "I can saw and split wood as well as any man you ever saw."
"What is your name?"
"Andy Burke."
"Are you a—Hibernian?" inquired Priscilla.
"I don't know what you mane by that same," said Andy, perplexed.
"To what nation do you belong?"
"Oh, that's what you want, ma'am. I'm only an Irish boy."
"And you say your name is Burke?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Are you related to Burke, the great orator? He was an Irishman, I believe."
"Just so," said Sophia.
"He was my great-grandfather, ma'am," answered Andy, who had never heard of the eminent orator, but thought the claim would improve his chances of obtaining the job of sawing and splitting wood.
"Your great-grandfather!" exclaimed Priscilla, in astonishment.
"Really, this is most extraordinary. And you are poor?"
"If I wasn't I wouldn't be goin' round sawin' wood, ma'am."
"Just so," said Sophia.
"To think that the grandson of the great Burke should come to us for employment," said Priscilla, who was in some respects easily taken in. "I think we must hire him, Sophia."
"Just so."
"Perhaps he could take John's place altogether."
"Just so."
"I must find out whether he understands gardening."
"Just so."
Andy stood by, waiting patiently for the decision, and hoping that it might be favorable. Of course, it was wrong for him to tell a lie, but he thought his engagement depended upon it, and, although a very good boy in the main, he was not altogether perfect, as my readers are destined to find out.