nothing. It seemed to me an immense time that he was gone, but he
declares that it was not more than a minute and a quarter. Then I heard
him laugh quietly to himself.
"'All right, come on,' he said to me. 'Gee, whoa, haw, get up, girlies,'
he said to the horses, and those sagacious beasts immediately walked
straight towards the spot whence his voice came, without paying the
least attention to me, who was holding the reins so tight, as I thought.
"'Well, Milly, I suppose you'll never stop laughing,' was the first
thing he said to me when the horses came to a standstill, with their
noses almost in his beard.
"'I never felt less like laughing,' I replied, hardly daring to believe
that the peril was past and that I was still alive.
"'Our highwayman is an old stump, don't you see?' exclaimed Louis. I
looked again and saw that what he said was true; a gnarled tree stump,
some twisted branches, a deceiving white vapour, and perhaps, too, our
own vivid imaginations, these were the elements which had given birth to
our highwayman.
"'I never was more taken in,' said Louis, as he resumed his seat beside
me. 'It was the dead image of a man on horseback holding out a pistol.
I'll come down here to-morrow and examine the place, to find out how I
could have been so silly, but in the daylight, of course, it will look
quite different. I shan't ever dare to tell the story, however, for
they'll laugh at me from the Red River to the Mississippi, and say I'm
getting to be an old fool, and ought to have somebody to look after me!'
"I saw that Louis was ashamed of the mistake he had made, but I was so
thankful to be safe that I paid little heed to what he said. The next
day he rode down to the Big Sugar Creek, sure enough, to identify the
slain, as he said. When he came back, a couple of hours later, he was in
high good-humour.
"'I shall not be afraid to tell the story against myself now,' he said.
'What do you think I found in the stump?'
"'What did you find?' asked I, full of interest in this, the only
highwayman I ever met.
[Sidenote: The Last Laugh]
"'_Sixteen bullet-holes!_ You see, there have been other fools as great
as myself, but they were ashamed of their folly and kept it dark. I
shall tell mine abroad and have the last laugh at all events.'"
[Sidenote: Dorothy played a highly important part at a critical period
in the life of her father. She begins in disgrace and ends in triumph.]
Dorothy's Day
BY
M. E. LONGMORE
"My costume!" said Dorothy Graham, jumping up from the breakfast-table.
"You need not smash _all_ the china!" observed Dick.
"The parcels post never comes so early," murmured Dorothy's mother. "How
impulsive that child is!"
In a few minutes Dorothy came back with a crestfallen air and laid a
brown, uninteresting-looking envelope by her mother's plate.
"I might have known he never comes so early, except with letters," she
remarked, sitting down again.
"Of course you might," said Dick, clearing the bacon dish, "but you
never know anything worth knowing."
"Don't tease her," said Mrs. Graham kindly; "it is not often she gets a
new frock."
"A _costume_," corrected Dick, imitating Dorothy's voice. "A _real_
tailor one--made in Bond Street!"
Mr. Graham rustled his newspaper, and Dick succumbed.
"Why, Dorothy!" Mrs. Graham was looking at her letter. "Dear me!" She
ran her eyes quickly through its contents. "I'm afraid that costume
won't come to-day. They've had a fire."
[Sidenote: A Fire in Bond Street]
"'Prescott's, Bond Street,'" said Mr. Graham, reading from a paragraph
in the morning paper. "Here it is: 'A fire occurred yesterday afternoon
in the ladies' tailoring department. The stock-room was gutted, but
fortunately the assistants escaped without injury.'"
Dorothy, with a very long face, was reading over her mother's shoulder:
"In consequence of a fire in the tailoring department Messrs. Prescott
beg to inform their customers that some delay will be caused in getting
out this week's orders. Business will, however, be continued as usual,
and it will greatly facilitate matters if ladies having costumes now in
hand will repeat the order by wire or telephone to avoid mistakes."
"It's very smart of them to have got that notice here so soon," said Mr.
Graham.
"Mother," said Dorothy, swallowing very hard, "do you think it is burnt?
After being fitted and all!"
"It is a disappointment," said her mother kindly, "but they'll make you
another."
"It's a _shame_!" burst out Dorothy, with very hot cheeks. "These sort
of things always happen to _me_! Can't we go to Chelmsford and get one
ready-made?"
"That's a girl all over!" exclaimed Dick. "Now the man's down, let's
kick him!"
Mr. Graham turned his head with a sharp look at Dick, who immediately,
getting very red, pretended to be picking up something under the table.
"I didn't say _anything_ about _any_ man!" said Dorothy, appealing all
round. "Mother, can't I have a costume from Chelmsford?"
"No, dear," said Mrs. Graham coldly; "this one is ordered."
"Dick is right, Dolly," said her father. "Don't you see it is the people
who have had the _fire_ we should pity? And is it not bad enough to have
their place burnt, without losing their customers?"
Dorothy sulked. She thought every one was very unkind, and it seemed the
last straw when father took Dick's part against her.
It was time for Mr. Graham to go to town. He had eaten scarcely any
breakfast, and Mrs. Graham, who had been anxiously watching him, had
eaten none at all, but things of this sort children don't often notice.
When he passed his little girl's chair, he put his hand kindly on her
shoulder, and the tears that had been so near welled into her eyes.
"Poor Dolly!" Mr. Graham said presently, as he reached for his hat,
"everything seems of a piece." And he gave a great sigh.
Mrs. Graham always went as far as the gate with him, and he thought they
were alone in the hall, but Dick had followed them to the dining-room
door. It was holiday-time, yet Dick was going to Chelmsford for an
examination. He had come out intending to ask his father before he went
to London for half a crown. Dick was just at the age when schoolboys try
to appear exactly the reverse from what they are. He squabbled
constantly with Dorothy, though he loved her very much, and now, when he
heard his father sigh, he put his hands in his pockets as if he didn't
care about anything, and went upstairs whistling.
When Dick got to his room, he took a money-box from the mantelpiece and
smashed it open with the poker. He had been saving up for a new bat, and
the box contained seven shillings. He put the money in his pocket and
ran down again in a great hurry.
"Dick! Dick!" exclaimed his mother, catching him. "Come here! Let me
brush your collar. How rough your hair is! Dick, you must have a new
hat! You can't go into the hall with that one."
"All serene, mother," said the boy, submitting impatiently to be
overhauled. "I can buy a new hat and pitch the old one away."
"How grandly some people talk!" said his mother, pinching his ear. "As
if the world belonged to them. Well, never mind, dear boy! If you get on
well and _pass_, no one will remember your hat was shabby. Have you got
your fare?"
[Sidenote: A Telegram]
"Oh, mother, how you _do_ worry!" exclaimed Dick, wrenching himself
away; "I've got lots of money--_heaps_!"
He ran across the lawn, and just because he knew she was watching,
jumped right over the azalea-bushes and wire fence instead of going out
at the gate, and yet the tired look went out of Mrs. Graham's eyes, and
a smile crept round her mouth as she watched him.
Dorothy, standing at the dining-room window, saw him go too, and thought
how horrid it was of Dick to look so glad when she was so unhappy.
"Boys are always like that," she thought. "They don't care a bit about
any one but themselves."
Mrs. Graham came back into the room holding a telegram in her hand which
she tore open quickly. Her face went red and then rather white.
"What is it, mother?" said Dorothy eagerly. "Have they arrived?"
"They have been in London two days," said Mrs. Graham, with a curious
catch in her breath, and she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
"They want me up for a day's shopping. If I had known, I could have gone
with father."
Dorothy stood staring at her mother with wide-open eyes. Half a dozen
castles in the air seemed tumbling about her head at the same time.
They were expecting her mother's cousins over from America. Dorothy had
been chattering about them to the girls at school all the term, and it
was in honour of these very cousins she was having her first Bond Street
costume. Her mother had not said that was the reason, but Dorothy knew
it. She had a _sweet_, really _big_ hat too, with tiny rosebuds, and new
gloves and boots. As a rule her mother was not particular about getting
everything new at the same time, but she had taken enough pains this
time to please Dorothy herself.
"They do dress children so at Boston," Dorothy had overheard her mother
say to Mr. Graham, as a sort of excuse. "I should like Dollie to look
nice."
And from that one sentence Dorothy had conjured up all sorts of things
about these wonderful cousins. Of course she thought they were coming to
stay with them. She expected there would be girls of her own age, and
that they would be so charmed with their English cousin that they would
invite her to go back to Boston with them. She had talked about them,
and thought about them so much that she imagined her mother had _told_
her all this, but really Mrs. Graham, who talked very little, didn't
know much about her cousins herself, so she could not have given her
little daughter all this information if she had been inclined to.
And now it all seemed so _tame_. First no costume, then an ordinary wire
to ask mother to go up for a day's shopping. They might have come from
Surrey instead of America. And two whole days before they wired at all.
Perhaps Mrs. Graham was thinking something of the kind too, for she
stood biting her lip, with the colour going and coming in pretty blushes
on her cheek, as if she could not make up her mind.
She was just "mother" to Dorothy, but to other people Mrs. Graham was
both pretty and sweet.
"I _must_ go," she said at length, "and there is scarcely time to get
ready."
"Oh, _mother_!" cried Dorothy, "can't I come too?"
Mrs. Graham still seemed to be considering something else, and she
merely answered, "No, dear," and went quickly upstairs.
Dorothy sank down on the sofa in a terribly injured mood. Nobody seemed
to be thinking of _her_ at all. And before she had got over the first
brunt of this discovery her mother was back again ready to go, with her
purse-bag and gloves in her hand.
[Sidenote: Left in Charge]
"Dorothy," she said, arranging her hat before the mirror of the
overmantel, "you may choose any pudding you like, tell cook. Here are
the keys"--she paused to throw a small bunch in Dorothy's lap. "Get out
anything they want. And Dick won't be in till half-past one, tell her.
And Dollie"--there was again that queer little catch in her voice--"it
is possible Miss Addiscombe may call this afternoon. I have told Louisa
to show her right into the drawing-room without telling her I am out,
and come and find you. I want you to be very nice to her, and explain
about the Merediths. Tell her I was obliged to go because they only gave
me the place of meeting, and I have not their address. I shall be home
as soon as possible, between four and five at latest, so do your best to
keep her till I come back."
"Did you say Miss _Addiscombe_, mother?" said Dorothy dismally, yet a
little comforted by having the keys, and with the thought of choosing
the pudding, "I don't think _she's_ likely to call."
"I said Miss Addiscombe," Mrs. Graham answered decidedly. "Do you
understand what I wish you to do, Dollie?"
"Yes, mother," said Dorothy, subdued but mutinous.
Then she ran after her to the hall door.
"Mayn't I ask some one to spend the day, mother?" she called, but Mrs.
Graham was almost at the gate, nearly running to be in time for her
train, and did not hear her.
* * * * *
Mrs. Graham came home looking very white and tired. "Did Miss Addiscombe
call?" were the first words she said.
Louisa, who was bringing in the tea, looked meaningly at Dorothy, and
went out without speaking.
"Oh, mother!" said Dorothy, "I am so sorry, I had been in all day, and
Helen Jones just asked me to come to the post with her, and when I came
back there was a motor at the door, and----"
"She _came_!" exclaimed Mrs. Graham. "And you did not give her my
message! Oh, Dorothy!"
Her tone was almost like a cry of pain. Dorothy was startled. "She
wouldn't wait, mother, and--and of course it _was_ strange she came
to-day when she hasn't called for ages and ages! I didn't think she
would, or I wouldn't have gone," she explained.
Mrs. Graham did not argue the point. She lay down on the sofa and closed
her eyes. Dorothy longed to ask her about the American cousins, but did
not dare. Presently she poured out a cup of tea and brought it to her
mother.
"If you take some tea you will feel better, mother," she said softly.
"If I had asked Dick to do something for me he would have done it,
Dorothy," said Mrs. Graham bitterly, and without seeming to notice the
tea she got up and gathered her things together. "I have a headache,"
she said. "I am not coming down again. Father will not be home to-night,
so you can tell Louisa there will be no need to lay the cloth for
dinner. I don't wish any one to come near me." And she went out of the
room.
Poor Dorothy felt dreadfully uncomfortable and crestfallen. She had been
alone all day, and it did seem such a little thing to go to the post
with Helen Jones, who knew all about her costume, and quite agreed with
her that it was a 'horrid shame' for people to be so careless as to have
_fires_, when they had the charge of other people's things.
Louisa had scolded her, and been very cross when she came in, but
Dorothy really saw no reason why it mattered very much what Miss
Addiscombe thought. It wasn't like mother to mind anything like that so
much.
Dick came in about half an hour later. He had been home to dinner, and
had gone out again to a cricket match.
"Mother has gone to bed," said Dorothy rather importantly. "She doesn't
want to be disturbed, and you are not to go to her. She's got a
headache, and father isn't coming home."
[Sidenote: Dick's Strange Silence]
Dick looked at her very hard, and without speaking went straight
upstairs, listened a little, and opened his mother's door. "He _is_ a
tiresome boy!" thought Dorothy; "now mother will think I never told
him."
Louisa brought in a poached egg, and some baked apples as he came down
again.
"Cook says it's so late, you had better make it your supper, sir," she
said.
"Mother wants a hot-water bottle," answered Dick; "she's as cold as ice.
I think you or cook had better go up and see about her. Perhaps she'd
better have a fire."
"A fire in August! Oh, Dick, how _ridiculous_!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"All right, sir," said Louisa, taking the indiarubber bottle he had
brought down; "don't you worry."
Dick took a book, and planting his elbows on the table, seemed to be
reading; in reality he was blinking his eyelashes very hard, to keep
back tears.
Dorothy thought the whole world was going mad. As far as she knew the
only trouble in it was her own.
"Aren't you going to take any supper, Dick?" she said plaintively.
Dick pushed the egg and apples away, and cutting himself a hunch of
bread, went out of the room without speaking.
"Every one is very polite to-night," thought Dorothy. However, she sat
down, ate Dick's egg and helped herself to apples with plenty of sugar,
and felt a little comforted.
At eight o'clock she went up to bed, glad the tiresome, miserable day
was at an end. She trod very softly, but her mother heard her and called
her in.
Dorothy was glad, for she spoke in her natural voice and not at all as
if she were angry.
She was still dressed and lying on the bed, but her hand, which had
frightened Dick by being so cold, was now burning.
"I spoke hastily to you, Dollie," she said. "You didn't know how
important it was. I am going to tell you now, dear, for it may be a
lesson to you."
Dorothy stood awkwardly by the bed; she didn't like her mother to
apologise, and she didn't want the lecture which she imagined was
coming.
"Father," said Mrs. Graham, "is in a very bad way indeed. I can't
explain to you all about it because you would not understand, but a
friend he trusted very much has failed him, and another friend has been
spreading false rumours about his business. If he doesn't get enough
money to pay his creditors by Saturday he must go bankrupt. Miss
Addiscombe was a friend of his long ago. She has not been kind to him
lately, and she has always been rude to me. I didn't tell father because
I knew he would not let me, but I wrote and told her just how it was,
and asked her to let bygones be bygones. I was hoping so much she would
come, and if she came she would have lent him the money. She has so much
it would mean nothing to her. Then I was disappointed in London. I
thought Mr. Meredith would have been there--he is rich too--and my
cousin, but he is not over at all: just his wife and daughter, and they
are rushing through London. They were so busy we had scarcely time to
speak. I half wonder they remembered my existence."
"Oh, mother!" protested Dorothy; and then with great effort: "You could
go over to-morrow to Miss Addiscombe, or write, mother; she would
understand."
"No, dear. It is no use thinking of it. To offend her once is to offend
her always. Besides, I am tired out, and there are only two more days. I
have told you because I didn't want it to all come quite suddenly, and
you are so wrapt up in yourself, Dollie, you don't notice the way Dick
does. If you had told me he had _passed_, Dorothy, when I came in, I
should not have felt quite so bad."
"But I didn't know, mother," said Dorothy. "Dick didn't tell me. _Has_
he passed?"
"Whose fault was it, Dollie? He came home to dinner and found you all
alone. Did you _ask_ him how he had got on?"
Dorothy hung her head. Mrs. Graham kissed her. "Well, go to bed and pray
for dear father," she said. "It is worse for him than for any of us."
Dorothy felt as if she were choking. When she got to the door she stood
hesitating with her hand on the handle.
"I have a hundred pounds in the Bank, mother, that grandma left me.
Father can have that if it would be any use." She had made the offer
with an effort, for Dorothy liked to have a hundred pounds of her own.
What little girl would not? But her mother answered peevishly: "It would
be no more use than if you offered him a halfpenny. Don't be foolish."
Dick's door was open and Dorothy went in.
"Isn't it dreadful, Dick!" she said. "What is _bankrupt_? How much money
does father want?"
"About fifteen hundred," said Dick savagely. "It's all that old
Pemberton backing out of it. Father wanted to get his patents to
Brussels, and he's got medals for them all, but it cost a lot of money
and now they are not bought. So the business will go to smash, and he'll
lose the patents besides, that's the worst of it!"
"Dick," said Dorothy wistfully, "don't you think it would be better if
father attended to his proper business and stopped inventing things when
it costs so much?"
Dick sprang up with blazing eyes.
"You little brute!" he said, "go out of my room. No, I don't. Father's
the cleverest and best man in the world. He can't help being a genius!"
[Sidenote: The Last Straw]
This was Dorothy's last straw; she went away and threw herself, dressed,
on her bed, sobbing as if her heart would break. And only this morning
she thought she was miserable because her new dress had not come.
Dorothy cried till she could cry no longer, and then she got up and
slowly undressed. The house was very still. A clock somewhere was
striking ten, and it seemed to Dorothy as if it were the middle of the
night. She was cold now as her mother had been, but no one was likely to
come to her. She felt alone and frightened, and as if a wall had
descended between her and Dick, and her mother and father. Among all the
other puzzling and dreadful things, nothing seemed so strange to Dorothy
as that Dick showed better than herself. He had gone up to mother when
he was told not, and yet it was _right_ (even Dorothy could understand
that) for him to disobey her, and _she_ had just gone to the post, and
all this dreadful thing would come of it. Dorothy had always thought
Dick was such a bad boy and she was so good, and now it seemed all the
other way. She was _father's_ girl, too, and father was always down on
Dick, yet--her eyes filled when she thought of it--Dick was loyal, and
had called her a little brute, and mother said it was worst of all for
father.
She knelt down by her bed. Until to-night Dorothy had never really felt
she needed Jesus as a friend, though she sometimes thought she loved
Him. Now it seemed as if she _must_ tell some one, and she wanted Him
very, very badly. So she knelt and prayed, and though she cried nearly
all the time she felt much happier when she got up.
"I am so selfish. I am so sorry. Please help me!" was the burden of poor
Dollie's prayer, but she got into bed feeling as if Jesus had
understood, and fell asleep quite calmly.
In the morning Dorothy awoke early. It was scarcely light. It was the
first time in her life she had woke to sorrow, and it seemed very
dreadful. Yet Dorothy felt humble this morning, and not helpless as she
had done last night. She felt as if Someone, much stronger than
herself, was going to stand by her and help her through.
[Sidenote: Dorothy's Project]
Lying there thinking, many things seemed plain to her that she had not
understood before, and a thought came into her head. It was _her_ fault,
and she was the one who should suffer; not father, nor mother, nor Dick.
It would not be easy, for Dorothy did not like Miss Addiscombe, and she
was afraid of her, but she must go to her.
Directly the thought came into her head Dorothy was out of bed and
beginning to dress. And that mysterious clock which she had never heard
before was just striking five when she stole like a little white ghost
downstairs, carrying her shoes in her hand, and unbolting the side door,
slipped out into a strange world which was still fast asleep.
Miss Addiscombe lived ten miles away, but Dorothy did not remember
anything about that. All her thought was to get there as soon as
possible. One thing, she knew the way, for the flower-show was held in
her grounds every year, and Dorothy had always been driven there. It was
a nearly straight road.
* * * * *
About ten o'clock that morning a gentleman was driving along the
high-road when he suddenly pulled up his horse and threw the reins to
the groom. It had been quite cool when Dorothy started, but now it was
very hot, and there seemed no air at all. A little girl in a white frock
was lying by the roadside.
He stooped over her and felt her pulse, and Dorothy opened large,
startled blue eyes.
"What is it, my dear?" he said.
"I am dying, I think," said Dorothy. "Tell mother I did _try_."
He lifted her into his trap and got in beside her, telling the groom to
drive on, and wondering very much. Dorothy gave a great sigh and began
to feel better.
"I think it is because I had no breakfast," she said. "Perhaps I am
dying of _hunger_."
The gentleman smiled, and searched his pockets. After a time he found
some milk chocolate. Dorothy would rather have had water, but he made
her eat a little. Then he took off her hat and gloves, and with a cool,
soft handkerchief pushed back the hair that was clinging about her damp
forehead and carefully wiped her face.
"You'll feel better now," he said, fanning her with her hat, and putting
it on again, as if he had never done anything but dress little girls in
his life.
Dorothy smiled with a great sigh of relief, and the gentleman smiled
too. "Now tell us all about it," he said in a friendly way. "Where do
you live, and where are you going?"
When Dorothy told him he looked very much surprised, and at the same
time interested, and before she knew what she was about, he had drawn
from her the whole story, and the more she told him the more surprised
and interested he became.
"What was the name of the friend who failed your father?" he said at
last, but Dorothy could not remember.
"Was it Pemberton?" he suggested.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Pemberton," said Dorothy. "At least, Dick said so."