The Empire Annual for Girls, 1911 Part 30

Perhaps because of his indifference I was the more anxious to please him. At all events, urged by him, but with secret reluctance, I proposed and was accepted by that lady whose carriage I stopped to-night. She was rich, beautiful, but I did not love her. I know my conduct was weak, it was ign.o.ble--but I did her no wrong. For me she had not one spark of affection. My prospective wealth was the bait."

Waldron paused, and drew his hand across his eyes. "Then--then I met the girl who in the end became my wife. That she was poor was an insurmountable barrier in my father's eyes. I sought freedom from my hateful engagement in vain. I need not trouble you with all the story.

Suffice it that I left home and married the woman I loved. My father's anger was overwhelming. We were never forgiven. When my brother died I hoped for some sign from my father, but he made none. And now my wife also is dead."

"And you are alone in the world?" asked the doctor, who had followed his story with interest.

Philip Waldron's face lit up with a rarely winning smile.

"No," he said, "I have a little girl." Then the smile faded, as he added, "She is a cripple."

"And have you never appealed to your father?"

[Sidenote: Unopened Letters]

"While my wife lived--many times. For her sake I threw pride aside, but my letters were always returned unopened."

The doctor sat silent for some time. Then steadfastly regarding the young man, he said--

"My name is Norman. I have known and attended your father now for a good many years. I was at your brother's death-bed. I never heard him mention a second son."

Philip sighed. "No, I suppose not. I am as dead to him now."

"You are indifferent?"

"Pardon me; not indifferent, only hopeless. Had there been any chance for me, it came when my brother died."

"For the sake of your child will you not appeal once more?"

Philip's face softened. "For my child I would do much. Thank G.o.d,"

glancing at his left hand, "my right is uninjured. My city work is safe.

Singing is not my profession, you know," he added, with a dreary smile.

"I only sing to buy luxuries for my lame little one."

Rising, he held out his hand.

"You have been a true Samaritan, Dr. Norman. I sincerely thank you."

The doctor took the outstretched hand.

"May I help you further?" he asked.

"I don't see well how you can, but I will take the will for the deed."

"But you do not forbid me to try?"

Philip shook his head despondingly. "You may try, certainly. Matters cannot be worse than they are; only you will waste valuable time."

"Let me be judge of that. May I come to see you?"

Philip hesitated; then, when urged, gave his address, but in a manner indicating that he never expected it to be used.

Dr. Norman, however, was a man of his word. A few days after that chance meeting found him toiling up the steep stairs of block C in Dalmatian Buildings, Marylebone, having ascertained below that the Waldrons' rooms were on the top floor.

"There had need be good air when one gets to the surface here," groaned the doctor, when he reached the top, and paused to recover breath before knocking.

Sounds came from within--a light, childish laugh, a patter of talk. In response to his knock, a step accompanied by the tap-tap of a crutch came across the wooden floor. After some hesitation the door was opened by a pale, brown-eyed child of about seven. A holland pinafore reached to her feet, the right side hitched up by the crutch under that arm, on which she leant heavily. Dark, wavy hair fell over her shoulders, framing a pale, oval face, out of which shone a pair of bright, wide-open eyes.

She remained in the doorway looking up at the doctor.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I SUPPOSE YOU'VE COME ABOUT THE GAS BILL."]

"I suppose you've come about the gas bill," she said at length, with an old-womanish air, "but it's no use. Father is out, and I have only sixpence. It's my own, but you can have it if you promise to take care of it."

"I'm a doctor, and a friend of your father's," replied Norman, with a rea.s.suring smile.

The child at once moved aside.

[Sidenote: A Real Live Visitor]

"Please come in. I've just been playing with my dolls for visitors, but it will be much nicer to have a real live one."

The room the doctor entered was small, but cheerful; the floor uncarpeted, but clean, and the window framed a patch of sky over the chimney-pots below. A table stood near the window, by it two chairs on which lay two dolls.

"Come to the window," requested the child, tap-tapping over the floor.

"Lucretia and Flora, rise at once to greet a stranger," she cried reproachfully to the dolls, lifting them as she spoke.

She stood waiting until Dr. Norman was seated, then drew a chair facing him and sat down. Her keen, intelligent glance searched him over, then dwelt upon his face.

"Are you a good doctor?" she asked.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because father says doctors are good, and I wondered if you were. You must not mind my dollies being rather rude. It is difficult to teach them manners so high up."

"How so?"

"Well, you see, they have no society but my own, because they have to be in bed before father comes home."

"And do you never go out?"

"Sometimes on Sundays father carries me downstairs, and when we can afford it he hires a cab to take me to the Park. But, you see, we can't always afford it," with a wise shake of the head.

"Poor child!"

"Why do you say 'poor child' in that voice? I'm not a poor child. I got broken--yes--and was badly mended, dad says, but I'm not a 'poor child.'

Poor childs have no dolls, and no funny insides like me."

The doctor smiled. "What sort of inside is that?"