GRANDPAPA DOES THE RIGHT THING.
The little brown house door opened slowly, and some one came in.
Phronsie raised her head. “Why, Grandpapa!” she exclaimed, “have you
come home?”
“Yes; I thought I would, Phronsie; there wasn’t much to detain me, and
I finished early.”
Phronsie had risen and hurried over to him, putting her hand
affectionately through his arm. “You are not sick, Grandpapa dear?” she
asked, anxiously looking up into his face.
“No, no, child; that is, only sick of myself,” he answered with a short
laugh. Phronsie stood quite still in a puzzled way, regarding him
closely. “There’s nothing to worry about, Phronsie, nothing at all.
Only I thought I’d have a little talk with you. Come here, child.” He
took a seat in a big easy-chair, and drew her to his knee. “There, now
we can be comfortable.”
Phronsie fixed her brown eyes upon him wonderingly.
“Phronsie, I’ve always been a curious old chap. I wouldn’t say so to
any one else, only to you, dear; but I have.”
“O Grandpapa!” cried Phronsie convulsively, and throwing her arms
around his neck, “don’t, don’t, dear Grandpapa! You’ve always and ever
been beautiful,” she sobbed in great distress.
“Well, there, there, child,” said the old gentleman, patting her back
as if she were three years old, and mightily pleased with her tribute,
“you love the old man, and that’s enough. But what I should have done
without you, child, no living mortal knows. I’m sure I cannot tell.
Well; and now, Phronsie, I want to say something, and you must hear me.
Sit up, dear, and let me see your eyes.”
So Phronsie sat up quite straight on his knee, and he held her hands,
and she never took her eyes from his face, but listened attentively to
every word.
“You see, Phronsie, it’s just this way. I’ve been thinking over many
things lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I made a mistake
in sending Roslyn May off. So I’ve just been writing to him that it
strikes me he would better run across again.”
All the pink color had gone from Phronsie’s cheek long ago, and she now
sat pale and still, her brown eyes fastened on his face.
“Does that please you, child?” asked old Mr. King after a pause, and
smoothing her yellow hair.
“Grandpapa, has some one been speaking to you about it, and wanting you
to write to Roslyn?” she asked suddenly; the brown eyes flashed, and
she looked at him steadily.
“No indeed; I thought it all out by myself,” he answered with conscious
pride, “and it seems to me the best thing to be done. Really it does,
Phronsie.”
“Do _you_ wish it, Grandpapa?” she asked slowly.
“Yes, I do, child. Listen, now, Phronsie. You are not to cry, child,
nor to feel badly; but you know Grandpapa is an old man, and cannot
last forever, and”--
For answer, Phronsie dropped her head upon his breast, and cried
bitterly. It was some time before he could soothe her, though he tried
every means in his power. At last he said, “This is making me ill,
child.”
Phronsie took up her head quickly, and put her hand caressingly over
his white hair. “Does it, Grandpapa?” she asked, her face working
convulsively.
“Yes; that is, I shall be,” said the old gentleman artfully, “if you
cry. And if you want to please me, Phronsie, you will be very glad that
I wrote to Roslyn. I want to see you happily settled myself, child, and
to enjoy it all. Why, I expect to live years and years, Phronsie;” and
he sat erect, and looked so handsome and strong, that Phronsie smiled
through her tears. “Don’t you love him, child?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes, Grandpapa,” said Phronsie, “I do.”
“Very much?” asked old Mr. King, with a dreadful pang at his heart.
“Very much indeed,” said Phronsie.
“Child, child, why didn’t you tell me?” he cried, holding her to him
remorsefully. “Oh, why didn’t you tell your old Grandpapa?” he groaned.
It was now Phronsie’s turn to comfort him; for he felt so very badly,
that it was some time before she could get him out of the dreadful
state into which he was plunged. But at last they emerged from the
little brown house hand in hand, Phronsie looking up into his smiling
face.
“I’ve been hunting just everywhere for you, father dear,” cried Polly,
running down the terrace to meet them, and waving a yellow envelope.
“It’s from Mamsie, of course. Do open it, Grandpapa,” lapsing, as she
often did, into the old familiar title, “and see what she says.”
With a merry laugh, and holding it so that Phronsie could see, the old
gentleman tore it open, and stared blankly at the words:--
HOTEL CONSTANZI, ROME, _June 22, 18--_.
“Roslyn May very ill with low fever. Come and bring Phronsie.
ADONIRAM FISHER.”
They were off the next morning, Grandpapa and Phronsie, hurrying down
to New York to sail on the following day. Joel, informed of it by
telegram, got a brother minister to take his place for a fortnight or
so, and determined to go too. And hardly before Polly and the rest of
the home people at “The Oaks” had accustomed themselves to think of
it as a settled thing surely to be, the little party were off on the
waste of waters, that lengthened every day into a terrible distance
between them and their dear home. But they were going to Mamsie and to
Roslyn! And although Mr. King was dreadfully overcome at the thought
of what might meet them at the end of the journey, as a result (he now
felt quite sure) of his meddling with Phronsie’s happiness, he kept up
pluckily on her account, and never let a sign of his inward trepidation
be seen.
“Oh, how do you do”--Joel was saying very carelessly, as Phronsie came
up to him on deck, to a very elegant-looking person, who extended two
fingers to her--“Mr. Bayley, Mr. Livingston Bayley, you remember,
Phronsie.”
“And Mrs. Livingston Bayley,” said that gentleman, as the young girl
bowed, presenting a handsome, showily dressed person, who eyed Phronsie
all over. “Well, ’pon me honor, this is not half bad, don’t you know,
to meet in this way.”
Phronsie, not knowing exactly what to reply, left it to Joel, who
didn’t care to, but stood gazing blankly out to sea.
“We have only been in America a week,” said the lady in a sweet little
drawl, “and I made Mr. Bayley bring me directly to London again. I
absolutely could not exist unless he did.”
“A beastly boat, ain’t it now?” said Mr. Bayley with a yawn.
“Haven’t tried it yet enough to say,” replied Joel with a short laugh.
“How are all your family?” asked Mr. Bayley a trifle awkwardly, which
so disconcerted him that he paused mid-air for another idea.
“All very well, thank you,” said Joel.
“Your sister, Mrs. King, is she well now?” pursued Mr. Bayley, trying
to be very nonchalant, and fumbling at his cigarette case.
“Very well indeed, thank you,” said Joel.
“Mr. Bayley, I think I must have my constitutional now,” said his wife
with another drawl, and putting her hand on his arm.
“Oh, yes, certainly--certainly,” said Mr. Bayley. “Well, I’m awfully
glad, don’t you know, that we’ve met again,” making elaborate adieux.
“And I hope we shall see much of each other on the voyage,” said Mrs.
Bayley sweetly, with no eyes for any one but Phronsie.
“Thanks,” said Joel as they swept off.
“If you please, miss,” said the deck-steward, coming up and touching
his cap respectfully to Phronsie, “there’s an old woman who says she
wishes you would come to see her. She’s in her stateroom.”
“An old woman?” asked Phronsie wonderingly.
“Yes, miss. She didn’t give her name, but said she saw you come on
board yesterday. And she’s very urgent, miss.”
“I’ll go with you to the door, and you can find out who she is,” said
Joel.
Phronsie moved off after the steward, and held out her hand to Joel.
“You can wait for me outside.”
The stateroom, small and uncomfortable, into which she was ushered,
while Joel paced up and down outside, was so dark, that at first
Phronsie could not see distinctly its occupant.
“O miss!” cried an old lady, trying to rise in her berth, and brushing
away the straying white hair from her cheek, “you don’t remember me.
But I’ll never forget you nor your face.” It was Phronsie’s little old
woman of the Berton electric car.
“What can I do for you?” asked Phronsie gently, and standing by the
berth she smoothed the straying hair.
“O miss, I’m afraid I’m going to die, and I can’t when I’m just going
home.”
“I don’t think you will die,” said Phronsie, “and I am sorry you feel
ill.”
“It is just this way, miss. I’m all worn out with gladness to get home
and put my feet on English ground,” said the little old woman hungrily.
“But I must tell you about it; because if I should die, I want you
to know all about it. You see, my husband and I came over because he
didn’t want to live on his sons, and he fancied America, and being
independent there in a new country. And so we came a good many years
ago; and our sons felt dreadfully, for they wanted us to stay with
them. But John, he’s my husband, said ‘no,’ and you couldn’t move him.
Well, we were very happy living in a little home of our own, and my
husband worked the ground to suit himself as best he could; and though
I worried some, and I know he did, only he was always still like, to
see the grandchildren, they were so cunning when we came away, we did
pretty well. Only English ways of farming are different from yours,
and John was too old to learn new ways, and so we began to get behind.
And we didn’t care to make new friends, and we didn’t know how, and so
when John was taken away there wasn’t any one to advise me, and the
property was sold off for almost nothing. And after I’d got a letter, I
had it in my pocket the day you were kind to me in the car, I was all
so in a tremble I hadn’t read it, I just sat down and answered it when
I got home. It was from one of my sons; and I told him the whole truth,
and he sent me the money, and told me to come on this boat. But I’m
trembling so, miss,” she held up her thin arm that shook like a leaf,
“that I’m afraid I won’t last till I get there. And I want you to see
my boy, who’ll be there to meet me, and tell him for me that his father
said he was sorry we came away, before he died, and he sent his love to
both of ’em, and he blessed all the grandchildren, and so do I;” and
her voice sank to a whisper.
Phronsie knelt down by the berth, and put her face very near to the
troubled one. “Don’t be worried,” she said, as if to a child. “You are
lonely, I think, but not very ill.”
“Ain’t I ill, miss?” cried the little old woman pleadingly. “Oh, I’m
so glad! I thought I was going to be most dreadfully sick, and I was
afraid to call the doctor to hear him say so;” and she gave a sigh of
relief.
“No,” said Phronsie; “I do not really think you are very ill, but I do
believe you want something to eat. Now, I am going to tell you what I
think you had better do, if you want to have me.”
“I wish you would, miss,” said the little old woman gratefully, and
clinging to her.
“A cup of beef tea is the first thing,” said Phronsie cheerfully;
and getting to her feet she touched the electric button, and on the
appearance of the deck-steward, ordered it; “and then I will brush your
hair, and you shall sit up in bed, and I will talk to you.”
“O miss, how good you are!” exclaimed the little old woman, leaning
back against her pillows, while two tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Joey, dear,” said Phronsie, going to the door of the stateroom, “I am
going to stay here now a little while. It is all right, dear,” as Joel
took a look within. The next moment he marched in, and up to the side
of the berth, and put out his hand.
“Well, my good Mrs. Benson, how did you get here?”
The little old woman gave a scream of delight. “O Mr. Pepper!” she
exclaimed, seizing his hand.
“It’s one of my good parishioners, Phronsie,” said Joel, taking both of
the thin little hands in his big strong one; “but I lost sight of her,
and nobody could tell me where she went.”
“I didn’t want to let you know,” said Mrs. Benson shamefacedly; “so
I was going to write you as soon as I got to England, and my son was
going to write too, and thank you for all your kindness to me.”
“Ah, but you don’t know how I looked for you,” said Joel, shaking his
crop of short black curls, that was a dreadful cross for him to carry,
as he admired straight hair intensely, especially “in the ministry,” as
he said.
“Well, I went up to Berton,” said little Mrs. Benson, “because folks
said that there I could get a place as matron in an orphan asylum. But
I didn’t--and then came my son’s letter.”