# The Junior Revolution

Extracted from Smart Set, May 1900, pp. 155-160
THE JUNIOR REVOLUTION
By Philip Verrill Mighels
THEY rang the notes from the china saucer-bells with the silver clapper-spoons, and sipped at the steaming tea.
"Henry Rust Archer, you haven't heard a word I've been saying," complained the wife of the man, who was over his head and ears in the morning paper.
"Yes I have, my dear. Ha, ha! Here's a good one: 'Funnyfellow—"Where are the jokes I sent last week?" Editor—"Johnny, have you seen Mr. Funnyfellow's jokes?" Johnny—"No, sir; me an' Jimmy read 'em, but we couldn't see 'em!"’"
"I don't think it's dreadfully funny, my dear," she replied. Then her voice assumed a serious tone: "Henry, I have made a very important discovery since they persuaded me to join. Are you listening, dear?"
"Ye-es—loin or porterhouse—all the same. Here's another."
"Please don't give me another," she pleaded, and gently snipping the paper from his fingers, she sat upon it plumply. "I didn't say loin, and I didn't say porterhouse, so that proves you cannot read and listen. It is something very serious— about your lack of a Revolutionary ancestor—and I feel compelled to speak."
"I thought the Revolution was over and done," said he, a trifle impatiently.
"But, my darling, its spirit isn't dead——"
"H'm!"
"And since becoming a Daughter, I have learned of a painful duty, which only this very minute I have made up my mind to perform as a solemn obligation."
"You have? Well, Eunice, pet, I beg you to bear in mind that I am not the British—if the war has to be waged anew."
"There isn't going to be anything waged," she replied. "If you'll only help me the matter will soon be settled, firmly and quietly."
He hid himself behind his cup of tea.
She waited a moment.
"You don't seem interested at all, or anxious," she observed, at length.
"What?" said he. "Anxious about what?"
"There, I think you are perfectly mean. You haven't heard a word, after all. You never used to treat me so!"
"My darling, I have listened to everything. It's the war you mean, of course. Anxious?—of course I'm anxious—terribly worried. I'm a man of peace. A revolution is a fearful thing. You never can tell whether it's concluded or not—volcano-like—and it's enough to worry anyone."
She sighed. "Your spirit of ridicule, dear—but never mind. I'm afraid I irritate you merely. I never used to—you have said so a hundred thousand times. Perhaps I'd better try to fight it out, bitterly, alone."
"Oh, come, my dear, I really want to know. I'm interested—quite," and he settled himself resignedly.
"I don't believe it," she replied, with a shade of hope, "but the matter is grave, and therefore I need your help."
She spread out a paper on the table. "Now there. You know, of course, that my great-grandfather was present at the Battle of Bunker Hill?"
"I think I have heard you mention the fact, in a casual manner—a time or two. Played on a whistle, I believe "
"Henry! Now, I think that's cruel. You know he was a drummer of the regiment."
"Well, I believe he was. No particular difference. Let it go at a drummer."
"He was a very brave drummer," she added. "And you once pretended to be very proud indeed of having him in the family. And you know, dearest Henry, the Daughters of the American Revolution have issued my pin, and my name is on the rolls?"
"Yes, I think I may safely say that I do—by now."
"Well, you know descendants of officers take a higher social rank than descendants of mere musket soldiers, everywhere."
"Er—do they? Maybe they do—the matter was never brought to my attention—not vividly."
"I am sorry," she said; "but such is really the case, and so, of course, you can easily imagine how very much higher descendants of officers stand than people whose ancestors never fought at all."
"H'm! Some of us haven't a peg to stand on at all, according to that. But it's all right, my dear, and I'll just go for a walk and think it over."
"Oh, no, please—just a moment. This is only preparatory of what is to come."
"Oh!"
"You—you know, dear—you have often admitted—that none of the Archers fought in the glorious Revolution."
"In shame and sorrow," said he, "I have been obliged to confess the humiliating truth—the degrading truth. But you know, my precious, that I wasn't born at the time."
"Of course you weren't, you dear, brave fellow. And—and now it becomes my painful duty to tell you, dear, that I don't see how we can ever permit my sister Hope to marry Frank."
"How's that?" he demanded, suddenly; "not permit Hope and Frank— Why, nonsense, my dear; they've been engaged for months! And they love each other devotedly—distractedly!"
"Of course—and that's the painful, dreadful part; but, dearest love, what possible difference can that make in a case so serious? Frank isn't even the descendant of a common musket-man, as you've always said, and Hope is a Daughter of the American Revolution, regularly installed, and is going-to have a pin, being directly descended from Nathan Goodenow, a regular drum officer, present at the Battle——"
"But, my darling wife, is Frank to blame for that? Come, come, let us be sensible and let these revolutions and pins and things go to the deuce. You wouldn't break two innocent young hearts on a scheme like that?"
"Oh, Henry, I thought you would help me, instead of making it all so hard, and swearing at your poor little wife in the bargain. I am trying my best to be sensible—you know I always do—and you've called me the most sensible little woman in the world—you know you have; and Hope is my ward. I stand in the place of her dear dead mother. Do you think I could endure, in after years, to have her reproach me for permitting this wholly unequal match? Oh, my duty is plain. It is painful—it is terrible, of course, but should I therefore shirk it? Don't you see that my path is straight and well defined—that I am simply compelled——?"
"No, my precious; I confess I don't—not precisely. I think this business silly—the biggest lot of foolishness and rot I've heard for a year! Duty? No! Meddling—that's what it is—meddling!"
"Oh!" she moaned, reeling. "Silly! foolishness! meddling! Oh, that I should ever hear my darling husband speak like that—to his own little wife, in her great distress!" and she sank into her chair, all but ready to cry.
"Aw—now, I say, Euny, dearest," he said, "I didn't mean it to sound like that—I only meant that Frank and Hope—you'd wreck their lives. You know we've made them put it off so long already, and a drummer, you know——"
"I'm a wrecker of lives!" she moaningly interrupted. "I'm a fool and a tyrant—and a meddler! But oh, Henry dearest, I love you still, and you may call me anything you like. I shall love you always."
"Oh, dearest, don't," he coaxed. "I didn't call you a single thing but a dear, sweet, precious little woman, who is beautifully human, and therefore likely to make mistakes with the best——"
"I can bear it all—anything—now," she said, and she closed her eyes in bravest resignation.
"My darling," he insisted, "you don't have to bear anything at all. Now, do be reasonable, just for a second. I only say that Frank——"
"Yes—your affectionate nephew, who hasn't a single fighting ancestor——"
"—that Frank——"
"—that you love more than you do——"
"—that Frank and Hope are much the same as you and I."
"What?"
"Yes; if they're to be parted, how am I to stand? I'm loaded, unfortunately, with Frank's same identical peaceful progenitors. I trust you'll not be asking the judge to grant a divorce, on——"
"Oh! Oh!—my head—my heart—divorce! Oh, you—mean to cast—me off!" she gasped. "So this was what—you married me for, with all your words of love—to throw me aside! Yes—I see it all now—to shatter my life—my hopes! No, sir; don't you touch me! Divorce—my husband——"
"Hold on, now, little wife," he cried in desperation. "You're 'way off the track—or maybe I'm crazy; but, for heaven's sake, what on earth are we quarreling about, anyway? I don't want a divorce—I couldn't live without my darling wife—and I only said——"
"Don't, please, say it again," she sobbed, in a stifled voice; "I'll go, dear love—even if it kills me—I'll go home—to Hope."
"But, dearest Eunice, I didn't say anything. Frank can go to the deuce—paddle his own canoe—conduct his own battles! I'm done with the whole concern—you can do what you please with the match. I—I beg your pardon, dear. Forgive me—do."
She merely sobbed.
"Oh, now, dearest, forgive me, please. I am doubtless all in the wrong, and—Frank be hanged! Now come; give me a kiss, and forgive your poor old soldier of peace."
"You said—no—I can't kiss you!—not yet. It's too soon," and she sighed repeatedly. "But I'll—be just—as generous—as you—I'll look—all through the book—again—with you—to see if—we can't—find a Revolutionary—ancestor."
"Oh, thank you, dear. Is that the book?"
"Yes, it is. 'American Genealogy.' And there, there are the A's—and not an Archer on the page."
"No, there isn't," he agreed, and he slipped his arm about her waist, the better to look at the book.
"Now, you see, you have to hunt for your mother's father," she resumed, as she dried away her tears. "Do you know his name?"
"Rust—Henry Rust."
"P, Q, R," said she. "Here's the place, R-u-b, R-u-n— Why, here's a Rust—I wonder if he's— 'Captain Henry Rust. … A captain in the Revolutionary army. Present at Bunker Hill, Brandy-wine—' Why, let me think—this couldn't have been—your grandmother's father? 'Children, Henry Rust, Evelina Rust——'"
"My grandmother's name was Evelina."
"Oh! … Oh! Why—then-do you think—think this book can possibly be authentic, Henry? Where's my paper? Did I mention Brandy-wine?"
The Genealogy lay on its back, wide open at the page, while she hunted rapidly about and found her copy of the record.
"Here it is," she said, in a fever of excitement. "Yes. 'Nathan Goodenow, drummer, served under Captains Strong, Gorham—Rust … 'Why—what does—that mean? Nathan Goodenow served under Captain Rust? Oh,—I—don't believe it. I don't care—I don't believe that Henry Rust was ever your ancestor at all!"
"Neither do I," said her husband, cautiously. "He couldn't have been, of course."
"Yes, he was," she cried. "You did that just to make me feel humiliated!"
"I say now, Eunice, that isn't fair. As if I could help it! Hang the luck! I'm not the father of my great-grandfather—I couldn't make him stay at home—I couldn't keep him from rearing a family—I didn't start the blasted, everlasting old Revolution! There, dearest, let us drop the subject."
She was silent, pouting and doubting.
"I was thinking of asking you, a while ago," said he, in a brighter tone of voice, "what sort of a present we should get for Hope and Frank."
"There—there you go," she cried at once, "and after we both agreed the match was off."
"Off?" he echoed. "Did we, dearest? But why? Surely there is no objection now—not—not on the——"
"Oh, he taunts me with it now. That's generous, dear; gloat all you can over your crushed, defeated wife!"
"But, dearest, I only intended to ask your reasons for opposing the match."
"No, you didn't. You intended to flaunt your captain over my poor drummer, for you know that my reasons are always good. They could never be happy. Your nephew would be sure to assume all the airs and condescensions of people descended from officers in the American Revolution. He would make the life of my poor little sister simply miserable and wretched. No, it would be really inhuman. I can never consent to such a very unhappy union! … What—what is that knocking?"
"Don't know," said Henry, dejectedly. "I've lost all power of thinking," and aloud he called, "Come in!"
The door swung quickly and closed behind a tall and active young fellow, alert and smiling, who advanced at once.
"Oh!" said Henry. "Morning, Frank."
"Good morning to you both," he answered, brightly. "I'm delighted to see you both appearing so fresh and beaming. Delightful day. I—er—I thought I'd just come around—you know—such a beautiful day—to—er— talk about the—well—about things, you know— Hope and I——"
Henry raised a deprecating hand.
"What's the trouble, Unk?" said Frank in surprise. "You and Aunty Eunice haven't been—discussing the bills, I hope."
"Henry," said Eunice, pleadingly, "do not keep me longer in this terrible condition of worry. Tell your nephew the truth."
"The truth?" said Frank. "Is there anything the matter?"
"Ye-es—there is," said his uncle. "Fact is, my boy, that the match— match, you know—is off."
"Off?" repeated Frank; "the deuce!—well—that—that's unfortunate—very." He sat at the table suddenly and laid his hand on the open genealogical volume.
"Er—you see," said his uncle, awkwardly, "the trouble is that none of the Archers ever fought in the American Revolution—and Hope— well, her great-grandfather did. Wide social discrepancy—can't be bridged." And then, in a desperate aside to his wife: "He doesn't know about the captain—best we can do."
Frank was silent. It was evident to both he was struggling to suppress his rising emotions. His eyes were fastened on the book, and he was reading, in a purely mechanical manner.
"Social—discrepancy," he murmured, hazily; "awkward—'Captain Henry Rust——'"
"Frank—Mr. Archer!" cried Eunice in a sudden excitement, "that book—kindly give that book to me."
"This book?" said Frank, with a mind mysteriously easy to divert, "why, but this is something remarkable. 'Captain Henry Rust. A captain in the Revolutionary army. Present at Bunker——'"
"Frank!" cried his aunt again, but this time she possessed herself of the book at a bound.
"Why, I say, Uncle Henry," said he in surprise, "the book isn't poisonous, I hope? Captain Henry Rust, he's the sturdy old gent you were speaking about. Funny we never knew this record of his. Well, say, this gives me a social standing myself."
"Ye-es—no—no. You see the Archers—the Archers—never fought," said Henry, dubiously. "We—we knew about Rust, of course, but that—that's different."
"Very different, indeed," said his wife. "It is very unfortunate, but it cannot be altered."
"I see," said Frank. "But, of course, inasmuch as my great-great-grandfather was a colonial officer, why, I presume I am entitled to plume myself according to my own deductions."
"Oh, of course," said his aunt; "you will do as you please concerning that."
"Thank you kindly. I happened to see by the paper that the Daughters of the American Revolution are making quite a fuss about placing descendants of officers higher in social circles than the descendants of men who were merely privates."
"What a very un-American practice!" said his aunt.
"Oh, I don't know," said Frank, "but at any rate, Hope—Miss Goodenow—never pretended that what's-his-name, old Nathan Goodenow, was anything more than a splendid drummer——"
"Oh," said Mrs. Archer; "oh, the sacrilege!"
Frank was surprised. "Why, I thought that was putting it nicely. So you see, Uncle Henry, that I am forced to a level in society which renders it necessary for me to say that, after what has occurred to-day, I cannot think of marrying Miss Good——"
"Henry," cried Eunice, excitedly, "do you mean to stand there in patience and listen to your insolent nephew repudiating the sister of your wife? Frank Archer, you sha'n't, you shall not trifle with that young girl's affections!"
"But——"
"No, sir, no; you sha'n't say a word. Henry Archer, don't you ever permit him to utter a word. Such a long and trying engagement—and her sweet young hopes so long deferred—her clinging, affectionate nature—and the way you have kept her waiting! You cruel thing—There! I hear the poor little wounded thing in the hall."
She ran to the door at astonishing speed. "Hope—Hope, my dear, darling sister, come to the arms of your own adoring Eunice."
A blushing young woman, radiant and lovely, was nearly being strangled in the warm embrace of her sister.
"Oh—then—Frank has told—you—know all—all about it," she gasped, in smothered sentences. "Oh, you—dear—darling thing!"
"Know about what?" said Eunice, suddenly, dropping her arms and looking from one to the other in the room. "Frank has told us what?"
"I-was trying to tell," started Frank, "but I couldn't get——"
"You haven't told a thing," said his aunt, interrupting.
"Oh, Lord!" said Henry, and he held his hands to his aching head.
"Hope," continued Eunice, "tell me instantly the meaning of all this mystery."
"Why—Frank—came on ahead—on purpose to tell," replied the girl, and she twirled a ring upon her finger.
"Well—to tell us what?"
"I said that after what had occurred," said Frank, "it would hardly be possible——"
"Stop!" commanded Eunice. "Don't you think of repeating what you said, in the presence of my sister. Hope, what is that on your finger?"
"Why—that—that's—it!" said the girl.
"Now we're in for more," gasped Uncle Henry and he sat himself down resignedly.
"That's what I've been trying to tell," insisted Frank. "The fact is that we—we got tired of waiting, and—and went and got married—this morning."
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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