Marie Adelaide Belloc Lowndes - What Timmy Did

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WHAT TIMMY DID

by

MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

Author of "From Out the Vasty Deep," "The Lonely House," "Love and
Hatred," "Good Old Anna," "The Chink in the Armour," Etc.

Copyright, 1922,
By George H. Doran Company

WHAT TIMMY DID

"Deliver my soul from the sword, my darling from the power of the
dog."--_Psalms_ xxii, 20.

CHAPTER I

The telephone bell rang sharply in the sunlit and charming, if shabby,
hall of Old Place.

To John Tosswill there was always something incongruous, and recurringly
strange, in this queer link between a little country parish mentioned in
Domesday Book and the big bustling modern world.

The bell tinkled on and on insistently, perhaps because it was now no
one's special duty to attend to it. But at last the mistress of the house
came running from the garden and, stripping off her gardening gloves,
took up the receiver.

Janet Tosswill was John Tosswill's second wife, and, though over forty,
a still young and alert looking woman, more Irish than Scotch in
appearance, with her dark hair and blue eyes. But she came of good
Highland stock and was proud of it.

"London wants you," came the tired, cross voice she knew all too well.

"I think there must be some mistake. This is Old Place, Beechfield,
Surrey. I don't think anyone can be ringing us from London."

She waited a moment impatiently. Of course it was a mistake! Not a soul
in London knew their telephone number. It had never been put on their
notepaper. Still, she went on listening with the receiver held to her
ear, and growing more and more annoyed at the futile interruption and
waste of time.

She was just going to hang up the receiver when all at once the
expression of her face altered. From being good-humoured, if slightly
impatient, it became watchful, and her eyes narrowed as was their way
when Janet Tosswill was "upset" about anything. She had suddenly heard,
with startling clearness, the words:--"Is that Old Place, Beechfield? If
so, Mr. Godfrey Radmore would like to speak to Mrs. Tosswill."

She was so surprised, so taken aback that for a moment she said nothing.
At last she answered very quietly:--"Tell Mr. Radmore that Mrs. Tosswill
is here waiting on the 'phone."

There was another longish pause, and then, before anything else happened,
Janet Tosswill experienced an odd sensation; it was as if she felt the
masterful, to her not over-attractive, presence of Godfrey Radmore
approaching the other end of the line. A moment later, she knew he was
there, within earshot, but silent.

"Is that you, Godfrey? We thought you were in Australia. Have you been
home long?"

The answer came at once, in the deep, resonant, once familiar voice--the
voice no one had heard in Old Place for nine years--nine years with the
war having happened in between.

"Indeed no, Janet! I've only been back a very short time." (She noticed
he did not say how long.) "And I want to know when I may come down and
see you all? I hope you and Mr. Tosswill will believe me when I say it
wasn't my fault that I didn't come to Beechfield last year. I hadn't a
spare moment!"

The tone of the unseen speaker had become awkward, apologetic, and the
listener bit her lips--she did not believe in his explanation as to why
he had behaved with such a lack of gratitude and good feeling last
autumn.

"We shall be very glad to see you at any time, of course. When can we
expect you?"

But the welcoming words were uttered very coldly.

"It's Tuesday to-day; I was thinking of motoring down on Friday or
Saturday. I've got a lot of business to do before then. Will that be
all right?"

"Of course it will. Come Friday."

She was thawing a little, and perhaps he felt this, for there came an
eager, yearning note into the full, deep voice which sounded so oddly
near, and which, for the moment, obliterated the long years since she had
heard it last.

"How's my godson? Flick still in the land of the living, eh?"

"Thank heaven, yes! That dog's the one thing in the world Timmy cares
for, I sometimes think."

He felt that she was smiling now.

She heard the question:--"Another three minutes, sir?" and the hasty
answer:--"Yes, another three minutes," and then, "Still there, Janet?"

"Of course I am. We'll expect you on Friday, Godfrey, by tea-time, and
I hope you'll stay as long as you can. You won't mind having your old
room?"

"Rather not!" and then in a hesitating, shamefaced voice:--"I needn't
tell _you_ that to me Old Place _is_ home."

It was in a very kindly voice that she answered: "I'm glad you still feel
like that, Godfrey."

"Of course I do, and of course I am ashamed of not having written more
often. I often think of you all--especially of dear old George--" There
came a pause, then the words:--"I want to ask you a question, Janet."

Janet Tosswill felt quite sure she knew what that question would be.
Before linking up with them all again Godfrey wanted to know certain
facts about George. While waiting for him to speak she had time to tell
herself that this would prove that her husband and Betty, the eldest of
her three step-daughters, had been wrong in thinking that Godfrey Radmore
knew that George, Betty's twin, had been killed in the autumn of 1916. At
that time all correspondence between Radmore and Old Place had ceased for
a long time. When it had begun again in 1917, in the form of a chaffing
letter and a cheque for five pounds to the writer's godson, Betty had
suggested that nothing should be said of George's death in Timmy's
answer. Of course Betty's wish had been respected, the more so that Janet
herself felt sure that Godfrey did not know. Why, he and George--dear,
sunny-natured George--had been like fond brothers in the long ago, before
Godfrey's unfortunate love-affair with Betty.

And so it was that when she heard his next words they took her entirely
by surprise, for it was such an unimportant, as well as unexpected,
question that the unseen speaker asked.

"Has Mrs. Crofton settled down at The Trellis House yet?"

"She's arriving to-day, I believe. When she first thought of coming here
she wrote John such a nice letter, saying she was a friend of yours, and
that you had told her about Beechfield. Luckily, The Trellis House was to
let, so John wrote and told her about it."

Then, at last, came a more intimate question. The man's voice at the
other end of the telephone became diffident--hesitating:--"Are you all
right? Everything as usual?"

She answered, drily. "Everything's quite as usual, thank you. Beechfield
never changes. Since you were last here there have only been two new
cottages built." She paused perceptibly, and then went on:--"I think that
Timmy told you that Betty was with the Scottish Women's Hospital during
the war? She's got one of the best French decorations."

Should she say anything about George? Before she could make up her mind
she heard the words--"You can't go on any longer now. Time's up." And
Radmore called out hastily:--"Till Friday then--so long!"

Janet Tosswill hung up the receiver; but she did not move away from the
telephone at once. She stood there, wondering painfully whether she had
better go along and tell Betty _now_, or whether it would be better to
wait till, say, lunch, when all the young people would be gathered
together? After all Betty had been nineteen when her engagement to
Godfrey Radmore had been broken off, and so very much had happened since
then.

And then, in a sense, her mind was made up for her by the fact that a
shadow fell across the floor of the hall, and looking up, she saw her old
friend and confidant, Dr. O'Farrell, blocking up the doorway with his big
burly body.

"D'you remember Godfrey Radmore?" she asked as their hands met.

"Come now, you're joking surely. Remember Radmore? I've good cause to; I
don't know whether I ever told you--" there came a slight, very slight
note of embarrassment into his hearty Irish voice--"that I wrote to the
good fellow just after the Armistice, about our Pat. That the boy's doing
as well out in Brisbane as he is, is largely owing to Radmore's good
offices."

Mrs. Tosswill was surprised, and not quite pleased. She wondered why Dr.
O'Farrell had not told her at the time that he was writing to Godfrey.
She still subconsciously felt that Godfrey Radmore belonged to Old Place
and to no one else in Beechfield.

"I didn't know about Pat," she said slowly. "But you'll be able to thank
him in person now, for he's coming on Friday to stay with us."

"Is he now?" The shrewd Irishman looked sharply into her troubled face.
"Well, well, you'll have to let bygones be bygones--eh, Mrs. Toss? I take
it he's a great man now."

"I don't think money makes for greatness," she said.

"Don't you?" he queried drily. "I do! Come admit, woman, that you're
sorry _now_ you didn't let Betty take the risk?"

"I'm not at all sorry--" she cried. "It was all his fault. He was such
a strange, rough, violent young fellow!"

The words trembled on the old doctor's lips--"Perhaps it will all come
right now!" But he checked himself, for in his heart of hearts he did
not in the least believe that it would all come right. He knew well
enough that Godfrey Radmore, after that dramatic exit to Australia, had
cut himself clean off from all his friends. He was coming back now as
that wonderful thing to most people--a millionaire. Was it likely, so
the worldly-wise old doctor asked himself, that a man whose whole
circumstances had so changed, ever gave a thought to that old boyish love
affair with Betty Tosswill?--violent, piteous and painful as the affair
had been. But had Betty forgotten? About that the doctor had his doubts,
but he kept them strictly to himself.

He changed the subject abruptly. "It isn't scarlet fever at the
Mortons--only a bit of a red rash. I thought you'd like to know.

"It's good of you to have come and told me," she exclaimed. "I confess
I did feel anxious, for Timmy was there the whole of the day before
yesterday."

"Ah! and how's me little friend?"

Janet Tosswill looked around--but no, there was no one in the corridor of
which the door, giving into the hall, was wide open.

"He's gone to do an errand for me in the village."

"The boy is much more normal, eh?" He looked at her questioningly.

"He still says that he sees things," she admitted reluctantly, "though
he's rather given' up confiding in me. He tells old Nanna extraordinary
tales, but then, as you know, Timmy was always given to romancing, and of
course Nanna believes every word he says and in a way encourages him."

The doctor looked at Timmy's mother with a twinkle in his eye. "Nanna
isn't the only one," he observed. "I was told in the village just now
that Master Timmy had scared away the milk from Tencher's cow."

A look of annoyance came over Mrs. Tosswill's face. "I shall have to
speak to Timmy," she exclaimed. "He's much too given to threatening the
village people with ill fortune if they have done anything he thinks
wrong or unkind. The child was awfully upset the other day because he
discovered that the Tenchers had drowned a half-grown kitten."

"He's a queer little chap," observed the old doctor, "a broth of a boy,
if ye'll allow me to say so--I'd be proud of Timmy if I were his mother,
Mrs. Toss!"

"Perhaps I _am_ proud of him," she said smiling, "but still I always tell
John he's a changeling child--so absurdly unlike all the others."

"Ah, but that's where _you_ come in, me good friend. 'Twas a witch you
must have had among ye're ancestresses in the long ago."

He gripped her hand, and went out to his two-seater, his mind still full
of his friend's strange little son.

Then all at once--he could not have told you why--Dr. O'Farrell's mind
switched off to something very different, and he went back into the hall
again.

"A word more with ye, Mrs. Tosswill. What sort of a lady has taken The
Trellis House, eh? We don't even know her name."

"She's a Mrs. Crofton--oddly enough, a friend or acquaintance of Godfrey
Radmore. He seems to have first met her during the war, when he was
quartered in Egypt. She wrote to John and asked if there was a house to
let in Beechfield, quoting Godfrey as having told her it was a delightful
village."

"And how old may she be?"

"Her husband was a Colonel Crofton, so I suppose she's middle-aged. She's
only been a widow three months--if as long."

Janet Tosswill waited till Dr. O'Farrell was well away, and then she
began walking down the broad corridor which divided Old Place. It was
such a delightful, dignified, spacious house, and very dear to them all,
yet Janet was always debating within herself whether they ought to go on
living in it, now that they had become so poor.

When she came to the last door on the left, close to the baize door
Which shut off the commons from the living rooms, she waited a moment.
Then, turning the handle, she walked into what was still called the
schoolroom, though Timmy never did his lessons there.

Betty Tosswill, the eldest of John Tosswill's three daughters, was
sitting at a big mid-Victorian writing-table, examining the house-books.
She had just discovered two "mistakes" in the milkman's account, and she
felt perhaps unreasonably sorry and annoyed. Betty had a generous,
unsuspicious outlook on human nature, and a meeting with petty dishonesty
was always a surprise. She looked up with a very friendly, welcoming
smile as her step-mother came into the room. They were very good friends,
these two, and they had a curiously close bond in Timmy, the only child
of the one and the half-brother of the other. Betty was now twenty-eight
and there were only two persons in the world whom she had loved in her
life as well as she now loved her little brother.

As her step-mother came close up to her--"Janet? What's the matter?"
she exclaimed, and as the other made no answer, a look of fear came
over the girl's face. She got up from her chair. "Don't look like that,
Janet,--you're frightening me!"

The older woman tried to smile. "To tell the truth, Betty, I've had
rather a shock. You heard the telephone bell ring?"

"You mean some minutes ago?"

"Yes."

"Who was it?"

"Godfrey Radmore, speaking from London."

"Is that all? I was afraid that something had happened to Timmy!" But,
even so, the colour flamed up into Betty Tosswill's face.

Her step-mother looked away out of the window as she went on:--"It was
stupid of me to have been so surprised, but somehow I thought he was
still in Australia."

"He was in England last year." Betty, not really knowing what she was
doing, bent over the peccant milkman's book.

"He's coming down here on Friday. I think he realises that I haven't
forgiven him for not coming to see us last year. Still we must let
bygones be bygones."

Then she wondered with a sharp touch of self-reproach what had made her
say such a stupid thing--a thing which might have, and indeed had, two
such different meanings? What she had _meant_ had been that she must
forget the hurt surprise she and her husband had felt that Godfrey
Radmore, on two separate occasions, had deliberately avoided coming down
from London to what had been, after all, so long his home; in fact, as he
himself had said just now, the only home he had ever known.

But what was this Betty was saying?--her face rather drawn and white, all
the bright colour drifted out of it--"Of course we must, Janet! Besides
Godfrey was not to blame--not at the last."

Janet knew what Betty meant. That at the end it was she who had failed
him. But when their engagement had been broken off, Godfrey had been
worse than penniless--in debt, and entirely through his own fault. He
had gambled away what little money he had, and it had ended in his going
off to Australia--alone.

Then an astounding thing had happened. Godfrey had had a fortune left him
by an eccentric old man in whose employment he had been as secretary for
a while. His luck still holding, he had gone through most of the war,
including Gallipoli, with only one wound, which had left no ill effects.
A man so fortunate ought not to have neglected his old friends.

Janet Tosswill, the step-mother completely merging into the friend, came
forward, and put her arms round the girl's shoulders. "Look here, Betty.
Wouldn't you rather go away? I don't suppose he'll stay longer than
Monday or Tuesday--"

"I shouldn't think of going away! I expect he's forgotten all about that
old affair. It's a long time ago, Janet--nine years. We were both so
young, that I've forgotten too--in a sense." And then, as she saw that
the other was far more moved than she herself was outwardly, she
repeated: "It really has faded away, almost out of sight. Think of
all that has happened since then!"

The other muttered, "Yes, that's true," and Betty went on, a little
breathlessly, "I'll tell you who'll be pleased--that's Timmy. He's got a
regular hero-worship of Godfrey." She was smiling now. "I hope he asked
after his godson?"

"Indeed he did. After Flick too! By the way he wanted to know if Mrs.
Crofton was settled down in The Trellis House. I wonder if she's an
Australian?"

"I don't think so," said Betty. "I think he met them in Egypt during the
war. He mentioned them in one of his letters to Timmy, and then, when he
was in England last year, he must have stayed with them, for that's where
Flick came from. Colonel Crofton bred terriers. I remember reading Timmy
a long letter signed 'Cecil Crofton' telling him all about how to manage
Flick, and he mentioned Godfrey."

"I don't remember that--I must have been away."

They were both glad to have glided on to a safe, indifferent subject.

"I'll go back to my carnations now, but first I'd better tell your father
the news."

"You--you--needn't remind father of anything that happened years ago,
Janet--need you?"

Janet Tosswill shook her head, and yet when she had shut the door behind
her in her husband's study, almost the first words she uttered, after
having told him of Godfrey Radmore's coming visit, were:--"I shall never,
never forgive him for the way he treated Betty. I hate the thought of
having to be nice to him--I wish Timmy wasn't his godson!"

She spoke the words breathlessly, defiantly, standing before her old
John's untidy writing table.

As she spoke, he rather nervously turned some papers over under his
hand:--"I don't know that he behaved as badly as you think, my dear.
Neither of them had any money, and at that time he had no prospects."

"He'd thrown away his prospects! Then I can't forgive him for his
behaviour last year--never coming down to see us, I mean. It was so--so
ungrateful! Handsome presents don't make up for that sort of thing. I
used to long to send the things back."

"I don't think you're fair," began Mr. Tosswill deprecatingly. "He did
write me a very nice letter, Janet, explaining that it was impossible for
him to come."

"Well, I suppose we must make the best of it--particularly as he says
that he's come back to England for good."

She went out of the room, and so into the garden--back to the border she
had left unwillingly but at which she now glanced down with a sensation
of disgust. She felt thoroughly ruffled and upset--a very unusual
condition for her to be in, for Janet Tosswill was an equable and
happy-natured woman, for all her affectionate and sensitive heart.

She told herself that it was true the whole world had altered in the last
nine years--everything had altered except Beechfield. The little Surrey
village seemed to her mind exactly the same as it was when she had come
there, as a bride, fourteen years ago, except that almost everybody in
it, from being comfortably off, had become uncomfortably poor. Then all
at once, she smiled. The garden of Old Place was very different from the
garden she had found when she first came there. It had been a melancholy,
neglected, singularly ugly garden--the kind of garden which only costly
bedding-out had made tolerable in some prosperous early Victorian day.
Now it was noted for its charm and beauty even among the many beautiful
gardens of the neighbourhood, and during the War she had made quite a lot
of money selling flowers and fruit for the local Red Cross. Now she was
trying to coax her husband to take one of the glebe fields on a long
lease in order to start a hamper trade in fruit, vegetables and flowers.
Dolly, the one of her three step-daughters whom she liked least, was fond
of gardening, in a dull plodding way, and might be trained to such work.

But try though she did to forget Godfrey Radmore, her mind swung
ceaselessly back to the man with whom she had just had that curious talk
on the telephone. She was sorry--not glad as a more worldly woman would
have been--that Godfrey Radmore was coming back into their life.

CHAPTER II

While Janet Tosswill was thinking so intently of Godfrey Radmore, he
himself was standing at the window of a big bedroom in one of those
musty, expensive, old-fashioned hotels, which, perhaps because they are
within a stone's throw of Piccadilly, still have faithful patrons all the
year round, and are full to bursting during the London Season. As to
Radmore, he had chosen it because it was the place where the grandfather
who had brought him up always stayed when he, Godfrey, was a little boy.

Tall, well-built after the loose-limbed English fashion, and with a dark,
intelligent, rather grim cast of face, Radmore looked older than his age,
which was thirty-two. Yet, for all that, there was an air of power and of
reserved strength about him that set him apart from his fellows, and a
casual observer would have believed him cold, and perhaps a thought
calculating, in nature.

Yet, standing there, looking out on that quiet, narrow street, he was
seething with varying emotions in which he was, in a sense, luxuriating,
though whether he would have admitted any living being to a share in them
was another matter.

Home! Home at last for good!--after what had been, with two short breaks,
a nine years' absence from England, and from all that England stands for
to such a man.

He had left his country in 1910, an angry, embittered lad of
twenty-three, believing that he would never come back or, at any rate,
not till he was an old man having "made good."

But everything--everything had fallen out absolutely differently from
what he had expected it to do. The influence of Mars, so fatal to
millions of his fellow beings, had brought him marvellous, unmerited good
fortune. He had rushed home the moment War was declared, and after
putting in some time in a training which he hated to remember, he had at
last obtained a commission. Within a fortnight of having reached his
Mecca--the Front, he was back in England in the--to him--amazing guise of
wounded hero. But he had sent for none of his old friends for he was
still ashamed. After the Armistice he had rushed through England on his
way to Australia, putting in a few days with a Colonel and Mrs. Crofton,
with whom he had been thrown in Egypt. More to do his host a kindness
than for any other reason, Radmore had sent his godson, Timothy Tosswill,
a pedigree puppy, from the queer little Essex manor-house where the
Croftons were then making a rather futile attempt to increase their
slender means by breeding terriers.

The days had slipped by there very pleasantly, for Radmore liked his
taciturn host, and Mrs. Crofton was very pretty--an agreeable playfellow
for a rich and lonely man. So it was that when it came to the point he
had not cared to look up any of the people associated with his early
youth.

But now he was going to see them--almost had he forced himself upon them.
And the thought of going home to Old Place shook and stirred him to the
heart.

To-day he felt quite queerly at a loose end. This perhaps, partly because
the lately widowed Mrs. Crofton, with whom he had spent a good deal of
his time since his arrival in London three weeks ago, had left town. She
had not gone far, only to the Surrey village where he himself was going
on Friday.

When pretty Mrs. Crofton had told Radmore that she had taken a house at
Beechfield, he had been very much surprised and taken aback. It had
seemed to him an amazing coincidence that the one place in the wide world
which to him was home should have been chosen by her. But at once she had
reminded him, in her pretty little positive way, that it was he himself
who, soon after they had become first acquainted in Egypt, had drawn such
an attractive picture of the Surrey village. That, in fact, was why, in
July--it was now late September--when she, Enid Crofton, had had to think
of making a new home, Beechfield had seemed to her the ideal place. If
only she could hear of a house to let there! And by rare good chance
there had been such a house--The Trellis House! A friend had lent her
a motor, and she had gone down to look at it one August afternoon, and
there and then had decided to take it. It was so exactly what she
wanted--a delightful, old, cottagy place, yet with all modern
conveniences, lacking, alas! only electric light.

All this had happened, so she had explained, after her last letter to
him, for she and Radmore had kept up a desultory correspondence.

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