THE BOY MONTMORENCY
A few days after Sir Edward’s adventure, and when he was quite restored
to health, and ready for more experiences (for he was a most daring,
plucky old man) there was a strange arrival in our home.
I had been to New York with my dear mistress. She wished to call on
some friends on Riverside Drive and had invited me to go with Amarilla,
for she knew I loved motoring. Fortunately it was not a very cold
day, and she took the touring car. I detested the limousine. She was
all wrapped up in a big cloak, and Amarilla sat on her lap and kept
her warm. I thought that of all the ladies we passed in handsome
automobiles, not one had such a dear face as my own mistress. I sat on
the seat beside her, and she tucked the rug all round my neck to keep
me comfortable.
Well, we had a very pleasant afternoon in the city. Amarilla and I did
not go into any of the houses, but one lady sent us out some sweet
cakes which were very acceptable, for the cool air had, sharpened our
appetites.
“Amarilla,” I whispered in the little dog’s ear, “where is the charm of
the Drive, of Fifth Avenue, of Broadway? Gone--gone, except as lovely,
lively places to visit. No more New York for me.”
Amarilla trembled, and nestled closer against Mrs. Granton. She had
always hated a city. How her little face brightened when we were well
on the broad road leading to Pleasant River. How much we both loved
that big house, and the dear people who lived in it.
“Amarilla,” I said, “if our family moved back to New York, would you
come too?”
She gave a pitiful little squeal, but it was a decided “Yes.”
“Suppose they lost their money, and had to live down town, would you
stick to them?”
At this she struggled to her feet, wagged her bushy little tail, and
barked sharply.
“Hush, Boy,” said our mistress, tucking her up again. “You are exciting
Amarilla.”
I persisted and whispered again, “Suppose your missie (that was what
she always called Mrs. Granton) was poor, and had nothing to eat: would
you go on the stage again, to earn some money for her?”
Amarilla hesitated one instant, then she began to howl very gently,
very resignedly, but with great determination. She would be willing to
make any sacrifices for the woman who had been so good to her.
Mrs. Granton was annoyed with me. She knew that we dogs communicated
with each other. “Boy,” she said irritably, “if you make Amarilla
uncomfortable once more, you shall go in with Louis.”
This quieted me. I cuddled up to her, wiggled my body by way of
apology, and did not say another word till we got home.
I am a great talker, and often keep on when I know I should stop. When
Gringo first knew me, he called me “The Wandering Dog” because I had
travelled so much, but after a time he called me “The Wandering Dog”
because I told so many stories that hinged on each other.
When the car pulled up in our own _porte cochère_ I followed Amarilla
as she ran after her dear missie to the library. Such a big fire leaped
in the chimney, and before it stood master with George Washington all
dressed up in his white velvet dinner clothes, for he was allowed to
come to the table and sit in a high chair with toys before him. He got
nothing to eat, of course. He had had his bread and butter supper at
five.
Well, in addition to George Washington, there stood on the rug a boy
about a year older than George, and master’s face as he surveyed him
was a study.
He was a kind of a caricature of a petted darling. I understood at
once that he was a poor child, masquerading as a rich one. I know the
poor smell. Somebody had taken great pains with his toilet. He had on
a little plush cap with a gilt tassel, his coat was green with gold
buttons, his shoes were a pale blue, his little hands were dirty,
but his gloves sticking out from his tiny pocket, were quite clean.
That was so like poor people--to have clean gloves and dirty hands.
He seemed to have no handkerchief, and was sniffing violently at
intervals.
Master was grinning. “Read this, Claudia,” he said, handing a slip of
paper to mistress who had sunk into a chair, and was examining the
child with wondering eyes.
“Mr. Granton and Lady,” she read aloud, “Dear Friends, raise the boy as
your own--he is good blood. His name is Montmorency.”
Mistress looked amazed. “Where did he come from?” she asked.
Master shook his head. “I don’t know. Bessie says when she was bringing
our boy in a short time ago, this child came strolling up the avenue
toward them, clutching this piece of paper in his hand. Bessie read it,
then ran down the avenue as fast as she could, but there was no one
there.”
“Little boy,” said mistress, “where do you come from?”
He turned his small, pale, rather intelligent face toward her, and said
something that sounded like “Gnorrish!”
Mistress looked despairingly at her husband. “What is your mother’s
name?” she asked.
This time he uttered a single syllable that sounded like “Granch!”
“Da, Da, Da has come home,” interrupted little George gleefully.
“Why, he doesn’t speak as well as our baby,” said mistress. “What shall
we do about him?”
“He’s a present, evidently,” said master.
“George, come here,” said mistress, and she took her own child on her
lap. Then she went on. “We don’t know what sort of a place he’s come
from.”
Master pressed the electric button beside the mantel, said something
in French to mistress, and when the parlour-maid came she received
instructions to take the little stranger away, have him thoroughly
washed, his head included, his clothes folded up and put away, and
other ones put on him.
“I wonder what the mystery is about him,” said master. “Why should any
one try to foist a child on us anonymously, when we are so ready to
help any one? I can’t understand it.”
“I understand it,” said mistress softly, and as she spoke she stroked
George’s fair head. “It’s some poor creature who cannot provide for
her child. She looks at our child with envious eyes. She thinks if she
gives up her boy, we may do for him what Stanna has done for Cyria.”
“Do you think that is the explanation?” said master. “But in Stanna’s
case everything was open and above board. I don’t like this mystery,
and I don’t care to be dictated to with regard to the size of my
family.”
“Let’s find out the mother,” said mistress. “It will probably be an
easy matter.”
It wasn’t an easy matter. Master put several detectives on the case,
but the affair had been arranged by some unknown person with infinite
skill, and they could not find out one thing about it. No one thought
of appealing to me, though I had guessed immediately where the boy came
from.
Master of course thought of King Harry; but he was useless, for the
child’s tracks led right to the station, and the station meant New
York city, and the hound would be of no use there. He had found the
lost child in the country that he had been searching for when Sir
Edward was missing, but a city with its multitude of tracks bewilders
any bloodhound.
The evening the child arrived, there had been about him a strong smell
of a place I did not know, but also a faint suggestion of a place I did
know, especially about his face, his hands, and the piece of paper he
carried, and that place was the Blue-Bird Laundry.
We dogs have every person, every locality, listed in our world of
smell. I had been to the laundry several times with my master, and the
mingled odour of soap-suds, cooking, and the personal scent of the
women there, could not be mistaken by me.
These detectives that master employed had no highly developed sense of
smell. They were following trails suggested by their eyes and ears.
Master was a long time figuring out my interest in the child, but
finally it dawned upon him.
I was always sniffing about the little stranger, for I wanted to help
my dear mistress. She was such a good mother, and I hated to see her
troubled. Her loving heart, so warm toward all mothers, since she had
had a child of her own, had prompted her to take young Montmorency
right into her own nursery, but she did not enjoy doing so.
One day when I was following her about the house, she came suddenly
into the nursery, and stopped short, gazing at the two children.
There stood Montmorency, dressed in a dainty suit of pale blue,
uttering a succession of queer, uncouth sounds which all seemed to
begin with “G,” and teaching a vulgar little trick to her beloved
George. The trick wasn’t very bad, but George was so much cleverer than
Montmorency that he added some details of his own, that made me grin,
but which brought a frown to her face.
She caught George to her, and sat staring at the little stranger. After
a while, master strolled into the nursery.
“That child belongs most decidedly to a different stratum in society,”
she exclaimed, “a much lower one,” and she told him about the trick,
which was a spitting one.
“I believe you’re right, Claudia,” said master thoughtfully, and he too
stared and stared at young Montmorency, who was polishing off his funny
little nose on his clean tunic.
I ran toward master, and pushed my paw against his knee--a habit I
have when I wish to attract his attention, or have a conversation with
him. Of course, this is not good manners for a well-trained dog. All
dogs should keep their paws on the ground where they belong, but I was
allowed this liberty by my kind master, and I took care never to abuse
it.
“By Jupiter!” he cried, which is the nearest he ever comes to a
swear-word. “I believe Boy has nosed out something about that child.
Claudia, please keep George quiet for a few minutes.”
Master fixed a steady gaze on me, and I stared full into his eyes. We
were concentrating. “Boy,” he said at last, “that child comes from New
York, doesn’t he?”
I barked once, sharp and clear.
“You smell a New York smell on him?” said master.
I barked twice. “Yes, sir,” that meant, “I certainly do.”
“Riverside Drive smell?” asked master.
I looked disappointed, and turned my head away.
“Smell of Ellen’s home?” pursued master.
No, this child had never been near Ellen, so I said nothing.
“No up-town suggestion,” said master. “Down town, then?”
I was tremendously excited. I was leading him on. I barked wildly, and
danced about the room.
“Getting warmer,” said master, who was becoming excited too. “Now,
where have we been down town together? In my office, Boy?”
No, no, he was on the wrong track, and my face fell.
“No office clue,” he went on. “French café, then--perhaps a waiter’s
child.”
Wrong, wrong, and I said nothing.
“The settlement house, or the day nursery?”
No, no, poor master--why could he not guess. He mentioned ever so many
places down town that we had visited together, and he was so slow at
getting to the right spot, that I, in despair, lay down on the floor,
put my nose between my paws, and pretended to go to sleep.
“He finds you very stupid, my poor Rudolph,” said mistress slyly. She
loves to tease him occasionally, and she was following his questions
and my answers with intense interest.
“Let me make a suggestion,” she said at last. “There is one place you
never used to visit, but that you go to quite frequently now--Is it the
Blue-Bird Laundry, Boy?”
I barked, I screamed with excitement, I ran to her, and licked her
slippers and her hands. Oh! the clever woman.
“By Jupiter,” said master again, “this looks like magic. Now, let us
find the woman. Is it Perky Moll, Boy?”
The matron in the laundry is a lady who is the widow of a former friend
of the Grantons. She is full of fun, and has nick-names for the girls
which she uses sometimes with master, but which the girls themselves
never hear.
Well, it wasn’t Perky Moll, and my excitement passed away, and I looked
cast down.
“Is it Jumping Jenny, Troublesome Doll, Mrs. Willie Nillie?” and on
master went, over a long list. At last he had mentioned every woman in
the laundry except the right one. (And just here, I may wander long
enough to say that the dreadful woman with the child that we met one
night on Riverside Drive was not there. She had died, and her child was
in the country with a farmer’s wife.)
Now at this point, when master was puzzled, my clever mistress
interposed again. She had a scent as keen as old King Harry’s, about
matters where women and children were concerned.
“Is it old Jane, the cook, Boy?” she asked softly.
Now I was in an ecstasy. I couldn’t stop to lick any one. I yelled with
glee, and tore round and round the nursery.
“Upon my word,” said master slowly, when at last I pulled up. “Boy has
jumped at the Jane suggestion--but she is too old to have a child.
Maybe it’s her grandchild.”
Mistress didn’t say anything, and he went on affectionately, “My clever
little dog--my clever brother-dog. You are worth your weight in gold.”
This made me feel and act foolish and modest, and I calmed down, and
went to lie at his feet.
“Old Jane,” he repeated soberly. “Poor old Jane--what’s the matter,
Claudia?”
Mistress was crying softly, but at his question she flared up. “Can’t
you see?” she said wildly, “oh! can’t you see, you obtuse man? That
nightmare of a woman--she has no teeth--her eyes are all red--she looks
clean, but so thin and starved----”
“She is a cook,” said master.
“She has nearly killed herself working for her child,” said mistress.
“I remember the dreadful hunger in her eyes one day when you took me
to the laundry. She stared at me in the kitchen; she slipped upstairs,
and watched me from a doorway. She tore the child from her arms to give
me to bring up--oh! poor soul, and cruel, cruel society to so wound a
mother heart.”
“We pay her well,” said master.
“But the money has gone to her child. She has been boarding it
somewhere. Oh! Rudolph, go buy her some teeth.”
Mistress laughed and cried in the same breath, and finally she had to
go and lie down. She kept on chattering hysterically about the woman
who went without teeth to buy clothes for her child, until master
became quite anxious.
“You are making a mountain out of a molehill, Claudia,” he said. “I
cannot think that your suspicions are correct.”
“They’re not suspicions,” she said excitedly, “they’re verities. Go to
town--you’ll see.”
Master thought he was done with New York for the day, but after dinner
he had to post off to the laundry, where he found that everything
mistress had said was correct.
Poor old Jane was not half as old as she looked. She acknowledged
that no one in the laundry knew that she had a child; that she had
been boarding him ever since he was a baby; that she wanted him to be
brought up a gentleman; that she had sneaked him out to Pleasant River,
taking infinite precautions not to be discovered; and that she had
actually spent nearly every cent of her wages on this beloved child.
I went to town with master, and I shall never forget the sight of that
poor, thin woman as she sat in the matron’s office answering master’s
questions. Her indifference, almost stupidity about her own welfare,
her quick mother-wit and shrewdness about her child, excited my most
intense admiration.
When master finished questioning her, he said, “Jane, I have a plan to
propose. I hope you will agree to it. You should have left here long
ago, but we kept you because you begged to stay. Now you will remain in
New York, only long enough to get a set of teeth.”
Here he stopped and smiled a very pained sort of smile, and looked
hastily from the nice plump matron whose big blue eyes were full of
tears.
“After you get your teeth,” he went on, “you will come to Pleasant
River. I have a cottage to let there, you shall have it, and
Montmorency may live with you. Your skill in cooking will support you.
I will see to that.”
Jane began to mope in a dull sort of way. She did not cry. Her red eyes
looked as if she had shed all the tears she had to shed. She said she
would rather his wife would keep Montmorency, and she would stay in New
York.
“That I cannot consent to,” said master, and he got up to show his
decision was final.
Jane wasn’t a bit grateful. Her mania for her boy’s advancement
socially made her fight against coming to the country, and kick hard
at living in the pretty cottage master fitted up for her. Master and
mistress paid no attention to her tempers. They went on, and coaxed and
petted her, till finally she began to get her health back, and then she
became more reasonable. All this happened a few months ago, and now
she is the leading caterer of the countryside, and is a comfortable,
decent mother, bringing up her idolised boy in a very sensible way. He
goes to Mrs. Waverlee’s school, and I think will make a very decent man.
Jane never gushes to the two persons who have so befriended her, but I
heard her one day tell the woman next door to her that she would walk
over red-hot kitchen stoves if it would benefit Mr. and Mrs. Granton.
I seldom hear any one thank master for anything he does, but it makes
no difference to him. He just keeps on doing good, thanks or no thanks.
I may say in closing Jane’s story, that she got the finest set of
artificial teeth that New York could afford, and for a while the
dentist had her wear things called “plumpers” to make her thin cheeks
stick out. Now I hear from Montmorency’s dog, who is one of Weary
Winnie’s pups, that Jane threw the plumpers in the trash can, and we
can all see that she is visibly better, and has some colour in her
cheeks.
The tailor’s dog, Beauty Beagle, says that her master is getting sweet
on Jane, because she is such a good cook.
The tailor is a cute little man, about as fat as a lead pencil, and
not much to look at, but he has a good heart and would make a fine
step-father for the redoubtable Montmorency who is learning to talk
quite well.
Beside that, he has true views of life. One evening when I was passing
by Jane’s cottage, I heard him say to her, “You ain’t on the right
track.”
I stopped to listen, for I am interested in Jane.
“Yes I be,” she said. “I want my boy to be a good dresser.”
“It ain’t the outside alone that counts, Jane,” said the tailor. “It’s
the inside, too.”
“And you a tailor,” she said contemptuously.
The little tailor was pretty decided, and he went on, “You can make
Montmorency a gentleman as well as Mr. Granton can.”
“Now, tell me how,” she said anxiously.
“Learn him to be meek,” said the tailor, “learn him to act like a man,
learn him to be bossed so he can boss--to treat very merciful any poor
folk and dumb critters that are under him, to be clean inside and out,
to get a first-class education, and to wear a tidy suit of clothes.”
Jane didn’t say anything for a long time, then she remarked, “That’s
like a pictur of Mr. Granton. If my boy could be like him, I’d be
suited.”