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You might not care much for it, but to me it would be a delight to
follow our friends on Ted's break as they rolled merrily out from town
on the bright Monday morning succeeding their two days' stay at Oxford,
and to keep with them all the way; not that anything momentous or wildly
exciting happened on the trip, only that if it were possible to put
all its charm onto paper, there is no question but you would enjoy it.
Somebody has put it onto paper, however, and very successfully, too;
so that I should advise you, in case a driving trip through the English
Lake Country does not soon happen to come your way, to look between the
covers of “The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton,” as soon as you grow a
bit older, and see if you do not discover the charm of it for yourself.
But whether we would or no, we have not the time just now to bowl
quietly along in leisurely fashion through that lovely region of hills
and lakes. Besides the party on the break are quite sufficient to
themselves, while down at Nuneham there is a fellow who would be
thankful enough for any advice that we could give him.
“What had I better do?” is the question that Ted is turning over and
over in his mind, for the time has come for Ted to do something, and
there are more difficulties confronting him than any one has an idea of.
He has not even taken Harry Allyn fully into his confidence, so proud
is this same foolish Ted. Besides, Harry Allyn, who, as you know, is
in dead earnest about his “new leaf,” is up at Oxford delving away,
midsummer though it is, at some back work that was sadly neglected in
the spring term, and has actual need to be made up.
Finally Ted, who finds himself simply reasoning in a circle, decides
to lay the whole matter before Donald; for Donald, boy that he is, has
opinions of his own which he does not fear to express, and, what is
more, Ted in desperation feels that he simply must turn to somebody. And
so it comes about that at the close of an August afternoon, when Ted has
the house to himself (Chris having taken the old keeper and his wife off
for a drive), that he calls to Donald, who, coming up from a day's work
in the kitchen garden, is on his way to put his tools away in the barn.
“Well, what is it, Mr. Harris?” leaving rake and hoe against the cottage
shingles and slipping into the chair nearest the door, out of regard for
Mrs. Hartley's clean-swept carpet.
“It's just this, Donald. I'm in a fix, and I want you to help me out.”
“A new fix, Mr. Harris?” with a long breath, as though he thought there
had really been rather too much of that sort of thing already.
“No, an old one, Donald, and I fancy you know enough of my record these
last four years to imagine what it is.”
“I shouldn't wonder if you're in debt,” for Ted had hinted as much once
or twice to Donald.
“Exactly, head over heels in debt;” and although Ted's words were light
enough, his manner was very serious.
“And you want me to help you out?” said Donald, remembering the three or
four sovereigns knotted up sailor fashion in a handkerchief with a few
other treasures, and representing all his worldly store.
“No, I'm not going to take any savings of yours,” said Ted, imagining
that Donald might so have understood him; “but I want to put the case to
you, and have you tell me what to do;” and Donald listened attentively
while Ted “put his case” plainly and without any mental reservations
whatever.
“It's a terrible big sum,” said Donald, when all was told, “but you say
you have money enough to pay it several times over if you could only get
at it.”
“Exactly; but I can't get at it any more than though it didn't belong
to me--not till I'm twenty-five, and that's two years off. You see, my
father thought he had given me a generous income, and he had--rather too
generous for my good, it seems.”
“I suppose the people you owe it to would wait two years if they felt
sure they would get the money then for Donald, with the wisdom of an
older head, was trying to look at the matter from all sides.
“No, Donald, that wouldn't do. They're trades-people, most of them, and
they've waited longer than they can afford to already. I must manage to
borrow the money somewhere--but where, that's the question.”
“Couldn't Harold help you a little?”
“Not to any extent. Harold can't touch his money any more than I;
besides, Harold is not to know,” and Ted spoke decidedly, as though in
that direction his mind was fully made up, and he needed advice from no
one.
“Aren't there men up in London who make a business of lending money?”
for Donald hadn't knocked about the world without gaining some knowledge
of men and affairs.
“Yes, there are, but I want to keep this thing just as quiet as
possible. I do wish I had some friend to turn to.”
“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, looking Ted squarely in the face, “it's an
awful pity about you; there is no sense at all in your going on the way
you have. When a fellow has a home and friends and money, there isn't
any excuse for that sort of thing. Seems to me it would be so easy then
to keep straight.”
Ted winced a little under Donald's frankness, knowing all that lay
beneath it. It had sometimes been very difficult for the boy there
before him, to whom home and money had been always lacking, and friends
as well until within these last few weeks, to live up to the best that
he knew. No boy puts to sea, as Donald had done, without coming face to
face with some sore temptations, but his whole look and bearing showed
how manfully he had resisted them, and the earnest honesty of his eyes
preached a sermon as they met Ted's.
“It is an awful pity,” said Ted, echoing Donald's words, and hating his
own record more than any one else could hate it; “but all that is left
me is to try and mend matters. The only comfort is that I've come to my
senses at last. A great many never do, you know.”
“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, who had been listening to Ted and doing his
own thinking at one and the same time, “there was an Englishman
came over on the steamer with us, who grew to be great friends with
Marie-Celeste, and Marie-Celeste told me all about him one of those
afternoons when I was too weak to do anything but lie in my berth, and
she tried to entertain me. She said he was a bachelor, and rich as could
be, and she thought the best thing that could happen to him would be
to do somebody a good turn with his money. If you feel that you want
to keep this matter sort of quiet, just between gentleman and gentleman
(which was a phrase Donald had heard Mr. Harris use, and was glad to be
able to appropriate), why don't you go up to London and hunt him up? He
lives at one of the big clubs. You could easily find him. His name was
Belden.”
At this Ted gave a start of surprise, as did Miss Dorothy Allyn when
Marie-Celeste made the same announcement the day of their talk in St.
George's Chapel. And then Ted asked, as had she: “Are you sure it was
Belden? You see, Donald,” he continued, “I've an old bachelor uncle
whose name is Selden--my mother's brother--and who answers to your
description to a dot--a surly old customer, who would do little enough
for me, or any one else, I imagine.”
“No; it was Belden sure. Everybody called him Mr. Belden, and it was so
on the passenger list; I've got one in my chest upstairs; I'll bring it,
and you can see for yourself.”
“Donald,” said Ted, when, the list having been produced, he felt that
the balance of evidence was not in favor of Mr. Belden and Mr. Selden
being one and the same, “that is a happy thought of yours, and up to
London I will go.”
“You oughtn't to go alone, Mr. Harris; you're not strong enough for that
yet.”
“I wonder if Chris would let you turn valet for me and go too.”
“I'd give a great deal to see London again,” said Donald
enthusiastically.
“Would wages have to be taken into account?” laughed Ted; “you know the
state of my finances, Donald.”
“Board and expenses--that is all, sir,” and so the serious talk ended
with this bit of pleasantry; and Ted realizing that he had not been
disappointed in feeling that Donald would somehow be able to help him,
found himself entering into the new scheme with rather more hope than
circumstances would seem to justify.
It was by no means a cheery announcement to the household in the little
thatched cottage when Ted told them that evening, that two days later
he must gather his belongings together and turn his back on the home and
the friends that had formed his little world during all the long weeks
of convalescence; and then when he asked if Donald might perhaps be
permitted to go up to London with him, Mrs. Hartley felt that all the
brightness of the summer was fast slipping away. No one could appreciate
what new life had opened up for the old couple with the coming of Chris
and Ted and Donald, and now two were proposing to go at once, and only
five weeks more, and Chris would be bidding them farewell on his way to
the Majestic down at Liverpool, and on which it had been arranged that
Donald at the same time should once more put to sea. So no wonder that
at first they all declared that the boy could not be spared; but the
more they thought of it the more they felt that Ted really needed him.
As a result, a telegram was finally sent to Mr. Harris, which caught the
driving party at Windemere, asking if he would approve of Donald's
going up to London with a convalescent gentleman who greatly needed his
services. The telegram was signed Christopher Hartley; and Mr. Harris,
concluding that Donald and Chris were quite able to decide what was best
in the matter, telegraphed back, “No objection, of course, if you think
it advisable;” and its welcome message brought more joy to the hearts of
Ted and Donald than they could graciously give expression to in the face
of Mr. and Mrs. Hartley's regret at their departure.
It was astonishing with what celerity Donald had seemed to merge the
sailor-boy in the farm-hand, and now in turn the farm-hand in the valet.
He brushed away at Ted's clothes as vigorously as though that had been
his calling from his youth up, and stowed away his belongings in the
boxes that Harry Allyn had sent down from Oxford with an economy of
space that was truly amazing. And now at last there was no more to
be done, and Mrs. Hartley bade her boys God-speed with lips that from
trembling could hardly frame the blessing, and on which face--Ted's or
Donald's--loving gratitude found deeper expression it would have been
difficult to have told. The old keeper pressed Ted's hands, and actually
said something about feeling he had been a little hard on him at first;
and then turning to Donald, made him promise to count Nuneham as his
home ever afterward, and run down for a Sunday between voyages whenever
he could manage it; and the words were about the most precious that had
ever fallen on Donald's ears.
The hotel to which the two travellers betook themselves in London was a
modest one, as befitted their circumstances. Ted, however, who, in spite
of himself, had still considerable regard for appearances, could not
resist the temptation of investing--though Donald urgently protested
against such extravagance--in a suit of clothes, somewhat less
conspicuous than the nautical blue jersey and wide-flapping trousers of
Donald's Sunday best, and better adapted to his new calling.
“Now, Donald,” said Ted, who found himself relying on Donald's advice in
truly remarkable fashion, “what's to be the first step in the programme?
Shall we try to look up your Mr. Belden in the London Directory?”
“As you say, sir,” said Donald, who was amusing himself and Ted as well
by endeavoring to acquit himself as the most respectful of valets.
So forth they fared together, for the little hostelry was by far too
unpretentious to boast a city directory; but the morning was so fine,
notwithstanding mid-August weather, that they were tempted to stroll on
and on, deferring a little, by tacit consent, the immediate object of
their expedition. Along the Thames embankment they strolled from their
quarters up near Blackfriar's Bridge, past the Savoy Hotel, and keeping
near the river until, reaching Northumberland Avenue, they turned in the
direction of Trafalgar Square.
“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, attracted by a sign over a doorway, when they
had gone a few squares farther on, “I believe this is Mr. Belden's club.
Marie-Celeste told me its name once, and I'm almost sure this is it.”
Whereupon Ted straightway found himself feeling very much dismayed at
the announcement, and his heart misgave him, as hearts have a way
of doing when the time has come for mere intention to take the more
definite form of action. The object of this search of theirs seemed
all at once to Ted the most ridiculous thing imaginable. The idea of
expecting that a stranger, to whom his only introduction was that of a
cabin-boy of the White Star Line, would be likely to take an interest in
him to the extent of making him a loan of a large sum of money at rather
a low rate of interest; and then Ted realized what some of us have
realized before, that all he had practically to build upon was
Marie-Celeste's remark to Donald, “that she felt very sure that the best
thing that could happen to this same rich Mr. Belden would be to do a
good turn to somebody and Ted once more scored himself a fool to have
seriously considered the thing for a moment. But it was too late now to
retreat, for Donald was having an animated talk with the buttons of the
door of the Reform Club; and Ted, who stood just out of earshot, was the
victim of all sorts of uncomfortable sensations as to what the result
might be.
“It looks,” said Donald, coming down the steps and back to Ted, with a
puzzled frown on his face, “as though there really might be a mistake
somewhere. I am perfectly sure this is the name of the club, and the
buttons says they have a Mr. Selden, but no Mr. Belden.”
“Donald,” said Ted almost savagely “let us walk away just as quickly as
possible. There is no doubt about it now. The man you mean is my uncle,
and I wouldn't put myself in his way for all the world. Can't you walk
faster, Donald?” But meantime, the uncle in question was hastening to
put himself in Ted's way with all possible speed, or rather in Donald's,
which, as it happened, was one and the same thing. It seemed that Mr.
Selden (circumstances permitting, it is better to call people by their
real names) had discovered Donald from the dining-room window just as he
was descending the steps, and recognizing him instantly flung his napkin
onto the table, and hurrying from the room seized his hat from the rack
as he passed.
“Bring that boy back!” was his breathless older to the buttons; but the
door being open, he rushed through it himself, deciding that the matter
was too important to be delegated to any one less interested than
himself.
“Donald,” he called, overtaking him at last, a whole square
away--“Donald, were you looking for me?”
Donald turned, and the next moment was shaking hands warmly with Mr.
Selden, his face fairly beaming with glad surprise; but Ted stood by,
the picture of hopeless despair. His first absurd impulse had been to
run, for though first impulses are magnificent things as a rule, they
do sometimes suggest the most outlandish performances. His second, which
was fortunately the one upon which he acted, was to stand and see the
thing through, giving himself over to his fate with an air of most
woebegone resignation to whatever might be in store for him.
“Who is your friend?” said Mr. Selden, politely lifting his hat to Ted;
for his own greeting over, poor Donald was at his wit's end, not knowing
whether Ted would wish to be introduced or no. What was his relief,
then, when Ted, lifting his hat politely in return, said: “You don't
recognize me then, Uncle Everett?”
Why, yes I do, Theodore for although it was years since he had seen him,
the momentarily uncovered head had at once established his identity;
“but how do you and Donald happen to be in each other's company?
Marie-Celeste told me Donald was on a farm down in Oxfordshire, and that
you--well, that nobody knew where you were exactly.”
“It's rather a long story,” said Theodore slowly; and then remembering
his uncle's stolid indifference to things in general, he added coldly,
“I doubt if it would have much interest for you.”
Mr. Selden understood the case perfectly, knowing that his former record
with Ted would justify his speaking in this fashion; but he only said:
“All the same, I would like to know about it. Will you come back to the
club with me?”
The eyes of the valet waited upon his master, but they said very
plainly, “Do let us go;” and the master, after hesitating a moment,
accepted this most unexpected of invitations.