Kitabı oku: «The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe: or, There's No Place Like Home», sayfa 12

"Yes."

"Didn't you like it?"

"Not very much," slowly shaking out her clean calico dress.

"I shouldn't, either. What did you earn?"

"Sometimes four dollars and a half."

"I earn six, week in and week out. Then I do a little overwork every day, which gives me Saturday afternoon. Charlie, why don't you stay?"

Mary Jane was taking down her hair, and turned round suddenly.

"I thought I would;" and Charlie blushed. "I've saved up a little money, enough to pay my board for a few weeks, until I can find something to do."

"Flower-making is first-rate. Some of the girls earn ten dollars a week. I've only been at it a year, you see. They pay a dollar a week while you're learning. Shall I try to get you in?"

"I don't know yet," was the hesitating answer.

"What makes you wear your hair short, Charlie?"

"Why – I like it so. It's no trouble."

"But it's so childish!"

Mary Jane was arranging a wonderful waterfall. On the top of this she hung a cluster of curls, and on the top of her head she tied in a bunch of frizettes with a scarlet ribbon.

"Now, that's what I call stylish;" and she turned round to Charlie. "If I was you, I'd let my hair grow; and, as soon as it is long enough to tie in a little knot, you can buy a waterfall."

Charlie was quite bewildered with these manifold adornments.

Then Mary Jane put on a white dress, a red carved ivory pin and ear-rings, and presented quite a gorgeous appearance.

"Charlie, I've been thinking – why can't you board here? I pay mother two dollars a week, and you could just as well have part of my room. Mother wanted me to let the boys have it, because there were two of them; but I wanted plenty of room. Yes: it would be real nice to have you here. I'll ask mother. I know you can find something to do."

A great load seemed lifted from Charlie's heart.

Then they went down to the next floor. The boys had the hall bedroom, and the back room was used by the heads of the family. There were two large pantries between, and then a front parlor. Charlie was quite stunned; for the place appeared fully as gorgeous as Mary Jane. A cheap Brussels carpet in bright colors, the figure of which ran all over the floor; two immense vases on the mantle, where grotesque Chinese figures were disporting on a bright green ground; a rather shabby crimson plush rocker; and some quite impossible sunsets done in oil, with showy wide gilt frames. Mrs. Wilcox had purchased them at auction, and considered them a great bargain.

Then Mary Jane, with a great deal of giggling and blushing, confessed to Charlie that she had a beau. "A real nice young man," clerk in a dry-goods store, Walter Brown by name, and that he came almost every evening.

"You can't help liking him," was the positive assertion. "I wish you didn't have short hair, nor look so much like a little girl; for you are as tall as I am."

Which was very true; but Charlie felt herself quite a child, and very much startled at the idea of beaux.

Mary Jane took out some embroidery, and did not deign to revisit the kitchen. A trifle after eight Mr. Brown made his appearance, looking neat as a pink, and nearly as sweet with perfume. For the first time in her life, Charlie was painfully bashful. When he proposed a walk to an ice-cream saloon, she would fain have remained at home; but Mary Jane over-ruled.

The walk was quite pleasant, and the cream a positive treat. Charlie said some very bright things, which Mr. Brown appeared to consider exceedingly funny. Then they rambled around a while; and when they returned, Mary Jane lingered at the hall-door to have a little private talk, while Charlie ran up stairs. Mrs. Wilcox sat in the parlor fanning herself, and eagerly questioned the child as to where they had been, and how she liked New York.

Tired and excited, Charlie went to bed at last; but she could not sleep. The strange place, the tinkle of the car-bells, the noises in the streets, and, most of all, her own thoughts, kept her wakeful. She could hardly believe that she had achieved her great ambition, and actually run away. On the whole, it was rather comical.

Had they found her letter yet? What did Hal and Granny think? Would they be very much worried?

And if she only could find out something about pictures, and begin to work in good earnest at the right thing. It was as much to her as the flowers were to dear Hal. God bless and keep them all!

CHAPTER XVI
ALMOST DISCOURAGED

Charlie was really tired on Friday, and did not feel equal to making any effort; so she assisted Mrs. Wilcox with the housework, and tidied up Mary Jane's room until one would hardly have known it. But every thing seemed so strange and new.

Late in the afternoon she gained courage to say, —

"Did Mary Jane tell you, Mrs. Wilcox, that – I'd like to stay?"

"Yes. And so you really came to York to get something to do! I s'pose there's such a host of you at home!"

Charlie swallowed over a lump in her throat. Perhaps she was not a little glad that Mrs. Wilcox did not suspect her unorthodox manner of leaving Madison.

"I mean to find something to do. And if you would board me" —

"Now, Charlie Kenneth! first you stay and make a visit, and see what you can find, before you talk of payin' board. Thank Heaven! I never begrudged any one a meal's vittles or a night's sleep. Your poor old grandmother's slaved herself half to death for you, and I'm glad to see you have some spunk."

"Then, you'll let me stay?" and a soft flush of relief stole over Charlie's face.

"Stay!" rather indignantly. "No one ever heard of Hannah Wilcox turnin' people out o' doors. Your Granny has done more than one good turn for me."

"But I've saved some money to pay my board" —

"I won't take a cent of it till you get to work, there, now! Jest you never fret yourself a word. It'll all come right, I know."

"I'm very much obliged," said Charlie, feeling as if she would like to cry.

"Mary Jane spoke of a chance of getting you at the flowers. It's light, easy work, – I tell her jest like play. But you must have a visit first."

On Saturday Mary Jane came home at noon.

"I do think Charlie Kenneth's earned a holiday," said Mrs. Wilcox. "I couldn't begin to tell the things that girl's done this mornin'. Swept and dusted, and helped me clean the closet" —

"Then you're in clover, mother;" and Mary Jane laughed. "I never could bear to do housework."

"A great kind of a wife you'll make."

"That will be some one else's look out;" and Mary Jane tossed her head in a curiously satisfied manner.

They took a promenade on Broadway in the afternoon. Charlie was delighted; and the shop-windows entertained her beyond description. They bought some trifles, – a pair of gloves, a collar, and a ribbon or two, – and Charlie found that money absolutely melted away. She had spent four dollars.

She summoned courage to question Mary Jane a little, but found her exceedingly ignorant on the great topic that absorbed her.

"I believe girls do color photographs in some places, but then you'd have to know a good deal to get a situation like that. I guess only rich girls have a chance to learn drawing and painting."

"But when it comes natural," said Charlie slowly.

"Well, I'll ask him;" and Mary Jane smiled, and nodded her head. "He knows most every thing."

"Are you going to marry him?" Charlie asked innocently, understanding the pronoun.

"Oh, I don't know!" with a toss of the head. "I mean to have some fun first. Some girls have lots of beaux."

Charlie colored. She had not the judgment or the experience to assist her in any sort of analysis; but she felt that these Wilcoxes were very different from their household. They had always been poor, lived in an old tumble-down cottage, with a bed in the parlor; were a noisy, frolicksome, romping set; given to slang, Flossy's great abhorrence; and yet – there was a clean, pure element in them all, – a kind of unconscious refinement. Florence's fine-ladyisms had not been entirely useless or wasted.

Refinement was the idea floating so dimly through Charlie's brain. In after years she understood the force of Hal's example, and the many traits Joe had laughed at as being girlish. But now she could only feel that there was a great gulf between her and Mary Jane; that the latter could not enter into her hopes and ambitions.

However, Charlie's drawings were brought to Mr. Brown for inspection.

"Why, you're a regular genius!" he exclaimed in surprise.

Charlie colored with delight, and every nerve seemed to expand with precious hope.

"It is a great pity that you are not a man."

"Why?" and Charlie opened her large eyes wonderingly.

"Because then you could do something with your talent. All these comic pictures in papers are designed by men; and they sometimes travel about, writing descriptions of places, and drawing little sketches to go with them. It is capital business."

"That is what I should like;" and Charlie's face glowed.

"But girls and women never do it. It's altogether out of their sphere. You see, that is one of the disadvantages."

Mr. Brown uttered this dogmatically.

"But if they know how, and can do it" —

"They couldn't travel about alone, running into dangers of all kinds. And it is just here. Now, some of these sketches are as good as you see in the papers; but no one would think of buying them of a woman, because it is men's work."

Charlie winked the tears out of her eyes. The argument was crushing, for she could not refute the lameness of the logic; and she had always felt sore about being a girl.

"They teach women to draw and paint down here at Cooper Institute," he said presently.

"But I suppose it costs a good deal?" and Charlie sighed.

"Yes."

"These things are for rich people," said Mary Jane with an air of authority.

Charlie could not summon heart to question further: besides, she had some ideas in her brain. Maybe she might sell her pictures to some newspaper. Any how, she would try.

She began the week with this determination. On Monday she dressed herself carefully, and gave her face a rather rigorous inspection. It did look very little-girlish. And somehow she wished her hair wasn't short, and that she could be handsome. Who ever heard of such dark eyes and light hair, such a peculiar tint too, – a kind of Quaker-drab; not golden nor auburn nor chestnut. Well, she was as she grew, and she couldn't help any of it.

By dint of inquiring now and then, she found her way about pretty well. Her first essay was in the office of an illustrated paper.

The man listened to her story with a peculiar sharp business air, and merely said, —

"No: we don't want any thing of the kind."

Charlie felt that she could not say another word, and walked out.

She stood a long while looking in the window of a print-shop, and at last ventured again.

This person was less brusque.

"My little girl," he said, "we never do any thing with such matters. We buy our pictures, printed or painted, or engravings, as the case may be, from all parts of the world. Many of them are copies from different artists well known to fame. It costs a great deal for the plate of a picture."

Which explanation was quite unintelligible to Charlie.

She rambled on until she came to a bookstore. There being only a boy within, she entered.

"Do you ever buy any pictures for books?" she asked.

"Books allus have pictures in 'em," was the oracular reply.

"But who makes them?"

"Why, engravers, of course;" with supreme astonishment at her ignorance.

"And they – do the thinking, – plan the picture, I mean?"

"What?" asked the boy, as if Charlie had spoken Greek.

"Some one must have the idea first."

He could not controvert it, and stared about helplessly.

"Are there any lady engravers?"

"No, I guess not;" scratching his head.

"And who makes these little pictures of children like this girl teaching the dog to read, and this one with the flowers?"

"Oh, I know what you want!" exclaimed the boy. "We gets 'em down in Ann Street. There's some girls working in the place. Do you know where Ann Street is?"

Some of Charlie's old humor cropped out.

"No, nor Polly Street, nor Jemima Street."

The boy studied her sharply, but preserved a sullen silence, strongly suspecting that he was being laughed at.

"Will you please tell me?" quite meekly. "And – the man's name."

The boy found a card, and directed her. Charlie trudged on with a light heart.

The place was up two flights of very dirty steps. Mr. Balcour had gone out to dinner, and she was rather glad of an excuse to rest. In the adjoining room there were three girls laughing and chatting. Now, if she could come here to work!

When Mr. Balcour entered, Charlie found him a very pleasant-looking man. She made known her errand with but little hesitation.

"It is something of a mistake," was the smiling answer. "My business is coloring prints, flower-pieces, and all that. Sometimes they are sent to me, but these little things I buy by the hundred or thousand, and color them; then picture-dealers, Sunday-schools, &c., come in here to purchase."

With that he displayed cases of birds, flowers, fancy scenes, and tiny landscapes.

"Oh, how beautiful they are!" and she glanced them over with delight. "I should like to do them!"

"Do you know any thing about water-coloring?"

"No;" rather hesitatingly, for she was not at all certain as to the precise nature of water-coloring.

"I keep several young ladies at work. It requires taste, practice, and a certain degree of genius, artistic ability."

"I meant the first thought of the picture," said Charlie, blushing. "Some one must know how it is to be made."

"Yes, certainly."

"If you would look at these" —

She opened her parcel, and spread them before him.

"Did you do them?"

He asked the question in astonishment.

"Yes," was Charlie's simple reply.

He studied her critically, which made her warm color come and go, and she interlaced her fingers nervously.

"My child, this first thought, as you call it, is designing. You have a very remarkable genius, I should say. How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"You have had some instruction!"

Charlie concluded it would be wiser to say that she had, for there was the drawing-book and Hal.

"You wish to do this for a living?" he asked kindly.

"Oh, if I could! I like it so much!" and there was a world of entreaty in Charlie's tone.

Mr. Balcour had to laugh over some of the drawings, for the faces were so spirited and expressive.

"I will tell you the very best thing for you to do. Enter the School of Design for women. The arrangements, I believe, are very good; that is, there is a chance to earn something while you are studying."

"Oh!"

Charlie's face was fairly transfigured. Mr. Balcour thought her a wonderfully pretty girl.

"It is at Cooper Institute, Third Avenue and Seventh or Eighth Street. I really do not know any thing about it, except that it does profess to assist young students in art."

"I am so much obliged to you;" and Charlie gave him a sweet, grateful smile.

"I should like to hear a little about you!" he said; "and I hope you will succeed. Come in some time and let me know. Do you live in the city?"

"No; but I am staying with some friends on Fourteenth Street."

"Not far from Cooper Institute, then."

"No, I can easily find it."

They said good-by; and Charlie threaded her way up to City Hall with a heart as light as thistle-down, quite forgetting that she had missed her dinner. Then, by car, she went up to Cooper Institute.

And now what was she to do? I told you that Charlie had a great deal of courage and perseverance. And then she was so earnest in this quest! She inquired in a china-store, and was directed up stairs.

It was very odd indeed. First she stumbled into a reading-room, and was guided from thence to the art-gallery by a boy. The pictures amused and interested her for quite a while. One lady and two gentlemen were making copies.

By and by she summoned courage to ask the lady which was the school, or study-room.

"School of Design?"

"Yes," timidly.

"It is closed."

Charlie's countenance fell.

"When will it be open?"

"About the first of October."

The child gave a great sigh of disappointment.

"Were you thinking of entering?"

"I wanted to see – if I could."

"Have you painted any?"

"No: but I have been drawing a little."

"You are rather young, I think."

Then the lady went on with her work. Charlie turned away with tears in her eyes. A whole month to wait!

Mrs. Wilcox plied her with questions on her return, but Charlie was not communicative.

After a night's rest she felt quite courageous again. She would see what could be done about engraving.

Poor Charlie! There were no bright spots in this day. Everybody seemed cross and in a hurry. One man said coarsely, —

"You needn't tell me you did them things by yourself. You took 'em from some picturs."

So she came home tired and dispirited. Mary Jane had a crowd of gay company in the evening, and Charlie slipped off to bed. Oh, if she could only give Dot a good hug, and kiss Hal's pale face, and hear Granny's cracked voice! Even the horrible tuning of Kit's fiddle would sound sweet. But to be here, – among strangers, – and not be able to make her plans work.

Charlie turned her face over on the pillow, and had a good cry. After all, there never could be anybody in this world half so sweet as "The old woman who lived in a shoe!"

On Wednesday it rained. Charlie was positively glad to have a good excuse for staying within doors. She helped Mrs. Wilcox with her sewing, and told her every thing she could remember about the people at Madison.

"How strange it must look, – and a railroad through the middle of it! There wa'n't no mills in my time, either. And rows of houses, Mary Jane said. She'd never 'a' known the place if it hadn't been for the folks. Dear, dear!"

Mary Jane came home in high feather that night.

"I found they were taking on some girls to-day, Charlie; and I spoke a good word for you. You can come next Monday. I don't believe you'll make out much with the pictures."

"You were very good;" but Charlie's lip quivered a little.

"It will be ever so nice to have company up and down! and you'll like it, I'm sure."

Mary Jane, being of a particularly discursive nature, was delighted to have a constant listener.

"Well, that was better than nothing," Charlie thought. She might work a while, and perhaps learn something more definite about the School of Design.

"For I'll never give it up, never!" and Charlie set her resolute red lips together, while her eyes glanced into the future.

The following morning was so lovely, that she felt as if she must have a walk. She put on her white dress and sacque, and looked as fresh as a rose. She would go over on Broadway, where every thing was clean and lovely, and have a delightful time looking at the shop-windows and the beautiful ladies.

It was foolish to take her pictures along, and yet she did it. They really appeared a part of her life. On and on she sauntered, enjoying every thing with the keenest relish. The mellow sun, the refreshing air that had in it a crisp flavor, the cloudless sky overhead, and the bright faces around, made her almost dance with gladness.

She stood for a long while viewing some chromos in a window, – two or three of children, which were very piquant and amusing, and appealed to her love of fun. Obeying her impulse she entered, and stole timidly around. Two gentlemen were talking, and one of the faces pleased her exceedingly. A large, fair, fresh-complexioned man, with curly brown hair, and a patriarchal beard, snowy white, though he did not appear old.

A young fellow came to her presently, and asked if there was any thing he could show her.

"I should like to see the gentleman – when he is – disengaged."

That speech would have done credit to Florence.

The youth carried the message, and the proprietor glanced around. Not the one with the beautiful beard, and Charlie felt rather disappointed.

They talked a while longer, then he came forward.

"You wished to see me?"

Charlie turned scarlet to the tips of her fingers, and stammered something in an absurdly incoherent fashion.

"Oh! you did not interrupt me – particularly," and he smiled kindly. "What can I do for you?"

"Will you tell me – who made the first design – for – those pictures in the window, – the children, I mean?"

"Different artists. Two, I think, are by ladies."

"And how did they get to do it? I mean, after they made the sketch, who painted it?"

"Those are from the original paintings. The artist had the thought, and embodied it in a sketch."

"But suppose no one wanted to buy it?"

"That has happened;" and he smiled again. "Why? Have you been trying your hand at pictures?"

"Yes," answered Charlie in great doubt and perplexity. "Only mine are done in pencil. If you would look at them."

Charlie's eyes were so beseeching, that he could not resist.

She opened her small portfolio, – Hal's handiwork. The gentleman glanced over two or three.

"Did you do these yourself?"

"Yes;" and Charlie wondered that she should be asked the question so frequently.

"Who taught you?"

"My brother, a little; but I think it comes natural," said Charlie in her earnestness, knowing no reason why she should not tell the truth.

"Darol, here is a genius for you!" he exclaimed, going back to his friend.

Charlie watched them with throbbing heart and bated breath. She was growing very sensitive.

"That child!" "Come here, little girl, will you?" said Mr. Darol, beckoning her towards them.

"Who put the faces in these?"

"I did;" and the downcast lids trembled perceptibly.

"How long have you been studying?"

"Oh! I could always do that," answered Charlie. "I used to in school. And some of them are just what did happen."

"This, – Mr. Kettleman's troubles?" and he scrutinized her earnestly.

"There was a man working in the mill whose name was Kettleman, and he always carried a dinner-kettle. But I thought up the adventures myself."

Charlie uttered this very modestly, and yet in a quiet, straightforward manner, that bore the impress of sincerity.

The first picture was Mr. Kettleman purchasing his kettle. A scene in a tin-shop; the seller a round, jolly fellow, about the shape of a beer-cask; and Mr. Kettleman tall and thin, with a long nose, long fingers, and long legs. He was saying, "Will it hold enough?" The faces were capital.

In the second Mrs. Kettleman was putting up her husband's dinner. There were piles and piles of goodies; and his cadaverous face was bent over the mass, the lips slightly parted, the nose longer than ever, and asking solemnly, "Can you get it all in, Becky?"

The third showed a group of laughing men round a small table, which was spread with different articles. One fellow held the pail up-side-down, saying, "The last crumb." The head of Mr. Kettleman was just in sight, ascending the stairs.

Lastly the kettle tied to a dog's tail. Mr. Kettleman in the distance, taller, thinner, and exceedingly woebegone, watching his beloved but unfortunate kettle as it thumped over the stones.

There were many irregularities and defects, but the faces were remarkable for expression. Mr. Darol laughed heartily.

"How old are you?" asked Mr. Wentworth, glancing curiously at the slender slip of a girl.

"Fifteen."

"You don't look that."

"You have a wonderful gift," said Mr. Darol thoughtfully.

"Oh, that is real!" exclaimed Charlie eagerly, as they turned to another. "My brother was in a store once, and sold some pepper for allspice. The woman put it in her pie."

"So I should judge from her husband's face;" and they both laughed again, and praised Charlie to her heart's content.

By degrees Mr. Darol drew Charlie's history from her. She did not conceal her poverty nor her ambition; and her love for her one talent spoke eloquently in every line of her face.

"My child, you have a remarkable genius for designing. The school at Cooper Institute will be just the place for you. Wentworth, I think I shall take her over to Miss Charteris. What is your name, little one?"

"Charlie Kenneth."

"Charlie?" in amaze.

"It was Charlotte, but I've always been called Charlie."

"Just the name for you! Miss Charlie, you have a world of energy and spirit. I know you will succeed. And now it would give me great pleasure to take you to the studio of an artist friend."

The tears came into Charlie's eyes: she couldn't help it, though she tried to smile.

"Oh!" with a tremulous sob, "it's just like a dream. And you are so good! I'd go with one meal a day if I could only draw pictures!"

And Charlie was lovely again, with her face full of smiles, tears, and blushes. Earnest, piquant, and irregular, she was like a picture herself.

It seemed to Charlie that in five minutes they reached Miss Charteris's studio; and she stood in awe and trembling, scarcely daring to breathe. For up to this date she had hardly been able to believe that any woman in the world besides Rosa Bonheur had actually painted pictures.

"I have brought you a new study, Miss Charteris. A romance and a small young woman."

"Well, Paul Darol! I don't believe there is your equal in the world for picking up the lame and the halt and the blind, and the waifs and strays. What now?" and Miss Charteris laughed with such a musical ripple that Charlie turned and answered her with a smile.

"First look at these, and then let me tell you a story."

"Very fair and vigorous sketches;" and Miss Charteris glanced curiously at Charlie.

Then Mr. Darol began with the story, telling his part first, and calling in Charlie to add sundry helps to the other.

"And so, you see, I ventured to try your good temper once more, and bring her to you."

"What shall I do, – paint her? She might sit for a gypsy girl now, but in ten years she will be a handsome woman. What an odd, trustful child! This promises better than some of your discoveries."

"Well, help me to get her into the School of Design, and make a successful genius of her. She is too plucky for any one to refuse her a helping hand."

Miss Charteris began to question Charlie. She had a vein of drollery in her own nature; and in half an hour Charlie was laughing and talking as if she had known her all her lifetime. What pleased Mr. Darol most was her honesty and unflinching truth. She told of their poverty and struggles, of the love and the fun they had shared together; but there was a little tremor in her voice as she said, "We had one sister who was adopted by a rich lady."

The matter was soon settled, being in the right hands. Charlie was registered as a pupil at the school; and Miss Charteris taught her to re-touch photographs, and found her an opportunity to do a little work. It was something of a hardship to go on boarding with Mrs. Wilcox; but they were so fond of her, and so proud of what they could not understand!

So you do not wonder, I fancy, that Charlie's letter should be such a jubilate. Ah, if she could only earn a little money to take back with her!

She saw Miss Charteris and Mr. Darol quite often. He was like a father, but sweeter and dearer than any one's father she had ever known. When she went home, she meant to coax Hal to return with her, just for the pleasure of meeting such splendid people; "for he is the best of all of us," she used to say to Miss Charteris.

Ah, Charlie, if you dreamed of what was happening in the Old Shoe!