A Bookful Of Girls Part 22

Mrs. Crosby glanced furtively at the round eyes of the baby, and took the precaution of smothering him in billows of white lawn before replying, rather softly: "Yes, dear; Papa's father is living. Why do you ask?"

"I saw him to-day."

"You saw him? Where?"

"On the street."

"How did you know it was he?"

"Sallie Watson asked me why I didn't bow to my grandfather."

"And what did you say?"

"I said: 'Never you mind!' And then I ran home all the way, as tight as ever I could run! Mamma, why don't we ever see him?"

The baby's head was just emerging from temporary eclipse, and Mrs.

Crosby's voice dropped still lower, as she answered:

"Because, dear, _he doesn't wish it_."

There was something so gently conclusive in this answer that little Di was silenced. Yet the look in her mother's face had not escaped her; a wistful, hurt look, such as the child had never seen there before. And in her own mind Di asked many questions.

What did it all mean? How did it happen that her grandfather did not wish it? Why was he so different from other girls' grandfathers? There must be something very wrong somewhere, but where was it? Since it could not possibly be with her father or mother, it must be that her grandfather was himself at fault.

The object of Di's perplexities, Mr. Horatio Crosby, lived all alone in a very good house, and was in the habit of driving about in a very pretty victoria; people bowed to him, people who were friends of Di's father and mother, and must therefore be creditable acquaintances. All this she soon discovered, for, having once come to know her grandfather by sight, she seemed to be constantly crossing his path.

Little by little, as she grew older, Di picked up certain stray bits of information, but she never tried to piece them together. She felt that she would a little rather not know any more. A quarrel there had certainly been, some time in the dark ages before she was born, and the old man had proved himself obstinate and implacable. Friendly overtures had been made from time to time, but he had set his face against all such advances, and now, for many, many years,--as many as three or four, little Di had gathered,--the friendly overtures had ceased.

One gets used to things, and Di got used to having a grandfather who did not know her by sight. She was sure he did not know her, because once, when she was twelve years old, he had stopped her on the street to tell her that she had dropped her pocket-handkerchief. It had been very polite of the old gentleman, and she had been glad not to lose her handkerchief. Yet, as she thanked him, she gave him one searching look, and she told herself that he had a very cross expression, as well as a very harsh voice.

This uncomplimentary verdict was largely due to the fact that, at this period, Di had quite made up her mind that her grandfather was a hateful, unreasonable old despot, and that it served him right never to come to the family parties, nor to have any Christmas presents, nor to have seen the baby, which Mamma said was the prettiest of all her babies, and which Di considered the most enchanting object on the face of the earth.

But again many years had pa.s.sed,--four, in this instance,--and there came a time, only a few weeks previous to the opening of our story, when Di found herself constrained to modify her view of her grandfather.

It happened that she had gone with her drawing teacher, Miss Downs, to an exhibition of paintings. Among the pictures was a very striking one ent.i.tled _Le Grandpere_. It represented an old French peasant, just stopping off work for the day, with a flock of grandchildren clinging about his knees. Miss Downs called Di's attention to the wonderful reach of upland meadow, and the exquisite effect of the sunset light on the face of the old man; but, to Di, the meadow and the sunset light were unimportant accessories to the central idea. It was the grandfather himself that commanded all her attention,--the look of blissful indulgence on the old man's face; his att.i.tude of protecting affection towards one young girl in particular, on whose head the toil-stained hand rested.

"Yes," she said, after several minutes of rapt contemplation: "Yes; the sunset is very nice, and the fields; but, oh, the old man is such a darling!"

As she spoke she turned to see how her teacher took her remark, and found herself face to face, not with Miss Downs, but with her own grandfather! She gave a little gasp of surprise, which he appeared not to notice.

"So you think him a darling, do you?" he asked, and somehow his voice did not sound quite as harsh as it had done four years ago.

Miss Downs had pa.s.sed on, and there was no one standing near them, no one at all in the gallery who shared Di's knowledge of the strange situation. She felt sure that the old man had no suspicion of her ident.i.ty.

"Yes, I do," she answered boldly.

"What makes a darling of him?" the old gentleman inquired.

Di felt that this was her opportunity, and that she was letting it slip. But she could not help herself, and she only answered rather lamely:

"Oh, nothing, except that he is _such a good grandfather!_" Upon which she beat a hasty retreat, and fled to the protection of Miss Downs, whom she found in an adjoining room.

It was perhaps twenty minutes later that Di and her teacher pa.s.sed the picture again, and, behold, there was the old gentleman standing, lost in thought, exactly on the spot where she had left him. He did not seem to be looking at the picture, but Di felt certain that he was thinking of it. And, suddenly, it pa.s.sed through her mind like a flash that he was sorry.

"Yes; he's sorry," she said to herself. "He's sorry, and he doesn't know how to say so!"

The more she thought of it in the days that followed,--and she seemed to be thinking pretty much all the time of the old man and the look on his face as he stood before the picture,--the more convinced she became that he was sorry and did not know how to say so.

"And he ought not to have to say so," she told herself. "He's an old, old man, and he ought not to have to say that he is sorry."

The old, old man--aged sixty-five--might have taken exception to that part of her proposition touching his extreme antiquity, but we may be pretty sure that he would have cordially endorsed her opinion that the dignity of his years forbade his saying that he was sorry.

In those days Di used to walk often past her grandfather's house. It was a very big house for a single occupant. Even the stout footman, whom she had once seen at the door, did not seem stout enough, nor numerous enough to relieve the big house of its vacancy. There were heavy woollen draperies in the parlor windows, but not a hint of the pretty white muslin which a woman would have had up in no time. Once she pa.s.sed the house just at dusk, after the lights were lighted.

Through the long windows she looked into the empty room. Not so much as a cat or a dog was awaiting the master. In the swift glance with which she swept the interior she noted that the fireplace was boarded in. That seemed to Di indescribably dreary. Perhaps her grandfather did not sit here; perhaps he had a library somewhere, like their own.

But, no; there was the portly footman entering with the evening paper, which he laid upon the table before coming to close the shutters.

"He's too old to say he is sorry," Di said to herself, as she turned dejectedly away; "a great deal too old--and lonely--and dreary!"

And it was on that very evening that she made her little pet.i.tion to her mother, and that her father declared that Di was sure to bag her game.

Old Mr. Crosby, meanwhile, was too well-used to his empty house and to his boarded-in fireplace to mind them very much, too unaccustomed to muslin curtains to miss them. Yet he had not been on very good terms with himself for the past few weeks, and that was something which he did mind particularly.

The result of his long cogitation in front of the grandfather picture had been highly uncomplimentary to the artist. He p.r.o.nounced the homespun subject unworthy of artistic treatment, and he told himself that it merited just that order of criticism which it had received at the hands of the young person with the rather pretty turn of countenance, who had regarded it with such enthusiasm. Nevertheless, he did not forget the picture,--nor yet the young person!

It was the afternoon of Thanksgiving day, and there was a light fall of snow outside. He remembered that in old times there used always to be a lot of snow on Thanksgiving day. Things were very different in old times. He wondered what would have been thought of a man fifty years ago,--or seventeen years ago, for the matter of that,--who was giving his servants a holiday and dining at the club. As if those foreign servants had any concern in the Yankee festival! But then, what concern had he, Horatio Crosby, in it nowadays? What had he to be thankful for? Whom had he to be thankful with? He was very lucky to have a club to go to! He might as well go now, though it was still two or three hours to dinner time. He would ring for his overcoat and snow-shoes.

His hand was on the bell-rope--for Mr. Horatio Crosby was old-fas.h.i.+oned, and had never yet admitted an electric b.u.t.ton to his domain.

At that moment the door opened softly--what was Burns thinking of, not to knock?--and there stood, not Burns, not Nora, but a slender apparition in petticoats, with a dash of snow on hat and jacket, and a dash of daring in a pair of very bright eyes.

"Good afternoon, Grandfather," was the apparition's cheerful greeting, and involuntarily the old gentleman found himself replying with a "Good afternoon" of his own.

The apparition moved swiftly forward, and, before he knew what he was about, an unmistakable kiss had got itself applied to his countenance and--more amazing still--he was strongly of the impression that there had been--no robbery!

Greatly agitated by so unusual an experience, he only managed to say: "So you are----?"

"Yes; I am Di Crosby,--your granddaughter, you know, and--this is Thanksgiving day!"

"You don't say so!" and the old man gazed down at her in growing trepidation.

"Let's sit down," Di suggested, feeling that she gained every point that her adversary lost. "This must be your chair. And I'll sit here.

There! Isn't this cozy?"

"Oh, very!"

The master of the house had sufficiently recovered himself to put on his spectacles, the use of which was affording him much satisfaction.

He really did not know that the young girl of the day was so pretty!