CHAPTER TWO.
THE IRRESISTIBLE POWER OF LOVE.
Need we remark that there was a great deal of embracing on the part ofDi and her nurse when the former returned home? The child was anaffectionate creature as well as passionate. The nurse, Mrs Screwbury,was also affectionate without being passionate. Poor Diana had neverknown a mother's love or care; but good, steady, stout Mrs Screwburydid what in her lay to fill the place of mother.
Sir Richard filled the place of father pretty much as a lamp-post mighthave done had it owned a child. He illuminated her to some extent--explained things in general, stiffly, and shed a feeble ray aroundhimself; but his light did not extend far. He was proud of her,however, and very fond of her--when good. When not good, he was--orrather had been--in the habit of dismissing her to the nursery.
Nevertheless, the child exercised very considerable and ever-increasinginfluence over her father; for, although stiff, the knight was by nomeans destitute of natural affection, and sometimes observed, with moisteyes, strong traces of resemblance to his lost wife in the beautifulchild. Indeed, as years advanced, he became a more and more obedientfather, and was obviously on the high road to abject slavery.
"Papa," said Di, while they were at luncheon that day, not long afterthe accident, "I _am_ so sorry for that poor policeman. It seems such adreadful thing to have actually jumped upon him! and oh! you should haveheard his poor head hit the pavement, and seen his pretty helmet gospinning along like a boy's top, ever so far. I wonder it didn't killhim. I'm _so_ sorry."
Di emphasised her sorrow by laughing, for she had a keen sense of theludicrous, and the memory of the spinning helmet was strong upon herjust then.
"It must indeed have been an unpleasant blow," replied Sir Richard,gravely, "but then, dear, you couldn't help it, you know--and I dare sayhe is none the worse for it now. Men like him are not easily injured.I fear we cannot say as much for the boy who was holding the pony."
"Oh! I quite forgot about him," exclaimed Di; "the naughty boy! hewouldn't let go the pony's reins when I bid him, but I saw he tumbleddown when we set off."
"Yes, he has been somewhat severely punished, I fear, for hisdisobedience. His leg had been broken. Is it not so, Balls?"
"Yes, sir," replied the butler, "'e 'as 'ad 'is--"
Balls got no farther, for Diana, who had been struck dumb for the momentby the news, recovered herself.
"His leg broken!" she exclaimed with a look of consternation; "Oh! thepoor, poor boy!--the dear boy! and it was me did that too, as well asknocking down the poor policeman!"
There is no saying to what lengths the remorseful child would have gonein the way of self-condemnation if her father had not turned herthoughts from herself by asking what had been done for the boy.
"We sent 'im 'ome, sir, in a cab."
"I'm afraid that was a little too prompt," returned the knightthoughtfully. "A broken leg requires careful treatment, I suppose. Youshould have had him into the house, and sent for a doctor."
Balls coughed. He was slightly chagrined to find that the violation ofhis own humane feelings had been needless, and that his attempt to do ashe thought his master would have wished was in vain.
"I thought, Sir Richard, that you didn't like the lower orders to goabout the 'ouse more--"
Again little Di interrupted the butler by asking excitedly where theboy's home was.
"In the neighbour'ood of W'itechapel, Miss Di."
"Then, papa, we will go straight off to see him," said the child, in thetone of one whose mind is fully made up. "You and I shall go together--won't we? good papa!"
"That will do, Balls, you may go. No, my dear Di, I think we had betternot. I will write to one of the city missionaries whom I know, and askhim to--"
"No, but, papa--dear papa, we _must_ go. The city missionary couldnever say how very, _very_ sorry I am that he should have broken his legwhile helping me. And then I should _so_ like to sit by him and tellhim stories, and give him his soup and gruel, and read to him. Poor,_poor_ boy, we _must_ go, papa, won't you?"
"Not to-day, dear. It is impossible to go to-day. There, now, don'tbegin to cry. Perhaps--perhaps to-morrow--but think, my love; you haveno idea how dirty--how _very_ nasty--the places are in which our lowerorders live."
"Oh! yes I have," said Di eagerly. "Haven't I seen our nursery oncleaning days?"
A faint flicker of a smile passed over the knight's countenance.
"True, darling, but the places are far, far dirtier than that. Then thesmells. Oh! they are very dreadful--"
"What--worse than _we_ have when there's cabbage for dinner?"
"Yes, much worse than that."
"I don't care, papa. We _must_ go to see the boy--the poor, _poor_ boy,in spite of dirt and smells. And then, you know--let me up on your kneeand I'll tell you all about it. There! Well, then, you know, I'd tidythe room up, and even wash it a little. Oh, you can't think how nicelyI washed up my doll's room--her corner, you know,--that day when I spiltall her soup in trying to feed her, and then, while trying to wipe itup, I accidentally burst her, and all her inside came out--the sawdust,I mean. It was the worst mess I ever made, but I cleaned it up as wellas Jessie herself could have done--so nurse said."
"But the messes down in Whitechapel are much worse than you havedescribed, dear," expostulated the parent, who felt that his powers ofresistance were going.
"So much the better, papa," replied Di, kissing her sire's lethargicvisage. "I should like _so_ much to try if I could clean up somethingworse than my doll's room. And you've promised, you know."
"No--only said `perhaps,'" returned Sir Richard quickly.
"Well, that's the same thing; and now that it's all nicely settled, I'llgo and see nurse. Good-bye, papa."
"Good-bye, dear," returned the knight, resigning himself to his fate andthe newspaper.
Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure Page 3