Noble in Reason Read Free Page B

afraid that is true,” said Henry.
    â€œHe probably didn’t see what was happening,” said John.
    This stung me into protest. “It was Sambo’s fault,” I cried.
    â€œSambo! That’s good!” said John with his jeering laugh. “If you looked about you a bit instead of always having your nose stuck in a book, Chris, you’d be a lot more use in the world.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t try to escape blame which you’ve deserved, Christopher,” said Henry sternly.
    Trembling with fear and shame, I slunk away and hid in the lavatory—it was the only safe place in our house, I often thought. How was I to explain that Sambo, a money-box for children’s savings, was a contemptible phenomenon in my view, a symbol of my father’s parsimonious and grasping attitude to money, which I despised? How could I express my theory that people liked doing what they liked, and that if Netta wanted to play with Sambo or be a pony she should be allowed to do so? (I was never, it seemed to me, allowed to do what I liked.) How could I indicate that John’s jeering coarsenessand Henry’s puritanic strictness both found their target in my continually lacerated heart?
    At this moment I heard sounds in the hall below: the turning of the front door latch, the howling of the wind, the soft slurr of snow; a light pretty laugh, the precise Scottish speech of Dr. Darrell, the purring tones my father kept for company which pleased him.
    â€œBoys!” called my father commandingly.
    My brothers burst obediently out of the nursery; Henry ran quickly, John lumbered, down the stairs. I crept quietly out of my refuge and followed them.
    Dr. Darrell stood on our hearthrug, beaming. (It gave me an extraordinary feeling in the pit of my stomach, half joy, half fear, to see how he towered above my father.) Mrs. Darrell, a small sweet quiet woman with a soft voice and very large dark eyes, elegantly dressed in a sealskin cape and a hat (
toque,
I believe, was then the word) to match, with a bunch of violets at her throat, sat on the couch beside my mother. At Dr. Darrell’s side stood a girl of about Henry’s age, whom I had seen in the distance and knew as Dr. Darrell’s daughter.
    â€œBeatrice has come to bring a doll for the little girl who hurt her head,” explained the doctor.
    â€œHow very kind!” exclaimed my parents, as Beatrice with a quick smile advanced and put a parcel into Netta’s arms.
    The doll when unwrapped appeared new and expensive; it was dressed in gold brocade and had a quantity of fair hair and brown eyes which opened and shut. Netta in my mother’s arms at first took the doll with an air of diffidence, then suddenly hugged it to her in an ecstasy and passionately kissed the pink china cheek. Her childish pleasure was moving, and we all smiled.
    â€œIt really is
most
kind of you, Mrs. Darrell,” said my mother, stroking Netta’s hair.
    â€œOh, it was all Beatrice’s own idea,” explained the doctor proudly. “The snow’s so thick, I went in my new sleigh to fetch Beatrice and Mrs. Darrell from the dancing-class and I told her about little Netta and she insisted on bringing a doll to her.”
    â€œWill you dance for us, Beatrice?” suggested my mother.
    Beatrice hesitated. “I’d rather not if you’d excuse me,” she said politely in a light composed tone.
    My heart sank. Though I would like to have seen her dance, I approved the modesty and propriety of her decision; but 1 feared there would now be a “scene” of the kind I most disliked. Dr. Darrell would scold, Mrs. Darrell would plead, Beatrice would scowl, pout or cry—I felt all her misery in advance for her.
    â€œVery well, my dear, we won’t press you,” said Dr. Darrell.
    I was astounded. Such mildness, such urbane good manners, from a father!
    â€œPerhaps you’d take your coat off and show Netta your