LIONEL TOWSLEY GOES HOME.
"Towsley, boy! you're quite well enough to go home. Especially as
there is, just outside the hospital gate, a red-plumed sleigh waiting,
with great fox robes big enough to wrap a dozen newsboys in; with
horses in a tinkling harness, and more red plumes at their heads; and
a coachman named Jefferson sitting up front with a mighty fur collar
on and a Christmas favor in his hat, and--I've lost my breath, telling
the wonders! For you, my snow-bank youngster!"
The genial doctor entered the room just in time to witness the little
scene between Miss Armacost and her protege; and knowing both parties
fairly well, he judged that the best way out of a difficulty was to
get rid of the difficulty. Which he did in the manner above.
For there was never a newsboy on Newspaper Square, not even the
independent Master Towsley, who could resist the charm of a sleigh
ride; especially in a city where sleighing was a rare occurrence, and
where enormous prices were asked and obtained for any sort of vehicle
that would glide over the snow.
Towsley forgot everything but the prospect before him. Even the
objectionable velvet suit and girlish hat would be endurable under the
circumstances. What if some fellow of his own craft did see and laugh
at him? He laughs best who laughs last, and in this case that would be
the boy in the sleigh. So he clapped his hands and cried out,
excitedly:
"Oh! may I? And will Miss Lucy please go away, and somebody send me
back my clothes?"
"Certainly. Everybody shall clear out except you and me," said the
physician, pulling a brown paper parcel from beneath his arm and
tossing it upon the foot of the cot.
So Miss Armacost and nurse Brady went away and the doctor closed the
door behind them. Then he unfastened the mysterious parcel and spread
before Towsley's wondering gaze a complete suit for a boy of Towsley's
size. Everything was there, down to the shoes and stockings, though
all were of coarse material.
"Oh, ginger! Ain't that prime? For me? Are they for me, doctor?"
"If they fit."
"Oh! they'll fit. Anything fits me."
"Velvet knickers and plumed hats?"
The lad, who had tried to spring out of bed, and had succeeded only in
climbing out rather slowly and shakily, looked up with a twinkle in
his eye; then he answered very seriously:
"Yes, sir; even them. I'd hate 'em. I'd hate to have the fellows see
me in 'em; but I'd wear them forever, rather than make her cry again.
I can't get over that. To s'pose that she, a rich lady living on the
Avenue, should cry over an Alley kid! It ain't nice to think about,
her saying I've got to be her only, 'one precious.' I'll about die of
lonesomeness; but--it's the wandering kindness, you know, sir. I'll
pass it on, and maybe it'll all come right. Do you s'pose she'll make
me sit in front of a window and be dressed up, and make myself a show
for the fellows to come and gibe at?"
"Those shoes all right, eh? Look here, Towsley. I'm not a 'supposing'
sort of a man. I've no time to speculate over things. I have to take
them as they come and keep hustling. That's pretty much the way it is
in the newspaper business, isn't it?"
"Yes. You just believe it."
"I do. Well, though I rarely give away advice--that being a luxury I
dare not afford, in general--I'm going to present you with a bit now,
as a kind of keepsake: Don't you stop to worry or 's'pose' anything.
Life's too short. Just keep hustling. Do right, as near as you can,
straight along and all the time, and let results take care of
themselves or leave them to the Lord who will do it for us. And
remember one other thing: If you do a kindness to anybody you have to
like them. Fact; you can't help it. You will like them, whether or no.
Now I didn't care a nickel about you till I tumbled over you in the
snow-drift. Never heard of you, indeed. But then I had a chance to
help you, and right away I liked you. So I've been down-town, this
afternoon, and bought you this outfit. Between you and me, Towsley, I
shouldn't care for the velvets, either. But they must have been all
that Miss Armacost had on hand and so she gave them to you. These I'm
not giving; I'm simply advancing. Men like us don't care to accept
what we can't pay for, you know. Anything that Miss Lucy will offer
you, you'll have a chance to repay: by love, and attention, and the
deference that a son of her own house would render a gentlewoman who
befriended him. But you'll have no further use for me, and so I'm
merely lending you this suit. If you should ever be able, as you may,
to collect what I've spent on it--about five dollars--you just
remember the wandering kindness and send it along. I'd get a scrap of
paper, if I were you, and write it down: 'Five dollars received of Dr.
Frank Winthrop'; and when you use something for some needy person,
consider that it is so much toward the liquidation of the debt and
write it opposite: 'Paid Dr. Frank Winthrop, so and so.' Understand?"
"Yes. I will repay, too. Though I'd rather do it to you, yourself."
"Doubtless. Yet that doesn't matter. The real thing is to be
systematic and exact in our charities. Slovenliness or carelessness in
such things is worse than a bad habit--it's a sin. Now, how are you? A
trifle queer in the legs, eh? Things in the room look a bit hazy?
That's all right. Effect of an active boy lying in bed. The air will
set you straight. My! but you are a dandy in that suit! Fits you like
a duck's bill in the mud, doesn't it?"
Towsley laughed, so gayly and loudly that anxious Miss Lucy tiptoed to
the outside of the closed door and asked, eagerly:
"Can't I come in yet?"
The jolly doctor gave a nod of his head and Towsley opened to admit
his friend. In all his little life he had never been so well, so
completely clothed as he was at that moment; and the consciousness of
being suitably dressed went far toward giving him the ease of manner
which belonged to the "gentleman" whom he aspired to become.
The alteration in his appearance was so great and his bow so correctly
made that Miss Lucy cried out in delight and surprise, and was about
to throw her arms about the child and caress him before them all.
But the wise doctor prevented that, by saying in his quick way:
"All ready, Miss Armacost; and I fancy your horses and coachman won't
be sorry. If this young fellow gives you any trouble just let me know.
I'll attend to his case, short order; with a dose of picra or some
other disagreeable stuff! But I wish you both the compliments of the
season and--this way out, please. Say good-by to nurse Brady, Towsley
Lionel Armacost, and don't forget that but for her care you might not
be starting on a sleigh-ride now."
Then he was gone, and they had to hurry along the halls and down the
stairs to follow him toward that outer door, before which stood the
chestnuts, jingling their bells and pawing balls of the light snow, in
their impatience to be trotting over the white roads and up to the
park where other horses were flying about, as merry, apparently, as
the people whom they carried.
So with a mere nod of his head, old Jefferson whisked the newsboy into
a corner of the cushioned seat and Miss Armacost followed without
assistance; but her doing so made Towsley remember something and sent
a blush to his pale cheek. That was, the manner in which real
gentlemen helped their women folk on any similar occasion.
"To Druid Hill!" said Miss Lucy, briefly; and Jefferson drove briskly
away.
For some time neither of the occupants of that warm back seat said a
word. Each was too thoroughly engrossed by his and her own thoughts;
but finally Miss Lucy stole a glance toward her small companion and
inquired:
"Do you like sleighing, Lionel?"
"Yes, Miss Armacost. Only--it all seems like--like make-believe. I
keep wondering when I'll wake up. And I wish--I wish Battles and
Shiner were here. I don't believe that Shiner ever had a sleigh-ride
in his life--Never; not once."
"Indeed?" asked the lady, coldly.
"No, ma'am. I mean, no, Miss Lucy. And he ain't much more'n a baby,
Shiner ain't. Not near as old as I am."
"How old are you, my dear?"
"I guess I'm going on eight. Molly thinks I am. You know Molly; the
girl that took me to your house or run me into you on her skate. She's
a dreadful nice girl, Molly is; but I don't believe she ever had a
sleigh-ride, either. Poor Molly."
The lad's eyes were shining from his own pleasure; his pale face was
rapidly taking on a healthy glow; he was a very presentable little
fellow, indeed, in his modern suit of well-shaped clothing, so Miss
Armacost thought, but--he was also spoiling her ride for her as
thoroughly as he could. Spoiling it without the slightest intention
or desire on his own part to do so.
"Molly spent the greater part of yesterday with me, Lionel."
"She did? What for?"
"Because I was in trouble, of more sorts than one; and her kind heart
sent her--in the first place. After she came I begged her to stay. I
am already very fond of Molly; she is so gay and cheerful."
Towsley's face became radiant.
"Oh, jimmeny! Ain't that prime! Have you adopted her, too?"
"No, indeed. She has no need for such an action on my part. She has
both parents living. But our plumbing went to wreck, yesterday, in the
unlooked-for cold snap, and her father came to our rescue. He had to
work there all day, and when he found I was grieving so about
your--your running away into the storm, he told Molly and she came.
She very kindly brought me some of their own dinner, hot and steaming;
and I assure you it did taste fine! I was almost really hungry, for
once."
"That's just like Molly. She's an awful generous girl, Molly is."
Miss Lucy was about to suggest that some other adjective than "awful"
would better apply to "generous," but refrained. It would not do, she
considered, to begin too sternly or suddenly in the reconstruction of
her charge. She simply replied:
"Yes. She is generous and lovable. She has excellent common sense."
Towsley found his tongue and launched into praise of the whole family
of Johns, with such graphic pictures of their daily life that Miss
Armacost felt well acquainted with the entire household. Then the
little fellow became absorbed in the excitement of the ride, and the
novelty of dashing around and around the lake, in that endless line of
prancing horses and skimming vehicles, set his tongue a-chatter
ceaselessly.
Miss Lucy listened, in a sort of charm. The few children whom she knew
were apt to be rather quiet in her presence, but not so this lad from
the back alley. He enjoyed everything, saw everything, described
everything, like a keen reporter of the papers he had used to sell.
"Look-a-there! and there! and there! Did you see that? That was a
regular clothes-basket, set on a pair of runners! Sure; it all goes.
Snow doesn't come down here very often. Why, up north, in New York,
or Boston, or such places, they have sleighing whenever they've a mind
to! but not down here. Folks daren't lose a chance, dare they? See!
There's a regular old vender's wagon, that a lot of young folks have
hired, and they're old cow-bells they've put on the horses. Ki!
look-a-there! look-a-there! Them's woman's college girls--sure! Whew!
regular hay-riggers, ain't they! They must have took all their money
to pay for it! And--shucks! just see them bobs!"
In his excitement the little boy stood up and pointed frantically
toward a group of boys who had brought out their long sleds and were
hastening toward that hill of the park where coasting would be
permitted. Unconsciously he attracted a deal of attention from
the throngs of pleasure-seekers, and Miss Armacost felt herself
unpleasantly conspicuous. Yet there was not an eye which beheld him
that did not brighten because of his happiness; and in spite of her
annoyance at the gaze of her fellow townsmen, the owner of the
chestnuts felt also a sort of pride in its cause.
But at last she ordered the coachman homeward, and they rode slowly
out of the park, down the beautiful Avenue toward the Armacost mansion
and Towsley's new home. He sank back into his place with a profound
sigh of mingled pleasure and regret:
"To think they never had a sleigh-ride!"
"Humph! How many have _you_ had, before this one, Lionel?"
"Why--why--why--none."
"I thought so. Have you pitied yourself?"
"No, ma'am. I mean, no, Miss Lucy."
"Then save your sympathy. One cannot miss what one has never enjoyed.
For myself, I see little good of this snow. It's made no end of
trouble and expense to house owners, and filled the streets with stuff
which the city will have to remove, and----"
"It's made a heap of fun, hasn't it? Won't it give idle men a lot of
shovelling to do? I've always heard them saying how glad they were
when a snow-storm came; those tramps around the city buildings. I'm
sure I think it's jolly. Only I wish----"
"Well, what?"
"That I had as much money as I wanted. I'd hire the big picnic stage
and have it put on runners, and I'd go 'round Newspaper Square, and
the Swamp, and the asylums and--and places--and I'd give every little
kid that never had a ride, I'd give him one to-morrow, as sure as I
live. Oh! I wish I had it!"
Miss Armacost lost all manner of patience with this boy. If he'd only
be contented with enjoying himself and let his neighbors rest. But
here they were at home. How odd it looked, to see those great heaps of
snow which had been shovelled from the sidewalk and piled up in banks
before the houses, between the curbstone and the driveway. And over in
the "Square" which filled the centre of the block the children of the
bordering houses had all come out with sleds and happy laughter, and
were making the old silence ring.
"Maybe, after all, anything which pleases the children is not an
unmitigated annoyance," observed Miss Armacost, reflectively.
Jefferson brought the horses to a standstill and stepped down to
loosen the robes about his mistress and help her alight, if need be.
But Towsley had been before him. He had pulled off his hat, thrust it
under his arm, and extended his hand toward the lady, to assist her,
as courteously and gracefully as any grown gentleman could have done;
even if not with quite so much strength.
Repressing a smile at the difference in size between her assistant
and herself, Miss Armacost quietly placed her hand within his and
stepped to the sidewalk. This was slippery in spots, as Towsley
observed, and he remarked:
"Better let me hold your hand till you get clear up the steps, hadn't
you, Miss Lucy?"
"Yes, dear, I think I would much better." Then when the lad reached
the top and she had rung for admittance, she turned to him with a
lovely smile:
"Welcome home, Lionel Towsley Armacost."
"Thank you, Miss Lucy. I hope we won't neither of us ever be sorry
I've come."
She liked his answer; liked it far more than she would have done one
full of enthusiasm. So they went in together, well pleased, and as the
boy had been so lately a hospital patient, he was sent early to bed
and to sleep.
As she had done before, Miss Lucy visited him afterward, and enjoyed
without restraint the sight of her adopted son, lying so peacefully
upon his pillow. For there were now no soiled stains of the street to
mar his beauty, and the little hands upon the coverlet were as dainty
as need be.
But even in slumber Towsley had an uncomfortable effect upon the
lady's thoughts: reminding her of the many other little lads who had
shared his poverty yet not his present good fortune. She had never
considered her house as an especially large one till his small person
served to show the size of the empty rooms, and how tiny a space one
child could occupy.
Miss Lucy sat so long that she grew chilled. Then she reflected that
she might easily become ill, which would be most unfortunate now,
since she had taken a child to care for. So she rose rather stiffly
and started for her own room; though she had not taken a dozen steps
in its direction before she came to a sudden, startled pause. Somebody
was ringing her door-bell. Ringing it persistently, without waiting
for any response.
"Oh, dear! That must be somebody in trouble! Or, possibly, a special
delivery message from the post-office or express; though I'm sure I
have nobody near and dear enough to call upon me in that manner. Yes,
yes, I'm coming!" she cried to the invisible visitor, though she knew
perfectly that her voice could not reach him.
At that hour, Jefferson and Mary, who slept in the house, were both in
bed, and their mistress would not disturb them. She preferred to hurry
to the door herself and learn what was wanted. But when she reached
and opened it there was nobody waiting. Even though she drew her
shoulder shawl closer about her and stepped out upon the marble stoop
to look, there was nobody in sight. In that quiet neighborhood all
lights had long since been extinguished, and there was no sign of life
in any of the stately homes bordering the snowy Square.
"That's very odd! The bell did certainly ring. Not once but several
times. Well, whoever it was must have been in a hurry, and may have
disappeared around Side Street corner."
So she locked the door, extinguished the light she had turned on, and
climbed the carpeted stairs toward her own apartment. Her slippered
feet made no sound, and the stillness all over the house was profound;
but, just as she turned the first landing, it was broken again. There
came the same prolonged, insistent ringing, and fairly flying back to
the door, Miss Lucy exclaimed:
"Well, I'll be in time now, I think!"
Yet, just as before, she opened to silence and the moonlight only.