Chapter V: Freddy's Generosity

"I DECLARE the place is beginning to look quite Christmassy already," remarked Claude, as he and his cousin strolled homewards from school one afternoon in the first week of December.

"Yes," Freddy assented; "after all, there's generally something interesting to be seen in a town. How bright the shops are, lit by the electric light! Don't hurry, Claude."

Accordingly, though the air was keen with frost and it was bitterly cold, the two boys lingered, looking into the shop windows, which were certainly wonderfully fascinating. The streets were thronged with pedestrians—well-clad, prosperous people, and many of the poorer classes, who seemed mostly attracted by the contents of the grocers' windows.

"Look!" whispered Freddy to his companion as they were passing a confectioner's. He indicated as he spoke the shabby figure of a little girl, who stood with her face pressed against the window-pane. "Do you think she can be hungry?" he questioned dubiously.

"I daresay she is," Claude replied; "she looks very poor, doesn't she? I wish I had a penny to give her to buy a bun, but I haven't."

"I have. I'll give it to her."

As Freddy spoke, he approached the little girl and touched her gently on the shoulder'. She turned with a start, and demanded in an aggressive voice what he wanted.

"I—I thought perhaps you might be hungry," stammered Freddy, decidedly taken aback by her manner; "are you?"

She regarded him in silence for a minute, then tears welled into her eyes and slowly coursed down her cheeks as she realised that the boy's motive in addressing her was a kindly one, but she brushed them hastily away with the back of her hand, which was covered with chilblains, and answered in a softened tone: "No, I'm not hungry; at least, not very—that's no matter; but I was looking at those sponge cakes; they look so soft, and Bobby—he's my brother—has such a sore throat, and I was wishing he had one; I believe he could eat it."

"Look here! Take this," said Freddy, pressing into her hand, not the penny he had mentioned, but a shilling he had intended spending on himself; "you can get something nice for your brother with that, can't you?"

"How good of you!" she cried, flushing with pleasure. "Oh, thank you, thank you! I will buy some sponge cakes and some grapes—oh, surely Bobby will be able to eat grapes! But he is so dreadfully ill!" and she shook her head doubtfully, whilst her eyes filled with tears again.

"Where do you live?" Claude inquired.

"In Number Five Court, in East Street. Our name is Lambert—there's only father, and Bobby, and me; mother is dead. Father's been in hospital; why we're so poor; and now he's well again the frost has come on, and he can't work."

"Why not?"

"Because masons can't work in frosty weather—father's a mason." She turned to Freddy, and thanked him again for his shilling most gratefully; then she went into the confectioner's shop to make her purchase there, and the boys moved on.

That evening Claude asked his father if he knew anyone called Lambert, a mason, living in Number Five Court, in East Street. Dr. Dennis did not, but he listened with interest as Claude explained about the little girl to whom Freddy had given the shilling.

"It was very kind of Freddy," he said heartily; "I like to hear of spontaneous generosity."

The doctor was reclining in an easy-chair by the dining-room fire enjoying an hour's leisure, whilst Poppy, on a stool at his feet, was looking over her collection of picture postcards, which had greatly increased of late, as her uncle had sent her many from the various places he and his bride had visited during the last two months, and her mother sat by the table, engaged with some needlework. Edwin and Freddy had gone upstairs to the schoolroom to prepare their lessons for the following day; but Claude still lingered talking to his father.

"Freddy is heaps nicer than he used to be," Poppy remarked. "When he first came to us he used to want the best of everything for himself, but now he's always ready to share and share alike."

"Yes, and he gets on much better with the boys at school," said Claude; "he doesn't interfere about matters which don't concern him as he used to. Really, at first Edwin and I were always making up his quarrels; but now he's quite different."

"How is it he and Edwin are so cool to each other?" Dr. Dennis inquired. "It is very apparent that they are not on cordial terms."

"No, they're not," Claude admitted. "I can't make out why they are not, though. I've asked Edwin, and he wouldn't tell; and I've asked Freddy, and he wouldn't tell either, only looked fit to cry."

"He was crying last night in the schoolroom," Poppy informed them gravely; "he was pretending to learn his lessons, but he was crying, I know he was, though when I asked him what was amiss he wouldn't answer."

The truth of the matter was that Freddy was extremely unhappy and dissatisfied with himself. He could not meet the gaze of Edwin's honest eyes without being overcome with shame and remorse. His conscience, now thoroughly awake, tortured him continually, and he told himself that Edwin would never trust him again, for he was conscious his cousin still suspected him of knowing something concerning the loss of the doctor's coat. Often he longed to tell the truth to Edwin, but he could not pluck up sufficient courage to do so.

Meanwhile, Edwin was very unhappy about his cousin, who, he saw, had a trouble upon his mind; but he felt he could not seek his confidence again, for he was quite convinced that Freddy had told him a lie. Sometimes it occurred to him that Freddy might be shielding someone whom he knew to have stolen the coat; but then, who could that someone be? Certainly not either of the servants, who were both trustworthy young women, and there was no one else in the house it was possible to suspect.

Claude and Freddy, who generally returned from school together, kept a look out for the little girl the latter had befriended as they walked home in the afternoons for the next week or two; but they did not see her, and they had nearly dismissed her from their minds when, after more than a fortnight had elapsed, and they had given up all thoughts of meeting her again, they one afternoon recognised her shabby figure ahead of them, and hurried to overtake her.

"I say, how's your brother?" asked Freddy, as he reached her side.

She stopped immediately, her thin face lighting up with a pleased smile, and rested a big brown paper parcel she was carrying against a shop window, as she replied, "He's better; but he's not able to get up yet. Oh, he does so want to thank you for your kindness to him!" she cried, looking with grateful eyes at Freddy. "I took him some sponge cakes and grapes that day you gave me the shilling, and he could eat them. My! I wish you could have seen how he enjoyed the grapes! Would you—it is not far—would you come to see him just for a few minutes?"

The boys glanced doubtfully at each other, and hesitated, noting which the little girl's countenance fell, and she said in a hurt tone of voice, "Perhaps you're too proud to come? But no, I'm sure it's not that! It's a poor place, I know, but it's very clean, and Bobby would so like to see you."

"Oh, we'll go with you, certainly!" Claude exclaimed, touched by the wistful expression of her face. "You lead the way. What's in your parcel?" he asked curiously.

"It's—it's blankets," she responded, blushing painfully; "we had to pawn them when father was out of work, and Bobby was so ill; we never did such a thing before, but we couldn't starve—it's dreadful to be hungry. Father's just been to fetch the blankets—I told you he's at work again now—and he gave them to me at the corner of the street to carry home, he wouldn't let me go into the pawn-shop. He's gone to get Bobby's medicine."

Neither Claude nor Freddy made any comment, though they both felt very sympathetic. The former wished he had asked his mother to visit the sick boy, he was sure she would have complied with his request, for she was always ready to extend a helping hand to those in distress of any kind; and the latter was horrified at the idea of people being so poor as to be obliged to pawn their bedding in the depth of winter.

When Number Five Court, East Street, was reached, they followed the little girl into her home, and into the presence of Bobby—a boy of about their own age, though he looked older—who was posted up in bed with a shawl pinned around his shoulders. He turned a pair of dark, hollow eyes inquiringly upon his visitors, then glanced at his sister, who ran to him and whispered hurriedly in his ear.

"Oh, I am glad!" he exclaimed, a flush rising to his pale cheeks. "Which of them was it that gave you that shilling, Lizzie?"

The girl indicated Freddy, who came forward and asked the invalid how he was, whilst Claude stood in the background looking on.

"I'm better—much better," was the reply to Freddy's inquiry. "I want to thank you for your kindness—"

"It was nothing," Freddy interposed. He was feeling awkward, for he had never paid a visit to a sick room in his life before. "I didn't want the money. I should only have spent it in sweets if I hadn't given it away. You look very ill still. Are you certain you are better?"

"Oh, yes! The doctor says so—the parish doctor, you know. I caught a bad chill by getting drenched to the skin, and letting my clothes dry on me. I sell papers in the streets in the evenings. Oh, I shall soon be well now!" he declared hopefully.

"I am sure I hope so," Freddy said with genuine sympathy in his voice; "you must keep yourself warm, and—"

He paused suddenly, his attention attracted by the outer covering of the invalid's bed, a large, heavy, man's overcoat, with a big cape. It was with difficulty that Freddy refrained from uttering the cry of mingled astonishment and dismay which rose to his lips as he recognised his Uncle Jo's old coat. The next moment Claude stepped nearer the bed, and his eyes fell upon the familiar garment too.