 | II.
THE IDOL OF HIS GRANDPARENTS. Coupon bonds, and other stories |  |
2. II.
THE IDOL OF HIS GRANDPARENTS.
While the two sat there musing in the twilight, the
door opened, and a young man, or rather a big boy, burst
in, with a loud and abrupt manner, slamming the door
much apparent expectation of hitting it.
“Clinton, my dear,” said the old lady, in the tremulous
accents of fond but querulous age, “why can't you hang
up your things, when you come in? 'T would be so little
trouble to you, and 't would save me a sight. You 're
such a harum-scarum, tearin' boy! Now, Clinton!”
“O, don't bother! I 'm tired,” said Clinton, flinging
his overcoat on one chair, while he jerked another about,
and sat down on it, between the old folks, perching his
feet on the top of the stove.
“Clinton, you 'll burn yer boots,” said the old man, in a
tone of mild warning.
“No, I won't; there a'n't heat enough to burn a —
Thunder and lightning!” said Clinton, flirting his finger,
after indiscreetly touching the stove with it, “what do
you keep such a big fire for?”
He pulled off his boots, and hurled them into the corner,
and sat in his stockings, with his feet on the stove-hearth,
looking hugely dissatisfied, and glowering at his
grandparents. For this was he, this was the idol, — being,
as a matter of course, like most idols, unworthy of the
worship he received.
“Clinton, what 's the matter with ye to-night?” said
the old man, with some impatience.
“Nothing, of course! I 've never anything to complain
of! O, of course not!”
“Wal, wal! what have ye to complain of?”
“It 's nothing, of course, that you both begin to scold
me, soon as ever I set foot into the house. It 's first
my cap, then my boots, then something else. But I 'm
sick of it; and sometimes I think I never will come into
this house again. It 's like coming into a tomb.”
“Wal, I suppose it is,” said the old man; “I can't
Tell her I 'm waiting for my supper.”
“Tell him I 'm waiting for a pail of water,” said the old
lady, who had, in fact, been waiting for it during the past
half-hour, having no interpreter through whom to ask for
it, being too infirm to go herself to the well.
“Why can't you draw a pail of water, Clinton?” said
the old man.
“I 've just got my boots off,” said Clinton, with a snarl
and a frown.
The old man got up, and went out for the water. The
old lady got up, and, without a word of reproach, took
care of the young fellow's cap and coat. He saw her
stoop painfully to the floor, bending her poor old back,
and then reach painfully to the pegs, which it was no
effort at all for him to reach; he heard the involuntary
groans that escaped her; and there he still sat, not once
offering to help her, nor seeming to care. And yet he was
not a bad-hearted boy, this Clinton. In the village, he
enjoyed the reputation of being a “first-rate fellow.” His
generous and jovial traits made him a favorite with many,
who never suspected what a thunder-cloud he sometimes
was at home. There, the agreeable companion became at
once a grouty grandson. This was not simply because his
home was gloomy, although this circumstance no doubt
aggravated his fault. But the dark spirit was within himself;
it had been fostered by indulgence and confirmed
by habit, until, though his pride and his ambition to
please enabled him to conceal it in society, at home it
would have been scarcely possible for him to be anything
else than a blusterer and an ingrate.
“Where have you been, to get so tired?” asked the old
lady. “You ought to have gone to meetin' this arternoon,
Clinton; you ha'n't been for a month.”
“There! I knew I should get scolded for something
else in a minute! I could n't go to meeting; Phil Kermer
wanted me. I 'm in the ice this year. We 've been boring.
We 've bored in a dozen different places all over
both ponds. Phil said he did n't know what he should do
without me,” said Clinton, brightening, for now he had a
chance to brag.
“You and Phil are great friends, a'n't ye?” said the old
lady; and that flattered him.
“I bet we are! He is the smartest fellow and the best
fellow there is in this town. He is six years older than I
am; but that don't make any difference, — we 're just
like brothers. He calls me Clint and I call him Phil.
He is the Ice Company's foreman this year; they trust
him with everything; he 'll have three or four hundred
men under him soon as we begin to cut. Won't it be
lively?”
“What have you been boring for?”
“To see how much ice has made since yesterday, and to
see if it 'll do to put our horses on to-morrow, in case it
snows to-night. Phil is dead-sure it 's going to snow. If
we get three or four inches, it 'll have to be scraped off.
I 'm to be Phil's right-hand man; did you know it?”
“Why, are you, Clinton? What are you going to do?”
said the old lady, proceeding to fill the teakettle, now that
the pail of water was brought in.
“I 'm to be the marker. When we have so many men
and horses at work, somebody must keep count of 'em, you
know. I 'm to have all their names in a list, and then go
round among 'em every day and see who 's at work and
who a'n't, who does his duty and who shirks, and mark
'em. Then I 'm to look after things in general,” said Clint,
pompously tossing his head and pursing his lips, — “give
orders, and report, you know.”
“I hope you won't git into the pond, my dear!” said
the old lady with a shudder.
“O, pshaw, now! don't be silly! Of course I sha' n't
get into the pond. We do business on scientific principles.
We know to a pound just how much weight ice of a certain
thickness will bear, — so many inches, so many hundred
pounds, you know; it must be so thick for men, and
so thick for horses. Phil and I have got the figgers, — we
understand.”
“Don't accidents ever happen?”
“Yes, sometimes. Fellows get careless, and men and
horses get in.”
“O Clinton!” said the old lady, in a trembling voice,
“what should I do, if you —”
“Bah! you make me sick,” said Clint, with manly disgust,
turning his back upon her, to manifest his disapprobation
of such womanly weakness, and sitting there in her
way, never once offering to move out of it, all the while
she was getting supper.
“Clinton,” said the old man, resuming his seat, “I am
afraid to have you so intimate with that Phil Kermer.”
Clint gave a scornful snort. “What next, I wonder!
You talk to me just as if I was a child!” And the young
gentleman took care to show very plainly that his dignity
was hurt.
“He 's a man of bad habits, and I 'm afraid you 'll fall
into 'em,” the old man continued.
“He? Oh!” Clint sneered.
“He 's a capable fellow, but he drinks; and for my part,
I wonder the company should ever have put him in the
position where he is. I 'm sorry you 've got in with him;
he 'll flatter ye to yer ruin.”
The young gentleman was mightily offended at this; and
as he could think of no more effective way of resenting the
of the corner, pulled them on, and stalked out of the
house; thus implying that, tired as he was, he could
endure anything better than the unreasonableness of
these old people, and, to do him justice, really believing
himself an abused young man.
He had stayed out in the cold about long enough, and
was growing quite angry at the thought that he was, after
all, punishing himself more than he was them, when the
lamp was lighted, showing that supper was ready; and he
had a good excuse for going in. He was determined, however,
not to relax for an instant the awful severity of his
wrathful countenance; but, on the contrary, to convey,
by every means in his power, the terrible impression that
it was not probable he could ever bring himself to overlook
what had passed.
The old lady was wise enough to let him eat his supper
in silence. But the old man, laying down his knife and fork,
and sitting back in his chair, looked sternly at the youth,
and said, “Clinton, it grieves me to the heart to see you act
so.” (Nothing could have pleased Clinton more.) “But, let
me tell you now, that if you don't change for the better in
this respect, you and I 'll have to part.” (He did n't like
that quite so well, for the old man seemed to be in earnest.)
“I 've borne with your surly temper long enough.
You can be pleasant in society; why, then, can't you learn
to behave yourself at home? You know I would do anything
in the world for you, that was for your good; but the
more I indulge you, the more ungrateful and insolent and
sullen you are. You must reform, if you stay under this
roof; do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Clinton, lowering, but respectful, for he
knew better than to trifle with the old man when his jaws
had that expression. He took early occasion, however, to
bosoms with remorse, by putting on his cap and
coat immediately after supper, and once more departing
from the house.
“O dear! O dear! O dear!” sighed the old lady, as
she slowly and with shaking hands cleared away the
dishes. But the old man sat silent and stern in his corner,
thinking how he should do his duty by that young
man.
| II.
THE IDOL OF HIS GRANDPARENTS. Coupon bonds, and other stories | |