Marie Adelaide Belloc Lowndes - What Timmy Did

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"What is she like?" asked Jack indifferently.

"How old is she?" This from Betty, who somehow always seemed to ask the
essential question.

"D'you think she'll prove a 'stayer'?" questioned Tom.

He had hoped that someone with a family of boys and girls would have come
to The Trellis House. It was a beautiful little building--the oldest
dwelling-house in the village, in spite of its early Victorian name. But
no one ever stayed there very long. Some of the older village folk said
it was haunted.

"Did you speak to her, or did she speak to you?" asked Rosamund.

And then again Timmy intervened.

"I know more about her than any one of you do. But I don't mean to tell
you what I know," he announced.

No one took any notice of him. By common consent efforts were always made
in the family circle to keep Timmy down--but such efforts were rarely
successful.

"Well, tell us what's she like?" exclaimed Rosamund. "I did so hope we
should escape another widow."

She had hoped for a nice, well-to-do couple, with at least one grown-up
son preferably connected, in some way, with the stage.

Dolly Tosswill, still standing, looked down at her audience.

"She's quite unlike what I thought she would be," she began. "For one
thing, she's quite young, and she's awfully pretty and unusual-looking.
You'd notice her anywhere."

"Did you meet her in the post-office?" asked Betty.

"No, at church. She only arrived this morning, and she said she felt so
lonely and miserable that when she heard the bell ring she thought she'd
go along and see what our church was like."

"Oh, then she's 'pi'?" in a tone of disgust from Rosamund.

"I'd noticed her in church, though she was sitting rather back, close to
the door," went on Dolly, "and I'd wondered who she was, as she looked so
very unlike any of the Beechfield people."

"How do you mean--unlike?" asked Tom.

"I can't explain exactly. I thought she was a summer visitor. And then
something so funny happened--"

Dolly was sitting down now, and Betty handed her a cup of tea, grieving
the while to see how untidy she looked with her hat tilted back at an
unbecoming angle.

"What happened?"

"Well, as we came out of the church together, all at once that old,
half-blind, post-office dog made straight for her! He gave a most awful
howl, and she was so frightened that she ran back into the church again.
But of course I didn't know she was Mrs. Crofton _then_. I got the dog
into the post-office garden and then I went back into the church to tell
her the coast was clear. But she waited a bit, for she was awfully afraid
that he might get out again."

"What a goose she must be"--this from Jack.

"She asked if she were likely to meet any other dog in the road; so I
asked her where she lived, and then she told me she was Mrs. Crofton, and
that she had only arrived this morning. I offered to walk home with her,
and then we had quite a talk. She has the same kind of feeling about dogs
that some people have about cats."

"That's rather queer!" said Tom suddenly, "for her husband bred
wire-haired terriers. Colonel Crofton sold Flick to Godfrey Radmore last
year--don't you remember?"

He appealed to Betty, who always remembered everything.

"Yes," she said quietly, "I was just thinking of that. Colonel Crofton
wrote Timmy such a nice letter telling him how to manage Flick. It does
seem strange that she should have that feeling about dogs."

Again Timmy's shrill voice rose in challenge. "I should hate _my_ wife
not to like dogs," he cried pugnaciously.

"It'll take you all your time to make her like _you_, old man," observed
Tom.

"I've asked her in to supper to-night," went on Dolly, in her slow,
deliberate way, "so we shall have to have Flick locked up."

"Whatever made you ask her to supper, Doll?" asked Jack sharply.

Jack Tosswill had a hard, rather limited nature, but he was very fond
of his home, and unlike most young men, he had a curious dislike to the
presence of strangers there. This was unfortunate, for his step-mother was
very hospitable, and even now, though life had become a real struggle as
to ways and means, she often asked people in to meals.

"Her cook didn't turn up," exclaimed Dolly. "And when she asked me if I
knew of any woman in the village who could come in and cook dinner for
her this evening, I said I was sure Janet would like her to come in and
have supper."

"And I hope," chimed in Rosamund decidedly, "that we shall all dress for
dinner. Why should she think us a hugger-mugger family?"

"I don't mean to change. I shall only wash my hands!" This from Timmy,
who was always allowed to sit up to dinner. His brothers and sisters were
too fond of their step-mother to say how absurdly uncalled-for they
thought this privilege.

As everyone pretended not to have heard his remark, Timmy repeated
obstinately: "I shall only wash my hands."

"Mrs. Crofton won't care how _you_ look," observed Jack irritably. "If we
didn't now live in such a huggery-muggery way, I should always dress. I
do everywhere else."

Betty looked at him, and her face deadened. Though she would hardly have
admitted it, even to herself, she regretted the way in which everything
at Old Place was now allowed to go "slack." She knew it to be bad for her
sisters. It wasn't as if they did any real housework or gave useful help
in the kitchen. Dolly tried to do so in a desultory way, but in the end
it was she, Betty, who kept everything going in this big, rambling old
house, with the help of the old nurse and a day girl from the village.

Timmy gave a little cackle, and Jack felt annoyed. He looked across at
his half-brother with a feeling akin to dislike. But Jack Tosswill was
truly attached to his step-mother. He was old enough to remember what a
change she had made in the then dull, sad, austere Old Place. Janet had
at once thrown herself into the task of being sister, rather than
step-mother, to her husband's children, and bountifully had she succeeded!

Still, with the exception of Betty, they all criticised her severely, in
their hearts, for her weakness where her own child was concerned. And yet
poor Janet never made the slightest difference between Timmy and the
others. It was more the little boy's own clever insistence which got him
his own way, and secured him certain privileges which they, at his age,
had never enjoyed. Timmy also always knew how to manage his delicate,
nervous father. John Tosswill realised that Timmy might some day grow up
to do him credit. Timmy really loved learning, and it was a pleasure to
the scholar to teach his clever, impish, youngest son.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Janet, who had remained on in the drawing-room, got up from the
sofa and, going into the corridor, opened the dining-room door. For some
moments she stood there, unseen, watching the eager party gathered round
the table, and as she did so, she looked with a curious, yearning feeling
at each of the young folk in turn.

How changed, how utterly changed, they all were since Godfrey Radmore had
last been in that familiar room! The least changed, of course, was Betty.
To her step-mother's partial eyes, Betty Tosswill, at twenty-eight, was
still an extraordinarily charming and young-looking creature. Had her
nose been rather less retrousse, her generous, full-lipped mouth just a
little smaller, her brown hair either much darker, or really fair, as was
Rosamund's, she would have been exceptionally pretty. What to the
discriminating made her so much more attractive than either of her
younger sisters was her look of intelligence and quiet humour. But of
course she looked not only older, but different, from what she had looked
nine years ago. Betty had lived a full and, in a sense, a tragic life
during four of the years which had elapsed since she and Radmore had
parted in this very room.

Janet's eyes travelled past Betty to Jack. Just at that moment he was
looking with no very pleasant expression across at his little brother,
and yet there was something softer than usual in his cold, clear-cut
face. Janet Tosswill would have been touched and surprised indeed had
she known that it was the thought of herself that had brought that look
on Jack's face. Jack was twenty-one, but looked like a man of thirty--he
was so set, he knew so exactly what he wanted of life. As she looked at
him, she wondered doubtfully whether he would ever make that great career
his schoolmaster had so confidently predicted for him. He was so--so--she
could only find the word "conventional" to describe him.

Janet Tosswill passed over Dolly quickly. To-day Dolly looked a little
different from the others, for she was wearing a hat, and it was clear
that she had just come in from the village. Her step-mother noticed with
dissatisfaction that the over large brooch fastening Dolly's blouse was
set in awry, and that there were wisps of loose hair lying on her neck.

As for Rosamund, she looked ill-humoured, frankly bored to-day--but oh,
how pretty and dainty, next to the commonplace Dolly! Rosamund's gleaming
fair hair curled naturally all over her head; she had lovely,
startled-looking eyes which went oddly with a very determined, if
beautifully moulded, mouth and chin.

Betty was convinced that, given a chance, Rosamund would make a success
on the stage, but Betty was prejudiced. There had always been a curious
link of sympathy between the two sisters, utterly different as they were,
and many as were the years that separated them.

Tom was the only one of the flock who presented no problem. He was far
more human than Jack, but, like Jack, absolutely steady and dependable.

Janet Tosswill's mind swung back to Godfrey Radmore. She wondered how he
would like the changes in Old Place, whether they would affect him
pleasantly or otherwise. She was woman enough to regret sharply their
altered way of life. When Godfrey had lived in Old Place, there had been
a good cook, a capable parlourmaid, and a well-trained housemaid, as well
as a bright-faced "tweenie" there, and life had rolled along as if on
wheels. It was very different now.

She wondered if Betty or Timmy had told the others of Radmore's coming
visit. It was so strange, in a way, so painful to know that to most of
them, with the possible exception of Jack, he was only a name.

Suddenly Betty, turning around, saw her step-mother. "Dolly has met Mrs.
Crofton, and she's utterly unlike what any of us thought she would be!"
she cried out. "She's young, and very pretty--quite lovely in fact!
Dolly asked her into supper to-night, as her cook has not yet arrived."

She had a sort of prevision that Janet was now going to tell the others
about Godfrey Radmore, and she wanted to get away out of the room first.
But this was not to be. Janet Tosswill had a very positive mind--she
was full of what she had come in to say, and the new tenant at The
Trellis House interested her not at all, so as soon as she had sat down,
she exclaimed, "Perhaps Timmy has told you my news?"

Then all turned to her, except Betty and Timmy himself.

"What news?" came in eager chorus.

"Godfrey Radmore is in England. He telephoned from London just now, and
he's coming down on Friday to spend a long week-end!"

Rosamund was the only one who stole a look at Betty.

"Godfrey Radmore here?" repeated Jack slowly. "It's queer he would want
to come--after the odd way he's behaved to us."

"Yes, it is rather strange," Janet tried to speak lightly. "But there it
is! The whole world has turned topsy-turvy since any of us saw him last."

"I wonder if he's still very rich," went on Jack.

Janet Tosswill felt startled. "Why shouldn't he be?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know--it only occurred to me that he might have lost some of
this money in the same way that he lost that first fortune of his."

"It wasn't a fortune"--Betty's quiet voice broke in very decidedly--"and
most of it was lost by a friend of his, not by Godfrey himself at all. He
was too proud to say anything about it to father, but he wrote and told
George."

A curious stillness fell over the company of young people. They were all
in their different ways very much surprised, for Betty never mentioned
her twin-brother. All at once they each remembered about Betty and
Godfrey--all except Timmy, who had never been told.

"And now what's this about Mrs. Crofton?" asked Janet at last, breaking a
silence that had become oppressive. "Do I understand that she's coming to
supper to-night?"

It was Betty who answered: "I hope you don't mind? Dolly thought it the
only thing to do, as the poor woman's cook hadn't arrived."

"We mustn't forget to ask her in for lunch or dinner on one of the days
that Godfrey is here," observed Janet. "I gather they're friends. He
asked if she'd already come."

* * * * *

Timmy was supposed to prepare his lessons between tea and dinner, but
unlike the ordinary boy, he much preferred to wake early and work before
breakfast. This was considered not good for his health, and there was
a constant struggle between himself and his determined mother to force
him to do the normal thing. So after she had finished her tea, she
beckoned to her son, and he unwillingly got up and followed her into
the drawing-room. But before he could settle down at his own special
table Betty came in.

"Janet, I want to ask you something before I go into the village. There
are one or two things we must get in, if Mrs. Crofton is coming this
evening--"

The little boy did not wait to hear his mother's answer. He crept very
quietly out of the open window, which was close to his table, and then
made his way round to the first of the long French windows of the
dining-room. He was just in time to hear his brother Tom ask in a very
solemn tone: "I say, you fellows! Wasn't Betty once engaged to this
Radmore chap?"

Timmy, skilfully ensconced behind the full old green damask curtains,
listened, with all his ears, for the answer.

"Yes," said Jack at last, with a touch of reluctance. "They were engaged,
but not for very long. Still, they'd been fond of one another for an age
and George was his greatest friend--"

Rosamund broke in: "Do tell us what he's like, Jack! I suppose you can
remember him quite well?"

Jack hesitated, rather uncomfortably.

"Of course I remember Radmore very well indeed. He had quite a tidy bit
of money, as both his parents were dead. His snuffy old guardian had been
at Balliol with father. So father was asked to coach him. And then, well,
I suppose as time went on, and Betty began growing up, he fell in love
with her."

"And she with him?" interposed Rosamund.

"A girl is apt to like any man who likes her," said Jack loftily. "But I
believe 'twas he made all the fuss when the engagement was broken off."

"But why was it broken off?" asked Rosamund.

"Because he'd lost all his money racing."

"What a stupid thing to do!" exclaimed Tom.

"The row came during the Easter holidays," went on Jack meditatively,
"and there was a fearful dust-up. Like an idiot, Radmore had gone and put
the whole of the little bit of money he had saved out of the fire on an
outsider he had some reason to think would be bound to romp in first--and
the horse was not even placed!"

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Rosamund.

"He rushed down here," went on Jack, "to say that he had made up his
mind to go to Australia. And he was simply amazed when father and Janet
wouldn't hear of Betty going with him."

"Would she have liked to go?" asked Tom.

"Well, yes--I believe she would. But of course it was out of the
question. Father could have given her nothing, even then, so how could
they have lived? There was a fearful rumpus, and in the end Godfrey went
off in a tearing rage."

"Shaking the dust of Old Place off his indignant feet, eh?" suggested
Tom.

"Yes, all that sort of thing. George was having scarlet fever--in a
London hospital--so of course he was quite out of it."

"Then, at last Godfrey reopened communication via Timmy?" suggested the
younger boy.

"Timmy's got the letter still," chimed in Rosamund. "I saw it in his
play-box the other day. It was rather a funny letter--I read it."

"The devil you did!" from Tom, indignantly.

She went on unruffled:--"He said he'd been left a fortune, and wanted to
share it with his godson. How much did he send? D'you remember?" She
looked round.

"Five pounds!" said Dolly.

"I wish _I_ was his godson," said Tom.

"And then," went on Dolly, in her precise way, "the War came, and nothing
more happened till suddenly he wrote again to Timmy from Egypt, and then
began the presents. I wonder if we ought to have thanked him for them?
After all, we don't _know_ that they came from him. The only present we
_know_ came from him was Flick."

"And a damned silly present, too!" observed Jack, drily.

"Do you think he's still in love with Betty?" asked Rosamund.

"Of course he's not. If he was, he would have written to her, not to
Timmy. Nine years is a long time in a man's life," observed Jack
sententiously.

"My hat! yes!" exclaimed Tom. "Poor Betty!"

Jack got up, and made a movement as if he were thinking of going out
through the window into the garden. So Timmy, with a swift, sinuous
movement, withdrew from the curtain, and edging up against the outside
wall of the house, walked unobtrusively back into the drawing-room.

When his mother--who had gone out to find something for Betty to take
into the village--came back, she was pleased and surprised to find her
little son working away as if for dear life.

CHAPTER V

Close on eight that same evening, Timmy Tosswill stood by the open centre
window of the long drawing-room, hands duly washed, and his generally
short, rough, untidy hair well brushed, whistling softly to himself.

He was longing intensely for his godfather's arrival, and it seemed such
a long time off to Friday. A photograph of Radmore, in uniform, sent him
at his own request two years ago, was the boy's most precious personal
possession. Timmy was a careful, almost uncannily thrifty child, with
quite a lot of money in the Savings Bank, but he had taken out 10/- in
order to buy a frame for the photograph, and it rested, alone in its
glory, on the top of the chest of drawers that stood opposite his bed.

There had been a time when Timmy had hoped that he would grow up to
look like his godfather, but now he was aware that this hope would
never be fulfilled, for Radmore, in this photograph, at any rate, had
a strongly-featured, handsome face, very unlike what his mother had once
called "Timmy's wizened little phiz."

It seemed strange to care for a person you had never seen since you were
a tiny child--but there it was! To Timmy everything that touched his
godfather was of far greater moment than he would have admitted to
anyone. Radmore was his secret hero; and now, to-night, he asked himself
painfully, why had his hero left off loving Betty? The story he had
overheard this afternoon had deeply impressed him. For the first time he
began to dimly apprehend the strange and piteous tangle we call life.

Suddenly there broke on the still autumn air the distant sound of sharp
barks and piteous whines. Much against his will, the little boy had had
to bow to the edict that Flick should be shut up in the stable. Dolly,
who so seldom bothered about anything, had seen to this herself, because
Mrs. Crofton, who was coming to supper, hated dogs. Timmy inhospitably
hoped that the new tenant of The Trellis House would very seldom honour
Old Place with a visit. It would be impossible for them always to hide
Flick away like this!

He moved further into the pretty, old-fashioned room. Like most
old-fashioned country drawing-rooms of the kind, it was rather over-full
of furniture and ornaments. The piano jutted out at right angles to a
big, roomy sofa, which could, at a pinch, hold seven or eight people, the
pinch usually being when, for the benefit of Timmy, the sofa was supposed
to be a stage coach of long ago on its way to London. The Tosswills had
been great people for private theatricals, charades, and so on--Timmy's
own mother being a really good actress and an excellent mimic, but she
did not often now indulge in an exhibition of her powers.

At last Timmy looked round at the clock. It was ten minutes to eight, and
his mother would not be down for another five minutes. So he went back to
the window. All at once he saw in the gathering twilight, two people
walking up the avenue which led to the house. The little boy felt
surprised. "Who can they be?" was his immediate thought.

As far as he could make out the one was an elderly-looking
gentleman--Timmy could just see the rough grey Norfolk jacket and
knickerbockers--by whose side there walked, sedately, a wire-haired
terrier. What an extraordinary thing! Surely that dog, walking by the
stranger, was _Flick_--Flick, having escaped from the stable, and
behaving for all the world as if the stranger were his master. But again
there fell on his ears Flick's distant squeals of anger and annoyance and
he felt a queer sensation of relief.

Timmy turned his attention to the other figure, that of the young lady
who, dressed all in black, tripped gracefully along by the side of her
companion. Evidently some tiresome old gentleman, and his equally
tiresome daughter. He told himself crossly that his absent-minded,
kind-hearted father, or his incurably hospitable mother, forgetting all
about Mrs. Crofton, had asked these two people in to supper. If that was
so, Timmy, who was as much at home in the kitchen as in the drawing-room,
knew that there would not be quite enough to go round comfortably. This
was all the more irritating, as he himself was looking forward to-night
to tasting, for the first time, an especially delicious dish. This was
lobster pie, for which Old Place had been famed before the War, but
which, owing to the present price of lobsters, was among the many
delightful things which the War had caused to vanish from poor little
Timmy's world. One of the few sensible people in the world who know
what other people really like in the way of a present had sent by
parcels-post a lot of lobsters to Timmy's mother--hence the coming
lobster pie to-night.

Realising that the strangers must be very near the front door by now, he
edged towards the door of the drawing-room, meaning to make a bolt for it
into what was still called the schoolroom. He did not wish to be caught
by himself in the drawing-room. But he was caught, for the door suddenly
opened, and his mother came in.

Janet Tosswill "paid for dressing" as the old saying is. She looked
charming to-night, in a rather bright blue evening dress, and Timmy,
slipping his hand into hers, said softly: "You do look nice, Mum."

She smiled, touched and pleased, for her child was not given to
compliments. Also, she had told herself, when glancing at her slim,
active figure in the early Victorian cheval glass which had belonged
to her husband's mother, that this blue dress was really _very_
old-fashioned, and would probably appear so to Mrs. Crofton.

In view of Timmy's pleasant compliment, she did not like to ask him if he
had washed his hands and brushed his hair. She could only hope for the
best: "I hope we shall like Mrs. Crofton," she said meditatively. "You
know she's a friend of your godfather, my dear."

"Yes, I know that," he announced, in rather an odd voice, and she felt
just a little surprised. How did Timmy know that? Then she remembered her
husband had read aloud Mrs. Crofton's pretty, well-turned letter--the
letter which explained that the writer was looking out for a country
house, and would like to find one at Beechfield if possible, as her
friend, Godfrey Radmore, had described it as being the most beautiful
village in England.

Timmy let go his mother's hand--then he looked searchingly into her face:
"Do you suppose," he asked, "that my godfather is in love with Mrs.
Crofton?"

She was taken aback, and yes, shocked, by the question: "Of course not.
Whatever put such an extraordinary idea into your head, Timmy?"

The words had hardly left her lips when the door opened, and the village
girl, who was staying on for two hours beyond her usual time because of
this visitor, announced in a breathless voice:--"Mrs. Crofton, ma'am."

Timmy saw at once that the visitor was the young lady he had seen walking
up the avenue. Then the old gentleman and his dog--the dog which was
so extraordinarily like Flick--had only brought her as far as the door.
And then, while his mother was shaking hands with Mrs. Crofton, and
shepherding her towards the sofa, Timmy managed to have a good, long look
at the new tenant of The Trellis House.

Grudgingly he admitted to himself that she was what most people--such
people, for instance, as Rosamund and Betty--would call "very pretty."

Mrs. Crofton had a small three-cornered face, a ridiculously little,
babyish mouth, and a great deal of dark, curly hair which matched in a
queer kind of way the color of her big, pathetic-looking eyes. Timmy
told himself at once that he did not like her--that she looked "a muff".
It distressed him to think that his hero should be a friend of this
weak-looking, sly little thing--for so he uncompromisingly described Enid
Crofton to himself.

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