A Bookful of Girls

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 passed 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 petition 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 pronounced 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-fashioned, and had never yet admitted an electric button 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!

“I don’t suppose you smoke a pipe,” Di remarked, in a strictly conversational tone.

“Well, no; I can’t say I do. Why?”

“I only thought I should like to light one for you. You know,” she added, confidentially, “girls always light their grandfathers’ pipes in books. And I’ve had so little practice in that sort of thing!”

“In pipes?”

“No – in grandfathers!”

There came a pause, occupied, on Di’s part, by a swift, not altogether approving survey of the stiff, high-studded room. This time it was the old gentleman who broke the silence.

“I believe you are the young lady who admired that old clodhopper in the picture,” he remarked.

“Oh, yes; he was a great darling!”

“He wasn’t very handsome.”

“No, but – there is always something so dear about a grandfather!”

“Always?”

“Yes; always!” and suddenly Di left her seat, and, taking a few steps forward, she dropped on her knees before him.

“Grandfather,” she said, clasping her small gloved hands on his knee, “Grandfather!”

She was meaning to be very eloquent indeed, – that is, if it were to become necessary. She did not dream that that one word, so persuasively spoken, was more eloquent than a whole oration.

“Well, Miss Di?”

“Grandfather, I’ve a great favour to ask of you, and I should like to have you say ‘yes’ beforehand!”

He looked down upon her with a heart rendered surprisingly soft by that first word, – and a mind much tickled by the audacity of the rest of it.

“And are you in the habit of getting favours granted in the dark?” he inquired.

“Papa says I usually bag my game!”

Now old Mr. Crosby had been a sportsman in his day, and he was mightily pleased with the little jest. But he only asked:

“And what’s your game in this instance, if you please?”

“You!”

“Oh, I! And you want to bag me? Bag me for what?”

“For dinner!”

“Oh, for dinner!”

“Yes! We are all by ourselves to-day, and you’ll just make the table even. There’s only Papa and Mamma, and Louise, and Beth, and Alice, and the baby.” Somehow the succession of sweet, soft names sounded very attractive to the crabbed old man.

“The baby is six years old,” Di continued, unconsciously adding another touch to the attractiveness of the picture.

“And what is her name?”

“His name is Horatio. I never liked it very well; it seemed too long for a baby. But, do you know? – I think I shall like it better now.”

She was still kneeling before him, with her small gloved hands clasped on his knee. It was clear that she had not the faintest idea of being refused. Yet even had she been somewhat less confident, she might well have taken heart of hope, for, at this point, he gently laid his wrinkled hand upon hers.

“You will come to dinner?” she begged, apparently quite unconscious of the little caress. “We dine at five on Thanksgiving day, and you and I can walk over together. They will all be so surprised, – and so happy!”