death was approaching, arrived within an hour. She begged her cousin’s forgiveness for past unkindness, told her that she had left her the savings of her lifetime – though the main part of the estate passed to Mr. Beck’s nephew – and besought Mrs. Shelton, as her only relation, to follow her to her grave. Young Mr. Beck, the said nephew, who wrote the letter, added that the house should be kept up for Mrs. Shelton’s convenience till after her visit, and that his aunt had expressed a wish that her clothes and jewels should be given to Mrs. Shelton.
“We’ll go, Mary!” said Mr. Shelton, blithe as a lark – several things had raised his spirits! – and Mrs. Shelton, with a burst of her old energy, borrowed some mourning, packed her trunk, summoned Deena and caught the train, with five minutes to spare.
And so it happened that when Mr. French called, as was his daily custom, to take his last cup of tea with Mrs. Ponsonby before her flitting, he found the house in the temporary charge of the servant and Master Dicky Shelton, a shrimpish boy of thirteen, whose red hair and absurd profile bore just enough likeness to his sister’s beauty to make one feel the caricature an intentional impertinence.
French had got into the drawing room before he understood what the servant was saying. Deena had gone, leaving no message for him! His first feeling of surprise was succeeded by one of chagrin; these afternoon chats by her fireside had become so much to him, so much a part of his daily life, that he hated to think they had no corresponding value to her. He was recalled from these sentimental regrets by the irate voice of Master Shelton in dispute with Bridget.
“She —said– there – was cake! Mrs. Ponsonby —said– there – was – cake – and – that I – could – have some!” each word very emphatic, judicial and accusative. Then followed a rattling tail to the sentence: “And if you have eaten it all, it was horridly greedy in you, and I hope it will disagree with you – so I do!”
Bridget now came forward and addressed French.
“There ain’t so much as a cheese-paring left in the house, Mr. French. Mrs. Ponsonby’s gone off at a moment’s notice, and I’m off myself to-morrow; and there sits that boy asking for cake! He’s been here now the better part of an hour, trackin’ mud over the clean carpets till I’m a’most ready to cry.”
Dick seized his hat and moved sulkily to the door, hurling back threats as he walked.
“Just you wait! We’ll see – you think I won’t tell, but I will!”
French perceived that the case was to be carried to the Supreme Court for Deena’s decision, and to save her annoyance at a time when he felt sure she was both tired and busy, he made a proposition to the heir of the Sheltons that established his everlasting popularity with that young person.
“Come home with me, Dicky,” he said, “and if my people haven’t any cake, I can at least give you all the hothouse grapes you can eat, and some to carry home. How does that strike you?”
“Done!” cried Dicky, slipping his hand under Stephen’s arm, and, after one horrid grimace at Bridget, he allowed himself to be led away.
The sun had nearly disappeared when they reached French’s house, which was a little outside of the town, and he reflected that he must quickly redeem his promise, and dispatch his young companion home before the darkness should make his absence a cause of alarm. He rang the bell by way of summoning a servant, and then, opening the door with his latchkey, he invited Dicky to enter.
It was a most cheerful interior. The staircase, wide and old-fashioned, faced you at the far end of the hall, and on the first landing a high-arched window was glowing with the level rays of the setting sun. A wood fire blazed on the hearth, and on the walls the portraits of all the Frenches, who for two hundred years had made a point of recording their individualities in oil, looked down to welcome each arrival.
Dicky, who wore no overcoat, presented his nether boy to the fire, while he gazed at the portraits with a frown. He thought them extremely plain.
A servant came from some hidden door, took his master’s coat and hat and received an order in which such inspiring words as “cakes, or chocolates, or dessert of any kind,” gave the earnest of things hoped for.
“And, Charles,” Mr. French concluded, “tell Marble to bring the things as quickly as he can to the library, with a good supply of grapes.”
Dicky smiled a slow smile. He could even allow his mind to wander to other things, now that his refreshment was drawing nigh.
“I say, Mr. French, who is that old cove over the door, with a frill on his shirt and a ribbon to his eyeglass? He is nearly as ugly as brother Simeon.”
Stephen felt genuine alarm; he was unused to children.
“That,” he said, “is my great-grandfather. I don’t think he is much like your brother-in-law, I must confess.”
“He doesn’t look quite so musty,” said Dicky, reflectively. “Did it ever seem strange to you, Mr. French, that a pretty girl like Deena could marry Mr. Ponsonby?”
“He is a very distinguished man,” Stephen replied, in an agony of embarrassment. “You ought to appreciate what an honor it is to be connected by marriage with Professor Ponsonby.”
“We ain’t intimate,” said Dicky, lightly, and his tone betrayed how much Simeon was the loser by a restricted intercourse.
“One of these days when you are a little older you will be very proud of his reputation,” Stephen protested.
Dicky walked to the end of the great Persian rug on the blue pattern – it was evidently a point of honor to avoid the red – before he answered:
“Well, I’m blamed glad he’s gone away, anyhow.” And then, to French’s relief, Marble came and announced in his unctuous voice:
“The tray is in the library, sir,” and all thought of Simeon was abandoned.
That feast at Stephen’s lived in Dicky’s memory for years. It supported him through the disappointments of many a dessertless dinner – in the hopeless fancy engendered by seeing sweets pressed to the lips of others; it won for him an easy victory in times of gustatory boasting when at school. He could affirm, with truth, that for once he had had his fill of the very best.
With Stephen also the experience was a revelation. The capacity of his guest caused him amazement mingled with fear.
And still he gazed
And still the wonder grew
That one small boy
Could hold all he could chew.
The chiming of the clock reminded French that it was already dark and high time Dicky was dispatched home.
“Do you want to take these grapes home with you,” asked Stephen, “or shall I send you a basket of them tomorrow?”
Dicky looked coy.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I guess I’ll take the chocolates, and you can send the grapes to-morrow.”
He pulled a very dirty handkerchief from his pocket, in order to provide a wrapping for the chocolates, and, as he spread it on the table, a letter dropped out. He turned his eyes upon French with an expression of sincere regret.
“I say!” he began. “Now, isn’t that too bad! And Deena so particular that you should get the note before tea time. I’m awfully sorry, Mr. French – it’s all Bridget’s fault. Deena said if I got that note to you before five o’clock I should have a piece of cake, and when Bridget wouldn’t give it to me it made me so mad I forgot everything. I wanted to kill her.”
“I know just how you felt,” said Stephen, with irony.
Dicky was tying his chocolates into a hard ball, but with the finishing grimy knot he tossed responsibility to the winds.
“Oh, well,” he said, soothingly, “you’ve got it now, at any rate, so there’s no occasion for saying just when I gave it to you, unless you want to get a fellow into trouble.”
Stephen