ANOTHER SURPRISE
The Judge’s ship had sailed into clear waters—his venture of the other
day had, so far, proved eminently successful.
It was just one week after his call on Mrs. Everest. On his way home
that day with the disturbed Bethany nestling close to him in the sleigh
he had said to himself many times, “I don’t know what Titus will say—I
don’t know what Titus will say.”
Titus said very little. When his grandfather called him into his study
and told him that Bethany seemed to be greatly upset at the thought of
leaving them, Titus replied briefly, “T-t-then keep her, sir.”
“But the brother for you—the boy I was going to adopt,” said the Judge.
“I-I-I don’t want a brother, sir,” Titus returned; “never did want
one—a-a-am glad to get rid of the thought of one.”
“Then you like this little girl?” said the Judge, anxiously.
“D-d-don’t like her and don’t dislike her,” Titus replied. “She isn’t in
my way—isn’t bad as girls go.”
The matter ended here as far as discussion went, and Bethany slipped
into her place as a member of the household. She was a very good child,
quiet and well behaved, and insensibly she was becoming a great comfort
and a great amusement to the Judge. He loved to see her down on the
hearthrug playing with the pigeon and talking to her. For it was
absolutely necessary for Bethany to have a listener. She dreamed such
wonderful dreams and saw such astonishing visions that it took several
hours a day of some one’s time to listen to her.
Bethany felt that the pigeon was sympathetic. She always listened with
her greenish-yellow eyes bent attentively on her, and at times she
interposed a lively “Rookety cahoo!” So at least she was not asleep, as
the Judge sometimes was, when Bethany was relating her marvels.
She had soon got the Judge to show her the pictures of Ellen and Susie,
his two little girls that had died, and now nearly every night Bethany
fancied that she saw them. She described them dressed in their
old-fashioned little garments, their hair braided in little tails tied
with ribbon, their talk quaint and demure and seasoned with Bethany’s
maxims.
The Judge, touched and amused, listened to as many of her conversations
as he had time or inclination for, then he went to sleep, and Bethany
turned to the pigeon.
On this particular day the Judge was reading his morning’s mail.
Bethany had gone to school—the Judge had found a kindergarten round the
corner on a quiet street—and Titus was taking a lesson from a gentleman
who had effected a number of famous cures in cases of stuttering, and
who came all the way from Boston to treat him.
So far he had done no good. Titus was a mild, persistent, and consistent
stutterer. He never failed to hesitate at the beginning of a sentence
unless he was deeply moved about something—he rarely stopped in the
middle of one.
The Judge, fearing Higby’s bad example, had spoken of sending him away,
though it was with extreme reluctance that he even spoke of discharging
so faithful a servant. Titus’s teacher did not urge him to do so. He
said that Higby was a stammerer, while Titus, as yet, only stuttered.
The boy’s habit could be broken if he gave himself earnestly to breaking
it up. “Wait a little,” he said to the Judge. “He does not take himself
seriously yet. Wait till something rouses him and makes him coöperate
with me.”
“I should think that his comrades making fun of him would arouse him,”
said the Judge.
“It probably will, but later on,” replied the teacher, so the Judge was
obliged to possess his soul in patience.
On this morning Titus was to finish his lesson and then go to school. At
present he was in a small sitting room, while the Judge was in his study
just across the hall.
Presently the master of the house took up a note written in a dainty
feminine hand.
It was from the lady who was teaching Bethany. The Judge read it, then
he began to laugh. Mrs. Hume was speaking of Bethany’s facility in
making paper boxes; she was a marvelous, a wonderful child; she
outdistanced all the others. She was a prodigy.
The Judge laughed more heartily than ever. He could fancy demure little
Bethany’s slender fingers manipulating the too familiar cardboard. The
child had evidently not told her teacher where she had learned the art
of making boxes. She was an honest child, but she was inclined to be shy
with strangers. Just as well in this case for her to be so. Her
associates were mostly Grand Avenue children. Young as they were, they
might look strangely upon the little girl who had been obliged to earn
her living.
It was very amusing, though, to the Judge to read this lady’s gushing
remarks on the subject of Bethany’s dexterity. He laughed again, and
this time with such heartiness that he had to put up a handkerchief to
wipe the tears from his eyes. Then he somewhat ruefully surveyed the
remaining heap of letters.
“Who laughs hard prepares to cry harder,” he said, seriously. “There
will be something there to make me sad.”
There was. The next letter he took up caused his jaw to drop like that
of an old man.
He was absolutely confounded. He sat stock still, gazing with unseeing
eyes at the pigeon, who, sharp enough to perceive that there was
something the matter with him, flew up on the table, paraded over his
heap of letters and papers, and uttered an inquiring “Rookety cahoo?”
The Judge did not hear her, and yet he was listening intently. His own
door was ajar, and when a few minutes later the sitting room door opened
and Titus came out into the hall he called, weakly, “Grandson!”
Now he never said “Grandson!” unless something serious was the matter,
so Titus hastened to him.
“What is it?” he asked, forgetting to stutter as he always did when
greatly excited.
The Judge straightened himself. “I’ve had a blow. Read that—or listen.
The writing is bad,” and he threw himself back in his chair and, putting
on his glasses, took up the letter.
“Who is it from?” inquired Titus.
“Do you remember hearing me speak of Folsom, an old university friend of
mine?”
“The fellow that was so crazy about work among the poor?”
“The same. Poor Folsom, he was always an enthusiast, but I considered
him reliable. He became a clergyman and went to New York in connection
with the mission work of some church. Listen to what he writes:
“‘MY DEAR SANCROFT: What a whiff of good times I have had this morning!
I left the slums for a call on our dear old Georgeson of the Era, into
whose pockets my hand is permitted to go pretty freely. I found him
seated in his magnificent office, a financial king on his throne. He
showed me your letter to him about a boy to adopt. “Georgeson,” said I,
“I have just the thing.” He advised me to correspond with you, but what
need is there of correspondence when I have the very article you want.
An English actor died in my rooms the other day, a man of the highest
respectability. He left one lad—a jewel of a boy, fair-haired and
sunny-tempered. Just the companion you would wish for your own lad, who,
if he resembles his grandfather, will be dark as to hair and eyes. This
boy has absolutely not a relative in the world. He is a thorough
gentleman; you will love him as a son. I have not time to hear from you.
Will put him on one of the morning trains for Boston. You may expect him
some time Thursday. Don’t forget my work among the poor. God has blessed
you freely; freely give.
“‘Your old friend,
“‘RALPH FOLSOM.’”
“Rattlebrain! Gusher! Enthusiast!” exclaimed the Judge when he finished.
His stupefaction was over. He began to be angry.
“Do you see he does not even ask to hear from me what I think of this,”
he went on, shaking the letter at Titus, who sat open-mouthed. “He is so
sure he is right. He always was—rushed headlong into every breach. I
would not have had him mixed up in this matter for a very great deal.
Georgeson is a foolish man not to keep his own council,” and in
considerable excitement the Judge got up and paced the floor.
“If I knew when he was coming I would meet him at the station and send
him right back to Folsom,” he said at last, stopping before Titus.
“Well, sir,” said the boy, “he’s got to come on the 10:30 or the 3:15.
If he comes on the 10:30 he’s here now. I’ll look out the hall window
now,” and he stepped outside.
“Jiminy!” he exclaimed, rushing back, “here’s an open sleigh coming full
tilt down the avenue with a boy in it.”
The Judge wheeled round as if to go into the hall, then he stopped
short. “I can’t see him. After all, it isn’t his fault, and he has been
lately bereaved. Do you receive him, Titus?”
“I-I-I was going to school,” said Titus, who, having recovered his
equilibrium, began to stutter; “shall I take him with me?”
“Yes, no; I don’t care,” said the Judge. “Tell him how things are if you
get a chance. I’ll see him at lunch.”
Titus darted out of the room, went running and limping down the stairs,
and was beside Higby when he opened the door.
A tall, pale, handsome lad in a thin light overcoat stood on the
threshold.
“Is this Judge Sancroft’s house?” he asked, fixing his bright blue eyes
on Higby and yet casting a glance beyond at Titus.
Higby nodded.
The boy turned, and the driver came running up the steps with a shabby
leather bag.
The boy himself was carrying in his hand a small padlocked wooden box
with a perforated cover. After paying the driver he followed Higby, who
was taking his bag into the hall.
Titus, in his confusion, was saying nothing, and the boy, turning to
him, remarked courteously, “I suppose you are Judge Sancroft’s
grandson?”
“Yes,” replied Titus, simply, “I am.” Then he continued staring at his
guest, until a half smile on the stranger’s face recalled him to
himself.
“Take off your coat,” he said, suddenly, “and come in to the fire. There
isn’t any in the parlor,” and he thrust his head in the doorway, “but
come in the dining room—there’s sure to be a good one there.”
The boy threw his thin coat over a hall chair, put his small wooden box
under it and his hat on top, then followed Titus.
“Are you cold?” inquired Titus, motioning his guest to one of the big
leather-covered chairs by the fireplace and taking the other himself.
“Not at all, thank you,” said the boy, but the hands that he held out to
the blaze were red and covered with chilblains, and Titus, remembering
his thin gloves, felt sorry that he had asked the question.
“I dare say you’re hungry,” observed Titus, suddenly. “I always am when
I’ve been in the train. What would you like? It’s a good while before
lunch.”
“Ah, thank you,” said the other, politely; “if I might have a little
meat, just a little.”
“Meat,” repeated Titus, “certainly. Higby,” and he turned toward the
man, who, with a face brimful of curiosity, was coming in with some coal
for the fire, “please have some meat brought up.”
“And have it raw,” said the stranger, with exquisite courtesy.
Titus threw a glance at the boy’s pale cheeks. He looked sick. Probably
he was taking a raw-meat cure.
“What kind of m-m-meat?” inquired Higby, goggling at the newcomer.
“Any kind,” replied the boy, smoothly.
“What’s your name?” blurted Titus, in an embarrassed manner when Higby
had left the room.
“Dallas de Warren.”
“Ah!” said Titus, and he drew a long breath. Then a succession of
confused thoughts began to pass through his brain. He was not a
brilliant boy, but he was not without shrewdness. He felt that the lad
before him, though perfectly calm and apparently happy, had been led to
expect a different welcome from this. The enthusiastic, elderly
clergyman in New York had probably told the lad that the two Sancrofts
would fall on his neck. What could Titus do to be more agreeable? He
would better apologize for his grandfather. The lad had not mentioned
him, but Titus felt sure that he was thinking of him.
“Dallas,” he said, bluntly, “my grandfather won’t be down till half-past
one. He is busy in his study—gets a lot of letters in the morning.”
“Indeed,” replied the boy, with a movement of his head like that of an
older person, “I can fancy that he is very much occupied. And then he
would hardly get Mr. Folsom’s letter saying I was coming until this
morning.”
“No, he didn’t,” said Titus, “he had just got it when you came.”
“Then I would be a kind of surprise to him,” said the boy, pleasantly,
and his big blue eyes fixed themselves calmly on Titus’s dark face.
The Sancroft boy was in torture. He felt himself growing crimson. His
cheeks would tell the whole story.
They did. The English boy understood. He was not wanted. However, his
manner did not change.
He coolly uncrossed his feet, put the left one where the right one had
been, so that it would get a little more heat from the fire, and
meditatively gazed at the leaping flames.
Titus, with a dull pain at his heart, noted that the boy’s shoes were
more than half worn. One of them, indeed, had a hole in it. Why were
things so unequal in this world? He never used to notice that there was
a difference between other boys and himself. Now he was beginning to see
that boys just as deserving as himself and Charlie Brown were shabbily
and insufficiently dressed. Why, this boy, for instance, had not enough
on to keep him warm. Why was it? Why had he no rich grandfather to
clothe him?
“Here is the meat, sir,” said Higby, trotting into the room with a plate
in his hand; “minced beef, sir,” and he respectfully put it on the table
near the English boy.
A shade passed over the stranger’s face. With all his self-possession he
could not help showing that he was disappointed.
“What’s wrong?” asked Titus, bluntly.
“O, nothing—nothing,” replied Dallas, with a wave of his hand. “Only
that I would have preferred it whole. I should have said so; it was
stupid in me.”
“Have you any more?” said Titus to Higby.
“Yes, sir; a whole joint.”
“Then take that away and get an uncut piece.”
The English boy’s face lighted up strangely.
“And, Higby,” said Titus, “bring crackers and something to drink. What
will you have, Dallas?”
“O, anything,” said the boy, politely; “any kind of wine—sherry,
perhaps.”
Titus drew his dark eyebrows together. “My grandfather is a strict
temperance man; won’t have wine in the house, even for pudding sauces.”
“O, indeed,” said the boy, lightly, and with veiled amusement; “well, it
doesn’t matter. Cold water will do, or a cup of tea.”
“We have homemade w-w-wines, sir,” said Higby, insinuatingly.
“Bring him some rhubarb,” said Titus; “that is good.”
Higby disappeared, and Titus sank back into his chair. There was a heavy
dew of perspiration on his lip. He did not like this business of
entertaining. What could he do to amuse his guest while Higby was
absent? Perhaps the new boy liked pigeons.
“I say,” he remarked, suddenly, “do you like any kind of pet birds?”
Dallas scrutinized Titus’s face intently before he replied; then he
said, “I’m awfully fond of them.”
“What kind?” asked Titus.
“Well, I like canaries and robins—”
Titus’s face was unresponsive, and the stranger went on, tentatively,
“and doves, and linnets, and thrushes, and mocking-birds—”
He had not struck the right kind of bird yet, and he put up a hand and
pushed back the light hair from his pale forehead.
“Cage birds, do you mean?” he said, courteously, “or yard birds?”
“I mean pigeons,” replied his host, dryly.
“O, pigeons,” said Dallas, with relief; “they’re my favorite birds. I
love them.”
He spoke so warmly that Titus’s heart was almost touched in one of his
tenderest spots. Almost, but not quite. He had a vague distrust of this
English boy, with his fine manners and his peculiar, lofty accent.
However, Titus felt ashamed of himself for this distrust, and therefore
said in a gruffly polite tone, “Want to see mine? I’ve got some
beauties.”
The stranger’s face clouded the very least little bit in the world.
“There are one or two things I should like to unpack first,” he said,
eyeing the tray that Higby was bringing in. “After that I should be
delighted—”
“Very well,” said Titus, “you eat your meat and I’ll go see what room
you’re to have.”
Catching sight of Mrs. Blodgett in the big upstairs pantry he rushed in.
“Blodgieblossom,” he said, “there’s a boy here—he’s going to stay all
night. Which room shall I take him to?”
“Bless me, Master Titus,” said the woman, withdrawing her gaze from the
china closet, “give me a little notice. The bed has to be aired and
clean sheets put on, and dusting to be done.”
“I tell you, he’s got to go in it now,” said Titus, imperiously. “I want
him to hurry up and come with me to the pigeon loft.”
Mrs. Blodgett smiled. She took to herself the credit of the acquisition
of so many handsome birds. Everything had to give way to the pigeons,
and, feeling in one of the pockets of her big apron for her bunch of
keys, she said, “You can follow me, dear lad, in five minutes to the wee
clock room. I guess that will do, won’t it?”
“Yes, if it’s large enough,” said Titus, doubtfully.
“It’s big enough for a night or two,” she said, easily, and she
proceeded on her way upstairs.
Near the front hall door she met Higby.
“Say,” he whispered, seizing her by the sleeve, “say, I believe the
Judge has ad-d-dopted another boy.”
Mrs. Blodgett could not speak. She stared at him silently for a few
instants, then with a strange weakness at her knees began ascending the
stairs.
Titus went back to the dining room. The new boy had eaten his crackers
and drunk the wine, but he had the plate of meat in his hand.
“I think I will take this upstairs,” he said, pleasantly.
“All right,” said Titus, and he slowly led the way to the hall.
Everything was gone that belonged to the boy—leather bag, coat, and
wooden box.
His face fell, and he looked almost angry.
“The servants have taken them up,” said Titus, noticing his
discomposure.
“O, very kind of them,” said the boy, hurriedly. “I am so unused to be
waited on,” and he went upstairs so quickly that, although not knowing
the way, he kept ahead of Titus.
Mrs. Blodgett and Higby were both fussing about the little room, where a
Swiss cuckoo clock hung in the corner.
The English boy tried to subdue his impatience as he glanced at them,
and as soon as they left the room he put his plate of meat down on the
dressing table and looked at Titus.
“Wants to eat alone like a dog,” thought the latter to himself, and
saying, “I’ll wait for you outside,” he walked toward the door.
He threw a glance over his shoulder before he went out and saw the
English lad go fussily toward the little padlocked wooden box that he
had been carrying in his hand when he arrived and carefully lift it to
the table beside the plate of meat.
“Must have some treasure in it,” murmured Titus, and he went on his way
to lounge about the halls, wipe the perspiration from his face, and
wonder what his grandfather would say to the English boy.