Part 22 (1/2)

Mrs. Crosby glanced furtively at the round eyes of the baby, and took the precaution of smothering him in billows of white lawn before replying, rather softly: ”Yes, dear; Papa's father is living. Why do you ask?”

”I saw him to-day.”

”You saw him? Where?”

”On the street.”

”How did you know it was he?”

”Sallie Watson asked me why I didn't bow to my grandfather.”

”And what did you say?”

”I said: 'Never you mind!' And then I ran home all the way, as tight as ever I could run! Mamma, why don't we ever see him?”

The baby's head was just emerging from temporary eclipse, and Mrs.

Crosby's voice dropped still lower, as she answered:

”Because, dear, _he doesn't wish it_.”

There was something so gently conclusive in this answer that little Di was silenced. Yet the look in her mother's face had not escaped her; a wistful, hurt look, such as the child had never seen there before. And in her own mind Di asked many questions.

What did it all mean? How did it happen that her grandfather did not wish it? Why was he so different from other girls' grandfathers? There must be something very wrong somewhere, but where was it? Since it could not possibly be with her father or mother, it must be that her grandfather was himself at fault.

The object of Di's perplexities, Mr. Horatio Crosby, lived all alone in a very good house, and was in the habit of driving about in a very pretty victoria; people bowed to him, people who were friends of Di's father and mother, and must therefore be creditable acquaintances. All this she soon discovered, for, having once come to know her grandfather by sight, she seemed to be constantly crossing his path.

Little by little, as she grew older, Di picked up certain stray bits of information, but she never tried to piece them together. She felt that she would a little rather not know any more. A quarrel there had certainly been, some time in the dark ages before she was born, and the old man had proved himself obstinate and implacable. Friendly overtures had been made from time to time, but he had set his face against all such advances, and now, for many, many years,--as many as three or four, little Di had gathered,--the friendly overtures had ceased.

One gets used to things, and Di got used to having a grandfather who did not know her by sight. She was sure he did not know her, because once, when she was twelve years old, he had stopped her on the street to tell her that she had dropped her pocket-handkerchief. It had been very polite of the old gentleman, and she had been glad not to lose her handkerchief. Yet, as she thanked him, she gave him one searching look, and she told herself that he had a very cross expression, as well as a very harsh voice.

This uncomplimentary verdict was largely due to the fact that, at this period, Di had quite made up her mind that her grandfather was a hateful, unreasonable old despot, and that it served him right never to come to the family parties, nor to have any Christmas presents, nor to have seen the baby, which Mamma said was the prettiest of all her babies, and which Di considered the most enchanting object on the face of the earth.

But again many years had pa.s.sed,--four, in this instance,--and there came a time, only a few weeks previous to the opening of our story, when Di found herself constrained to modify her view of her grandfather.

It happened that she had gone with her drawing teacher, Miss Downs, to an exhibition of paintings. Among the pictures was a very striking one ent.i.tled _Le Grandpere_. It represented an old French peasant, just stopping off work for the day, with a flock of grandchildren clinging about his knees. Miss Downs called Di's attention to the wonderful reach of upland meadow, and the exquisite effect of the sunset light on the face of the old man; but, to Di, the meadow and the sunset light were unimportant accessories to the central idea. It was the grandfather himself that commanded all her attention,--the look of blissful indulgence on the old man's face; his att.i.tude of protecting affection towards one young girl in particular, on whose head the toil-stained hand rested.

”Yes,” she said, after several minutes of rapt contemplation: ”Yes; the sunset is very nice, and the fields; but, oh, the old man is such a darling!”

As she spoke she turned to see how her teacher took her remark, and found herself face to face, not with Miss Downs, but with her own grandfather! She gave a little gasp of surprise, which he appeared not to notice.

”So you think him a darling, do you?” he asked, and somehow his voice did not sound quite as harsh as it had done four years ago.

Miss Downs had pa.s.sed on, and there was no one standing near them, no one at all in the gallery who shared Di's knowledge of the strange situation. She felt sure that the old man had no suspicion of her ident.i.ty.

”Yes, I do,” she answered boldly.

”What makes a darling of him?” the old gentleman inquired.

Di felt that this was her opportunity, and that she was letting it slip. But she could not help herself, and she only answered rather lamely:

”Oh, nothing, except that he is _such a good grandfather!_” Upon which she beat a hasty retreat, and fled to the protection of Miss Downs, whom she found in an adjoining room.