and of course you wouldn't see that the stitches showed rather badly on
the inside unless you opened it. Besides, as grandpapa grew a beard, and
didn't shave at all, he wouldn't want to look inside.
Peter had bought a knife for him; being a boy, and therefore rather
helpless, he was not able to make him anything. He did begin to carve
grandpapa a wooden ship, although Isabel pointed out to him that
grandpapa would never sail it; but Peter thought he might like to have
it just to look at.
However, just at an important part the wood split; so after all it had
to be a knife, which of course is always useful.
These presents were kept very secret; not even mother was allowed to
know what they were.
Three o'clock seemed such a long time coming--you know how slow it _can_
be. But at half-past two nurse took them up to dress. Peter had a nice
white serge suit, and nurse had put out a clean starched muslin for
Isabel, but she (being rather a vain little girl) begged for her white
silk.
I ought to explain about this frock. One of her aunties sent it to her
on her last birthday. It was quite the most beautiful little dress you
ever saw--thick white silk embroidered with daisies. Isabel loved it
dearly, but was only allowed to wear it on very great occasions.
Well, when she asked if she might put it on, nurse said she thought it
would be wiser not to. "You won't be able to run about and climb trees
at your grandpapa's if you do, Miss Isabel."
"But I shan't want to," replied Isabel, "for it is a grown-up party, and
we shall only sit and talk."
So after all she was allowed to wear it, and with that on and a
beautiful new sash her Uncle Dick had just sent her from India, she felt
a very smart little girl indeed.
The shaving tidy she had done up in a parcel, and Peter had the knife in
his pocket, so they were quite ready, and as they went down to the hall
the clock struck three.
Alas! there was no motor waiting; instead there was mother with a
telegram in her hand saying that Auntie May couldn't come for them till
four o'clock.
What a disappointment! A whole hour longer to wait! What were they to do
with themselves?
Mother suggested that they should sit down quietly and read, but who can
possibly sit and read when a big motor is coming soon to fetch them?
So mother very kindly said they might go out in the garden.
"Only remember," she said, "you are not to run about and get hot and
untidy; and keep on the paths, don't go on the grass."
So out they went, Isabel hugging her precious parcel. She was afraid to
leave it in the hall lest mother should see it and guess by the shape
what it was, which of course would spoil it all.
They strolled round the garden, peeped at the rabbits and a brood of
baby chickens just hatched, then wandered on down the drive.
"Can't we play something?" suggested Isabel--"something quite clean and
quiet with no running in it."
Peter thought for some time, then he said: "I don't believe there are
any games like that." Being a boy, you see, he couldn't think of one, so
he said he didn't think there were any.
[Sidenote: Follow-my-leader]
"Yes, there are," said Isabel, "heaps of them, only I can't think of
one. Oh, I know, follow my leader, walking, not running, and of course
not on the grass. I'll be leader."
So off they started, and great fun it was. Isabel led into such queer
places--the potting-house, tool-shed, laundry, and even into the dairy
once. Then it was Peter's turn, and he went through the chicken-run,
stable-yard, and kitchen-garden, and then down the drive.
When he got to the gate he hesitated, then started off down the road.
"Ought we to go down here, do you think?" asked Isabel, plodding along
behind him.
"Oh, yes, it's all right," Peter said; "we're keeping off the grass and
not running, and that's all mother told us," and on they went.
After walking for a little way, Peter turned off down a side lane, a
favourite walk of theirs in summer, and Isabel followed obediently.
Unfortunately, for the last three days it had rained heavily, and the
deep cart-ruts on both sides of the road were full of thick, muddy
water.
In trying to walk along the top of one of them, Peter's foot slipped,
and, before he could prevent it, in it went, right over the top of his
nice patent-leather shoe.
Isabel, who was following close behind, intently copying her leader in
all his movements, plopped hers in too.
"Goodness, what a mess!" said Peter, surveying his muddy foot. "How
awful it looks! I think I shall make the other one dirty too, then it
won't look so bad."
So in went each clean foot.
And then it was, I am sorry to say, that Isabel forgot to be good. You
remember I told you that she did sometimes?
She said: "Now that our feet are dirty, let's paddle, they can't look
worse, and it's such fun!" And as Peter thought so too, paddle they did,
up and down the dirty, muddy cart-ruts.
Presently Peter's white suit and even his clean tie were spotted with
mud, and Isabel's beautiful little dress was soaked with muddy water all
round the bottom, and, saddest of all, her new sash was dragging behind
her in the water, quite spoilt; but they were so excited that they
neither of them noticed how they were spoiling their clothes, or that
the parcel with the shaving-tidy in it had been dropped and stamped down
into the mud.
They were in the middle of the fun when suddenly they heard in the
distance the "toot-toot" of a motor-horn, and, looking at each other in
dismay, they realised it must be Auntie May come to fetch them.
"We shall have to change first," gasped Isabel, as they hurried along
the road. "I'm afraid we look rather messy!"
Peter said nothing; he was feeling too miserable.
It was a sad sight that met nurse's horrified eyes as she hurried
anxiously out through the gates in search of them, having hunted the
garden in vain; and it was a very shamefaced little pair that hastened
by the big motor at the front door and into the hall, where they found
mother and Auntie May waiting.
Isabel and Peter really did feel more sorry and ashamed than I can tell
you, and, grievous though it be, mother and Auntie May went to tea with
grandpapa, but Peter and Isabel went to bed!
[Sidenote: The story of a hard heart, a little child, and a kind
friend.]
The Grumpy Man
BY
MRS. HARTLEY PERKS
It was past nine on a winter's evening. Through the misty gloom a tenor
voice rang clear and resonant. The singer stood on the edge of the
pavement, guitar in hand, with upturned coat-collar, a wide-brimmed soft
hat sheltering his face.
"I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem:
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?"
The well-placed voice and accent were those of an educated man. The
words of the old song, delivered clearly with true musical feeling, were
touched with a thrill of passion.
The thread of the melody was abruptly cut off by a sudden mad clatter of
hoofs. A carriage dashed wildly along and swerved round the corner. The
singer dropped his instrument and sprang at the horse's bridle. A
moment's struggle, and he fell by the curb-stone dazed and shaken, but
the runaway was checked and the footman was down at his head, while the
coachman tightened his rein.
The singer struggled to his feet. The brougham window was lowered, and a
clear-cut feminine face leaned forward.
"Thank you very much," said a cool, level voice, in a tone suitable to
the recovery of some fallen trifle.
"Williamson"--to the coachman--"give this man half a crown, and drive
on."
While Williamson fumbled in his pocket for the money, the singer gave
one glance at the proud, cold face framed by the carriage window, then
turned hurriedly away.
"Hey, David!" called the coachman to the groom. "Give her her head and
jump up. She'll be all right now. Whoa--whoa, old girl. That chap's
gone--half-crowns ain't seemingly in his line. Steady, old girl!" And
the carriage disappeared into the night.
The singer picked up his guitar and leant on the railings. He was shaken
and faint. Something seemed amiss with his left hand. He laid his
forehead against the cool iron and drew a deep breath, muttering--
"It was she! When I heard her cold, cruel voice I thanked God I am as I
am. Thank God for my child and a sacred memory----"
"Are you hurt?" asked a friendly voice.
The singer looked up to see a man standing hatless above him on the
steps of the house. He strove to reply, but his tongue refused to act;
he swayed while rolling waves of blackness encompassed him. He
staggered blindly forward, then sank into darkness--and for him time was
not.
When consciousness returned his eyes opened upon a glint of firelight, a
shaded lamp on a table by which sat a man with bent head writing. It was
a fine head, large and massive, the hair full and crisp. A rugged hand
grasped the pen with decision, and there was no hesitation in its rapid
movement.
The singer lay for a moment watching the bent head, when it suddenly
turned, and a pair of remarkably keen grey eyes met his own.
"Ah, you are better! That's right!" Rising, the writer went to a
cupboard against the wall, whence he brought a decanter and glass.
"I am a doctor," he said kindly. "Luckily I was handy, or you might have
had a bad fall."
The singer tried to rise.
"Don't move for a few moments," continued the doctor, holding a glass to
his lips. "Drink this, and you will soon be all right again."
The singer drank, and after a pause glanced inquiringly at his left
hand, which lay bound up at his side.
"Only a sprain," said the doctor, answering his glance. "I saw how it
happened. Scant thanks, eh?"
The singer sat up and his eyes flashed.
[Sidenote: "I want no Thanks!"]
"I wanted no thanks from her," he muttered bitterly.
"How is that?" questioned the doctor. "You knew the lady?"
"Yes, I knew her. The evil she has brought me can never be blotted out
by rivers of thanks!"
The doctor's look questioned his sanity.
"I fail to understand," he remarked simply.
"My name is Waldron, Philip Waldron," went on the singer. "You have a
right to my name."
"Not connected with Waldron the great financier?" again questioned the
doctor.
"His son. There is no reason to hide the truth from you. You have been
very kind--more than kind. I thank you."
"But I understood Waldron had only one son, and he died some years
ago--I attended him."
"Waldron had two sons, Lucien and Philip. I am Philip."
"But----"
"I can well understand your surprise. My father gave me scant
thought--his soul was bound up in my elder brother."
"But why this masquerade?"
"It is no masquerade," returned the singer sadly. "I sing to eke out my
small salary as clerk in a city firm. My abilities in that way do not
command a high figure," he added, with a bitter laugh.
"Then your father----?"
"Sent me adrift because I refused to marry that woman whose carriage I
stopped to-night."
The doctor made an expression of surprise.
"Yes, it seems strange I should come across her in that fashion, doesn't
it? The sight of her has touched old sores."
Philip Waldron's eyes gleamed as he fixed them on the doctor's face.
"I will tell you something of my story--if you wish it."
"Say on."
"As a young man at home I was greatly under my father's influence.
Perhaps because of his indifference I was the more anxious to please
him. At all events, urged by him, but with secret reluctance, I proposed
and was accepted by that lady whose carriage I stopped to-night. She was
rich, beautiful, but I did not love her. I know my conduct was weak, it
was ignoble--but I did her no wrong. For me she had not one spark of
affection. My prospective wealth was the bait."
Waldron paused, and drew his hand across his eyes. "Then--then I met the
girl who in the end became my wife. That she was poor was an
insurmountable barrier in my father's eyes. I sought freedom from my
hateful engagement in vain. I need not trouble you with all the story.
Suffice it that I left home and married the woman I loved. My father's
anger was overwhelming. We were never forgiven. When my brother died I
hoped for some sign from my father, but he made none. And now my wife
also is dead."
"And you are alone in the world?" asked the doctor, who had followed his
story with interest.
Philip Waldron's face lit up with a rarely winning smile.
"No," he said, "I have a little girl." Then the smile faded, as he
added, "She is a cripple."
"And have you never appealed to your father?"
[Sidenote: Unopened Letters]
"While my wife lived--many times. For her sake I threw pride aside, but
my letters were always returned unopened."
The doctor sat silent for some time. Then steadfastly regarding the
young man, he said--
"My name is Norman. I have known and attended your father now for a good
many years. I was at your brother's death-bed. I never heard him mention
a second son."
Philip sighed. "No, I suppose not. I am as dead to him now."
"You are indifferent?"
"Pardon me; not indifferent, only hopeless. Had there been any chance
for me, it came when my brother died."
"For the sake of your child will you not appeal once more?"
Philip's face softened. "For my child I would do much. Thank God,"
glancing at his left hand, "my right is uninjured. My city work is safe.
Singing is not my profession, you know," he added, with a dreary smile.
"I only sing to buy luxuries for my lame little one."
Rising, he held out his hand.
"You have been a true Samaritan, Dr. Norman. I sincerely thank you."
The doctor took the outstretched hand.
"May I help you further?" he asked.
"I don't see well how you can, but I will take the will for the deed."
"But you do not forbid me to try?"
Philip shook his head despondingly. "You may try, certainly. Matters
cannot be worse than they are; only you will waste valuable time."
"Let me be judge of that. May I come to see you?"
Philip hesitated; then, when urged, gave his address, but in a manner
indicating that he never expected it to be used.
Dr. Norman, however, was a man of his word. A few days after that chance
meeting found him toiling up the steep stairs of block C in Dalmatian
Buildings, Marylebone, having ascertained below that the Waldrons' rooms
were on the top floor.
"There had need be good air when one gets to the surface here," groaned
the doctor, when he reached the top, and paused to recover breath before
knocking.
Sounds came from within--a light, childish laugh, a patter of talk. In
response to his knock, a step accompanied by the tap-tap of a crutch
came across the wooden floor. After some hesitation the door was opened
by a pale, brown-eyed child of about seven. A holland pinafore reached
to her feet, the right side hitched up by the crutch under that arm, on
which she leant heavily. Dark, wavy hair fell over her shoulders,
framing a pale, oval face, out of which shone a pair of bright,
wide-open eyes.
She remained in the doorway looking up at the doctor.
[Illustration: "I SUPPOSE YOU'VE COME ABOUT THE GAS BILL."]
"I suppose you've come about the gas bill," she said at length, with an
old-womanish air, "but it's no use. Father is out, and I have only
sixpence. It's my own, but you can have it if you promise to take care
of it."
"I'm a doctor, and a friend of your father's," replied Norman, with a
reassuring smile.
The child at once moved aside.
[Sidenote: A Real Live Visitor]
"Please come in. I've just been playing with my dolls for visitors, but
it will be much nicer to have a real live one."
The room the doctor entered was small, but cheerful; the floor
uncarpeted, but clean, and the window framed a patch of sky over the
chimney-pots below. A table stood near the window, by it two chairs on
which lay two dolls.
"Come to the window," requested the child, tap-tapping over the floor.
"Lucretia and Flora, rise at once to greet a stranger," she cried
reproachfully to the dolls, lifting them as she spoke.
She stood waiting until Dr. Norman was seated, then drew a chair facing
him and sat down. Her keen, intelligent glance searched him over, then
dwelt upon his face.
"Are you a good doctor?" she asked.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because father says doctors are good, and I wondered if you were. You
must not mind my dollies being rather rude. It is difficult to teach
them manners so high up."
"How so?"
"Well, you see, they have no society but my own, because they have to be
in bed before father comes home."
"And do you never go out?"
"Sometimes on Sundays father carries me downstairs, and when we can
afford it he hires a cab to take me to the Park. But, you see, we can't
always afford it," with a wise shake of the head.
"Poor child!"
"Why do you say 'poor child' in that voice? I'm not a poor child. I got
broken--yes--and was badly mended, dad says, but I'm not a 'poor child.'
Poor childs have no dolls, and no funny insides like me."
The doctor smiled. "What sort of inside is that?"
"Well, you see, I have no outside little friends, and so my friends live
inside me. I make new ones now and then, when the old ones get dull, but
I like the old ones best myself."
At that moment a step sounded on the stairs; the child's face lit up
with a look which made her beautiful.
"That's father!" she exclaimed, and starting up, hastened as fast as her
crutch would permit to the door.
Waldron stooped to kiss tenderly the sweet, welcoming face held up to
his, then he grasped Dr. Norman's hand.
"So, doctor, you are true," he said with feeling. "You do not promise
and forget."
"I am the slower to promise," returned Dr. Norman. "I have just been
making acquaintance with your little maid."
"My little Sophy!"
"Yes, father?"
Waldron passed a caressing hand over the child's head.
"We two want to talk, dear, so you must go into your own little room."
"Yes, father; but I will bid goodbye to this doctor first," she said,
with a quaint air, offering Dr. Norman a thin little hand.
As the door closed upon her Waldron remarked rather bitterly, "You see I
told the truth."
"My dear fellow," cried the doctor, "I did not doubt you for a moment! I
came this afternoon to tell you I have seen your father--he sent for me.
He is not well. He seems troubled more than his illness warrants. Can it
be that under that callous manner he hides regret for the past?"
Philip sighed.
"You must be ever present to his memory," went on the doctor. "It might
be possible to touch his feelings."
"How?"
"Through your child--nay, hear me out. No harm shall come to her; I
would not propose it did I believe such a thing possible."
"But it might mean separation. No, doctor, let us struggle along--she at
least is happy."
"For the present, yes, but for how long? She will not always remain a
child. Have you had a good medical opinion in regard to her lameness?"
"The best I could afford at the time."
"And----?"
"It was unfavourable to trying any remedy; but that was not long after
her mother's death."
"May I examine her?"
Waldron's glad eagerness was eloquent of thanks.
When Dr. Norman left those upper rooms there was a light long absent on
Philip's face as he drew his lame child within his arms.
[Sidenote: Sophy takes a Drive]
In a few days the doctor called again at Dalmatian Buildings, and
carried Sophy off in his carriage, the child all excitement at the
change and novelty.
After a short drive Dr. Norman said, "Now, Sophy, I have a rather
serious case on hand, and I am going to leave you for a little at a
friend's, and call for you again later. You won't mind?"
"I think not. I shall be better able to tell you after I have been."
The doctor laughed.
"You see," went on Sophy, with a wise nod of her little head, "you can't
tell how you will like things until you try them--now, can you?"
"No, certainly not. So you can tell me how you get on as I drive you
home."
"Is this your serious case or mine?" asked Sophy anxiously, as the
carriage drew up at a large house in a West-End square.
"This is where I hope to leave you," returned the doctor, smiling. "But
you must wait until I find if it be convenient for me to do so."
Dr. Norman was shown into the library, where by the fire in an arm-chair
sat an old man, one foot supported on a stool before him. His face was
drawn and pinched, and his temper none of the sweetest, to judge by the
curt response he made to the doctor's greeting.
"You are late this morning," was his sole remark.
"I may be slightly--but you are fast becoming independent of my care."
An unamiable grunt was the old man's reply.
When a few medical questions had been put and answered, Dr. Norman
placed himself on the hearthrug, looking down at his patient as he drew
on his gloves.
"You are much better," he said cheerfully.
"Oh, you think so, do you? Well, I don't."
"Yes, I think so. I should like to prescribe you change of scene, Mr.
Waldron."
"Want to be rid of me, I suppose. Well, I'm not going!"
"Change of thought might do equally well."
"I'm likely to get it, chained here by the leg, ain't I?"
"Well, change of thought comes by association, and is quite available;
in fact, at the present moment I have in my carriage a small person who
has given me much change of thought this morning."
"I can't see what good your change of thought will do me!" growled Mr.
Waldron.
Dr. Norman regarded him speculatively.
"I wonder if you would do me a favour. I have rather a serious case on
the other side of the square, will take me about half an hour; might I
leave my small friend here for that time?"
"What! in this room?"
"Why not?"
"Nonsense! You don't mean to bring a child in here!"
"Again I say, why not? She will amuse and interest you."
"Well, of all the----"
"Don't excite yourself, Mr. Waldron. You know how bad that is for you."
"You are giving me some change of thought with a vengeance, doctor! Why
should you bring a nasty brat to disturb me?"
[Sidenote: Some Amusement]
"I only offered you some amusement----"
"Amusement be hanged! You know I hate children."
"I know you say so."
Mr. Waldron growled.
"She is not so very small," went on the doctor--"about seven or eight, I
think."
"Humph! Young enough to be a nuisance! A girl, eh?"
"Yes."
"Girls are not so bad as boys," he admitted.
"No, so some people think--good-morning." Dr. Norman went towards the
door.
"A girl, you say?" growled old Mr. Waldron again.
"Yes; good-morning."
"I say, don't be in such a hurry!"
"I really cannot stay longer at present; goodbye."
Dr. Norman opened the door and stood within it. Old Mr. Waldron fidgeted
in his chair, muttering--
"Horrid child! Hate children! Perfect nuisance!"
The doctor partly closed the door.
"I say, have you gone?" cried the old man, glancing round. "Dr. Norman,"
he called suddenly, "you can bring that brat in if it will be any
pleasure to you, and if you find me dead in half an hour my death will
lie at your door!"
The doctor at once accepted this grudging concession, and hastening to
the carriage, brought Sophy back in his arms.
"What the----" called out old Mr. Waldron when he saw the child. "Is she
ill?"
"Oh, no, only lame," replied the doctor, as he placed his burden in a
chair opposite to the old man.
"Now, Sophy," he admonished, "you will be a pleasant companion to this
gentleman until my return."
Sophy eyed her neighbour doubtfully.
"I'll try to," she replied, and so the doctor left them.
For some time this strangely assorted pair eyed each other in silence.
At length Sophy's gaze rested on the old man's foot where it lay in its
large slipper on the stool before him.
"I see you are broken too," she said in a sympathetic voice. "It isn't
really pleasant to be broken, is it, although we try to pretend we don't
care, don't we?"
"No, it isn't exactly pleasant," replied Mr. Waldron, and a half-smile
flickered over his face. "How did you get broken?"
"Somebody let me fall, father says, and afterwards I was only
half-mended. It is horrid to be only a half-mended thing--but some
people are so stupid, you know."
Mr. Waldron grunted.
"Does it hurt you to speak that you make that funny noise?" asked Sophy
curiously.
"I'm an old man, and I do as I like."
"Oh! When I'm an old woman may I do as I like?"
"I suppose so," grudgingly.
"Then I shall be an awfully nice old woman; I shouldn't like to be cross
and ugly. I don't like ugly people, and there are so many going about
loose. I am always so glad I like my father's face."
"Why?"