“PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE” is presented to the public as the second volume of the Campaign Series. Though wholly unlike the first volume, it is written in furtherance of the same main idea, that every boy's life is a campaign, more or less difficult, in which success depends upon integrity and a steadfast adherence to duty.
How Paul Prescott gained strength by battling with adverse circumstances, and, under all discouragements, kept steadily before him the charge which he received from his dying father, is fully told; and the author will be glad if the record shall prove an incentive and an encouragement to those boys who may have a similar campaign before them.
“HANNAH!”
The speaker was a tall, pompous-looking man, whose age appeared to verge close upon fifty. He was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, and looked as if it would be quite impossible to deviate from his position of unbending rigidity.
Squire Benjamin Newcome, as he was called, in the right of his position as Justice of the Peace, Chairman of the Selectmen, and wealthiest resident of Wrenville, was a man of rule and measure. He was measured in his walk, measured in his utterance, and measured in all his transactions. He might be called a dignified machine. He had a very exalted conception of his own position, and the respect which he felt to be his due, not only from his own household, but from all who approached him. If the President of the United States had called upon him, Squire Newcome would very probably have felt that he himself was the party who conferred distinction, and not received it.
Squire Newcome was a widower. His wife, who was as different from himself as could well be conceived, did not live long after marriage. She was chilled to death, as it was thought, by the dignified iceberg of whose establishment she had become a part. She had left, however, a child, who had now grown to be a boy of twelve. This boy was a thorn in the side of his father, who had endeavored in vain to mould him according to his idea of propriety. But Ben was gifted with a spirit of fun, sometimes running into mischief, which was constantly bursting out in new directions, in spite of his father's numerous and rather prosy lectures.
“Han-nah!” again called Squire Newcome, separating the two syllables by a pause of deliberation, and strongly accenting the last syllable,—a habit of his with all proper names.
Hannah was the Irish servant of all work, who was just then engaged in mixing up bread in the room adjoining, which was the kitchen.
Feeling a natural reluctance to appear before her employer with her hands covered with dough, she hastily washed them. All this, however, took time, and before she responded to the first summons, the second “Han-nah!” delivered with a little sharp emphasis, had been uttered.
At length she appeared at the door of the sitting-room.
“Han-nah!” said Squire Newcome, fixing his cold gray eye upon her, “when you hear my voice a calling you, it is your duty to answer the summons IMMEJIATELY.”
I have endeavored to represent the Squire's pronunciation of the last word.
“So I would have come IMMEJOUSLY,” said Hannah, displaying a most reprehensible ignorance, “but me hands were all covered with flour.”
“That makes no difference,” interrupted the Squire. “Flour is an accidental circumstance.”
“What's that?” thought Hannah, opening her eyes in amazement.
“And should not be allowed to interpose an obstacle to an IMMEJIATE answer to my summons.”
“Sir,” said Hannah, who guessed at the meaning though she did not understand the words, “you wouldn't have me dirty the door-handle with me doughy hands?”
“That could easily be remedied by ablution.”
“There ain't any ablution in the house,” said the mystified Hannah.
“I mean,” Squire Newcome condescended to explain, “the application of water—in short, washing.”
“Shure,” said Hannah, as light broke in upon her mind, “I never knew that was what they called it before.”
“Is Ben-ja-min at home?”
“Yes, sir. He was out playin' in the yard a minute ago. I guess you can see him from the winder.”
So saying she stepped forward, and looking out, all at once gave a shrill scream, and rushed from the room, leaving her employer in his bolt-upright attitude gazing after her with as much astonishment as he was capable of.
The cause of her sudden exit was revealed on looking out of the window.
Master Benjamin, or Ben, as he was called everywhere except in his own family, had got possession of the black kitten, and appeared to be submerging her in the hogshead of rainwater.
“O, you wicked, cruel boy, to drown poor Kitty!” exclaimed the indignant Hannah, rushing into the yard and endeavoring to snatch her feline favorite—an attempt which Ben stoutly resisted.
Doubtless the poor kitten would have fared badly between the two, had not the window opened, and the deliberate voice of his father, called out in tones which Ben saw fit to heed.
“What?”
“Come into my presence immejiately, and learn to answer me with more respect.”
Ben came in looking half defiant.
His father, whose perpendicularity made him look like a sitting grenadier, commenced the examination thus:—
“I wish you to inform me what you was a doing of when I spoke to you.”
It will be observed that the Squire's dignified utterances were sometimes a little at variance with the rule of the best modern grammarians.
“I was trying to prevent Hannah from taking the kitten,” said Ben.
“What was you a doing of before Hannah went out?”
“Playing with Kitty.”
“Why were you standing near the hogshead, Benjamin?”
“Why,” said Ben, ingenuously, “the hogshead happened to be near me—that was all.”
“Were you not trying to drown the kitten?”
“O, I wouldn't drown her for anything,” said Ben with an injured expression, mentally adding, “short of a three-cent piece.”
“Then, to repeat my interrogatory, what was you a doing of with the kitten in the hogshead?”
“I was teaching her to swim,” said Ben, looking out of the corner of his eye at his father, to see what impression this explanation made upon him.
“And what advantageous result do you think would be brought about by teaching of the kitten to swim, Benjamin?” persisted his father.
“Advantageous result!” repeated Ben, demurely, pretending not to understand.
“Certingly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Do you not study your dictionary at school, Benjamin?”
“Yes, but I don't like it much.”
“You are very much in error. You will never learn to employ your tongue with elegance and precision, unless you engage in this beneficial study.”
“I can use my tongue well enough, without studying grammar,” said Ben. He proceeded to illustrate the truth of this assertion by twisting his tongue about in a comical manner.
“Tongue,” exclaimed his father, “is but another name for language I mean your native language.”
“Oh!”
Ben was about to leave the room to avoid further questions of an embarrassing nature, when his father interrupted his exit by saying—
“Stay, Benjamin, do not withdraw till I have made all the inquiries which I intend.”
The boy unwillingly returned.
“You have not answered my question.”
“I've forgotten what it was.”
“What good would it do?” asked the Squire, simplifying his speech to reach Ben's comprehension, “what good would it do to teach the kitten to swim?”
“O, I thought,” said Ben, hesitating, “that some time or other she might happen to fall into the water, and might not be able to get out unless she knew how.”
“I think,” said his father with an unusual display of sagacity, “that she will be in much greater hazard of drowning while learning to swim under your direction than by any other chance likely to befall her.”
“Shouldn't wonder,” was Ben's mental comment, “Pretty cute for you, dad.”
Fortunately, Ben did not express his thoughts aloud. They would have implied such an utter lack of respect that the Squire would have been quite overwhelmed by the reflection that his impressive manners had produced no greater effect on one who had so excellent a chance of being impressed by them.
“Benjamin,” concluded his father, “I have an errand for you to execute. You may go to Mr. Prescott's and see if he is yet living. I hear that he is a lying on the brink of the grave.”
An expression of sadness stole over the usually merry face of Ben, as he started on his errand.
“Poor Paul!” he thought, “what will he do when his father dies? He's such a capital fellow, too. I just wish I had a wagon load of money, I do, and I'd give him half. That's so!”
We will precede Ben on his visit to the house of Mr. Prescott.
It was an old weather-beaten house, of one story, about half a mile distant from 'Squire Newcome's residence. The Prescott family had lived here for five years, or ever since they had removed to Wrenville. Until within a year they had lived comfortably, when two blows came in quick succession. The first was the death of Mrs. Prescott, an excellent woman, whose loss was deeply felt by her husband and son. Soon afterwards Mr. Prescott, a carpenter by trade, while at work upon the roof of a high building, fell off, and not only broke his leg badly, but suffered some internal injury of a still more serious nature. He had not been able to do a stroke of work since. After some months it became evident that he would never recover. A year had now passed. During this time his expenses had swallowed up the small amount which he had succeeded in laying up previous to his sickness. It was clear that at his death there would be nothing left. At thirteen years of age Paul would have to begin the world without a penny.
Mr. Prescott lay upon a bed in a small bedroom adjoining the kitchen. Paul, a thoughtful-looking boy sat beside it, ready to answer his call.
There had been silence for some time, when Mr. Prescott called feebly—
“Paul!”
“I am here, father,” said Paul.
“I am almost gone, Paul, I don't think I shall last through the day.”
“O, father,” said Paul, sorrowfully, “Don't leave me.”
“That is the only grief I have in dying—I must leave you to struggle for yourself, Paul. I shall be able to leave you absolutely nothing.”
“Don't think of that, father. I am young and strong—I can earn my living in some way.”
“I hoped to live long enough to give you an education. I wanted you to have a fairer start in the world than I had.”
“Never mind, father,” said Paul, soothingly, “Don't be uneasy about me. God will provide for me.”
Again there was a silence, broken only by the difficult breathing of the sick man.
He spoke again.
“There is one thing, Paul, that I want to tell you before I die.”
Paul drew closer to the bedside.
“It is something which has troubled me as I lay here. I shall feel easier for speaking of it. You remember that we lived at Cedarville before we came here.”
“Yes, father.”
“About two years before we left there, a promising speculation was brought to my notice. An agent of a Lake Superior mine visited our village and represented the mine in so favorable a light that many of my neighbors bought shares, fully expecting to double their money in a year. Among the rest I was attacked with the fever of speculation. I had always been obliged to work hard for a moderate compensation, and had not been able to do much more than support my family. This it seemed to me, afforded an excellent opportunity of laying up a little something which might render me secure in the event of a sudden attack of sickness. I had but about two hundred dollars, however, and from so scanty an investment I could not, of course, expect a large return; accordingly I went to Squire Conant; you remember him, Paul?”
“Yes, father.”
'I went to him and asked a loan of five hundred dollars. After some hesitation he agreed to lend it to me. He was fond of his money and not much given to lending, but it so happened that he had invested in the same speculation, and had a high opinion of it, so he felt pretty safe in advancing me the money. Well, this loan gave me seven hundred dollars, with which I purchased seven shares in the Lake Superior Grand Combination Mining Company. For some months afterwards, I felt like a rich man. I carefully put away my certificate of stock, looking upon it as the beginning of a competence. But at the end of six months the bubble burst—the stock proved to be utterly worthless,—Squire Conant lost five thousand dollars. I lost seven hundred, five hundred being borrowed money. The Squire's loss was much larger, but mine was the more serious, since I lost everything and was plunged into debt, while he had at least forty thousand dollars left.
“Two days after the explosion, Squire Conant came into my shop and asked abruptly when I could pay him the amount I had borrowed. I told him that I could not fix a time. I said that I had been overwhelmed by a result so contrary to my anticipations, but I told him I would not rest till I had done something to satisfy his claim. He was always an unreasonable man, and reproached me bitterly for sinking his money in a useless speculation, as if I could foresee how it would end any better than he.”
“Have you ever been able to pay back any part of the five hundred dollars, father?”
“I have paid the interest regularly, and a year ago, just before I met with my accident, I had laid up a hundred and fifty dollars which I had intended to pay the Squire, but when my sickness came I felt obliged to retain it to defray our expenses, being cut off from earning anything.”
“Then I suppose you have not been able to pay interest for the last year.”
“No.”
“Have you heard from the Squire lately?”
“Yes, I had a letter only last week. You remember bringing me one postmarked Cedarville?”
“Yes, I wondered at the time who it could be from.”
“You will find it on the mantelpiece. I should like to have you get it and read it.”
Paul readily found the letter. It was enclosed in a brown envelope, directed in a bold hand to “Mr. John Prescott, Wrenville.”
The letter was as follows:—
CEDARVILLE, APRIL 15, 18—, MR. JOHN PRESCOTT:—
SIR: I have been waiting impatiently to hear something about the five hundred dollars in which sum you are indebted to me, on account of a loan which I was fool enough to make you seven years since. I thought you an honest man, but I have found, to my cost, that I was mistaken. For the last year you have even failed to pay interest as stipulated between us. Your intention is evident. I quite understand that you have made up your mind to defraud me of what is rightfully mine. I don't know how you may regard this, but I consider it as bad as highway robbery. I do not hesitate to say that if you had your deserts you would be in the Penitentiary. Let me advise you, if you wish to avoid further trouble, to make no delay in paying a portion of this debt. Yours, etc. EZEKIEL CONANT.
Paul's face flushed with indignation as he read this bitter and cruel letter.
“Does Squire Conant know that you are sick, father?” he inquired.
“Yes, I wrote him about my accident, telling him at the same time that I regretted it in part on account of the interruption which it must occasion in my payments.”
“And knowing this, he wrote such a letter as that,” said Paul, indignantly, “what a hard, unfeeling wretch he must be!”
“I suppose it is vexatious to him to be kept out of his money.”
“But he has plenty more. He would never miss it if he had given it to you outright.”
“That is not the way to look at it, Paul. The money is justly his, and it is a great sorrow to me that I must die without paying it.”
“Father,” said Paul, after a pause, “will it be any relief to you, if I promise to pay it,—that is, if I am ever able?”
Mr. Prescott's face brightened.
“That was what I wanted to ask you, Paul. It will be a comfort to me to feel that there is some hope of the debt being paid at some future day.”
“Then don't let it trouble you any longer, father. The debt shall be mine, and I will pay it.”
Again a shadow passed over the sick man's face, “Poor boy,” he said, “why should I burden your young life with such a load? You will have to struggle hard enough as it is. No, Paul, recall your promise. I don't want to purchase comfort at such a price.”
“No, father,” said Paul sturdily, “it is too late now. I have made the promise and I mean to stick to it. Besides, it will give me something to live for. I am young—I may have a great many years before me. For thirteen years you have supported me. It is only right that I should make what return I can. I'll keep my promise, father.”
“May God help and prosper you, my boy,” said Mr. Prescott, solemnly. “You've been a good son; I pray that you may grow up to be a good man. But, my dear, I feel tired. I think I will try to go to sleep.”
Paul smoothed the comforter, adjusting it carefully about his father's neck, and going to the door went out in search of some wood to place upon the fire. Their scanty stock of firewood was exhausted, and Paul was obliged to go into the woods near by, to obtain such loose fagots as he might find upon the ground.
He was coming back with his load when his attention was drawn by a whistle. Looking up he discovered Ben Newcome approaching him.
“How are you, Paul?”
“Pretty well, Ben.”
“How precious lonesome you must be, mewed up in the house all the time.”
“Yes, it is lonesome, but I wouldn't mind that if I thought father would ever get any better.”
“How is he this morning?”
“Pretty low; I expect he is asleep. He said he was tired just before I went out.”
“I brought over something for you,” said Ben, tugging away at his pocket.
Opening a paper he displayed a couple of apple turnovers fried brown.
“I found 'em in the closet,” he said.
“Won't Hannah make a precious row when she finds 'em gone?”
“Then I don't know as I ought to take them,” said Paul, though, to tell the truth, they looked tempting to him.
“O, nonsense,” said Ben; “they don't belong to Hannah. She only likes to scold a little; it does her good.”
The two boys sat on the doorstep and talked while Paul ate the turnovers. Ben watched the process with much satisfaction.
“Ain't they prime?” he said.
“First rate,” said Paul; “won't you have one?”
“No,” said Ben; “you see I thought while I was about it I might as well take four, so I ate two coming along.”
In about fifteen minutes Paul went into the house to look at his father. He was lying very quietly upon the bed. Paul drew near and looked at him more closely. There was something in the expression of his father's face which terrified him.
Ben heard his sudden cry of dismay, and hurriedly entered.
Paul pointed to the bed, and said briefly, “Father's dead!”
Ben, who in spite of his mischievous propensities was gifted with a warm heart, sat down beside Paul, and passing his arm round his neck, gave him that silent sympathy which is always so grateful to the grief-stricken heart.
Two days later, the funeral of Mr. Prescott took place.
Poor Paul! It seemed to him a dream of inexpressible sorrow. His father and mother both gone, he felt that he was indeed left alone in the world. No thought of the future had yet entered his mind. He was wholly occupied with his present sorrow. Desolate at heart he slipped away from the graveyard after the funeral ceremony was over, and took his way back again to the lonely dwelling which he had called home.
As he was sitting in the corner, plunged in sorrowful thought, there was a scraping heard at the door, and a loud hem!
Looking up, Paul saw entering the cottage the stiff form of Squire Benjamin Newcome, who, as has already been stated, was the owner.
“Paul,” said the Squire, with measured deliberation.
“Do you mean me, sir?” asked Paul, vaguely conscious that his name had been called.
“Did I not address you by your baptismal appellation?” demanded the Squire, who thought the boy's question superfluous.
“Paul,” pursued Squire Newcome, “have you thought of your future destination?”
“No, sir,” said Paul, “I suppose I shall live here.”
“That arrangement would not be consistent with propriety. I suppose you are aware that your deceased parent left little or no worldly goods.”
“I know he was poor.”
“Therefore it has been thought best that you should be placed in charge of a worthy man, who I see is now approaching the house. You will therefore accompany him without resistance. If you obey him and read the Bible regularly, you will—ahem!—you will some time or other see the advantage of it.”
With this consolatory remark Squire Newcome wheeled about and strode out of the house.
Immediately afterwards there entered a rough-looking man arrayed in a farmer's blue frock.
“You're to come with me, youngster,” said Mr. Nicholas Mudge, for that was his name.
“With you?” said Paul, recoiling instinctively.
In fact there was nothing attractive in the appearance or manners of Mr. Mudge. He had a coarse hard face, while his head was surmounted by a shock of red hair, which to all appearance had suffered little interference from the comb for a time which the observer would scarcely venture to compute. There was such an utter absence of refinement about the man, that Paul, who had been accustomed to the gentle manners of his father, was repelled by the contrast which this man exhibited.
“To be sure you're to go with me,” said Mr. Mudge. “You did not calc'late you was a goin' to stay here by yourself, did you? We've got a better place for you than that. But the wagon's waitin' outside, so just be lively and bundle in, and I'll carry you to where you're a goin' to live.”
“Where's that?”
“Wal, some folks call it the Poor House, but it ain't any the worse for that, I expect. Anyhow, them as has no money may feel themselves lucky to get so good a home. So jest be a movin', for I can't be a waitin' here all day.”
Paul quietly submitted himself to the guidance of Mr. Mudge. He was so occupied with the thought of his sad loss that he did not realize the change that was about to take place in his circumstances.
About half a mile from the village in the bleakest and most desolate part of the town, stood the Poor House. It was a crazy old building of extreme antiquity, which, being no longer considered fit for an ordinary dwelling-house, had been selected as a suitable residence for the town's poor. It was bleak and comfortless to be sure, but on that very account had been purchased at a trifling expense, and that was, of course, a primary consideration. Connected with the house were some dozen acres of rough-looking land, plentifully overspread with stones, which might have filled with despair the most enterprising agriculturist. However, it had this recommendation at least, that it was quite in character with the buildings upon it, which in addition to the house already described, consisted of a barn of equal antiquity and a pig pen.
This magnificent domain was under the superintendence of Mr. Nicholas Mudge, who in consideration of taking charge of the town paupers had the use of the farm and buildings, rent free, together with a stipulated weekly sum for each of the inmates.
“Well, Paul,” said Mr. Mudge, as they approached the house, in a tone which was meant to be encouraging, “this is goin' to be your home. How do you like it?”
Thus addressed, Paul ventured a glance around him.
“I don't know,” said he, doubtfully; “it don't look very pleasant.”
“Don't look very pleasant!” repeated Mr. Mudge in a tone of mingled amazement and indignation. “Well, there's gratitude for you. After the town has been at the expense of providin' a nice, comfortable home for you, because you haven't got any of your own, you must turn up your nose at it.”
“I didn't mean to complain,” said Paul, feeling very little interest in the matter.
“Perhaps you expected to live in a marble palace,” pursued Mr. Mudge, in an injured tone. “We don't have any marble palaces in this neighborhood, we don't.”
Paul disclaimed any such anticipation.
Mr. Mudge deigned to accept Paul's apology, and as they had now reached the door, unceremoniously threw it open, and led the way into a room with floor unpainted, which, to judge from its appearance, was used as a kitchen.
Everything was “at sixes and sevens,” as the saying is, in the room Mr. Mudge and Paul had just entered. In the midst of the scene was a large stout woman, in a faded calico dress, and sleeves rolled up, working as if her life or the world's destiny depended upon it.
It was evident from the first words of Mr. Mudge that this lady was his helpmeet.
“Well, wife,” he said, “I've brought you another boarder. You must try to make him as happy and contented as the rest of 'em are.”
From the tone of the speaker, the last words might be understood to be jocular.
Mrs. Mudge, whose style of beauty was not improved by a decided squint, fixed a scrutinizing gaze upon Paul, and he quite naturally returned it.
“Haven't you ever seen anybody before, boy? I guess you'll know me next time.”
“Shouldn't wonder if he did,” chuckled Mr. Mudge.
“I don't know where on earth we shall put him,” remarked the lady. “We're full now.”
“Oh, put him anywhere. I suppose you won't be very particular about your accommodations?” said Mr. Mudge turning to Paul.
Paul very innocently answered in the negative, thereby affording Mr. Mudge not a little amusement.
“Well, that's lucky,” he said, “because our best front chamber's occupied just now. We'd have got it ready for you if you'd only wrote a week ago to tell us you were coming. You can just stay round here,” he said in a different tone as he was about leaving the room, “Mrs. Mudge will maybe want you to do something for her. You can sit down till she calls on you.”
It was washing day with Mrs. Mudge, and of course she was extremely busy. The water was to be brought from a well in the yard, and to this office Paul was at once delegated. It was no easy task, the full pails tugging most unmercifully at his arms. However, this was soon over, and Mrs. Mudge graciously gave him permission to go into the adjoining room, and make acquaintance with his fellow-boarders.
There were nine of them in all, Paul, the newcomer making the tenth. They were all advanced in years, except one young woman, who was prevented by mental aberration from supporting herself outside the walls of the Institution.
Of all present, Paul's attention was most strongly attracted towards one who appeared more neatly and scrupulously attired than any of the rest.
Aunt Lucy Lee, or plain Aunt Lucy, for in her present abode she had small use for her last name, was a benevolent-looking old lady, who both in dress and manners was distinguished from her companions. She rose from her knitting, and kindly took Paul by the hand. Children are instinctive readers of character, and Paul, after one glance at her benevolent face, seated himself contentedly beside her.
“I suppose,” said the old lady, socially, “you've come to live with us. We must do all we can to make you comfortable. Your name is Paul Prescott, I think Mrs. Mudge said.”
“Yes, ma'am,” answered Paul, watching the rapid movement of the old lady's fingers.
“Mine is Aunt Lucy,” she continued, “that is what everybody calls me. So now we know each other, and shall soon be good friends, I hope. I suppose you have hardly been here long enough to tell how you shall like it.”
Paul confessed that thus far he did not find it very pleasant.
“No, I dare say not,” said Aunt Lucy, “I can't say I think it looks very attractive myself. However, it isn't wholly the fault of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge. They can't afford to do much better, for the town allows them very little.”
Aunt Lucy's remarks were here interrupted by the apparition of the worthy landlady at the door.
“Dinner's ready, folks,” said that lady, with little ceremony, “and you must come out quick if you want any, for I'm drove with work, and can't be hindered long.”
The summons was obeyed with alacrity, and the company made all haste to the dining-room, or rather the kitchen, for it was here that the meals were eaten.
In the center of the room was set a table without a cloth, a table-cloth being considered a luxury quite superfluous. Upon this were placed several bowls of thin, watery liquid, intended for soup, but which, like city milk, was diluted so as hardly to be distinguishable. Beside each bowl was a slice of bread.
Such was the bill of fare.
“Now, folks, the sooner you fall to the better,” exclaimed the energetic Mrs. Mudge, who was one of those driving characters, who consider any time spent at the table beyond ten minutes as so much time wasted.
The present company appeared to need no second invitation. Their scanty diet had the positive advantage of giving them a good appetite; otherwise the quality of their food might have daunted them.
Paul took his place beside Aunt Lucy. Mechanically he did as the rest, carrying to his mouth a spoonful of the liquid. But his appetite was not sufficiently accustomed to Poor House regime to enable him to relish its standing dish, and he laid down his spoon with a disappointed look.
He next attacked the crust of bread, but found it too dry to be palatable.
“Please, ma'am,” said he to Mrs. Mudge, “I should like some butter.”
Paul's companions dropped their spoons in astonishment at his daring, and Mrs. Mudge let fall a kettle she was removing from the fire, in sheer amazement.
“What did you ask for?” she inquired, as if to make sure that her ears did not deceive her.
“A little butter,” repeated Paul, unconscious of the great presumption of which he had been guilty.
“You want butter, do you?” repeated Mr. Mudge. “Perhaps you'd like a slice of beefsteak and a piece of plum-pudding too, wouldn't you?”
“I should very much,” said Paul, resolved to tell the truth, although he now began to perceive the sarcasm in his landlady's tone.
“There isn't anything more you would like, is there?” inquired the lady, with mock politeness.
“No, ma'am,” returned Paul after a pause, “I believe not, to-day.”
“Very moderate, upon my word,” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge, giving vent at length to her pentup indignation. “You'll be contented with butter and roast beef and plum-pudding! A mighty fine gentleman, to be sure. But you won't get them here, I'll be bound.”
“So will I,” thought Aunt Lucy.
“If you ain't satisfied with what I give you,” pursued Mrs. Mudge, “you'd better go somewhere else. You can put up at some of the great hotels. Butter, forsooth!”
Having thus given expression to her feelings, she left the room, and Paul was left to finish his dinner with the best appetite he could command. He was conscious that he had offended Mrs. Mudge, but the thoughts of his recent great sorrow swallowed up all minor annoyances, so that the words of his estimable landlady were forgotten almost as soon as they were uttered. He felt that he must henceforth look for far different treatment from that to which he had been accustomed during his father's lifetime.
His thoughts were interrupted in a manner somewhat ludicrous, by the crazy girl who sat next to him coolly appropriating to herself his bowl of soup, having already disposed of her own.
“Look,” said Aunt Lucy, quickly, calling Paul's attention, “you are losing your dinner.”
“Never mind,” said Paul, amused in spite of his sadness, “she is quite welcome to it if she likes it; I can't eat it.”