perplexities were not removed by it. On the contrary, they were
increased, for she saw before her three total strangers. Miss Selina,
however, hastily stepped out and took Mrs. Tiverton’s hand, and
explained the whole story, adding, “We are not coming in; my sister and
I have a call to pay a little further on. We shall come back in less
than an hour for our brother, carry him off, and be no trouble at all.
I know how little you must want just now even people that you know.”
In spite of Mrs. Tiverton’s protest, Miss Selina had her way, and the
sisters drove off.
While this conversation had been in progress, Roy had been speaking
to the Miss Bannisters’ Brother. He had been preparing the speech
ever since they had started, for it was very important. “Please,” he
said--“please how much will this visit be, because I want to pay for it
myself?”
The Miss Bannisters’ Brother smiled. “But suppose you haven’t enough?”
he said.
“Oh, but I think I have!” Roy told him. “I’ve got seven-and-six, and
when the vet. came to see Lord Roberts it was only five shillings.”
The Miss Bannisters’ Brother smiled again. “Our infirmary is rather
peculiar,” he said. “We don’t take money at all; we take promises;
different kinds of promises from different people, according to their
means. We ask rich patients’ friends to promise to give away old
toys, or story-books, or scrap-books, or something of that kind, to
real hospitals--children’s hospitals. We find that much better than
money. Money’s such a nuisance. One is always losing the key of the
money-box.”
Roy was a little disappointed. “Oh yes!” he said, however, “I’ll do
that. Won’t I just? But, you know,” he added, “you can always break
open a money-box if it comes to the worst. Pokers aren’t bad. And
there’s a way of getting the money out with a table-knife.”
It was just then that the Miss Bannisters drove off, and Mrs. Tiverton
asked their brother to come to Christina’s room with her. Roy would
have given anything to have been allowed upstairs; but as it was
forbidden, he went to see Jim and tell him the news. He found, however,
that the housemaid had already told not only Jim but every one else.
“Now it will be all right,” she was saying. “The Miss Bannisters’
Brother will do it! Why, he made a wooden leg for a tame jackdaw once!”
VII
Christina was moaning in the bed with Diana locked in her arms when the
Miss Bannisters’ Brother sat down beside her. “Come,” he said gently,
“let me feel your pulse.”
Christina pushed her wrist towards him wearily.
“Oh no, not yours!” he said, with a little laugh. “Yours doesn’t
matter. I meant this little lady’s. I’m not your doctor. I’m a doll’s
doctor.”
Christina turned her poor flushed face towards him for the first time.
A doll’s doctor--it was a new idea. And he really seemed to be all
right--not anyone dressed up to make her feel foolish or coax her into
taking horrid medicine. “Was it your carriage I heard?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I have come on purpose. But so many dolls are ill
just now that I must be getting away soon. It’s quite a bad time for
dolls, especially French ones. They are very delicate.”
“Mine is French,” Christina said, growing really interested.
“How very curious!” he answered. “I had a French patient the other
day--a Parisian--whose sight had become so weak that she had to wear
glasses. And now for the pulse,” he went on, and he drew out a large
gold watch.
Mrs. Tiverton was looking on with tears in her eyes. Christina had not
taken this quiet interest in anything or kept so still in bed for many
hours. Not even the sleeping draught had had any effect.
The Miss Bannisters’ Brother held Diana’s tiny wrist and looked very
grave. “Dear, dear!” he said, “I ought to have been sent for before,
and then I could have cured her here in your arms. As it is, I must
take her to the light. Won’t you have that nice jelly while I am
treating Miss----? Let me see, what is my patient’s name?”
“Diana,” Christina said.
“Ah, yes--Miss Diana. By the time you have finished the jelly I ought
to have finished my visit.” So saying he rose and carried Diana to the
window-seat behind the curtains, while Mrs. Tiverton gave Christina the
jelly. Christina took it, nurse said afterwards, like a lamb--though I
never saw a lamb take jelly.
Meanwhile, the Miss Bannisters’ Brother had taken some tools and a tube
of seccotine from his pocket, and he had lifted up Diana’s hair, cut
a hole in her head, and was busily readjusting the machinery of her
eyes. It was all done in five minutes, just as Christina was eating the
last mouthful. “There,” he said, returning to the bedside, “that’s all
right. It was a very simple operation, and didn’t hurt at all. I think
our patient can see now as well as ever.”
Christina peered into Diana’s face with a cry of joy, and sank back on
the pillow in an ecstasy of content.
Neither Mrs. Tiverton nor the Miss Bannisters’ Brother dared to move
for some minutes. While they sat there the doctor tip-toed in. He
crossed to the bed and looked at Christina. “She’s asleep,” he said.
“Splendid! She’s all right now. It was sleep she wanted more than
anything. Don’t let her hear a sound, nurse, for hours.”
They found Roy waiting for the news. When he heard it he jumped for
joy. His mother caught him up and hugged him. “You thoughtful little
imp!” she cried--and, turning to the doctor, told him the story. He
went off, laughing. “I shall take my door-plate down when I get home,”
he called out as he drove off, “and send it round to you, Bannister.
You’re the real doctor.”
When the Miss Bannisters drove back they found tea all ready, and Mrs.
Tiverton would not hear of their leaving without it. And when they did
leave, an hour later, they were all fast friends.
VIII
Roy and Christina never think of going to Dormstaple now without
calling at the red house.
THE ANTI-BURGLARS
THE ANTI-BURGLARS
I
The letter was addressed to Miss Mary Stavely. It ran:
“MY DEAR MARY,
“I have just received five pounds that I had given up for lost,
and, remembering what you told me at Easter of the importance of
distributing a little money in the village, I think you had better
have it and become my almoner. An almoner is one who gives away money
for another. I shall be interested in hearing how you get on.
“Your affectionate
“UNCLE HERBERT.”
Inside the letter was a five-pound note.
Mary read the letter for the twentieth time, and for the twentieth time
unfolded the crackling five-pound note--more money than she had ever
seen before. She was thirteen.
“But what shall I do with it?” she asked. “So many people want things.”
“Oh, you mustn’t ask me,” said her mother. “Uncle Herbert wants you to
decide entirely for yourself. You must make a list of every one in the
village who wants help, and then look into each case very carefully.”
“Yes,” said Harry, Mary’s brother, as he finished breakfast, “and
don’t forget me. My bicycle ought to be put right, for one thing, and,
for another, I haven’t any more films for my camera. If that isn’t a
deserving case I’d like to know what is.”
II
In a few days’ time the list was ready. It ran like this:
£ s. d.
Mrs. Meadows’ false teeth want mending.
It can be done for 0 12 6
Tommy Pringle ought to go to a Nursing
Home by the sea for three weeks. This
costs 7s. a week and 5s. 4d. return fare 1 6 4
Old Mrs. Wigram really must have a new
bonnet 0 4 6
Mrs. Ryan has been saving up for months
to buy a sewing machine. She had it all
ready, but Sarah’s illness has taken away
10s. I should like to make that up 0 10 0
The little Barretts ought to have a real ball.
It isn’t any fun playing with a bit of
wood 0 1 0
Mr. Eyles has broken his spectacles again 0 2 6
Old Mr. and Mrs. Snelling have never been
in London, and they’re both nearly eighty.
I’m sure they ought to go. There is an
excursion on the first of the month at 3s.
return each, and their grandson’s wife
would look after them there. Fraser’s
cart to the station and back would be 4s. 0 10 0
Mrs. Callow will lose all her peas and currants
again if she doesn’t have a net 0 3 0
The schoolmaster says that the one thing
that would get the boys to the village
room is a gramaphone like the one at the
public-house. This is 15s., and twelve
tunes for 9s. 1 4 0
Mrs. Carter’s mangle will cost 8s. to be
mended, but it must be done 0 8 0
Thomas Barnes’ truck is no good any more,
and his illness took away all the money
he had; but he will never take it if he
knows it comes from us 1 10 0
Mary read through her list and once more added up the figures. They
came to £6 11s. 10d.
“Dear me!” she said, “I hadn’t any idea it was so difficult to be an
almoner.”
She went through the list again, and brought it down to £5 0s. 10d. by
knocking off one week of Tommy Pringle’s sea-side holiday and depriving
the village room of its gramaphone.
“I suppose I must make up the tenpence myself,” she said.
III
That afternoon Mary went to call on Mr. Verney. Mr. Verney was an
artist who lived at the forge cottage. He and Mary were great friends.
She used to sit by him while he painted, and he played cricket with her
and Harry and was very useful with a pocket-knife.
“No one,” she said to herself, “can help me so well as Mr. Verney, and
if I decide myself on how the money is to be spent, it will be all
right to get some help in spending it.”
Mr. Verney liked the scheme immensely. “But I don’t see that you want
any help,” he said. “You have done it so far as well as possible.”
“Well,” said Mary, “there’s one great difficulty: Thomas Barnes would
never take anything from our house. You see, we once had his son for a
gardener, and father had to send him away because of something he did;
but though it was altogether his son’s fault, Thomas Barnes has never
spoken to father since, or even looked at him. But he’s very old and
poorly, and very lonely, and it’s most important he should have a new
hand-truck, because all his living depends on it; but it’s frightfully
important that he shouldn’t know who gave it to him.”
“Wouldn’t he guess?” Mr. Verney said.
“Not if nobody knew.”
“Oh, I see: no one is to know. That makes it much more fun.”
“But how are we to do it?” Mary asked. “That’s why I want you to help.
Of course, we can post most of the money, but we can’t post a truck. If
Thomas Barnes knew, he’d send it back directly.”
“Well,” said Mr. Verney, after thinking for some time, “there’s only
one way: we shall have to be anti-burglars.”
“Anti-burglars!” cried Mary. “What’s that?”
“Well, a burglar is some one who breaks into a house and takes things
away; an anti-burglar is some one who breaks into a house and leaves
things there. Just the opposite, you see.”
“But suppose we are caught?”
“That would be funny. I don’t know what the punishment for
anti-burgling is. I think perhaps the owner of the house ought to be
punished for being so foolish as to interrupt. But tell me more about
Thomas Barnes.”
“Thomas Barnes,” said Mary, “lives in a cottage by the cross-roads all
alone.”
“What does he do?”
“He fetches things from the station for people; he carries the washing
home from Mrs. Carter’s; he runs errands--at least, he doesn’t run
them: people wish he would; he sometimes does a day’s work in a garden.
But he really must have a new barrow, and his illness took all his
money away, because he wouldn’t belong to a club. He’s quite the most
obstinate man in this part of the country. But he’s so lonely, you
know.”
“Then,” said Mr. Verney, “we must wait till he goes away on an errand.”
“But he locks his shed.”
“Then we must break in.”
“But if people saw us taking the barrow there?”
“Then we must go in the night. I’ll send him to Westerfield suddenly
for something quite late--some medicine, and then he’ll think I’m
ill--on a Thursday, when there’s the midnight train, and we’ll pop down
to his place at about eleven with a screw-driver and things.”
After arranging to go to Westerfield as soon as possible to spend their
money, Mary ran home.
Being an almoner was becoming much more interesting.
IV
Mr. Verney and Mary went to Westerfield the next day, leaving a very
sulky Harry behind.
“I can’t think why Uncle Herbert didn’t send that money to me,” he
grumbled. “Why should a girl like Mary have all this almoning fun? I
could almon as well as she can.”
As a matter of fact, Uncle Herbert had made a very wise choice. Harry
had none of Mary’s interest in the village, nor had he any of her
patience. But in his own way he was a very clever boy. He bowled
straight, and knew a linnet’s egg from a greenfinch’s.
Mr. Verney and Mary’s first visit was to the bank, where Mary handed
her five-pound note through the bars, and the clerk scooped up four
sovereigns and two half-sovereigns in his little copper shovel and
poured them into her hand.
Then they bought a penny account-book and went on to Mr. Flower,
the ironmonger, to see about Thomas Barnes’ truck. Mr. Flower had a
secondhand one for twenty-five shillings, and he promised to touch
it up for two shillings more; and he promised, also, that neither he
nor his man should ever say anything about it. It was arranged that
the barrow should be wrapped up in sacking and taken to Mr. Verney’s,
inside the waggon, and be delivered after dark.
“Why do _you_ want it?” Mary asked him.
“That’s a secret,” he said; “you’ll know later.”
Mr. Flower also undertook to send three shillings’ worth of netting to
Mrs. Callow, asking her to do him the favour of trying it to see if it
were a good strong kind.
Mary and Mr. Verney then walked on to Mr. Costall, the dentist, who
was in Westerfield only on Thursdays between ten and four. It was the
first time that Mary had ever stood on his doorstep without feeling
her heart sink. Mr. Costall, although a dentist, was a smiling, happy
man, and he entered into the scheme directly. He said he would write to
Mrs. Meadows and ask her to call, saying that some one whom he would
not mention had arranged the matter with him. And when Mary asked him
how much she should pay him, he said that ten shillings would do. This
meant a saving of half a crown.
“How nice it would be always to visit Mr. Costall,” Mary said, with a
sigh, “if he did not pull out teeth.”
Mary and Mr. Verney then chose Mrs. Wigram’s new bonnet, which they
posted to her at once. Mr. Verney liked one with red roses, but Mary
told him that nothing would ever induce Mrs. Wigram to wear anything
but black. The girl in the shop recommended another kind, trimmed with
a very blue bird; but Mary had her own way.
Afterwards they bought a ball for the Barretts; and then they bought a
postal order for eight shillings for Mrs. Carter, and half a crown for
Mr. Eyles, and ten shillings for Mrs. Ryan, and fourteen shillings for
Mrs. Pringle. It was most melancholy to see the beautiful sovereigns
dropping into other people’s tills. Mary put all these amounts down in
her penny account-book. She also put down the cost of her return ticket.
When they got back to the village they saw Mr. Ward, the
station-master. After telling him how important it was to keep the
secret, Mary bought a return ticket to the sea for Tommy Pringle,
without any date on it, and two excursion tickets for old Mr. and Mrs.
Snelling for the 1st of next month. Mr. Ward did not have many secrets
in his life, and he was delighted to keep these.
While they were talking to him a curious and exciting thing happened. A
message began to tick off on the telegraph machine. Mr. Verney was just
turning to go away when Mr. Ward called out, “Stop a minute, please!
This message is for Miss Stavely.”
Mary ran over to the machine and stood by Mr. Ward while he wrote down
the message which the little needle ticked out. She had never had a
telegram before, and to have one like this--“warm from the cow,” as Mr.
Ward said--was splendid. Mr. Ward handed it to her at last.
“MARY STAVELY, MERCOMBE.
“How is the almoning? I want to pay all extra expenses.--UNCLE
HERBERT.”
The reply was paid; but Mary had to write it out several times before
it satisfied her and came within the sixpence. This was what she said:
“STAVELY, REFORM CLUB, LONDON.
“All right. Will send accounts. Expenses small.--MARY.”
On the way home they spoke to Fraser, who let out carriages and carts.
Fraser liked the plan as much as every one else did. He promised to
call in on the Snellings in a casual way, on the morning on which they
would receive the tickets, and suggest to them that they should let him
drive them to the station and bring them home again. When Mary offered
to pay him, Mr. Fraser said no, certainly not; he would like to help
her. He hadn’t done anything for anybody for so long that he should be
interested in seeing what it felt like. This meant a saving of four
shillings.
Mary went to tea at Mr. Verney’s. After tea he printed addresses on a
number of envelopes, and put the postal orders inside, with a little
card in each, on which he printed the words, “From a friend, for Tommy
to go to the sea-side home for a fortnight”; “From a friend, for Mr.
and Mrs. Snelling to go to London”; “From a friend, for Mr. Eyles’
spectacles,” and so forth, and then he stamped them and stuck them
down, and put them all into a big envelope, which he posted to his
sister in Ireland, so that when they came back they all had the Dublin
postmark, and no one ever saw such puzzled and happy people as the
recipients were.
“Has your mother any friends in Dublin, Miss Mary?” Mrs. Snelling asked
a day or so later, in the midst of a conversation about sweet peas.
“No,” said Mary. It was not until afterwards that she saw what Mrs.
Snelling meant.
V
Next Thursday came at last, the day on which Thomas Barnes’ shed was to
be anti-burgled. At ten o’clock, having had leave to stay up late on
this great occasion, Mary put on her things, and Mr. Verney, who had
come to dinner, took her to his rooms. There, in the outhouse which he
used for a studio, he showed her the truck.
“And here,” he said, “is my secret,” pointing out the words--
THOMAS BARNES,
PORTER, MERCOMBE.
which he had painted in white letters on the side.
“He’s bound to keep it now, whatever happens,” Mr. Verney said. “In
order to make as little noise as possible to-night,” he added, “I have
wrapped felt round the tyres.”
He then took a bag from the shelf, placed it on the barrow, and they
stole out. Mr. Verney’s landlady had gone to bed, and there was no
sound of anyone in the village. The truck made no noise.
After half a mile they came to the cross-roads where Thomas Barnes’
cottage stood, and Mr. Verney walked to the house and knocked loudly.
There was no answer. Indeed, he had not expected one, but he wished to
make sure that Thomas had not returned from Westerfield sooner than he
should.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Now for the anti-burgling.”
He wheeled the truck to the side of the gate leading to the shed, and,
taking the bag, they passed through. Mr. Verney opened the bag and took
out a lantern, a hammer, and a screw-driver.
“We must get this padlock off,” he said, and while Mary held the
lantern he worked away at the fastenings. It was more difficult than he
expected, especially as he did not want to break anything, but to put
it back exactly as it had been. Several minutes passed.
“There,” he cried; “that’s it.”
At the same moment a sound of heavy footsteps was heard, and Mary gave
a little scream and dropped the lantern.
A strong hand gripped her arm.
“Hullo! Hullo!” said a gruff voice. “What’s this? Housebreaking,
indeed!”
Mr. Verney had stooped for the lantern, and as he rose the
policeman--for he it was--seized him also.
“You’d better come along with me,” the policeman said, “and make no
trouble about it. The less trouble you make, the easier it’ll be for
you before the magistrates.”
[Illustration: WHILE MARY HELD THE LANTERN, HE WORKED AWAY AT THE
FASTENINGS.]
“But look here,” Mr. Verney said, “you’re making a mistake. We’re not
housebreaking.”
The policeman laughed. “Now, that’s a good’un,” he said. “Dark lantern,
screw-driver, hammer, eleven o’clock at night, Thomas Barnes’ shed--and
you’re not housebreaking! Perhaps you’ll tell me what you are doing,
you and your audacious female accomplice here. Playing hide-and-seek, I
suppose?”
“Well,” said Mr. Verney, suddenly striking a match with his free hand,
and holding it up so that the light fell full on his own and on Mary’s
face, “we’ll tell you the whole story.”
“Miss Stavely!” cried the policeman, “and Mr. Verney. Well, this is a
start. But what does it all mean?”
Then Mr. Verney told the story, first making Dobbs promise not to tell
it again.
The policeman grew more and more interested as it went on. Finally
he exclaimed: “You get the door open, sir, and I’ll fetch the truck
through. Time’s getting along.”
He hurried out of the yard and returned carrying the truck on his
shoulders. Then he stripped off the felt with his knife and ran it into
the shed, beside the old broken-down barrow that had done service for
so many years.
Mr. Verney soon had the padlock back in its place as if nothing had
happened, and after carefully gathering up the felt they hurried off,
in order to get home before Thomas Barnes should call with the medicine
that he had been sent to buy.
“Let me carry the bag, sir,” the policeman said.
“What, full of burgling tools!” said Mr. Verney.
“Mum’s the word,” the policeman replied, “mum’s the word.”
At the forge cottage he wished them good-night.
“Then you don’t want us in court to-morrow?” Mr. Verney asked.
“Mum’s the word,” was all that Dobbs replied, with a chuckle.
Thomas Barnes’ train being late, Mary did not get to bed until after
twelve that night. She laid her head on the pillow with particular
satisfaction, for the last and most difficult part of the distribution
of Uncle Herbert’s money was over.
VI
The next day Mary sent Uncle Herbert a long description of her duties
as his almoner, and enclosed the account. What with postages and her
railway fare, she had spent altogether £4. 18s. 11d.
Two days later this letter came back from Uncle Herbert:
“DEAR MARY,
“You are as good an almoner as I could wish, and I hope that another
chance of setting you to work will come. Put the thirteen pence
that are over in a box labelled ‘The Almoner’s Fund.’ Then take the
enclosed postal order for a pound and get it cashed, and the next
time you are in Westerfield buy Mr. Verney a box of cigarettes, but
be sure to find out first what kind he likes. Also give Harry six
shillings. I dare say he has broken his bicycle or wants some more
films: at any rate, he will not say no. The rest is for yourself to
buy something purely for yourself with. Please tell your mother that
I am coming on Saturday by the train reaching you at 5.8. I shall
walk from the station, but I want Thomas Barnes to fetch my bag.
“Your affectionate
“UNCLE HERBERT.”
Whether or no Thomas Barnes knew where the truck came from we never
found out; but at Christmas-time he was discovered among the waits who
sang carols on the Stavelys’ lawn.
SIR FRANKLIN AND THE LITTLE MOTHERS
SIR FRANKLIN AND THE LITTLE MOTHERS
I
Once upon a time there was a very rich gentleman named Sir Franklin
Ingleside, who lived all alone in a beautiful house in Berkeley Square.
He was so rich that he could not possibly spend more than a little
of his money, although he gave great sums away, and had horses and
carriages, and bought old pictures and new books.
He lived very quietly, rode a little, drove a little, called on old
friends (chiefly old ladies), usually dined alone, and afterwards read
by the fire.
Although the house was large and full of servants, all Sir Franklin’s
wants were supplied by his own particular man, Pembroke. Pembroke was
clean-shaven, very neat, spoke quietly, and never grew any older or
seemed ever to have been any younger. It was impossible to think of
Pembroke as a baby, or a boy, or a person with a Christian name. One
could think of him only as a grave man named Pembroke. No one ever saw
him smile in Berkeley Square, but a page boy once came home with the
news that he had passed Mr. Pembroke talking to a man in the street at
Islington, and heard him laugh out loud. But page boys like inventing
impossible stories, and making your flesh creep.
Pembroke lived in a little room communicating by bells with all the
rooms which Sir Franklin used; so that whenever the bell rang Pembroke
knew exactly where his master was. Pembroke did not seem to have any
life but his master’s; and the one thing about which he was always
thinking was how to know beforehand exactly what his master wanted.
Pembroke became so clever at this that he would often, after being rung
for, enter the room carrying the very thing that Sir Franklin was going
to request him to get.