Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life by Jr. Horatio Alger (top 10 novels to read TXT) 📕

WE left Ida confined in a dark closet, with Peg standing guard over her.

After an hour she was released.

“Well,” said Peg, grimly, “how do you feel now?”

“I want to go home,” sobbed the child.

“You are at home,” said the woman. “This is going to be your home now.”

“Shall I never see father and mother and Jack, again?”

“Why,” answered Peg, “that depends on how you behave yourself.”

“Oh, if you will only let me go,” said Ida, gathering hope from this remark, “I'll do anything you say.”

“Do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting away?”

“Oh, I mean just what I say. Dear, good Mrs. Hardwick, just tell me what I am to do, and I will obey you cheerfully.”

“Very well,” said Peg, “only you needn't try to get anything out of me by calling me dear, good Mrs. Hardwick. In the first place, you don't care a cent about me. In the second place, I am not good; and finally, my name isn't Mrs. Hardwick, except in New York.”

“What is it, then?” asked Ida.

“It's just Peg, no more and no less. You may call me Aunt Peg.”

“I would rather call you Mrs. Hardwick.”

“Then you'll have a good many years to call me so. You'd better do as I tell you if you want any favors. Now what do you say?”

“Yes, Aunt Peg,” said Ida, with a strong effort to conceal her repugnance.

“That's well. Now the first thing to do, is to stay here for the present.”

“Yes—aunt.”

“The second is, you're not to tell anybody that you came from New York. That is very important. You understand that, do you?”

The child replied in the affirmative.

“The next is, that you're to pay for your board, by doing whatever I tell you.”

“If it isn't wicked.”

“Do you suppose I would ask you to do anything wicked?”

“You said you wasn't good,” mildly suggested Ida.

“I'm good enough to take care of you. Well, what do you say to that? Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“There's another thing. You ain't to try to run away.”

Ida hung down her head.

“Ha!” said Peg. “So you've been thinking of it, have you?”

“Yes,” said Ida, boldly, after a moment's hesitation; “I did think I should if I got a good chance.”

“Humph!” said the woman; “I see we must understand one another. Unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and I shall keep you there all the time.”

Ida shuddered at this fearful threat, terrible to a child of nine.

“Do you promise?”

“Yes,” said the child, faintly.

“For fear you might be tempted to break your promise, I have something to show you.”

She went to the cupboard, and took down a large pistol.

“There,” she said, “do you see that?”

“Yes, Aunt Peg.”

“What is it?”

“It is a pistol, I believe.”

“Do you know what it is for?”

“To shoot people with,” said Ida, fixing her eyes on the weapon, as if impelled by a species of fascination.

“Yes,” said the woman; “I see you understand. Well, now, do you know what I would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or attempt to run away? Can you guess now?”

“Would you shoot me?” asked the child, struck with terror.

“Yes, I would,” said Peg, with fierce emphasis. “That's just what I'd do. And what's more,” she added, “even if you got away, and got back to your family in New York. I would follow you and shoot you dead in the street.”

“You wouldn't be so wicked!” exclaimed Ida, appalled.

“Wouldn't I, though?” repeated Peg, significantly. “If you don't believe I would, just try it. Do you think you would like to try it?”

“No,” said the child, with a shudder.

“Well, that's the most sensible thing you've said yet. Now, that you have got to be a little more reasonable, I'll tell you what I am going to do with you.”

Ida looked up eagerly into her face.

“I am going to keep you with me a year. I want the services of a little girl for that time. If you serve me faithfully, I will then send you back to your friends in New York.”

“Will you?” said Ida, hopefully.

“Yes. But you must mind and do what I tell you.”

“O yes,” said the child, joyfully.

This was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the prospect of returning home, even after a year, gave her fresh courage.

“What shall I do?” she asked, anxious to conciliate Peg.

“You may take the broom,—you will find it just behind the door,—and sweep the room.”

“Yes, Aunt Peg.”

“And after that you may wash the dishes. Or, rather, you may wash the dishes first.”

“Yes, Aunt Peg.”

“And after that I will find something for you to do.”

The next morning Ida was asked if she would