PAUL
It was Grandma who made the exciting announcement at the breakfast
table, one morning about ten days later.
“Julia is coming to New York next week,” she remarked to Aunt Kate,
looking up from a letter she was reading, “and she wants to bring Paul
with her.”
“Oh, how exciting!” cried Molly, dropping her spoon into the oatmeal
in the excitement of the moment. “You’ll let them come, won’t you,
Grandma?”
Grandma frowned. One of her strictest rules was that children were not
to talk at meal-times.
“Certainly my daughter is always welcome to her mother’s house,” she
said, coldly, and Molly, very much embarrassed, dropped her eyes to the
table-cloth.
Julia was Grandma’s married daughter, Mrs. Chester, who lived
in Boston, and whose only child Paul had long been a subject of
considerable interest to the four little girls. They had never seen
Paul, but according to his mother--who generally paid flying visits to
her family in New York several times a year--he was a very remarkable
little boy. Dulcie glanced at Aunt Kate, to see how she was taking the
news, but her somewhat inexpressive face appeared quite unruffled.
“Paul hasn’t been very well, it seems,” Mrs. Winslow went on, “and the
doctor advises change of air. Julia has taken him out of school for a
month, and wants to bring him here.”
“I hope Julia isn’t as fussy over the boy as she used to be,” said Aunt
Kate, buttering a slice of toast as she spoke. “He always seemed to me
about as strong as any child of his age, and I know his father thinks
he is. He told me the last time I was in Boston that Julia coddles Paul
entirely too much.”
“Well, Paul is an only child,” said Grandma, with unusual indulgence
for her. “Julia has never recovered from the death of the other baby.”
Aunt Kate took up the report of the Missionary Society, which had
arrived in the morning’s mail, and nothing more was said on the subject
of the expected guests just then, but as soon as the children were
safely out of Grandma’s presence they began chattering all at once.
“Won’t it be fun to have a little boy come to stay with us?” cried
Molly, before they were half-way up-stairs.
“I hope he will be a nice boy,” said Dulcie, a little doubtfully. “I’m
afraid he’s pretty spoiled.”
“Oh, it will be nice to have him even if he is spoiled,” affirmed
Daisy. “He must be an awfully clever boy, anyway. Aunt Julia says he
speaks French and German, and he’s read, I don’t know how many books.”
Molly sighed.
“I’m afraid he’ll be terribly studious,” she said, “and it won’t do for
us to say we don’t like lessons, or he’ll think us so stupid. Still,
it’s going to be very interesting, and I’m awfully glad he’s coming.”
“I’m afraid we won’t be able to go and see Miss Polly while he’s here,”
said Daisy, regretfully. “We can’t tell our secret to any more people,
you know.”
This was certainly a drawback. Going to see Miss Polly had become
one of their greatest pleasures. They had made several calls since
that first evening, and were already growing very fond of the brave,
unselfish little woman, who bore her troubles so uncomplainingly, and
was always so bright and merry.
“Perhaps Paul will be such a nice boy that we shall be able to trust
him,” Molly suggested, but Dulcie and Daisy shook their heads.
For the next few days little was talked of by the children except the
arrival of the expected visitors.
“It’s almost like having a book person come to stay with us,” said
Molly. “We’ve heard so much about Paul, but we didn’t think we should
ever really know him. Of course he’ll like Dulcie, she’s so clever, but
I don’t suppose he’ll care very much about the rest of us.”
“He ought to like Daisy,” said Maud, “because they’re both ten and a
half. Don’t people generally like each other when they’re just the same
age?”
“I don’t know,” said Molly, “but we’ll find out pretty soon, and, oh,
isn’t it exciting?”
“A very learned boy is coming to stay with us,” Molly--who was fond of
using fine words--told Miss Hammond, the daily governess. “He speaks
French and German, and learned the multiplication table all by himself
when he was only five. He could read the Bible perfectly before he was
seven.”
Molly expected Miss Hammond to be much impressed, and was somewhat
crestfallen when the only answer she received was the not very
comforting remark that it was a pity some little girls didn’t know
their tables better.
It was Friday when Mrs. Chester’s letter came, and on the following
Wednesday the visitors arrived. The four children were watching from
the parlor window, and as the cab drew up, there was a simultaneous
rush for the front door. Grandma and Aunt Kate had gone to the station
to meet the travellers, and as the party came up the steps, all eyes
were fixed eagerly upon Paul. He was a tall, pale boy, with a rather
discontented expression, and a shock of reddish brown hair. He was
not a handsome boy, which was something of a shock, as his mother’s
descriptions had led them to expect a sort of young Adonis, but he
shook hands politely, and murmured a few rather unintelligible words,
in answer to Dulcie’s eager assurances of how delighted they all were
to see him. Mrs. Chester, a pale, languid lady, who talked a great deal
about her health, greeted the little girls kindly, and then they all
went up-stairs together.
“May Paul come to the nursery with us?” Molly inquired, as they reached
the guest-room door.
“Not now,” Paul’s mother answered. “He is tired from his journey, and
must take a little rest before dinner.”
“I don’t want to rest; I’m not tired,” protested Paul, in such a
fretful tone that the children regarded him in astonishment. “I want to
go with them.”
“Oh, no, darling, you must lie down first for half an hour. You and the
little girls can have a happy time together after dinner.”
Paul looked anything but pleased, but was forced to submit, and the
children saw the door of the guest-room resolutely closed against them.
“How funny to have to lie down in the daytime,” said Maud, as they
proceeded on their way up-stairs. “Is Paul sick?”
“I think he must be rather delicate,” answered Daisy. “Perhaps he
studies too much.”
“But Dulcie studies a lot, too,” persisted Maud, “and she never lies
down in the daytime.”
“I think Aunt Julia is a very fussy lady,” said Molly. “Don’t you
remember how she always had to take medicine before her meals the last
time she was here? She took afternoon naps, and we had to keep very
quiet while she was asleep. Perhaps she’s fussy about Paul, too.”
Aunt Julia certainly was “fussy” about Paul, as the children very
soon discovered. When Paul appeared at dinner, with a clean face, but
otherwise unchanged, his mother told Grandma that she was obliged to be
very particular about his diet.
“He will eat so few things,” she said. “O dear! I have forgotten to
bring down his tonic. Don’t you want to run up-stairs for it, Paul
darling? The bottle is on mother’s bureau.”
“No, I don’t,” replied Paul, with decision. “I hate that nasty stuff,
and the doctor said I wouldn’t need to take it any more when I had a
change of air.”
“Oh, my boy,” remonstrated his mother, “the doctor didn’t mean that you
could leave it off at once. Now run and bring me the bottle, like a
good child, and let these little girls see how obedient you are.”
“I’ll get it if Paul is tired,” proposed Molly good-naturedly, and
somewhat to the children’s surprise the offer was accepted.
Paul swallowed the medicine, over which he made a wry face, and dinner
began.
“Take your soup, Paul dear,” his mother admonished gently; “you are
only playing with it.”
“There’s rice in it,” objected Paul; “I hate rice.”
Grandma frowned.
“Little boys should learn to eat what is put before them, and not make
remarks about their food,” she said, reprovingly. If this remark had
been addressed to Molly or Maud, she would have been reduced to instant
submission. Not so Paul.
“I never eat things I don’t like,” he said, without the slightest sign
of embarrassment. “A great many things disagree with me, don’t they,
Mother?”
“I am afraid they do,” answered Mrs. Chester, with a sigh. “And that
reminds me, Mother, he must have squeezed meat every day for his lunch,
and I always let him have ice-cream at least three times a week. The
doctor considers it good for him.”
Maud’s lips moved, and the other children were sure they could read the
words “Goody, goody!” but the grown-ups noticed nothing, and if Grandma
made no promises, she at least made no objections, which, as Molly said
afterwards, was almost as good as saying yes. It was wonderful how much
more lenient Grandma was to Paul than she had ever been to the four
little girls.
“Well, Paul, what have you been reading lately?” inquired Aunt Kate,
when the soup question had been finally settled, by Mary’s taking the
plate away to the pantry, in order to remove the objectionable rice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered her nephew, rather sulkily; “nothing much,
I guess.”
“My darling Paul,” cried his mother in horrified reproach, “what do you
mean? Tell Aunt Kate at once about all the beautiful books you have
read since you have been ill. He reads French just as well as English,
you know, Kate. You must hear him to-morrow. What was that interesting
story you were reading on the train to-day, Paul?”
“_Sans Famille_,” said Paul, pronouncing the words with a decidedly
English accent.
“Indeed?” said Aunt Kate. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I didn’t pay much attention to it,” returned Paul, unblushingly; “I
hate French.”
Aunt Kate smiled sarcastically, and even Grandma’s stern face relaxed a
little, but Paul’s mother looked really pained.
“Don’t notice him,” she said apologetically. “Like all sensitive
children, he objects to showing off. He really adores his French books.”
Paul grew suddenly scarlet.
“I do not!” he proclaimed loudly. “I don’t mind showing off, but I hate
French books, and most English ones, too.”
“That will do, Paul,” said Grandma, who could not endure impertinence
even from her only grandson. “Children who speak in that tone are sent
away from the table.”
Paul looked rather surprised, but wisely refrained from arguing the
point, and the meal proceeded without any further unpleasantness. Paul
refused to touch turnip, and informed his mother in a low voice that he
hated baked custard, but if Grandma heard, she made no remark.
“May we take Paul up-stairs, Grandma?” Dulcie inquired, eagerly, as
they rose from the table. “Perhaps he would like to play lotto.”
“Yes, I suppose you may as well,” answered Mrs. Winslow, who evidently
had her doubts as to how Paul would endure the usual evening routine in
the dining-room. “What time does he go to bed, Julia?”
“Eight o’clock precisely,” her daughter answered, “but I think he had
better go a little earlier to-night. He must be tired from the journey.
Go up-stairs with the children, darling, and Mother will call you in
half an hour.”
“Now we’ve really got you to ourselves at last,” said Dulcie, joyfully,
as they all went up-stairs together. “We’ve been talking about your
coming ever since your mother’s letter came last week. You see, we
felt as if we knew you; we’ve heard so much about you.”
Paul looked interested. “What sort of things have you heard about me?”
he inquired.
“Oh, about how clever you are; how you learned to read the Bible when
you were so little, and could say all your tables when you were five,
and--oh, lots of interesting things.”
Paul grinned.
“I’m not very clever,” he admitted condescendingly. “Mother likes to
tell people I am, but I’m not really. I read a good many books, but I’d
much rather play with the boys in the streets, only Mother won’t let
me. She’s afraid I’ll catch some disease. I’ve had measles and mumps,
and chickenpox, but I’ve got to have scarlet fever and diphtheria yet,
and Mother’s terribly afraid of those two. Is this your room, and do
you all sleep here together?”
Dulcie admitted that they did, and Daisy added cheerfully, as she
turned up the gas:
“It’s a very big room, you see, and we love being all together.”
Paul glanced about him rather critically.
“You haven’t any pictures on the walls,” he remarked. “My room at home
is full of pictures. They’re all copies of the old masters, and Mother
makes me learn a lot of stuff about the fellows who painted them. I
hate it.”
“I should think it would be very interesting,” said Dulcie. “I love to
learn about people.”
“You wouldn’t if you lived with Mother. She’s always making me learn
things, and then she tells people, and I have to show off. I say,
what’s an ‘incumbrance’?”
“I don’t know,” said Dulcie, looking puzzled. “What makes you ask?”
“Because you’re all one, Mother said so. She was talking to Father last
night, and she said you were all a terrible incumbrance to Grandma.”
Dulcie reddened.
“I don’t know what it means,” she said, “but I’m sure it isn’t anything
nice, and I don’t think you are very polite to repeat it. Don’t you
know it isn’t honorable to repeat things you hear people say? Papa
never allows us to do it, and he is a very honorable man.”
Paul looked rather embarrassed.
“My father’s a very honorable man, too,” he announced, indignantly. “He
says Mother will make a milksop of me. Do you know what a milksop is?”
“No, I don’t,” admitted Dulcie, “but I shouldn’t like to be one.”
“Well, I guess it’s just as bad as being an incumbrance. Anyway, you
can’t help being that, and it isn’t your fault. Father said, ‘Poor
little chicks, I’m sorry for them,’ and he wouldn’t have said that if
it had been your fault. You’d like my father.”
“We do know him,” said Daisy. “He came with Aunt Julia once, and he
brought us some candy. We liked him ever so much, he was so kind.”
“Come, let’s play lotto,” interrupted Maud, who did not find the
conversation particularly interesting. “If we don’t begin, Aunt Julia
will call Paul before we can finish a game.”
“What are you doing, Dulcie--why don’t you come to bed?” inquired Daisy
from her pillow, an hour later.
“I’ll come in a minute,” her sister answered, absently. “I’m just
looking for something in the dictionary.”
There was a short silence. Then Dulcie closed the dictionary with a
bang, and in another moment the light was out, and she had crept into
bed beside Daisy. The two younger children were already asleep.
“Was it that word Paul said, you were looking for in the dictionary?”
Daisy whispered, as her sister nestled down beside her, and slipped an
arm round her neck.
“Yes,” said Dulcie, shortly.
“And did you find it, and was it something very horrid?”
“It was rather horrid, but not as bad as I was afraid it might be. It
means about the same thing as being a burden. Miss Polly was afraid of
being a burden to her brother, you know, but it isn’t anything we can
help, so there isn’t any use in talking about it. I hate to talk about
disagreeable things just before I go to sleep. I’ll tell you about that
last Christmas in Danby, and how Mamma let me help dress the tree.”
“All right,” said Daisy, cheerfully. “Do you think we are going to like
Paul?”
“I think so,” said Dulcie. “I was afraid he was going to be terribly
conceited and stuck-up, but he isn’t really. He ought not to repeat
things he hears his father and mother say, but perhaps nobody has ever
told him not to. Anyhow, I’m glad he hates showing off.”