A CHRYSANTHEMUM DINNER.
A second time in one day was Bonny Beckwith destined to come to the
rescue of the unfortunate Mr. Brook; for she laid her hand appealingly
upon the policeman’s sleeve and cried: “Oh, sir! What are you doing?
This gentleman is all right!”
The bright-faced girl was no stranger to the officer, who probably knew
all the residents of his “beat,” and he asked, in surprise: “Why, do
you know him, Miss?”
“Certainly. He is a friend of ours.”
“Then you’d better give him some lessons in conducting himself on the
street; that’s all.” With this the roundsman loosened his hold of his
victim, and flourished his hand to disperse the crowd of urchins and
sight-seers who had gathered on the spot.
“What did he do?”
“Thumped on the door of ---- as if he were trying to break it in. Why
didn’t he ring if he wanted to, instead of creating a disturbance?”
“Were you looking for us, Mr. Brook?”
“Of course I was. And I should like to know how in the world you get
into these houses. There is no bell, and the door-knob won’t turn, and
I’d stood here as long as I dared with the wind blowing forty miles
an hour. I sent cabby off to walk his horses up and down, and he’s
disappeared entirely. I left my man at the hotel, in bed with the
rheumatism; and--if there’s any way of getting into this prison and if
you really live here, I should like to be admitted.”
“Certainly. Beg pardon for keeping you so long. See--this is the
way. Touch one of those little knobs, the one opposite the card with
‘Beckwith’ on it and the door will open almost immediately. Electric
bells, you know.”
“Unluckily, I didn’t know! I hate these new-fangled ‘conveniences’ that
are ten times as much trouble as old-fashioned things. I’m not quite a
fool, my dear, though I may have been presented to you in that light
on both occasions of our meeting. I simply did not know how to get in;
but I concluded that if I made noise enough somebody would hear and
answer,” said Mr. Brook, smiling merrily, now that the door had opened
noiselessly, as if by spirit hands, and a hallway with orthodox stairs
was revealed.
“And somebody did!” returned Bonny, quite as gayly; while Robert, who
had slipped up and thrown his arm about his sister’s waist, laughed
outright.
“Humph! Who are you, sir? You were one of the boys who jeered the
loudest, if I’m not mistaken,” said the visitor, turning with a savage
frown toward the lad.
“I’m her brother.”
“Yes. My brother Robert. He isn’t as bad as he looks, Mr. Brook.
Perhaps you would better wait a moment and get your breath. It is
pretty high up--on the fifth floor.”
“Good gracious! Is this one of those ‘flat’ houses I hear about?”
“Yes.”
“Some of the finest old houses in the city stood here a quarter of a
century ago. It is a shame, a perfect shame.”
“Yes, I suppose so. There are some beautiful residences still left in
the neighborhood, and we often look at them and try to imagine the
lives that used to be lived in them. But a fifth-story flat is all we
can afford, so you must prepare yourself for a plain little place.”
They had ascended as far as the fourth floor, and Mr. Brook had paused
on each landing to regain his wind; but Bob, at a nod from Beatrice,
had sped upwards to announce the coming of the guest.
“Ah! plainness does not disturb me, my dear; and you are a little
gentlewoman, no matter where you live. I hope I have not chosen an
inopportune hour for my call.”
“You have given us all a great, great pleasure by your beautiful
gift which came this afternoon; and we are glad to have you come and
receive our thanks, whenever it suits you best.” Bonny did not add, as
she might, that if he had deferred the call for one hour longer their
simple dinner might have been gotten out of the way, and the home made
ready for his reception.
The first thing that greeted the old gentleman’s eyes as he entered the
room, which was dining-room and parlor in one for the Beckwiths, was
his own basket of chrysanthemums replaced upon the snowy cloth in the
centre of the table, with the soft glow of a shaded lamp falling upon
it. If Mrs. Beckwith had arranged this with a view to blinding stranger
eyes to the bareness of the room otherwise, her ruse succeeded, for Mr.
Brook gazed upon the flowers and for a space saw nothing more.
“My mother, Mr. Brook,” said Bonny, bringing forward the one really
strong chair which the room afforded.
“Your humble servant, madam. I consider myself honored in making
your acquaintance. You are the mother of a most charming daughter.
Daughters, I should say;” for at that instant Isabelle moved gracefully
forward, with a friendliness meant to drive any awkward memories from
the guest’s mind, and extended her slim hand in greeting.
At which “Humpty-Dumpty,” from a point behind Mr. Brook’s back,
contorted his freckled face and rolled his black eyes so horribly that
Bonny was forced to smile.
“We have much to thank you for, and must consider that a fortunate
accident which resulted in our receiving so delightful a gift,”
answered the hostess, placing herself near her visitor, “unless your
fall of this afternoon resulted in some injury to yourself. I hope it
did not.”
“No, oh! no. That is, nothing to mention. A few bruises and scratches,
and a bit of stiffness. But I thank you. I should not have been alone,
only Dolloway, my man, has the rheumatism and I couldn’t think of
taking him out in the cold. He stayed at the hotel. If he had been
with me he would have prevented my making an exhibition of myself.
However, ‘all’s well that ends well;’ and I have been congratulating
myself ever since that I may have been thus led to trace an old friend.
Did you ever hear of one Conrad Honeychurch Beckwith?”
A responsive smile illumined the widow’s pale face, and the last
misgiving she had about thus receiving a stranger into her home
vanished. “There could be but one Conrad Honeychurch Beckwith, I think.
Such was the name of my husband’s father.”
“I thought so! I thought so! Your husband is--was--”
“Charles Honeychurch Beckwith. The only son of Conrad who grew to
manhood.”
“Madam, your hand again! We are old, old friends! Or we should be.
Conrad was the chum of my youth, the Damon to my Pythias. We even went
‘Forty-Nining’ together; but he soon left California and returned to
his dying wife in New York. I stayed--awhile. He wrote me a few times,
then ceased to even answer my letters, which after a while I ceased to
write. From that day to this I have never heard of him. I have hunted
Beckwiths without number, till people have thought me Beckwith mad; but
my Conrad was never among them, and I had given him up. How strange,
how strange, and also how fortunate, that I stood gaping at the sights
till I was knocked down and Conrad’s grandchild was sent to pick me up!
Come here, my dear! Come here and let me look at you!”
Mr. Brook’s excitement communicated itself to all the household, always
alert to anything which varied the monotony of their pinched lives.
Roland came forward and gazed wonderingly upon the man who, fast
slipping out of life, yet remembered so faithfully the friend of his
youth. Belle felt the elation of a real romance; Bonny was dancing with
delight; and Robert, the “terrible,” was eagerly speculating whether
this was the sort of an old gentleman one read of in story-books, duly
appreciative of small attentions and liberal as to tips.
But the mother understood best the desire of the old man’s heart to
learn all there was to tell, and set herself to gratify it. “My dears,
suppose you go on with the dinner-getting. I am sure Mr. Brook will
pardon our necessity, and I hope will share our meal. You see, we are
rather cramped for room; so, while table is being made ready, those of
us not engaged in the task generally retreat to this corner and call
it the ‘withdrawing room.’ But maybe you know the inconveniences of a
small city flat?”
“No, indeed. Thank the Lord, I live in the country. Even in my best
days I would get out of town nearly every night to sleep at home;
though I was a beau here, when I first came back from the coast with my
pockets full of nuggets. I used purposely to have my name in the papers
as often as might be, hoping that thus, if I could not find Conrad, he
would find me. But it was of no use. Five-and-twenty years ago I left
the town for good. I never meant to come back. But of late a terrible
uneasiness has possessed me, and I finally yielded to it. I understand
what it meant now.”
They had moved to the corner which Mrs. Beckwith had designated, and
though the guest appeared to notice nothing of what the young folks
were doing, he was, nevertheless, very watchful; and while his hostess
related all the simple history of two discouraged men, her husband
and his father, yielding to a fate which seemed too hard for them and
dying, each in his prime,--ay, even before what most would call the
prime,--the wise old visitor read between her periods the tale of her
own bravery, and wondered how best he could second her efforts.
“And that is all. I am sorry we have not better entertainment to offer,
but such as we have I see is ready.”
The widow rose as she spoke, and it was not many paces Mr. Brook need
follow her before he reached the table.
With a commendable view to eking out a short supply, Bonny had placed
the basket of flowers again upon the board, though she had had to
substitute a coarse tablecloth for the daintily embroidered fabric
which was intended for a richer household; and, at the first glance,
the guest almost believed that the posies were to be their only repast.
However, this was not the case. There were roasted potatoes, bread,
butter, and a fragrant cup of tea; the last a luxury, and the one
addition which had been made to the regular fare. Now tea was an
abomination to the palate of Philipse Chidly Brook, and potatoes he
never ate, when he could help himself; but this being an occasion when
he evidently could not, he put a brave face on the matter, and accepted
them as if they were the rarest of delicacies. Suddenly he looked up
from his plate, and beheld the dark eyes of Robert fixed upon him with
critical attention.
“Well, my lad! Out with it! A penny for your thoughts.”
For once the graceless boy was scared. The prospect of possible tips
depended upon his present behavior, and he choked back the remark that
had almost escaped his lips. “I--I haven’t any. I--I mean--I dassent
tell ’em.”
“Not for the penny?”
“No, sir, not fer a nickel.”
“You needn’t. I can guess them. In any case I never go above the
traditional price of thoughts.”
“I bet--you can’t guess ’em!”
“How much will you bet?”
“Robert!” remonstrated Mrs. Beckwith, while Belle began “talking eyes”
at her most rapid rate, certain that the boy was about to disgrace them
all.
“I’ll bet all I’ve got. Two cents ag’in two of yourn, if you say so.”
“Mr. Brook, our little brother attends the primary department of a
highly esteemed parish school. Hence the elegant language which you
must have observed,” remarked Bonny, hoping to divert attention from
the subject of “thoughts” to education.
“He is well enough. For a boy. He looks like you.”
“Motherkin says I behave like her, too,” asserted Bob, triumphantly;
and Beatrice felt her effort worse than wasted.
“H’m-m. You were wondering how old I am. Wasn’t it so?”
“Ginger! How did you know?”
“I was a boy once.”
“What did you use to do? Did you play marbles? Er fight?”
“I played marbles and I flew kites. When I could get any money to buy
them with, or coax my mother to make them. And I used to drive the cows
when I visited my uncle, on his farm, not far from here. It may be that
I have trotted barefooted over the very spot on which this house now
stands. Seventy years ago, that was; seventy years ago! Then I was a
child like you.”
“My gracious! An’ you’re alive yet!”
“Not only that--I am happy yet! Doubly happy now that I have found
somebody who may become like a little grandson to me; for I have none
of my own.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Probably because I never had a wife. I would like to ‘adopt’ my
Conrad’s grandson, in a way, if he will let me.”
“Who’s him?”
“Yourself.”
“Pooh! You wouldn’t want me, I guess. An’ I know ’bout ’doptingness.
They was a woman in this house, she ’dopted a baby, an’ it squalled.
Nen she got tired of it. Nen she wanted to give it back an’ the folks
wouldn’t take it. Nen she put it in the Norphan ’Sylum. An’ it’s there
yet. I’m too big, anyway. I’m going on nine. Ain’t I, Mother? When will
I be as old as nine?”
“Next Fourth of July, dear. You certainly are too old for adoption, as
you mean it. But if Mr. Brook hasn’t any odd, small people to make him
both glad and sorry, all in a minute, you might supply the deficiency.”
“H’m-m. I guess I’d better not. I ain’t very good. I don’t have time to
be.”
“Indeed? What keeps you busy?” asked the amused old gentleman.
“Folks. An’ fun. Bonny ’most wears me out, some days. She sends me to
do things. I sell papers; an’ I hold horses, when I can get ’em to
hold. Some men say I ain’t big ’nough, an’ I think that’s mean. I’m as
big as I can be, ain’t I?”
“Quite!” answered the unwise Beatrice, who did her daily best to spoil
the child by alternate teasings and pettings.
“Nen I get mad. Nen Motherkin’s heart acts up. An’ they is a gen’ral
miscomfort in the house, so I go outdoors. I learn bad words outdoors,
an’ I come home an’ say ’em, an’ get ’proved. But we get along. Hello,
Motherkin! What’s the matter? Ginger! There she goes ag’in! It’s one of
her sick times, I s’pose! Oh! Mother! You’re dead--you’re dead!”
Unobserved by all but her small son, Mrs. Beckwith had fallen
gently forward till her colorless face rested upon the basket of
chrysanthemums, and the guest thought the boy had spoken the sorrowful
truth.