Divided Skates Part 9

"I guess I'm going on eight. Molly thinks I am. You know Molly; the girl that took me to your house or run me into you on her skate. She's a dreadful nice girl, Molly is; but I don't believe she ever had a sleigh-ride, either. Poor Molly."

The lad's eyes were shining from his own pleasure; his pale face was rapidly taking on a healthy glow; he was a very presentable little fellow, indeed, in his modern suit of well-shaped clothing, so Miss Armacost thought, but--he was also spoiling her ride for her as thoroughly as he could. Spoiling it without the slightest intention or desire on his own part to do so.

"Molly spent the greater part of yesterday with me, Lionel."

"She did? What for?"

"Because I was in trouble, of more sorts than one; and her kind heart sent her--in the first place. After she came I begged her to stay. I am already very fond of Molly; she is so gay and cheerful."

Towsley's face became radiant.

"Oh, jimmeny! Ain't that prime! Have you adopted her, too?"

"No, indeed. She has no need for such an action on my part. She has both parents living. But our plumbing went to wreck, yesterday, in the unlooked-for cold snap, and her father came to our rescue. He had to work there all day, and when he found I was grieving so about your--your running away into the storm, he told Molly and she came.

She very kindly brought me some of their own dinner, hot and steaming; and I a.s.sure you it did taste fine! I was almost really hungry, for once."

"That's just like Molly. She's an awful generous girl, Molly is."

Miss Lucy was about to suggest that some other adjective than "awful"

would better apply to "generous," but refrained. It would not do, she considered, to begin too sternly or suddenly in the reconstruction of her charge. She simply replied:

"Yes. She is generous and lovable. She has excellent common sense."

Towsley found his tongue and launched into praise of the whole family of Johns, with such graphic pictures of their daily life that Miss Armacost felt well acquainted with the entire household. Then the little fellow became absorbed in the excitement of the ride, and the novelty of dashing around and around the lake, in that endless line of prancing horses and skimming vehicles, set his tongue a-chatter ceaselessly.

Miss Lucy listened, in a sort of charm. The few children whom she knew were apt to be rather quiet in her presence, but not so this lad from the back alley. He enjoyed everything, saw everything, described everything, like a keen reporter of the papers he had used to sell.

"Look-a-there! and there! and there! Did you see that? That was a regular clothes-basket, set on a pair of runners! Sure; it all goes.

Snow doesn't come down here very often. Why, up north, in New York, or Boston, or such places, they have sleighing whenever they've a mind to! but not down here. Folks daren't lose a chance, dare they? See!

There's a regular old vender's wagon, that a lot of young folks have hired, and they're old cow-bells they've put on the horses. Ki!

look-a-there! look-a-there! Them's woman's college girls--sure! Whew!

regular hay-riggers, ain't they! They must have took all their money to pay for it! And--shucks! just see them bobs!"

In his excitement the little boy stood up and pointed frantically toward a group of boys who had brought out their long sleds and were hastening toward that hill of the park where coasting would be permitted. Unconsciously he attracted a deal of attention from the throngs of pleasure-seekers, and Miss Armacost felt herself unpleasantly conspicuous. Yet there was not an eye which beheld him that did not brighten because of his happiness; and in spite of her annoyance at the gaze of her fellow townsmen, the owner of the chestnuts felt also a sort of pride in its cause.

But at last she ordered the coachman homeward, and they rode slowly out of the park, down the beautiful Avenue toward the Armacost mansion and Towsley's new home. He sank back into his place with a profound sigh of mingled pleasure and regret:

"To think they never had a sleigh-ride!"

"Humph! How many have _you_ had, before this one, Lionel?"

"Why--why--why--none."

"I thought so. Have you pitied yourself?"

"No, ma'am. I mean, no, Miss Lucy."

"Then save your sympathy. One cannot miss what one has never enjoyed.

For myself, I see little good of this snow. It's made no end of trouble and expense to house owners, and filled the streets with stuff which the city will have to remove, and----"

"It's made a heap of fun, hasn't it? Won't it give idle men a lot of shovelling to do? I've always heard them saying how glad they were when a snow-storm came; those tramps around the city buildings. I'm sure I think it's jolly. Only I wish----"

"Well, what?"

"That I had as much money as I wanted. I'd hire the big picnic stage and have it put on runners, and I'd go 'round Newspaper Square, and the Swamp, and the asylums and--and places--and I'd give every little kid that never had a ride, I'd give him one to-morrow, as sure as I live. Oh! I wish I had it!"

Miss Armacost lost all manner of patience with this boy. If he'd only be contented with enjoying himself and let his neighbors rest. But here they were at home. How odd it looked, to see those great heaps of snow which had been shovelled from the sidewalk and piled up in banks before the houses, between the curbstone and the driveway. And over in the "Square" which filled the centre of the block the children of the bordering houses had all come out with sleds and happy laughter, and were making the old silence ring.

"Maybe, after all, anything which pleases the children is not an unmitigated annoyance," observed Miss Armacost, reflectively.

Jefferson brought the horses to a standstill and stepped down to loosen the robes about his mistress and help her alight, if need be.

But Towsley had been before him. He had pulled off his hat, thrust it under his arm, and extended his hand toward the lady, to a.s.sist her, as courteously and gracefully as any grown gentleman could have done; even if not with quite so much strength.

Repressing a smile at the difference in size between her a.s.sistant and herself, Miss Armacost quietly placed her hand within his and stepped to the sidewalk. This was slippery in spots, as Towsley observed, and he remarked:

"Better let me hold your hand till you get clear up the steps, hadn't you, Miss Lucy?"

"Yes, dear, I think I would much better." Then when the lad reached the top and she had rung for admittance, she turned to him with a lovely smile:

"Welcome home, Lionel Towsley Armacost."

"Thank you, Miss Lucy. I hope we won't neither of us ever be sorry I've come."

She liked his answer; liked it far more than she would have done one full of enthusiasm. So they went in together, well pleased, and as the boy had been so lately a hospital patient, he was sent early to bed and to sleep.

As she had done before, Miss Lucy visited him afterward, and enjoyed without restraint the sight of her adopted son, lying so peacefully upon his pillow. For there were now no soiled stains of the street to mar his beauty, and the little hands upon the coverlet were as dainty as need be.

But even in slumber Towsley had an uncomfortable effect upon the lady's thoughts: reminding her of the many other little lads who had shared his poverty yet not his present good fortune. She had never considered her house as an especially large one till his small person served to show the size of the empty rooms, and how tiny a s.p.a.ce one child could occupy.

Miss Lucy sat so long that she grew chilled. Then she reflected that she might easily become ill, which would be most unfortunate now, since she had taken a child to care for. So she rose rather stiffly and started for her own room; though she had not taken a dozen steps in its direction before she came to a sudden, startled pause. Somebody was ringing her door-bell. Ringing it persistently, without waiting for any response.

"Oh, dear! That must be somebody in trouble! Or, possibly, a special delivery message from the post-office or express; though I'm sure I have n.o.body near and dear enough to call upon me in that manner. Yes, yes, I'm coming!" she cried to the invisible visitor, though she knew perfectly that her voice could not reach him.

At that hour, Jefferson and Mary, who slept in the house, were both in bed, and their mistress would not disturb them. She preferred to hurry to the door herself and learn what was wanted. But when she reached and opened it there was n.o.body waiting. Even though she drew her shoulder shawl closer about her and stepped out upon the marble stoop to look, there was n.o.body in sight. In that quiet neighborhood all lights had long since been extinguished, and there was no sign of life in any of the stately homes bordering the snowy Square.

"That's very odd! The bell did certainly ring. Not once but several times. Well, whoever it was must have been in a hurry, and may have disappeared around Side Street corner."

So she locked the door, extinguished the light she had turned on, and climbed the carpeted stairs toward her own apartment. Her slippered feet made no sound, and the stillness all over the house was profound; but, just as she turned the first landing, it was broken again. There came the same prolonged, insistent ringing, and fairly flying back to the door, Miss Lucy exclaimed:

"Well, I'll be in time now, I think!"

Yet, just as before, she opened to silence and the moonlight only.

CHAPTER VI.