FATHER’S BIRTHDAY.
The great event of the year at Wilton
Chase came in the summer. It came just at the
time when all the children could enjoy it-when
they were all at home and together.
This event was Mr. Wilton’s
birthday. It had been his custom, as long as
any of the children could remember, to devote this
day to them. He was their willing slave, their
captive to do what they pleased with during the long
hours of that summer day.
Aunt Elizabeth, who hated being brought
into close contact with what she termed “unfledged
creatures,” generally left the house for that
occasion. The oak doors which divided the schoolroom
from the grown-up portion of the building were thrown
open, and happy rioters might have been seen darting
about in all directions. In short, during this
day Chaos reigned instead of order. Each child
did as he or she liked best, with a reckless disregard
to all future consequences.
In preparation for the feasting which
went on during father’s birthday, nurse was
wont to see that all the useful unpleasant nursery
bottles were well filled. She sent them to the
chemist a week before, and when they were returned,
put them grimly away in the cupboard.
“These,” she would remark,
“have nothing to do with father’s birthday,
but they come in handy the day after.”
Miss Nelson also made preparations
for the after effects of this day of unrestraint.
She laid in a good store of clean manuscript paper,
for she knew many impositions would have to be written,
and she looked well through the poetry books and books
of French selections, to see which on an emergency
would be suited to the capacities of the delinquents,
who would be certain to have to learn them amidst tears
and disgrace.
The children’s maid, too, laid
in stores of buttons and hooks, and tapes and ribbons,
for the repairing of the clothes which must come to
grief in the general riot.
Thus all that the careful elders could
do was done, but the children cared for none of these
things. To the children the day itself stood
before them in all its glory, and they gave no thought
or heed to any after-time of reckoning.
Mr. Wilton’s birthday arrived
in the beginning of the second week of the summer
holidays. The first exuberance of joy, therefore,
at having the boys at home again, was past, and all
the young folk could give themselves up to the ecstasy
which the day itself afforded.
“Good-by, Roderick,” said
Miss Elizabeth Wilton to her brother. She came
in in her neat traveling-dress, and surprised him over
a late breakfast.
“Why, where are you off to?” he asked.
“Where am I off to? I’m going to
town, of course.”
“To town, in August! What do you mean,
Lizzie?”
“You may well shrug your shoulders,
and ask me what I mean. You, Roderick, are
the cause. Your birthday comes to-morrow.”
“Good gracious! And I had forgotten all
about it.”
“Well, the children remember
it, and so do I. Good-by, Roderick. I’ll
be home again on Friday evening. I don’t
want to stay longer in that stifling London than I
can help.”
Miss Wilton took her departure, and
Mr. Wilton stretched out his hand to the toast-rack,
took a piece of toast which he absently broke in two,
and once more buried his head in his Times.
There were a good many interesting items of intelligence
this morning, and Mr. Wilton was a keen politician.
Between him, however, now, and the clearly printed
type of the paper, came the vision of to-morrow.
To-morrow-his birthday, and the day when
everything was turned topsy-turvey, and the children
and Chaos reigned supreme.
Mr. Wilton was a very affectionate
father, but no one must think the worse of him for
shrinking at this moment from the ordeal which lay
before him. When the day came, he would throw
himself into the fun, heart and soul-he
would be the life of the rioters, the ringleader of
the pleasure-seekers. He would do this, and he
would enjoy himself, but in anticipation the prospect
was not cheerful. He had forgotten all about
his birthday; he had further made arrangements for
to-morrow-he was to see a friend in the
neighboring town; they were to lunch together, and
discuss the autumn shooting. Afterward he had
intended to ride some miles farther on and visit a
lady, a certain Mrs. Gray, who had been a great friend
of his wife’s, and whom he had rather neglected
of late. He had made all his plans; they were
none of them vital, of course, and they could be postponed,
but it was disagreeable to have to do this.
Mr. Wilton pushed his Times
aside, rose from the breakfast-table and went out.
He must order his horse and ride over at once to Quarchester,
and put his friend off. How ridiculous if would
sound to have to say, “My dear Furniss, the
young ones are celebrating my birthday to-morrow,
so I can’t come.”
Mr. Wilton stood on the gravel sweep,
called a groom, gave the necessary directions, and
looked around him. He was glad none of the children
were about-he did not want to discuss the
birthday until he felt in a better humor. What
a good thing the children were employed elsewhere!
Just then, however, he heard a shrill
childish laugh, and the next moment little Lucy, hotly
pursued by fat Marjorie, dashed into view. Lucy
rushed up to her father, clasped her arms round his
legs and looked up into his face.
Marjorie panted up to her. “No,
no, Lucy, you are unkind,” she said. “It
is wrong of you to run away like this, and when Miss
Nelson is so sad, too.”
“Hullo, Maggie, have you no
word of greeting for me?” asked her father.
“Oh, father, I beg your pardon;
I wanted to catch Lucy and bring her back to prayers.
She’s quite wild this morning; I expect it’s
because of the birthday being so near, but it does
tease Miss Nelson so when the children don’t
come in quietly to prayers.”
“Run into the house this moment,
Lucy,” said Mr. Wilton, in a tone which all
the children immediately obeyed. “You stay,
Maggie.”
Lucy trotted off.
“Was I right in hearing you say, Maggie, that
Miss Nelson was ill?”
“Not exactly ill, father, but she’s fretting.”
“Fretting? What about?”
Marjorie edged up to her father in
the confidential way which made people take to her
at once.
“It’s her little sister’s
picture,” she said. “A miniature,
and it’s-it’s lost. It-it
can’t be found.”
“I never knew Miss Nelson had a sister.”
“Oh, yes; only she’s dead-a
dear little girl-she died a long time ago,
and Miss Nelson is very fond of her miniature, and
it’s-it’s lost!”
Just at this moment the groom appeared,
leading Mr. Wilton’s spirited bay mare.
“What a tragic face, Maggie,”
said her father, chucking her under the chin.
“We must only trust that the picture is mislaid,
not lost. Now, good-by, my dear, I am off to
Quarchester.”
As Mr. Wilton rode down the avenue
he thought in a slightly contemptuous way of Marjorie’s
information.
“I do trust Miss Nelson is not
too sentimental,” he murmured. “Poor
Maggie looked absolutely tragic over her governess’s
loss. I really was prepared to hear of some recent
bereavement; but the loss of a miniature, and of course
it is only mislaid! I do trust Miss Nelson is
the right person to bring up a tender-hearted little
thing like Maggie. Now, Ermengarde-Hullo!
there is Ermengarde!”
Yes, just ahead of him, and quite
unconscious that she was observed, walked Ermengarde
in close confabulation with Susan Collins.
Mr. Wilton’s brow darkened as he saw the two
together.
“This is absolute carelessness
on Miss Nelson’s part,” he said to himself.
“She knows my wishes, and it is her business
to see that Ermengarde obeys. I must have
a very serious talk with Miss Nelson when I return
home this afternoon, but I have no time to attend to
the matter now. If I don’t hurry, I shall
miss seeing Furniss.”
Mr. Wilton galloped quickly away,
found his friend at home, and in conversation with
him forgot all home worries. He forgot them so
absolutely that he accepted an invitation to spend
the day and dine. In consequence it was near
midnight when he returned to Wilton Chase, and the
fact that to-morrow was his birthday again absolutely
escaped his memory.