“It’s our own old gentleman!” said Phyllis.
“Oh, it’s you!” said Bobbie. And then they remembered themselves and their manners and said, “How do you do?” very nicely.
“This is Jim’s grandfather, Mr. ⸻” said Mother, naming the old gentleman’s name.
“How splendid!” said Peter; “that’s just exactly like a book, isn’t it, Mother?”
“It is, rather,” said Mother, smiling; “things do happen in real life that are rather like books, sometimes.”
“I am so awfully glad it is you,” said Phyllis; “when you think of the tons of old gentlemen there are in the world—it might have been almost anyone.”
“I say, though,” said Peter, “you’re not going to take Jim away, though, are you?”
“Not at present,” said the old gentleman. “Your Mother has most kindly consented to let him stay here. I thought of sending a nurse, but your Mother is good enough to say that she will nurse him herself.”
“But what about her writing?” said Peter, before anyone could stop him. “There won’t be anything for him to eat if Mother doesn’t write.”
“That’s all right,” said Mother, hastily.
The old gentleman looked very kindly at Mother.
“I see,” he said, “you trust your children, and confide in them.”
“Of course,” said Mother.
“Then I may tell them of our little arrangement,” he said. “Your Mother, my dears, has consented to give up writing for a little while and to become a matron of my hospital.”
“Oh!” said Phyllis, blankly; “and shall we have to go away from Three Chimneys and the Railway and everything?”
“No, no, darling,” said Mother, hurriedly.
“The Hospital is called Three Chimneys Hospital,” said the old gentleman, “and my unlucky Jim’s the only patient, and I hope he’ll continue to be so. Your Mother will be Matron, and there’ll be a hospital staff of a housemaid and a cook—till Jim’s well.”
“And then will Mother go on writing again?” asked Peter.
“We shall see,” said the old gentleman, with a slight, swift glance at Bobbie; “perhaps something nice may happen and she won’t have to.”
“I love my writing,” said Mother, very quickly.
“I know,” said the old gentleman; “don’t be afraid that I’m going to try to interfere. But one never knows. Very wonderful and beautiful things do happen, don’t they? And we live most of our lives in the hope of them. I may come again to see the boy?”
“Surely,” said Mother, “and I don’t know how to thank you for making it possible for me to nurse him. Dear boy!”
“He kept calling Mother, Mother, in the night,” said Phyllis. “I woke up twice and heard him.”
“He didn’t mean me,” said Mother, in a low voice to the old gentleman; “that’s why I wanted so much to keep him.”
The old gentleman rose.
“I’m so glad,” said Peter, “that you’re going to keep him, Mother.”
“Take care of your mother, my dears,” said the old gentleman. “She’s a woman in a million.”
“Yes, isn’t she?” whispered Bobbie.
“God bless her,” said the old gentleman, taking both Mother’s hands, “God bless her! Ay, and she shall be blessed. Dear me, where’s my hat? Will Bobbie come with me to the gate?”
At the gate he stopped and said:—
“You’re a good child, my dear—I got your letter. But it wasn’t needed. When I read about your father’s case in the papers at the time, I had my doubts. And ever since I’ve known who you were, I’ve been trying to find out things. I haven’t done very much yet. But I have hopes, my dear—I have hopes.”
“Oh!” said Bobbie, choking a little.
“Yes—I may say great hopes. But keep your secret a little longer. Wouldn’t do to upset your Mother with a false hope, would it?”
“Oh, but it isn’t false!” said Bobbie; “I know you can do it. I knew you could when I wrote. It isn’t a false hope, is it?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t think it’s a false hope, or I wouldn’t have told you. And I think you deserve to be told that there is a hope.”
“And you don’t think Father did it, do you? Oh, say you don’t think he did.”
“My dear,” he said, “I’m perfectly certain he didn’t.”
If it was a false hope, it was none the less a very radiant one that lay warm at Bobbie’s heart, and through the days that followed lighted her little face as a Japanese lantern is lighted by the candle within.
XIV
The End
Life at the Three Chimneys was never quite the same again after the old gentleman came to see his grandson. Although they now knew his name, the children never spoke of him by it—at any rate, when they were by themselves. To them he was always the old gentleman, and I think he had better be the old gentleman to us, too. It wouldn’t make him seem any more real to you, would it, if I were to tell you that his name was Snooks or Jenkins (which it wasn’t)?—and, after all, I must be allowed to keep one secret. It’s the only one; I have told you everything else, except what I am going to tell you in this chapter, which is the last. At least, of course, I haven’t told you everything. If I were to do that, the book would never come to an end, and that would be a pity, wouldn’t it?
Well, as I was saying, life at Three Chimneys was never quite the same again. The cook and the housemaid were very nice (I don’t mind telling you their names—they were Clara and Ethelwyn), but they told Mother they did not seem to want Mrs. Viney, and that she was an old muddler. So Mrs. Viney came only two days a week to do washing and ironing. Then Clara and Ethelwyn said they could do the work all right if they weren’t interfered with, and that meant that the children
