“HUMPTY-DUMPTY’S” NOVEL EXPERIENCE.
“Oh, sir! Will you ever forgive me?”
“Forgive you, my dear! I am the one to be forgiven, I should think. And
I appreciate your wearing my gift, and am exceedingly sorry I ruined
the flowers. However, they can easily be replaced. Odd that we should
meet just here again! Were you returning from your school? And how is
your mother to-day?”
“Mother is better, thank you, though I have not seen her since early
morning. But I am not returning from school, and I was not wearing your
flowers. I cannot let you think anything so kind of me as that. I was
selling them!”
The four people of the group had retreated to the wall of the hotel,
aside from the passing throng, and Mr. Dolloway had been eyeing Robert,
who returned the stare, very much as a big dog eyes a little one before
making acquaintance. If there was one object in the world of the old
fellow’s special detestation, it was the average small boy. He was
always ready to ascribe to them all the sins of the decalogue with
many original additions; and he now suspected the little brother of
Beatrice of having caused Mr. Brook’s detention for some evil purpose
of his own. He was not even convinced otherwise when presently his
master recovered sufficiently from the astonishment Bonny’s words
had caused to explain: “These are Conrad Beckwith’s grandchildren,
Dolloway.”
“Humph! How do you do?” asked the old servant, feeling he must say
something.
“First-rate!” responded Bob, heartily. “Howdy yourself?”
“H’m-m, I’m well enough, but they’s a cold wind blows round this
corner, sir.”
“Yes, lad, I know it. But did you wish to say anything further to me,
Miss Beckwith?” asked the considerate Mr. Brook, trying to make his
manner as cordial as it had been, but failing signally.
Beatrice felt desperate. She must make this kind, gentle old man
understand that she had not been selling his gift for a mean, selfish
reason; yet how was she to do so? It was unkind to keep him standing in
that bleak place any longer, nor did she wish to visit any more stores
in his company.
“Yes; I do want to tell you about it. I would be glad to talk with you
about everything; but where can I? Will you go back to my mother’s
house with me? Or where can I go with you?”
“My child, do not distress yourself about these trumpery posies. They
were yours. You had a perfect right to do with them as you chose.”
“But I want to explain. I am not so mean as you think me, and yet I am
a great deal worse. I played truant to-day, like a bad little boy, and
persuaded Robert to do the same. My poor mother knows nothing about
this affair, and she will be mortified when she hears. Besides, I would
like to ask your advice, somebody’s advice anyway, and you say you were
grandfather’s friend. I--”
“Wait a moment, my dear. Have you had your dinner yet?” Mr. Brook
glanced from the sister to the brother, as he spoke, and the
brightening of Robert’s black eyes was sufficient answer.
“No, sir. But we will get that as soon as we get home.”
“Then I have it! Let us take a carriage down to my hotel, where I am
sure of being served as I like, and you two take dinner with me there.
Then we can have ample time to talk, as well as a comfortable place to
do it in. Will you? What do you say, Robert?”
“I say yes an’ thank you,” answered the child promptly, and with more
civility than might have been expected.
“I do not like to give you that trouble and--and expense,” said Bonny
naïvely, alert as poverty had made her to the value of money. “Besides,
we should be going home soon.”
“If you have played truant for a little while, you may as well continue
a bit longer. I am as anxious to talk with you as you can possibly be
with me, and I will be responsible to your mother for this added delay;
that is, if you are not positively needed at home.”
“Thank you. No, I am not needed now. I am not of much account there
anyway; and we shall be very happy to accept your invitation,” added
Bonny, with a sudden change of determination induced by a hasty study
of her little brother’s face. How hungry he did look! How good a real
dinner would taste to the child! Well, if people didn’t mean what they
said they should be punished by being believed!
Yet Mr. Brook’s smile at her acceptance told certainly enough how
sincere had been his invitation; and in a few seconds more the
whole party were driving down Broadway, and Robert felt himself of
considerable more importance than when he had interviewed pedestrians
on the flower question.
“Do you like riding, lad?” asked Mr. Brook, amused at the earnest
expression of the boy’s face.
“Like it! You bet! It’s bully!”
Dolloway frowned and sniffed. “Talk English, can’t you?”
“He knows what I mean; so do you,” replied “Humpty-Dumpty” instantly.
“Rob! don’t be impertinent!” cried Beatrice, warningly.
“Ain’t impertinent. I do like it. Bully means tip-top. I don’t mean
anything out the way, only it does bother me to talk c’rect. I will
when I get older, mebbe.”
“Train up a child in the way--” said Dolloway; but got no further, for
Robert’s exclamations effectually stopped all other conversation, even
if his elders had been inclined to converse; and pleasant though the
ride was, all save the boy were glad when the carriage drew up before
the substantial old hostelry where Mr. Brook felt was the only positive
comfort to be found in the city.
“This is our parlor, my dear. Isn’t it a good, old-fashioned room? Our
bedrooms open off from it. I have put up at this ‘inn’ for many years;
that is, I used to do so when I was in the habit of spending much of my
time in town. Did I mention to you that we return home in the morning?”
“So soon!” exclaimed Beatrice, and wondered why she felt so sorry.
“We have been here for several days. My sister will expect us. Now,
my dear, I want you to tell me anything you wish. Rest assured I will
advise you to the utmost of my wisdom.”
Bonny looked up and saw Mr. Dolloway’s eyes fixed curiously upon her.
There was not a particle of sympathy in his face and it was evident
that girls were not much more to his taste than boys. She felt that she
could not say a word before him, and she did not know how to place him,
whether as friend or servant of her host.
Perhaps Mr. Brook saw this hesitation and rightly interpreted it;
for he rose almost at once and said: “I would like to go down to old
Trinity before I return home. I’ll leave you, Dolloway, and our young
friend Robert to order the dinner, and Miss Beckwith and I will walk
down to the church,--that is, if she will favor me with her company. By
the time we come back, dinner will be ready to serve, and I shall be
able to satisfy Joanna’s questions about her old place of worship. Does
that plan suit everybody?”
Bonny sprang up instantly. “I think you have a gift for plans which
please everybody, dear sir! I was never in Trinity Church but once,
though I was born and have always lived in New York. I should like to
go very much.”
“Then let us be off. Will the arrangement suit Robert? If not--”
“I’d rather stay here, thank you, sir,” said the boy; “and did you mean
’at I could have _anything_ I wanted to eat?”
“Bob!”
“Certainly. Order anything you wish, that is in market. I remember how
hungry I used to get when I was a school-boy. I’m hungry still; so
don’t forget to look out for me, too. Good-by for a little while;” and
nodding gayly to the lad, Mr. Brook led the way into the street and
down it to the church.
“I like this old place. I can remember it for so long. To step into
it out of the rush of Broadway is almost like being recreated,” said
Mr. Brook, reverently, as they entered and passed slowly up the broad
aisle.
Bonny could say nothing. Her mind was in a ferment of eagerness to tell
this new-old friend everything concerning herself and her dear ones.
She felt that he would understand and be able to explain the “muddle”
in which she found herself without her saying a word, and yet she
wanted to leave nothing for him to guess at.
“Will you sit down here with me, Mr. Brook?”
“Certainly.”
They took the places Beatrice had designated, and as she looked up into
the kindly, interested face all her trouble passed away. “You must
have seen, sir, that we are very poor. When I looked at that basket
of flowers I thought it was dreadful to have anything of such value
wasted in that way, while my precious mother is toiling her life out to
keep her family in simple necessaries. Then it came into my head that
I might sell them. I never did such a thing before, though I would not
have been ashamed to if-- No, that isn’t quite honest. I don’t like to
earn money that way, but I would be glad to earn it regularly, by any
straight-forward, hard work, if I might be allowed.”
“How ‘allowed,’ my dear? Can you not work if you will?”
“No; that is just it. Mother thinks her geese are all swans, and
must not swim in common mill-ponds. So she is just killing herself to
keep Isabelle at the fashionable school where she studies art, in pay
for her--Belle’s--looking after ‘primaries.’ That way it doesn’t cost
anything for the instruction; but clothes do cost, such clothes as my
sister must wear if she goes fitly among such rich pupils, cost a great
deal for us. Roland is the happiest of all, maybe; because he does
generally earn his own way. That is, what he earns has mostly paid the
rent, only now he’s lost his place. I think it was the knowledge of
that which upset Mother, last night. Her courage has been stretched so
much that it is wearing out.”
“How did he lose his position? What was it?”
“He was some sort of a clerk in a wholesale dry-goods house. I suppose
he quarrelled with his employer. He hated it. He said it would have
seemed a great deal manlier to him to sell stoves or steam-engines, or
something not so womanish as silks and velvets; but I fancy it would
have made no difference. He was born to live out of doors. He’s a
different boy when he happens to get an outside ‘job,’ once in a while.”
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen. Belle is one year older than he.”
“What do you study, my dear?”
“Nothing much but music, now. Mother has a friend who is interested
in the best Conservatory here, and I have the benefit of instruction
there. I have an idea that this lady, this friend, pays my expenses, or
advances the money to Mother for that purpose, though I do not know.
I asked once, but was not told. Mother is certain I have a fortune in
my voice, and she is killing herself to keep me in training. I cannot
say I have not. I have no wish to run down my only legitimate stock in
trade, but I don’t believe I’m a Patti or a Jenny Lind. I may be, of
course. Brother Robert is too little to be anything but the dearest,
sweetest small chap in the world. So there you have us. We are not
beggars, exactly; for Mother has a little bit of an income which ekes
out the embroidery money, and so we manage. But it isn’t as it should
be, and what I want to know is: Could such a family as ours make a
living in the country somewhere? Do you think our ‘talents’ could be
put to any sensible use? And--do you forgive my selling your flowers?”
“My dear, I am glad if they brought you one bit of additional money. I
wish you had had double the number--”
“Oh dear! I don’t! That sounds saucy. But I never in the world could
make my salt that way. I haven’t the patience, and I have too much
pride. But I did get quite a nice little sum for them, and I am sure it
will do Motherkin a lot of good. Only her pride will suffer, and her
heart ache a little that I could do anything without telling her first.
We never have any secrets in our small household; and I have been so
low-spirited all day over mine. Only, of course, I shall make a clean
breast of the business as soon as I get home.”
“Miss Beckwith, or Beatrice, if you will let me call you so, I thank
you for your confidence in me. I want to prove myself to you all that
my Conrad would have been to any one dear to me, if I can. But I see
very clearly that your mother is proud and self-reliant. She is not of
the sort to whom one can offer pecuniary aid without offering a sting
as well. I am of the same kind myself. I should not like to receive
benefits at all, unless I had a chance of repaying them. I agree with
the doctor that Mrs. Beckwith would be better in the country; but I
dare not propose my poor knowledge of what is best for you youngsters
against a mother’s wish and wisdom. Still, continue to trust me for a
little while. Some way will open to help you; and Joanna will advise
me. I never take any important step without consulting her.”
Bonny looked her surprise. Mr. Brook was a hale, strong-hearted man of
eighty years. How odd that he should need to take counsel of anybody,
least of all of a woman! “Is Joanna the sister of whom you spoke?”
“Yes. A wise and dear friend she has been to me all my life. She and I
live together at the old homestead in New Windsor with the servants who
have been long in our employ. I hope you will know her soon. You are
certain to love her if you do.”
Bonny’s quick sympathy sent a momentary moisture to her bright eyes,
which Mr. Brook saw clearly enough, even without his glasses, which had
fallen from his nose. “Why, what, my dear?”
“Nothing--nothing, sir! Only that is so beautiful! I wonder if my
Roland will love me like that when he is old, and I am! We are the
‘closest chums’ now; but--do you suppose it will last?”
“Let us hope it will last, my dear. And it certainly will if you do
your sisterly share to make it. Never for one moment allow yourself to
forget that you are children of one mother,--the brave little mother
who has toiled to keep you in one fold. Then I am as positive it ‘will
last’ as that our dinner must be waiting us now!”
Bonny sprang up at once. “Thank you, Mr. Brook. And if your sister does
not see how to help us into a sensible way of living, still I shall
always remember you gratefully; and I will try to be to my Roland what
Miss Brook has been to you. I will, indeed. But I am glad to go back
to Robert. He is rather uncertain in his behavior, though the dearest
little fellow in the world!”
“Indeed?” laughed Mr. Brook, dryly; and with so much of mischief in
his fine old face that again Beatrice was reminded of the picture her
mother had seen in the chrysanthemums, and she beguiled the way back
to the hotel by a description of the little scene when the basket had
arrived.
“That was pretty, very pretty. Joanna must certainly know your mother;
and I have a scheme in my mind that, meeting her approval, will bring
many happy days to all of us, I trust.” The old man looked up cheerily,
and caught Bonny’s wondering gaze fixed upon his face. “Ah, ha, my
dear! You see that youth has no monopoly of ‘looking forward.’ A man
may be a deal happier at eighty than he ever was at eighteen. I am.”
They reached the hotel none too soon. Dinner had been ready for some
moments, and both Mr. Dolloway and Robert were in the condition of
temper which hungry men, of any size, not possessing more than the
usual amount of “grace” commonly exhibit.
“Bonny! I want to go home! Right away! That horrid old man
has--sp-sp-spanked--me!”