Need we remark that there was a great deal of embracing on the part of
Di and her nurse when the former returned home? The child was an
affectionate creature as well as passionate. The nurse, Mrs Screwbury,
was also affectionate without being passionate. Poor Diana had never
known a mother's love or care; but good, steady, stout Mrs Screwbury
did what in her lay to fill the place of mother.
Sir Richard filled the place of father pretty much as a lamp-post might
have done had it owned a child. He illuminated her to some extent--
explained things in general, stiffly, and shed a feeble ray around
himself; but his light did not extend far. He was proud of her,
however, and very fond of her--when good. When not good, he was--or
rather had been--in the habit of dismissing her to the nursery.
Nevertheless, the child exercised very considerable and ever-increasing
influence over her father; for, although stiff, the knight was by no
means destitute of natural affection, and sometimes observed, with moist
eyes, strong traces of resemblance to his lost wife in the beautiful
child. Indeed, as years advanced, he became a more and more obedient
father, and was obviously on the high road to abject slavery.
"Papa," said Di, while they were at luncheon that day, not long after
the accident, "I _am_ so sorry for that poor policeman. It seems such a
dreadful thing to have actually jumped upon him! and oh! you should have
heard his poor head hit the pavement, and seen his pretty helmet go
spinning along like a boy's top, ever so far. I wonder it didn't kill
him. I'm _so_ sorry."
Di emphasised her sorrow by laughing, for she had a keen sense of the
ludicrous, and the memory of the spinning helmet was strong upon her
just then.
"It must indeed have been an unpleasant blow," replied Sir Richard,
gravely, "but then, dear, you couldn't help it, you know--and I dare say
he is none the worse for it now. Men like him are not easily injured.
I fear we cannot say as much for the boy who was holding the pony."
"Oh! I quite forgot about him," exclaimed Di; "the naughty boy! he
wouldn't let go the pony's reins when I bid him, but I saw he tumbled
down when we set off."
"Yes, he has been somewhat severely punished, I fear, for his
disobedience. His leg had been broken. Is it not so, Balls?"
"Yes, sir," replied the butler, "'e 'as 'ad 'is--"
Balls got no farther, for Diana, who had been struck dumb for the moment
by the news, recovered herself.
"His leg broken!" she exclaimed with a look of consternation; "Oh! the
poor, poor boy!--the dear boy! and it was me did that too, as well as
knocking down the poor policeman!"
There is no saying to what lengths the remorseful child would have gone
in the way of self-condemnation if her father had not turned her
thoughts from herself by asking what had been done for the boy.
"We sent 'im 'ome, sir, in a cab."
"I'm afraid that was a little too prompt," returned the knight
thoughtfully. "A broken leg requires careful treatment, I suppose. You
should have had him into the house, and sent for a doctor."
Balls coughed. He was slightly chagrined to find that the violation of
his own humane feelings had been needless, and that his attempt to do as
he thought his master would have wished was in vain.
"I thought, Sir Richard, that you didn't like the lower orders to go
about the 'ouse more--"
Again little Di interrupted the butler by asking excitedly where the
boy's home was.
"In the neighbour'ood of W'itechapel, Miss Di."
"Then, papa, we will go straight off to see him," said the child, in the
tone of one whose mind is fully made up. "You and I shall go together--
won't we? good papa!"
"That will do, Balls, you may go. No, my dear Di, I think we had better
not. I will write to one of the city missionaries whom I know, and ask
him to--"
"No, but, papa--dear papa, we _must_ go. The city missionary could
never say how very, _very_ sorry I am that he should have broken his leg
while helping me. And then I should _so_ like to sit by him and tell
him stories, and give him his soup and gruel, and read to him. Poor,
_poor_ boy, we _must_ go, papa, won't you?"
"Not to-day, dear. It is impossible to go to-day. There, now, don't
begin to cry. Perhaps--perhaps to-morrow--but think, my love; you have
no idea how dirty--how _very_ nasty--the places are in which our lower
orders live."
"Oh! yes I have," said Di eagerly. "Haven't I seen our nursery on
cleaning days?"
A faint flicker of a smile passed over the knight's countenance.
"True, darling, but the places are far, far dirtier than that. Then the
smells. Oh! they are very dreadful--"
"What--worse than _we_ have when there's cabbage for dinner?"
"Yes, much worse than that."
"I don't care, papa. We _must_ go to see the boy--the poor, _poor_ boy,
in spite of dirt and smells. And then, you know--let me up on your knee
and I'll tell you all about it. There! Well, then, you know, I'd tidy
the room up, and even wash it a little. Oh, you can't think how nicely
I washed up my doll's room--her corner, you know,--that day when I spilt
all her soup in trying to feed her, and then, while trying to wipe it
up, I accidentally burst her, and all her inside came out--the sawdust,
I mean. It was the worst mess I ever made, but I cleaned it up as well
as Jessie herself could have done--so nurse said."
"But the messes down in Whitechapel are much worse than you have
described, dear," expostulated the parent, who felt that his powers of
resistance were going.
"So much the better, papa," replied Di, kissing her sire's lethargic
visage. "I should like _so_ much to try if I could clean up something
worse than my doll's room. And you've promised, you know."
"No--only said `perhaps,'" returned Sir Richard quickly.
"Well, that's the same thing; and now that it's all nicely settled, I'll
go and see nurse. Good-bye, papa."
"Good-bye, dear," returned the knight, resigning himself to his fate and
the newspaper.