When affairs of a family once begin to stir, they seem unable to
settle till a flurry takes place quite bewildering to the stagnant
ideas of the easy-going. The fact that Deena was coming back to her
old quarters in the third story was the first event to excite a
flutter of interest in the Shelton home circle; with Mr. Shelton,
because she was his favorite child; with Mrs. Shelton, because Deena
would both pay and help; with the children, because they could count
upon her kindness no matter how outrageous their demands. The next
thing that happened, while it hastened her coming, entirely eclipsed
it. Fortunately it was delayed until the day before the Ponsonby house
was to be handed over to its new tenant, Mrs. Barnes.
Mrs. Shelton was busy clearing a closet for her daughter's use when
she heard her husband calling to her from below.
"Mary," he said, "here is a telegram."
They were not of everyday occurrence, and Mrs. Shelton's fears were
for Polly, her one absent child, as she joined her husband and
stretched out her hand for the yellow envelope.
The magnetic heart of a mother is almost as invariably set to the
prosperous daughter as to the good-for-nothing son; there is a subtle
philosophy in it, but quite aside from the interest of this story.
The telegram said:
Mrs. Thomas Beck's funeral will take place on Thursday
at 11 A. M.
It was dated Chicago, and signed "Herbert Beck."
"Who is Mrs. Beck?" asked Mr. Shelton, crossly; the morning was not
his happiest time.
"She is my first cousin, once removed," Mrs. Shelton answered, with
painstaking accuracy. "You must remember her, John. She was my
bridesmaid, and we corresponded for years after she married and moved
to Chicago until"--here Mrs. Shelton's pale face flushed---"I once
asked her to lend me some money, and told her how badly things were
going with us, and she refused--very unkindly, I thought at the time;
but perhaps it was just as well--we might never have paid it back."
It was Mr. Shelton's turn to flush, but he only said, irritably:
"And why the devil should they think you want to go to her funeral?"
Mrs. Shelton professed herself unable to guess, unless the fact that
the family was nearly extinct had led her cousin to remember her on
her deathbed.
"Well, they might have saved themselves the expense of the telegram,"
Mr. Shelton grumbled, adding, sarcastically, "unless they would like
to pay our expenses to Chicago, and entertain us when we get there!"
It appeared later that was exactly what they hoped to do. A registered
letter, written at Mrs. Beck's request, when her death was
approaching, arrived within an hour. She begged her cousin's
forgiveness for past unkindness, told her that she had left her the
savings of her lifetime--though the main part of the estate passed to
Mr. Beck's nephew--and besought Mrs. Shelton, as her only relation, to
follow her to her grave. Young Mr. Beck, the said nephew, who wrote
the letter, added that the house should be kept up for Mrs. Shelton's
convenience till after her visit, and that his aunt had expressed a
wish that her clothes and jewels should be given to Mrs. Shelton.
"We'll go, Mary!" said Mr. Shelton, blithe as a lark--several things
had raised his spirits!--and Mrs. Shelton, with a burst of her old
energy, borrowed some mourning, packed her trunk, summoned Deena and
caught the train, with five minutes to spare.
And so it happened that when Mr. French called, as was his daily
custom, to take his last cup of tea with Mrs. Ponsonby before her
flitting, he found the house in the temporary charge of the servant
and Master Dicky Shelton, a shrimpish boy of thirteen, whose red hair
and absurd profile bore just enough likeness to his sister's beauty to
make one feel the caricature an intentional impertinence.
French had got into the drawing room before he understood what the
servant was saying. Deena had gone, leaving no message for him! His
first feeling of surprise was succeeded by one of chagrin; these
afternoon chats by her fireside had become so much to him, so much a
part of his daily life, that he hated to think they had no
corresponding value to her. He was recalled from these sentimental
regrets by the irate voice of Master Shelton in dispute with Bridget.
"She--_said_--there--was cake! Mrs.
Ponsonby--_said_--there--was--cake--and--that I--could--have some!"
each word very emphatic, judicial and accusative. Then followed a
rattling tail to the sentence: "And if you have eaten it all, it was
horridly greedy in you, and I hope it will disagree with you--so I
do!"
Bridget now came forward and addressed French.
"There ain't so much as a cheese-paring left in the house, Mr. French.
Mrs. Ponsonby's gone off at a moment's notice, and I'm off myself
to-morrow; and there sits that boy asking for cake! He's been here now
the better part of an hour, trackin' mud over the clean carpets till
I'm a'most ready to cry."
Dick seized his hat and moved sulkily to the door, hurling back
threats as he walked.
"Just you wait! We'll see--you think I won't tell, but I will!"
French perceived that the case was to be carried to the Supreme Court
for Deena's decision, and to save her annoyance at a time when he felt
sure she was both tired and busy, he made a proposition to the heir of
the Sheltons that established his everlasting popularity with that
young person.
"Come home with me, Dicky," he said, "and if my people haven't any
cake, I can at least give you all the hothouse grapes you can eat, and
some to carry home. How does that strike you?"
"Done!" cried Dicky, slipping his hand under Stephen's arm, and, after
one horrid grimace at Bridget, he allowed himself to be led away.
The sun had nearly disappeared when they reached French's house, which
was a little outside of the town, and he reflected that he must
quickly redeem his promise, and dispatch his young companion home
before the darkness should make his absence a cause of alarm. He rang
the bell by way of summoning a servant, and then, opening the door
with his latchkey, he invited Dicky to enter.
It was a most cheerful interior. The staircase, wide and
old-fashioned, faced you at the far end of the hall, and on the first
landing a high-arched window was glowing with the level rays of the
setting sun. A wood fire blazed on the hearth, and on the walls the
portraits of all the Frenches, who for two hundred years had made a
point of recording their individualities in oil, looked down to
welcome each arrival.
Dicky, who wore no overcoat, presented his nether boy to the fire,
while he gazed at the portraits with a frown. He thought them
extremely plain.
A servant came from some hidden door, took his master's coat and hat
and received an order in which such inspiring words as "cakes, or
chocolates, or dessert of any kind," gave the earnest of things hoped
for.
"And, Charles," Mr. French concluded, "tell Marble to bring the things
as quickly as he can to the library, with a good supply of grapes."
Dicky smiled a slow smile. He could even allow his mind to wander to
other things, now that his refreshment was drawing nigh.
"I say, Mr. French, who is that old cove over the door, with a frill
on his shirt and a ribbon to his eyeglass? He is nearly as ugly as
brother Simeon."
Stephen felt genuine alarm; he was unused to children.
"That," he said, "is my great-grandfather. I don't think he is much
like your brother-in-law, I must confess."
"He doesn't look quite so musty," said Dicky, reflectively. "Did it
ever seem strange to you, Mr. French, that a pretty girl like Deena
could marry Mr. Ponsonby?"
"He is a very distinguished man," Stephen replied, in an agony of
embarrassment. "You ought to appreciate what an honor it is to be
connected by marriage with Professor Ponsonby."
"We ain't intimate," said Dicky, lightly, and his tone betrayed how
much Simeon was the loser by a restricted intercourse.
"One of these days when you are a little older you will be very proud
of his reputation," Stephen protested.
Dicky walked to the end of the great Persian rug on the blue
pattern--it was evidently a point of honor to avoid the red--before he
answered:
"Well, I'm blamed glad he's gone away, anyhow." And then, to French's
relief, Marble came and announced in his unctuous voice:
"The tray is in the library, sir," and all thought of Simeon was
abandoned.
That feast at Stephen's lived in Dicky's memory for years. It
supported him through the disappointments of many a dessertless
dinner--in the hopeless fancy engendered by seeing sweets pressed to
the lips of others; it won for him an easy victory in times of
gustatory boasting when at school. He could affirm, with truth, that
for once he had had his fill of the very best.
With Stephen also the experience was a revelation. The capacity of his
guest caused him amazement mingled with fear.
And still he gazed
And still the wonder grew
That one small boy
Could hold all he could chew.
The chiming of the clock reminded French that it was already dark and
high time Dicky was dispatched home.
"Do you want to take these grapes home with you," asked Stephen, "or
shall I send you a basket of them tomorrow?"
Dicky looked coy.
"If you don't mind," he said, "I guess I'll take the chocolates, and
you can send the grapes to-morrow."
He pulled a very dirty handkerchief from his pocket, in order to
provide a wrapping for the chocolates, and, as he spread it on the
table, a letter dropped out. He turned his eyes upon French with an
expression of sincere regret.
"I say!" he began. "Now, isn't that too bad! And Deena so particular
that you should get the note before tea time. I'm awfully sorry, Mr.
French--it's all Bridget's fault. Deena said if I got that note to you
before five o'clock I should have a piece of cake, and when Bridget
wouldn't give it to me it made me so mad I forgot everything. I wanted
to kill her."
"I know just how you felt," said Stephen, with irony.
Dicky was tying his chocolates into a hard ball, but with the
finishing grimy knot he tossed responsibility to the winds.
"Oh, well," he said, soothingly, "you've got it now, at any rate, so
there's no occasion for saying just _when_ I gave it to you, unless
you want to get a fellow into trouble."
Stephen looked grave; he did want Mrs. Ponsonby to know why he had
failed to follow her suggestion of taking tea with her at her mother's
house--and also he hated evasion.
"As it happens, that is the exact point I wish your sister to know. I
shall not tell her, but I expect you, as a gentleman, to tell of
yourself."
"All right," said Dicky, mournfully. "Good-night, Mr. French."