A PASTE-MAN AND A PAINT-BOX.
"I can't, my pet; I can't tell you a story to-day," said, or rather
whispered, Granny huskily. "I have such a bad cold I can hardly speak."
Chris looked at her solemnly with wide-open eyes.
"Are you very ill, my Granny?" he inquired very seriously, and sinking
his voice to the sympathizing whisper which seemed to him to befit the
occasion.
"Not very ill, darling," she whispered again with an effort; "only a
very bad cold.
"I am quite losing my voice," she added to me, shaking her head. "Most
trying, my dear."
"How drefful!" exclaimed Chris with sympathy, and still speaking in a
whisper. "What a drefful thing!"
"I have a good piece of news for you, my Chris," she whispered, with
another effort. "Someone is coming home--to-day--this very
afternoon--that you and I shall be--very, very--glad to see. Who do you
think it is?"
Chris considered a moment, then suddenly looked enlightened.
"I know, I know!" he cried, jumping about and clapping his hands, in the
excess of his joy forgetting to whisper, and putting to their full use
his well-developed little lungs. "I know!" he repeated. "It's my Uncle
Godfrey. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!"
Granny nodded, and held up a telegram. "I've just had this," she said,
with an attempt to regain her natural tone, which ended in an almost
inaudible whisper, and her voice going away completely. "Few nights ...
way to London.... Isn't ... treat ... pet?" she whispered brokenly. "Must
be ... quiet ... tired."
"Yes," I put in, taking upon myself to act as interpreter; "Granny is
very tired, Chris; so if you stay here, you must be quiet."
"Did I make a noise and tire my Granny, and was I a naughty boy?" he
asked penitently, becoming very subdued in voice and manner.
Granny smiled at him tenderly, and shook her head.
"No, dear," I said; "you have not been naughty. We did not mean that."
Thus reassured, the little beggar looked relieved; then, with a glance
of deepest sympathy at his Granny, he ran out of the room as if struck
by a sudden thought.
In a few moments he returned, carrying something carefully wrapped up in
his pinafore. Then, going up to her, he drew out a piece of paste
bearing some rude resemblance to a man, and laid it with triumph on her
lap.
"My Granny," he whispered proudly, "see what I have brought you. Cook
gave it to me for my tea, and I'm going to give it to you, and you may
eat it all up; every bit. P'r'aps it will make you feel happy, as you
have a cold."
Granny opened her eyes slowly and languidly, but seeing the paste
figure, she sat straight up in her chair, with an expression of the
strongest disapprobation.
She opened her mouth and endeavoured to speak, but this time without
success; she could not make herself heard. She rose, therefore, and
going to the writing-desk, took a sheet of note-paper, and, in a neat,
old-fashioned, Italian hand, wrote the following reply, which she placed
in my hand, signing to me to read aloud:
"My darling, this is a most unwholesome and indigestible thing. It would
not make either my Chris or his Granny happy to eat it, but would
probably make them both ill. I am much surprised that Mrs. James should
have given it to you; she should have known better. You may, instead,
have some of the sponge-cake we had at lunch, but I cannot permit my pet
to eat this paste, nor can I eat it myself. But he will understand how
much Granny appreciates his kind thought."
Chris listened to this long message attentively and without
interruption, for there was a solemnity about the proceeding that much
impressed him. When I had finished reading it, he regarded the object of
Granny's displeasure with suspicion, mingled with awe; then remarked in
a solemn and stage whisper, and in the manner of one bringing a grave
charge against his poor, misguided friend:
"Cook called it 'Master Chris's little friend'. That's what she called
it, my Granny."
"Tut, tut!" said Granny, as she heard this charge made against Cook.
By her expression, it was plain to see that she would have liked to say
more had she been in full possession of her voice. Failing that,
however, she was obliged to content herself with "Tut, tut!" and a
gentle frown.
"Come, Chris," I said laughing, "we'll leave Granny in peace now and go
and play in the library, or I will tell you a story. Take your 'friend',
the man of paste, with you, and see if Jack would like to eat him."
"What shall we do?" asked Chris, slipping his hand into mine as we left
the drawing-room.
"Would you like a story?" I asked.
"No, thank you; I don't want a story now, I think," he answered, with
some caprice. He thought a moment or two, then exclaimed: "I know! we'll
paint. I'll get the new paint-box Granny has given me, and a
picture-paper, and we'll make lovely pictures."
"Very well," I said, not dissatisfied with this arrangement, which I
hoped would only require on my part advice from time to time, or
admiration, as required.
Taking a book, therefore, I sat down in an easy-chair near the
writing-table, where Chris, having fetched his paint-box, settled
himself, labouring for a time silently and earnestly at his paintings.
Presently he asked:
"What colour shall I make this horse? Shall I make him black?"
"A very good colour," I replied.
"Then, you see, I could call him 'Black Prince'," he went on. "I
couldn't call him 'Black Prince' if I made him brown, could I? I'd have
to call him 'Brown Prince'. Have you ever heard of a horse called 'Brown
Prince'?"
"Not to my recollection," I said, with my eyes on my book.
"It is a funny name, isn't it?" he said laughing, as he continued his
work. "Brown Prince!"
"Very," I said shortly, interested in my story, and not inclined to
encourage conversation.
Chris worked on for a few moments without speaking; then asked:
"Miss Beggarley, what colour are moons gennerly?"
I laughed. It was, after all, a futile hope to continue reading under
the circumstances. Still, it was Chris's time with Granny and me, when
he exacted as his right an unlimited amount of attention, so I resigned
myself.
"What colour?" he repeated, as I did not at once answer.
"Green," I answered.
"Green!" he echoed.
"Haven't you ever heard that the moon is made of green cheese?" I asked.
He stared at me reproachfully.
"You're laughing at me," he said, in an aggrieved voice, "and I don't
like you to laugh."
"I won't any more, dear," I said, composing my countenance to a becoming
expression of gravity. "If I were you, I should paint the moon pale
blue. How would that do?"
"Loverly," answered the little beggar in a mollified voice, and for a
moment or two there was again silence.
Then, however, I heard something like a whimper, and looking up I saw
Chris's great eyes fixed on me tearfully.
"What is the matter?" I inquired.
"Will my Granny never, never be able to speak again?" he asked, digging
his knuckles into his eyes. "Will she always be never able to talk?"
"Why, no, dear," I answered cheerfully. "In a day or two she will be
able to talk again as well as ever."
"But she said it," he replied tearfully.
"Said what?" I asked, puzzled. "Oh," I added, enlightened, "you mean
when she said she was losing her voice! But she only meant for a little
while. She did not intend to say she was losing it for ever. It is only
because she has caught a bad cold. When her cold is better she will be
able to speak again."
"Are you quite, quite sure?" he asked, anxiously, but relieved at my
explanation.
"Quite sure," I answered.
His mind thus at ease, he returned once more to his painting and worked
contentedly for another five minutes, at the end of which time his
restless spirit reasserted itself.
"Now, what shall we do?" he asked, throwing down his brush and yawning.
"Will you play at horses? You said you would."
"Well, for a little while," I answered, "but not too long."
"Oh, Briggs, what do you want?" Chris asked discontentedly, as at this
point that worthy woman made her appearance.
"You are to come and put on your velvet suit against Mr. Wyndham comes,"
she announced staidly.
"I don't want to put on my velvet clothes," he replied rebelliously,
annoyed at being thus disturbed. "They're nasty, horrid things."
"Oh, fie! Master Chris," she answered reprovingly.
"It isn't like a big man to wear a velvet suit, it's like a baby," he
went on, grumblingly. "Uncle Godfrey doesn't wear velvet clothes, and
why should I?"
"Don't you grumble at your velvet suit, Master Chris," Briggs said in a
warning tone. "You may come to want it some day. There's many a little
boy in the gutter as would be glad and proud to own it."
"Then I wish you would give it to the little boys in the gutters," the
little beggar answered wilfully. "I shall ask my Granny to give it to
them, 'cause I hate it. And I'm going to play at horses; aren't I, Miss
Beggarley?"
"Not with me," I said firmly, "until you have done what Briggs tells
you."
"You said you would," he remarked, pouting.
"So I will," I replied, "when you have obeyed Briggs."
He glanced at me inquiringly to see if there was no chance of my
relenting, but I preserved a severe and resolute expression--in spite of
a distinct inclination to smile,--seeing which he left with laggard step
to don the despised suit.
When, later, he returned in that same suit--in the dark-blue
knickerbockers and coat, the large Vandyke collar of cream lace, and the
little white satin vest,--I really thought that he looked the sweetest
little picture in the world!
He had, indeed, such an extremely clean, well-brushed, and altogether
spotless appearance, that I hesitated about the promised game of horses,
fearing to spoil the result of Briggs' work, before that all-important
event--the arrival of Uncle Godfrey.
"Shall we play something else?" I suggested. "I'm afraid if we play
horses you will get untidy."
"Oh no, I won't!" he said confidently. "We'll be quiet horses.
"I know," he added, with a look of intelligence. "I won't be a horse;
I'll be the driver, and you shall be a lame horse. Then the game will be
such a quiet game."
"Very well," I replied, weakly yielding to his wishes, as most people
had a habit of doing. And a minute later I was running round the library
in a fashion most undignified for a lady of middle-age, becoming at the
same time hotter and more breathless than was altogether comfortable.
Consequently I slackened my pace, and found it more to my mind. For,
when a good many years have passed since you indulged in the habit of
playing horses, you find it more expedient to take for your model the
slow and conscientious cab-horse rather than the swift and brilliant
racer.
But the change did not please Chris.
"Gee-up, Charlie!" he cried, excitedly. "That's your name, you know.
Gee-up! why are you going so slowly?"
"I've no breath left to go fast," I explained.
"What shall we do?" he said, perplexed. "I don't like a horse what won't
go fast.
"Oh," he said, his face clearing. "Why, it's time for you to go lame.
Poor Charlie! poor thing! what's the matter?
"You've got a stone in your foot," he explained in an aside, "and you
must jog up and down as if you're lame."
"Must I?" I said, and obediently followed the directions with a patience
truly praiseworthy, jogging laboriously up and down, whilst the little
beggar followed in my wake, highly delighted, and giving vent as he did
so to many loud and excited ejaculations.
Before long, however, he pined for further excitement.
"The road is very, very slippery," he said; "'cause it's been snowing.
You must slip right down and break your leg."
"I'll slip into an arm-chair," I said, glancing at the comfortable one I
had just quitted.
"No, horses don't slip into arm-chairs; there aren't no arm-chairs for
them in the road," he objected.
"I can't help that," I answered, taking a stand. "My bones are too old
to risk breaking them. I don't mind my leg being broken in fancy, but I
do mind its being broken in reality."
"How shall everyone know, then, that it is broken?" he asked,
discontentedly. "It won't look a bit as if it is broken if you fall into
an arm-chair."
"I will groan very loud to show that I have," I said in a propitiating
voice.
"Do horses groan when they break their legs?" he asked, doubtfully.
"This horse does, very loud indeed," I said. "Come, we'll go once more
round the room, and then I'll break my leg and show you how beautifully
I can groan."
"All right!" said the little beggar, conceding the point, and away we
started once more.
"Gee-up, Charlie!" he cried; "gee-up, good horse! Now then!" as we
approached the arm-chair; "now then, now then, it's time for you to
break your leg. Quick, quick!"
"All right!" I said, and with the most heartrending groan I could
produce, I sank--carefully--into the chair. At the same moment the
door opened, and a stranger to me entered the room--a tall and
soldier-like-looking young man. Even in the dimness of the twilight I
could see a strong enough resemblance to the little beggar to tell me
who he was without his delighted scream of "Uncle Godfrey! Uncle
Godfrey!" as he ran and clasped him round the knees.
"Hold on!" answered Uncle Godfrey, putting him aside.
Then turning to me:
"I fear you are ill. Shall I send for my mother's maid?" he asked with
polite sympathy.
"Why, no; she isn't; she isn't a bit ill!" cried the little beggar
delightedly, with peals of derisive laughter, as he jumped about and
clapped his hands. "She's only a poor, old, lame horse, what has just
fallen down and broken his leg...."