When the thief saw him, he looked to see if any more were coming, and resigned himself at once and closed his eyes instinctively.
He was a miserable-looking man—tall, thin, and stoop shouldered—they saw, when they got him on his feet. Unkempt and unwashed, his long, black hair hung around a face sallow in the extreme. And he shook so, as Tom and Jasper marched him back, escorted by the body-guard of the parson and the little doctor, that the two boys put their hands under his arms to help him along.
"Well—well—well!" ejaculated Mr. King, as he saw this array. Polly gathered Phronsie's other hand in hers, while she clung closer than ever to Grandpapa.
"Here's your pocket-book," said Tom, handing the article over; "he hasn't spent much."
"Don't, Tom," said Jasper, "joke about it."
"Can't help it," said Tom. "Well, now, shall we turn him over to thesergents de ville?"
"Turn him over?" repeated Mr. King. "I should say so," he added drily, "and give him the best recommendation for a long term, too. What else is there to do, pray tell?"
"Grandpapa," suddenly cried Phronsie, who hadn't taken her eyes from the man's face, "what are you going to do—where is he going?"
"We are going to hand him over to the police, child," answered old Mr.King, harshly. "And as soon as possible, too."
"Grandpapa, perhaps he's got some little children at home; ask him,Grandpapa, do."
"No, no, Phronsie," said Mr. King, hastily. "Say no more, child; you don't understand. We must call thesergents de ville."
At the wordssergents de villethe man shivered from head to foot, and wrenched his hands free from the boys' grasp to tear open his poor coat, and show a bare breast, covered with little, apparently, but the skin drawn over the bones. He didn't attempt to say anything.
"Oh, my goodness!" exclaimed old Mr. King, starting backward and putting up his hands to his face to shut out the sight. "Cover it up, man—bless me—no need to ask him a question. Why, the fellow is starving."
His little children—four of them—his wife—all starving—hadn't a bit to eat since, he could scarcely say when, it seemed so very long ago since he had eaten last—it all came out in a torrent of words that choked him, and like the true Frenchman that he was, he gestured in a way that told the story with his face and his fingers, as well as with his tongue.
Asergent de villestrolled by and looked curiously at the group, but as Mr. King met his eye coolly, and the party seemed intelligent and well able to take care of themselves, it wasn't necessary to tender his services—if they were talking to a worthless vagabond.
"Hum—hum—very bad case; very bad case, indeed!" Mr. King was exploding at intervals, while the torrent was rushing on in execrable French as far as accent went. No one else of the spellbound group could have spoken if there had been occasion for a word. Then he pulled out the pocket-book again, and taking out several franc notes of a good size, he pressed them between the man's dirty fingers. "Go and get something to eat," was all he said, "and take care of the children."
And for the next few days Phronsie talked about the poor man, and wished they could see his children, and hoped he had bought them some nice things to eat, and worried over him because he was all skin and bones.
"Ah! the bones were real, even if the children aren't," Grandpapa would say to himself. "Well, I suppose I have been taken in, but at least the fellow hasn't starved to death."
And then off they would go sight-seeing as fast as possible, to take up the mind of Phronsie, who watched for Grandpapa's poor man in every wretched creature she saw. And there were plenty of them.
And then Adela went back to school, happy in the thought of the little pile of sketches she had to show as her summer's work, and with ever so many studies and bits to finish up under Mademoiselle's direction; and little old Mrs. Gray, breathing blessings on Mr. King's head, departed for her English country home.
"Now, then, I have ever so much shopping to do," announced old Mr.King, briskly, "and I shall want you to help me, Phronsie."
"I'll help you, Grandpapa," promised Phronsie, well pleased, and gravely set herself to the task.
So they wandered away by themselves, having the most blissful of times, and coming home to the hotel, they would gaily relate their adventures; and Phronsie would often carry a little parcel or two, which it was her greatest delight to do; and then the trail of big boxes would follow them as they were sent home to the hotel to tell of their experiences in the shops.
"And Grandpapa is going to get me a new doll," announced Phronsie, on one of these days.
"Do you mean a peasant doll to add to the collection?" asked Polly; for old Mr. King had bought a doll in the national costume in every country in which they had travelled, and they had been packed away, together with the other things as fast as purchased, and sent off home across the sea.
"Yes," said Phronsie. "I do, Polly, and it's to be a most beautifulFrench doll—oh!"
And sure enough, Mr. King, who knew exactly what kind of a doll he meant to purchase, and had kept his eyes open for it, stumbled upon it by a piece of rare good luck in a shop where he least expected to find it.
"Oh, may I carry her home, Grandpapa?" begged Phronsie, hanging over the doll in a transport. "Please don't have her shut up in a box—but do let me carry her in my arms."
"Oh, Phronsie, she's too big," objected Mr. King, "and very heavy."
"Oh, Grandpapa, she's not heavy," cried Phronsie, not meaning to contradict, but so anxious not to have her child sent home shut up in a box, that she forgot herself.
"Well, I don't know but what you may," said Grandpapa, relenting. "I will call a cab after we get through with this next shop," he reflected, "and it won't hurt her to carry the doll that short distance." So they came out of the shop, and deciding to take a short cut, they started across the boulevard, he taking the usual precaution to gather Phronsie's hand in his.
As they were halfway across the street, with its constant stream of pedestrians and vehicles, a sudden gust of wind flapped the doll's pink silk cape up against Phronsie's eyes, and taking her hand away from Grandpapa's a second to pull down the cape, for she couldn't see, she slipped, and before she knew it, had fallen on top of the doll in the middle of the street.
A reckless cabby, driving as only a French cabman can, came dashing down the boulevard directly in her path, while a heavily loaded omnibus going in the opposite direction was trying to get out of his way. Ever so many people screamed; and some one pulled Mr. King back as he started to pick her up. It was all done in an instant, and every person expected to see her killed, when a long, gaunt individual in a shabby coat dashed in among the plunging horses, knocked up the head of the one belonging to the reckless cabby, swung an arm at the other pair to divert their course, and before any one could quite tell how, he picked up Phronsie and bore her to the curbstone. Some one got Mr. King to the same point, too exhausted with fright to utter a word.
When he came out of his shock, the shabby man was standing by Phronsie, the crowd that saw nothing in the incident to promise further diversion, having melted away, and she was holding his hand, her little, mud-stained face radiant with happiness. "Oh, Grandpapa," she piped out, "it's your poor man!"
"The dickens it is!" exploded Mr. King. "Well, I'm glad to find you. Here, call a cab, will you? I must get this child home; that's the first thing to be done."
The shabby man hailed a cab, but the cabman jeered at him and whirled by. So the old gentleman held up his hand; Phronsie all this time, strange to say, not mentioning her doll, and Mr. King, who wouldn't have cared if a hundred dolls had been left behind, not giving it a thought. Now she looked anxiously on all sides. "Oh, where is she, Grandpapa dear?" she wailed, "my child; where is she?"
"Never mind, Phronsie," cried Mr. King, "I'll get you another one to-morrow. There, get in the cab, child."
"But I want her—I can't go home without my child!" And Phronsie's lip began to quiver. "Oh, there she is, Grandpapa!" and she darted off a few steps, where somebody had set the poor thing on the pavement, propped up against a lamp-post.
"Oh, you can't carry her home," said Mr. King, in dismay at the muddy object splashed from head to foot, with the smart pink cape that had been the cause of the disaster, now torn clear through the middle, by the hoof of a passing horse. He shuddered at the sight of it. "Do leave it, Phronsie, child."
"But she's sick now and hurt; oh, Grandpapa, I can't leave my child," sobbed Phronsie, trying with all her might to keep the tears back. All this time the shabby man stood silently by, looking on.
A bright thought struck the old gentleman. "I'll tell you, Phronsie," he said quickly. "Give the doll to this man for one of his little children; they'll take care of it, and like it."
"Oh, Grandpapa!" screamed Phronsie, skipping up and down and clapping her muddy little hands, then she picked up the doll and lifted it toward him. "Give my child to your little girl, and tell her to take good care of it," she said.
As Phronsie's French had long been one of Grandpapa's special responsibilities in the morning hours, she spoke it nearly as well as Polly herself, so the man grasped the doll as he had seized the money before.
"And now," said Mr. King, "you are not going to run away this time without telling me—oh, bless me!"
This last was brought out by an excited individual rushing up over the curbstone to get out of the way of a passing dray, and the walking-stick which he swung aloft as a protection, coming into collision with Mr. King's hat, knocked it over his eyes.
"A thousand pardons, Monsieur!" exclaimed the Frenchman, bowing and scraping.
"You may well beg a thousand pardons," cried Mr. King, angrily, "to go about in this rude fashion through the street."
"A thousand pardons," repeated the Frenchman, with moreempressementthan before, and tripping airily on his way.
When old Mr. King had settled his hat, he turned back to the man. "Now tell me—why—" The man was nowhere to be seen.
"It surely does look bad," said the old gentleman to himself as he stepped into the cab with Phronsie; "that man's children are a myth. And I wanted to do something for them, for he saved Phronsie's life!"
This being the only idea he could possibly retain all the way home to the hotel, he held her closely within his arm, Phronsie chattering happily all the way, how the little girl she guessed was just receiving the doll, and wondering what name she would give it, and would she wash its face clean at once, and fix the torn and muddy clothes?
"Oh, yes, yes, I hope so," answered Grandpapa, when she paused for an answer. Jasper came running out as the cab drove into the court. "Oh!" he exclaimed, at sight of Phronsie's face, then drove the words on his tongue back again, as he lifted her out.
"Give her to Polly to fix up a bit," said his father. "She's all right,Jasper, my boy, I can't talk of it now. Hurry and take her to Polly."
And for the following days, Mr. King never let Phronsie out of his sight. A new and more splendid doll, if possible, was bought, and all sorts and styles of clothes for it, which Phronsie took the greatest delight in caring for, humming happily to herself at the pleasure the poor man's little girl was taking at the same time with her other child.
"Grandpapa," she said, laying down the doll carefully on the sofa, and going over to the table where Mr. King had just put aside the newspaper, "I do wish we could go and see that poor man and all his children—why didn't he tell us where he lived?"
"The dickens!" exclaimed old Mr. King, unguardedly, "because the fellow is an impostor, Phronsie. He saved your life," and he seized Phronsie and drew her to his knee, "but he lied about those children. O dear me!" And he pulled himself up.
"Then he hasn't any little children?" said Phronsie, opening her eyes very wide, and speaking very slowly.
"Er-oh-I don't know," stammered Grandpapa; "it's impossible to tell,Phronsie."
"But you don't believe he has any," said Phronsie, with grave persistence, fastening her brown eyes on his face.
"No, Phronsie, I don't," replied old Mr. King, in desperation. "If he had, why should he run in this fashion when I was just asking him where he lived?"
"But he didn't hear you, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, "when the man knocked your hat off."
"Oh, well, he knew enough what I wanted," said Mr. King, who, now that he had let out his belief, was going to support it by all the reasons in his power. "No, no, Phronsie, it won't do; the fellow was an impostor, and we must just accept the fact, and make the best of it, my child."
"But he told a lie," said Phronsie, in horror, unable to think of anything else.
"Well." Mr. King had no words to say on that score, so he wisely said nothing.
"That poor man told a lie," repeated Phronsie, as if producing a wholly fresh statement.
"There, child, I wouldn't think anything more of it," said Grandpapa, soothingly, patting her little hand.
"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, "I've given away my child, and she's sick because she fell and hurt her, and there isn't any little girl, and—and—that poor man told a lie!" And she flung herself up against Grandpapa's waistcoat, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Old Mr. King looked wildly around for Polly. And as good fortune would have it, in she ran. This wasn't very strange, for Polly kept nearly as close to Phronsie in these days, as Grandpapa himself.
"Here, Polly," he called brokenly, "this is something beyond me. You must fix it, child."
"Why, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, in dismay, and her tone was a bit reproachful. "Crying? Don't you know that you will make Grandpapa very sick unless you stop?"
Phronsie's little hand stole out from over her mouth where she had been trying to hold the sobs back, and up to give a trembling pat on old Mr. King's cheek.
"Bless you, my child," cried Grandpapa, quite overcome, so that Polly said more reproachfully, "Yes, very sick indeed, Phronsie, unless you stop this minute. You ought to see his face, Phronsie."
Phronsie gathered herself up out of his arms, and through a rain of tears looked up at him.
"Are you sick, Grandpapa?" she managed to ask.
"Yes, dear; or I shall be if you don't stop crying, Phronsie," said Mr.King, pursuing all the advantage so finely gained.
"I'll stop," said Phronsie, her small bosom heaving. "I really will,Grandpapa."
"Now, you are the very goodest child," exclaimed Polly, down on her knees by Grandpapa's side, cuddling Phronsie's toes, "the very most splendid one in all this world, Phronsie Pepper."
"And you'll be all well, Grandpapa?" asked Phronsie, anxiously.
"Yes, child," said old Mr. King, kissing her wet face; "just as well asI can be, since you are all right."
"And, oh, Grandpapa, can't we go to Fontainebleau to-day?" begged Polly.
"Phronsie, just think—it will be precisely like the country, and we can get out of the carriages, and can run and race in the forest. Can't we, Grandpapa?"
"All you want to," promised Grandpapa, recklessly, and only too thankful to have something proposed for a diversion. "The very thing," he added enthusiastically. "Now, Polly and Phronsie, run and tell all the others to get ready, just as fast as they can, and we'll be off. Goodness me, Jasper, what makes you run into a room in this fashion?"
"I've found him!" exclaimed Jasper, dashing in, and tossing his cap on the table, and his dark hair back from his forehead. "And he's all right—as straight as a die," he panted.
"Now what in the world are you talking of?" demanded his father, in extreme irritation. "Can't you make a plain statement, and enlighten us without all this noise and confusion, pray tell?"
Polly, who had Phronsie's hand in hers, just ready to run off, stood quite still with glowing cheek.
"Oh, I do believe—Grandpapa—it is—it is!"—she screamed suddenly—"your poor man! Isn't it, Jasper—isn't it?" she cried, turning to him.
"Yes, Polly," said Jasper, still panting from his run up the stairs; "and do hurry, father, and see for yourself; and we'll all go to him. I'll tell you all about it on the way."
When Mr. King comprehended that the man was found, and that he was "all right," as Jasper vehemently repeated over and over, he communicated that fact to Phronsie, whose delight knew no bounds, and in less time than it takes to write it, Tom, who was the only one of the party to be collected on such short notice, had joined them, and they were bowling along in a big carriage, Jasper as guide, to the spot where the man was waiting.
"You see it was just this way," Jasper was rapidly telling off. "I was going down by the Madeleine, and I thought I would bring Phronsie some flowers; so I stopped at the market, and I couldn't find a little pot of primroses I wanted, though I went the whole length; and at last, when I had given up, I saw just one in front of a woman who sat at the very end."
"Do hurry, Jasper, and get to the conclusion," said his father, impatiently.
Polly dearly loved to have the story go on in just this way, as she leaned forward, her eyes on Jasper's face, but she said nothing, only sighed.
"Well," said Jasper, "I'll tell it as quickly as I can, father. And there were a lot of children, father, all round the woman where she sat on a box, and she was tying in a bunch some flowers that were huddled in her lap, and the children were picking out the good ones for her; and just then a man, who was bending over back of them all, breaking off some little branches from a big green one, straightened up suddenly, and, father, as true as you live," cried Jasper, in intense excitement, "it was your poor man!"
"The children?" asked Mr. King, as soon as he could be heard for the excitement.
"Are all his," cried Jasper, "and he took the money you gave him, and set his wife up in the flower business down in front of the Madeleine. Oh! and Phronsie, the doll you gave him was sitting up on another box, and every once in a while the littlest girl would stop picking out the flowers in her mother's lap, and would run over and wipe its face with her apron."
They were really on their way to see the little old earl, after all! How it came about, Mr. King, even days after it had all been decided, couldn't exactly remember. He recalled several conversations in Paris with Tom's mother, who showed him bits of letters, and one in particular that somehow seemed to be a very potent factor in the plan that, almost before he knew it, came to be made. And when he held out, as hold out he did against the acceptance of the invitation, he found to his utmost surprise that every one, Mother Fisher and all, was decidedly against him.
"Oh, well," he had declared when that came out, "I might as well give in gracefully first as last." And he sat down at once and wrote a very handsome note to the little old earl, and that clinched the whole business.
And after the week of this visit should be over, for old Mr. King was firmness itself on not accepting a day more, they were to bid good-by to Mrs. Selwyn and Tom, and jaunt about a bit to show a little of Old England to the Hendersons, and then run down to Liverpool to see them off, and at last turn their faces toward Dresden, their winter home—"and to my work!" said Polly to herself in delight.
So now here they were, actually driving up to the entrance of the park, and stopping at the lodge-gate.
An old woman, in an immaculate cap and a stiff white apron over her best linsey-woolsey gown which she had donned for the occasion, came out of the lodge and courtesied low to the madam, and held open the big gate.
"How have you been, Mrs. Bell?" asked Mrs. Selwyn, with a kind smile, as the carriage paused a bit.
"Very well, my lady," said Mrs. Bell, her round face glowing with pride. "And the earl is well, bless him! and we are glad to welcome you home again, and Master Tom."
"And I'm glad enough to get here, Mrs. Bell," cried Tom. "Now drive on at your fastest, Hobson."
Hobson, who knew very well what Master Tom's fastest gait was, preferred to drive through the park at what he considered the dignified pace. So they rolled on under the stately trees, going miles, it seemed to Polly, who sat on the back seat with Tom.
He turned to her, unable to conceal his impatience. "Anybody would think this pair were worn out old cobs," he fumed. "Polly, you have no idea how they can go, when Hobson lets them out. What are you wasting all this time for, crawling along in this fashion, Hobson, when you know we want to get on?"
Thus publicly addressed, Hobson let the handsome bays "go" as Tom expressed it, and they were bowled along in a way that made Polly turn in delight to Tom.
"There—that's something like!" declared Tom. "Don't you like it,Polly?" looking into her rosy face.
"Like it!" cried Polly, "why, Tom Selwyn, it's beautiful. And these splendid trees—" she looked up and around. "Oh, I never saw any so fine."
"They're not half bad," assented Tom, "these oaks aren't, and we have some more, on the other end of the park, about five miles off, that—"
"Five miles off!" cried Polly, with wide eyes. "Is the park as big as that, Tom?"
He laughed. "That isn't much. But you'll see it all for yourself," he added. Then he rushed off into wondering how his dogs were. "And, oh, you'll ride with the hounds, Polly!"
Just then some rabbits scurried across the wood, followed by several more pattering and leaping through the grass.
"Oh, Tom, see those rabbits!" cried Polly, excitedly.
"Yes, the warrens are over yonder," said Tom, bobbing his head in the right direction.
"What?" asked Polly, in perplexity.
"Rabbit-warrens; oh, I forgot, you haven't lived in England. You seem so much like an English girl, though," said Tom, paying the highest compliment he knew of.
"Well, what are they?" asked Polly, quite overcome by the compliment coming from Tom.
"Oh, they are preserves, you know, where the rabbits live, and they are not allowed to be hunted here."
"Oh, do you ever hunt rabbits?" cried Polly, in horror, leaning out of her side of the big coach to see the scurrying little animals.
"Not often," said Tom, "we mostly ride after the fox. You'll ride with the hounds, Polly," he cried with enthusiasm. "We'll have a hunt while you're here, and we always wind up with a breakfast, you know. Oh, we'll have no end of sport." He hugged his long arms in huge satisfaction.
And away—and away over the winding road and underneath the stately trees, rolled the big coach, to be followed by the other carriages, like a dream it seemed to Polly, and more than ever, when at last they stopped in front of a massive pile of buildings with towers and arches and wings.
And the little old earl was kissing her rosy cheek in the most courtly fashion, and saying while he shook her hand in his long fingers, "And how do you do, my dear?" And Mrs. Selwyn was by his other side. And Tom was screeching out, "How do you do, Granddaddy!" And then, "Oh, Elinor and Mary!" to two quiet, plain-looking girls standing in the background. And "Ah, how d'ye kids!" as the faces of his two small brothers appeared. And Polly forgot all about the fact that she was in an earl's house, and she laughed and chatted; and in two minutes one of Tom's sisters was on either side of her, and the small boys in front, and the little groups were moving in and out of the old hall, as Grandpapa and the rest came in, and the head housekeeper in a black silk gown that seemed quite able to stand alone, and a perfect relay of stiff figures in livery were drawn up underneath the armour hanging on the wall.
And the little old earl worked his way up to her, and he had Grandpapa on his arm. "Well, I got him here," he said with twinkling eyes, and a chuckle.
But the next morning—oh, the next morning!—when Polly tried to compass as much of the thronging attractions as she could, and Jasper was at his wits' end whenever he was appealed to, to decide what he wanted to do first—"cricket," or "punting on the river," that ran through the estate, or "riding through the park, and to the village owned by his grandfather"? "I always go see the tenantry as soon as I get home," said Tom, simply.
"Oh, then, let us go there by all means," said Jasper, quickly.
"I mean—oh, I'm no end awkward," exclaimed Tom, breaking off, his face covered with confusion. "It's not necessary to go at once; we can fetch up there to-morrow."
"Oh, do let us go, Tom," begged Polly, clasping her hands. "I should dearly love most of all to see the tenantry and those dear little cottages." And so that was decided upon.
And Tom had his beloved hunt, several of the gentry being asked. AndPolly rode a special horse selected by the little old earl himself.
"It's perfectly safe; he has an excellent disposition," he declared to old Mr. King, "and he'll carry her all right."
"I'm not afraid," said Mr. King, "the child rides well."
"So she must—so she must, I was sure of it," cried the little old earl, with a series of chuckles. And he busied himself especially with seeing her mounted properly when the party gathered on the lawn in front of the old hall. The hounds were baying and straining at the leashes, impatient to be off; the pink hunting-coats gave dashes of colour as their owners moved about over the broad green sward,—under the oaks,—and Polly felt her heart beat rapidly with the exhilarating sights and sounds. It was only when they were off, and Tom riding up by her side expatiated on the glory of running down the fox and "being in at the death," that the colour died down on her cheek.
"Oh, Tom!" she said, reining in her horse. If he hadn't been the possessor of a good disposition, he certainly would have bolted in his disappointment at being pulled up so abruptly. "It's so cruel to kill the poor fox in that way."
"Eh—what!" exclaimed Tom, not hearing the words, falling back to her side, consternation all over his face. "Why, I never knew Meteor to break in this way before."
"Oh, it isn't his fault," said Polly, hastily, and patting her horse's neck. "I pulled him up. Oh, Tom, it's all so very cruel."
"Eh?" said Tom, in a puzzled way.
"To kill the fox in this way," said Polly, her heart sinking as she thought how dreadful it was for her to object, when visiting, to anything her host might plan. "O dear me!" and she looked so distressed that Tom turned comforter at once.
"We all do it," he was saying, as Jasper rode up.
"Anything the matter?" he asked in great concern. "What's happened?"
"Nothing," said Tom, "only Polly doesn't like the fox-hunt."
"It's so cruel," cried Polly, turning to Jasper, with a little pink spot coming in either cheek. "I ought to have thought of it before, but I didn't; it only seemed so very splendid to be rushing along with the horses and dogs. But to chase that poor fox to death—O dear me!"
"We'll go back," suggested Tom, in distress; "don't be afraid, Polly, I'll make it all right with granddaddy." He concealed as best he might his awful disappointment as the echoes of the horn, the baying of the dogs, and now and then a scrap of chatter or a peal of laughter was borne to them on the wind.
"Polly," said Jasper, in a low voice, "it isn't quite right, is it, to disturb the party now? Just think, Tom will go back with us."
The pink spots died out on Polly's cheek. "No, Jasper," she said, "it isn't right. Tom, you needn't say one word about going back, for I am going on." She gave the rein to Meteor and dashed off.
"We'll have a race through the park some day, Polly," called Tom, as he sped after her, "without any fox."
"Too bad, Polly, you weren't in at the death," said the little old earl, sympathisingly, when at the hunt-breakfast following, the brush dangling to a victorious young lady's belt, had been admired as an extremely fine one. "Never mind; better luck next time, little girl."
But the fête to the tenantry, oh! that was something like, and more to Polly's taste, when this annual affair, postponed while Tom's mother and Tom were away, took place. For days before, the preparations had been making, the stewards up to their eyes in responsibility to carry out the plans of the little old earl, who meant on this occasion to outdo all his former efforts, and show his American friends how an Englishman treats those under his care.
Oh, the big joints of beef, the haunches of venison, the fowls, the meat pies and the gooseberry tarts, the beer and the ale, and the tea for the old women, with nuts and sweeties for the children! Oh, Polly knew about it all, as she went about with the little old earl while he gave his orders, her hand in his, just as if she were no older than Phronsie, and not such a tall, big girl.
And Mrs. Selwyn was busy as a bee, and Mother Fisher was just in her element here, in helping her; for flannel petticoats were to be given out, and stuff frocks, and pieces of homespun, and boots and shoes, as prizes for diligent and faithful service; or an order for coals for the coming winter for some poor cottager, or packages of tea, or some other little comfort. And before any of them quite realised it, the days flew by, and in two more of them the King party would be off.
"It's perfectly useless to mention it," said the little old earl, quite confident in his power to influence old Mr. King to remain when he saw how happily everything was running on. "My dear sir, you were asked for a fortnight."
"And I accepted for a week," retorted Mr. King, "and I go when that time is up. We've had a visit—I can't express it to you, what a fine time—as near to perfection as it is possible for a visit to be; but day after to-morrow we surely must leave."
Tom was so despondent, as well as the old earl, that it was necessary to cheer him up in some way. "Just think what a splendid thing for us to be in the midst of that fête for the peasantry," exclaimed Polly, with sparkling eyes. "It's quite too lovely for our last day."
But Tom wasn't to be raised out of his gloom in this way. "We've had only one game of cricket," he said miserably.
"And one afternoon at tennis, and we've been out punting on the river three times," said Polly.
"What's that? only a bagatelle," sniffed Tom, "compared to what I meant to do."
"Well, let's have the race on horseback this afternoon," proposedPolly, "down through the park, that you said you were going to have,Tom. Wouldn't that be nice?"
"Do," urged Jasper. "It would be so capital, Tom."
"All right," assented Tom, "if you'd really rather have that than anything else; but it seems as if I ought to think up something more for the last afternoon, but the fête; and that doesn't count."
"Oh, nothing could be finer," declared Polly, and Jasper joined. So Tom rushed off to the stables to give the orders. And Polly on Meteor was soon flying up and down with the boys, and Elinor and Mary. And the two small lads trotted after on their Shetland ponies, in and out the winding roads of the park confines, without any haunting fear of a poor red fox to be done to death at the end.
And on the morrow, the sun condescended to come out in all his glory, upon the groups of tenantry scattered over the broad lawns. There were games in abundance for the men and boys; and others for the children. There were chairs for the old women, and long benches for those who desired to sit under the spreading branches of the great oaks to look on. And there were cups of tea, and thin bread and butter passed around by the white-capped maids, superintended by the housekeeper and the butler, quite important in their several functions. This was done to appease the hunger before the grand collation should take place later. And there was music by the fiddlers on the upper terrace, and there was,—dear me, it would take quite too long to tell it all!
And at last, the order was given to fall into line, and march around the long tables resplendent with their cold joints and hot joints; their pasties, and tarts, and cakes, and great flagons of ale. And over all was a wealth of bloom from the big old English gardens in the rear of the old hall. The posies filled Polly with delight, as she and Tom's sisters and Phronsie had gathered them under the direction of the gardeners in the early morning; and then—oh, best of all—Mrs. Selwyn had allowed her to give the finishing touches to them as they became the decoration for the feast.
And the little old earl called the large assemblage to order, and the vicar asked the grace, and the feast was begun!
And then one of the tenants found his feet, and leaning on his staff, he thanked the Earl of Cavendish for all his goodness, and he hoped there would be many blessings in store for 'im and 'is, and sank on his bench again, mopping his face with his big red handkerchief.
And then the little old earl responded in as pretty a speech as could well be imagined, in which he forgot nothing that he ought to say. And there were many "God bless 'ims!" to follow it, and then there were cries of "Master Tom, Master Tom," who appeared to be an immense favourite; and the earl, well pleased, pulled him forward, saying, "Go ahead, youngster, and give it to them."
And Tom, extremely red in the face, tried to duck away, but found himself instead in front of the longest table, with everybody looking at him. And he mumbled out a few words and bobbed his head. And every one was just as well pleased. And then they gave cheer on cheer for the earl, and as many more for his oldest grandson. And then the little old earl raised his hand and said, "And now, my men, give a rousing good one for my dear American friends!"
And didn't they do it!
And on the following morning, the old hall, with its towers and its wings, had only the memory of the happy week to sustain it.
* * * * *
Jasper ran up to Polly on the deck. "We ought to go," he said, "the order has been given to leave the steamer."
"Yes, Polly," said Mother Fisher, "we must go, child."
"Give my love to dear Grandma Bascom," said Polly, for about the fiftieth time. "Oh, Mrs. Henderson, and don't forget to take over the new cap just as soon as you can, will you?"
"I won't forget," promised the parson's wife.
"And take mine to my dear Mrs. Beebe," begged Phronsie, twitching gently at Mrs. Henderson's sleeve, "and tell her I got pink ribbon because I know she loves that best."
"I won't forget," said Mrs. Henderson, again.
"Oh, and give the big handkerchief to my dear Mr. Beebe," said Phronsie, "please, Mrs. Henderson, to tie his throat up in, because, you know, he says it gets so cold when he goes out."
"I'll remember every single thing," promised the parson's wife. "Don't you worry, children. Oh, how we hate to leave you, only we are going to see our boys. We really are, Polly!" And her eyes shone.
"Polly! Polly!" called Jasper.
"All off who aren't going!" roared the order out again.
"Polly!" The little doctor seized one arm and Phronsie's hand. "There now, here you are!" and whisked them off, amid "good-by—good-by"—and a flutter of handkerchiefs.
"And give my love to dear Grandma Bascom," piped Phronsie, on the wharf by old Mr. King's side, as the big steamer slowly pushed from its moorings.
End of Project Gutenberg's Five Little Peppers Abroad, by Margaret Sidney