THE IRRESISTIBLE POWER OF LOVE

Need we remark that there was a great deal of embracing on the part of Di and her nurse when the former returned home?  The child was an affectionate creature as well as passionate.  The nurse, Mrs Screwbury, was also affectionate without being passionate.  Poor Diana had never known a mother’s love or care; but good, steady, stout Mrs Screwbury did what in her lay to fill the place of mother.

Sir Richard filled the place of father pretty much as a lamp-post might have done had it owned a child.  He illuminated her to some extent ­ explained things in general, stiffly, and shed a feeble ray around himself; 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 ­or rather had been ­in the habit of dismissing her to the nursery.

Nevertheless, the child exercised very considerable and ever-increasing influence over her father; for, although stiff, the knight was by no means destitute of natural affection, and sometimes observed, with moist eyes, strong traces of resemblance to his lost wife in the beautiful child.  Indeed, as years advanced, he became a more and more obedient father, and was obviously on the high road to abject slavery.

“Papa,” said Di, while they were at luncheon that day, not long after the accident, “I am so sorry for that poor policeman.  It seems such a dreadful thing to have actually jumped upon him! and oh! you should have heard his poor head hit the pavement, and seen his pretty helmet go spinning along like a boy’s top, ever so far.  I wonder it didn’t kill him.  I’m so sorry.”

Di emphasised her sorrow by laughing, for she had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and the memory of the spinning helmet was strong upon her just 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 say he 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! he wouldn’t let go the pony’s reins when I bid him, but I saw he tumbled down when we set off.”

“Yes, he has been somewhat severely punished, I fear, for his disobedience.  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 moment by the news, recovered herself.

“His leg broken!” she exclaimed with a look of consternation; “Oh! the poor, poor boy! ­the dear boy! and it was me did that too, as well as knocking down the poor policeman!”

There is no saying to what lengths the remorseful child would have gone in the way of self-condemnation if her father had not turned her thoughts 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 knight thoughtfully.  “A broken leg requires careful treatment, I suppose.  You should have had him into the house, and sent for a doctor.”

Balls coughed.  He was slightly chagrined to find that the violation of his own humane feelings had been needless, and that his attempt to do as he thought his master would have wished was in vain.

“I thought, Sir Richard, that you didn’t like the lower orders to go about the ’ouse more ­”

Again little Di interrupted the butler by asking excitedly where the boy’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 the tone 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 better not.  I will write to one of the city missionaries whom I know, and ask him to ­”

“No, but, papa ­dear papa, we must go.  The city missionary could never say how very, very sorry I am that he should have broken his leg while helping me.  And then I should so like to sit by him and tell him 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’t begin to cry.  Perhaps ­perhaps to-morrow ­but think, my love; you have no idea how dirty ­how very nasty ­the places are in which our lower orders live.”

“Oh! yes I have,” said Di eagerly.  “Haven’t I seen our nursery on cleaning 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 the smells.  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 knee and I’ll tell you all about it.  There!  Well, then, you know, I’d tidy the room up, and even wash it a little.  Oh, you can’t think how nicely I washed up my doll’s room ­her corner, you know, ­that day when I spilt all her soup in trying to feed her, and then, while trying to wipe it up, 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 well as Jessie herself could have done ­so nurse said.”

“But the messes down in Whitechapel are much worse than you have described, dear,” expostulated the parent, who felt that his powers of resistance were going.

“So much the better, papa,” replied Di, kissing her sire’s lethargic visage.  “I should like so much to try if I could clean up something worse 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’ll go and see nurse.  Good-bye, papa.”

“Good-bye, dear,” returned the knight, resigning himself to his fate and the newspaper.