Bessie’s Doll by By Maud Montgomery
Tommy Puffer, sauntering up the street, stopped to look at Miss Octavia’s geraniums. Tommy never could help stopping to look at Miss Octavia’s flowers, much as he hated Miss Octavia. Today they were certainly worth looking at. Miss Octavia had set them all out on her verandah – rows upon rows of them, overflowing down the steps in waves of blossom and color. Miss Octavia’s geraniums were famous in Arundel, and she was very proud of them. But it was her garden which was really the delight of her heart. Miss Octavia always had the prettiest garden in Arundel, especially as far as annuals were concerned. Just now it was like faith – the substance of things hoped for. The poppies and nasturtiums and balsams and morning glories and sweet peas had been sown in the brown beds on the lawn, but they had not yet begun to come up.
Tommy was still feasting his eyes on the geraniums when Miss Octavia herself came around the corner of the house. Her face darkened the minute she saw Tommy. Most people’s did. Tommy had the reputation of being a very bad, mischievous boy; he was certainly very poor and ragged, and Miss Octavia disapproved of poverty and rags on principle. Nobody, she argued, not even a boy of twelve, need be poor and ragged if he is willing to work.
“Here, you, get away out of this,” she said sharply. “I’m not going to have you hanging over my palings.”
“I ain’t hurting your old palings,” retorted Tommy sullenly. “I was jist a-looking at the flowers.”
“Yes, and picking out the next one to throw a stone at,” said Miss Octavia sarcastically. “It was you who threw that stone and broke my big scarlet geranium clear off the other day.”
“It wasn’t – I never chucked a stone at your flowers,” said Tommy.
“Don’t tell me any falsehoods, Tommy Puffer. It was you. Didn’t I catch you firing stones at my cat a dozen times?”
“I might have fired ’em at an old cat, but I wouldn’t tech a flower,” avowed Tommy boldly – brazenly, Miss Octavia thought.
“You clear out of this or I’ll make you,” she said warningly.
Tommy had had his ears boxed by Miss Octavia more than once. He had no desire to have the performance repeated, so he stuck his tongue out at Miss Octavia and then marched up the street with his hands in his pockets, whistling jauntily.
“He’s the most impudent brat I ever saw in my life,” muttered Miss Octavia wrathfully. There was a standing feud between her and all the Arundel small boys, but Tommy was her special object of dislike.
Tommy’s heart was full of wrath and bitterness as he marched away. He hated Miss Octavia; he wished something would happen to every one of her flowers; he knew it was Ned Williams who had thrown that stone, and he hoped Ned would throw some more and smash all the flowers. So Tommy raged along the street until he came to Mr. Blacklock’s store, and in the window of it he saw something that put Miss Octavia and her disagreeable remarks quite out of his tow-colored head.
This was nothing more or less than a doll. Now, Tommy was not a judge of dolls and did not take much interest in them, but he felt quite sure that this was a very fine one. It was so big; it was beautifully dressed in blue silk, with a ruffled blue silk hat; it had lovely long golden hair and big brown eyes and pink cheeks; and it stood right up in the showcase and held out its hands winningly.
“Gee, ain’t it a beauty!” said Tommy admiringly. “It looks ‘sif it was alive, and it’s as big as a baby. I must go an’ bring Bessie to see it.”
Tommy at once hurried away to the shabby little street where what he called “home” was. Tommy’s home was a very homeless-looking sort of place. It was the smallest, dingiest, most slatternly house on a street noted for its dingy and slatternly houses. It was occupied by a slatternly mother and a drunken father, as well as by Tommy; and neither the father nor the mother took much notice of Tommy except to scold or nag him. So it is hardly to be wondered at if Tommy was the sort of boy who was frowned upon by respectable citizens.
But one little white blossom of pure affection bloomed in the arid desert of Tommy’s existence for all that. In the preceding fall a new family had come to Arundel and moved into the tiny house next to the Puffers’. It was a small, dingy house, just like the others, but before long a great change took place in it. The new family were thrifty, industrious folks, although they were very poor. The little house was white-washed, the paling neatly mended, the bit of a yard cleaned of all its rubbish. Muslin curtains appeared in the windows, and rows of cans, with blossoming plants, adorned the sills.
There were just three people in the Knox family – a thin little mother, who went out scrubbing and took in washing, a boy of ten, who sold newspapers and ran errands – and Bessie.
Bessie was eight years old and walked with a crutch, but she was a smart little lassie and kept the house wonderfully neat and tidy while her mother was away. The very first time she had seen Tommy she had smiled at him sweetly and said, “Good morning.” From that moment Tommy was her devoted slave. Nobody had ever spoken like that to him before; nobody had ever smiled so at him. Tommy would have given his useless little life for Bessie, and thenceforth the time he was not devising mischief he spent in bringing little pleasures into her life. It was Tommy’s delight to bring that smile to her pale little face and a look of pleasure into her big, patient blue eyes. The other boys on the street tried to tease Bessie at first and shouted “Cripple!” after her when she limped out. But they soon stopped it. Tommy thrashed them all one after another for it, and Bessie was left in peace. She would have had a very lonely life if it had not been for Tommy, for she could not play with the other children. But Tommy was as good as a dozen playmates, and Bessie thought him the best boy in the world. Tommy, whatever he might be with others, was very careful to be good when he was with Bessie. He never said a rude word in her hearing, and he treated her as if she were a little princess. Miss Octavia would have been amazed beyond measure if she had seen how tender and thoughtful and kind and chivalrous that neglected urchin of a Tommy could be when he tried.
Tommy found Bessie sitting by the kitchen window, looking dreamily out of it. For just a moment Tommy thought uneasily that Bessie was looking very pale and thin this spring.
“Bessie, come for a walk up to Mr. Blacklock’s store,” he said eagerly. “There is something there I want to show you.”
“What is it?” Bessie wanted to know. But Tommy only winked mysteriously.
“Ah, I ain’t going to tell you. But it’s something awful pretty. Just you wait.”
Bessie reached for her crutch and the two went up to the store, Tommy carefully suiting his steps to Bessie’s slow ones. Just before they reached the store he made her shut her eyes and led her to the window.
“Now – look!” he commanded dramatically.
Bessie looked and Tommy was rewarded. She flushed pinkly with delight and clasped her hands in ecstasy.
“Oh, Tommy, isn’t she perfectly beautiful?” she breathed. “Oh, she’s the very loveliest dolly I ever saw. Oh, Tommy!”
“I thought you’d like her,” said Tommy exultantly. “Don’t you wish you had a doll like that of your very own, Bessie?”
Bessie looked almost rebuking, as if Tommy had asked her if she wouldn’t like a golden crown or a queen’s palace.
“Of course I could never have a dolly like that,” she said. “She must cost an awful lot. But it’s enough just to look at her. Tommy, will you bring me up here every day just to look at her?”
“‘Course,” said Tommy.
Bessie talked about the blue-silk doll all the way home and dreamed of her every night. “I’m going to call her Roselle Geraldine,” she said. After that she went up to see Roselle Geraldine every day, gazing at her for long moments in silent rapture. Tommy almost grew jealous of her; he thought Bessie liked the doll better than she did him.
“But it don’t matter a bit if she does,” he thought loyally, crushing down the jealousy. “If she likes to like it better than me, it’s all right.”
Sometimes, though, Tommy felt uneasy. It was plain to be seen that Bessie had set her heart on that doll. And what would she do when the doll was sold, as would probably happen soon? Tommy thought Bessie would feel awful sad, and he would be responsible for it.
What Tommy feared came to pass. One afternoon, when they went up to Mr. Blacklock’s store, the doll was not in the window.
“Oh,” cried Bessie, bursting into tears, “she’s gone – Roselle Geraldine is gone.”
“Perhaps she isn’t sold,” said Tommy comfortingly. “Maybe they only took her out of the window ’cause the blue silk would fade. I’ll go in and ask.”
A minute later Tommy came out looking sober.
“Yes, she’s sold, Bessie,” he said. “Mr. Blacklock sold her to a lady yesterday. Don’t cry, Bessie – maybe they’ll put another in the window ‘fore long.”
“It won’t be mine,” sobbed Bessie. “It won’t be Roselle Geraldine. It won’t have a blue silk hat and such cunning brown eyes.”
Bessie cried quietly all the way home, and Tommy could not comfort her. He wished he had never shown her the doll in the window.
From that day Bessie drooped, and Tommy watched her in agony. She grew paler and thinner. She was too tired to go out walking, and too tired to do the little household tasks she had delighted in. She never spoke about Roselle Geraldine, but Tommy knew she was fretting about her. Mrs. Knox could not think what ailed the child.
“She don’t take a bit of interest in nothing,” she complained to Mrs. Puffer. “She don’t eat enough for a bird. The doctor, he says there ain’t nothing the matter with her as he can find out, but she’s just pining away.”
Tommy heard this, and a queer, big lump came up in his throat. He had a horrible fear that he, Tommy Puffer, was going to cry. To prevent it he began to whistle loudly. But the whistle was a failure, very unlike the real Tommy-whistle. Bessie was sick – and it was all his fault, Tommy believed. If he had never taken her to see that hateful, blue-silk doll, she would never have got so fond of it as to be breaking her heart because it was sold.
“If I was only rich,” said Tommy miserably, “I’d buy her a cartload of dolls, all dressed in blue silk and all with brown eyes. But I can’t do nothing.”
By this time Tommy had reached the paling in front of Miss Octavia’s lawn, and from force of habit he stopped to look over it. But there was not much to see this time, only the little green rows and circles in the brown, well-weeded beds, and the long curves of dahlia plants, which Miss Octavia had set out a few days before. All the geraniums were carried in, and the blinds were down. Tommy knew Miss Octavia was away. He had seen her depart on the train that morning, and heard her tell a friend that she was going down to Chelton to visit her brother’s folks and wouldn’t be back until the next day.
Tommy was still leaning moodily against the paling when Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Reid came by, and they too paused to look at the garden.
“Dear me, how cold it is!” shivered Mrs. Reid. “There’s going to be a hard frost tonight. Octavia’s flowers will be nipped as sure as anything. It’s a wonder she’d stay away from them overnight when her heart’s so set on them.”
“Her brother’s wife is sick,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “We haven’t had any frost this spring, and I suppose Octavia never thought of such a thing. She’ll feel awful bad if her flowers get frosted, especially them dahlias. Octavia sets such store by her dahlias.”
Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Reid moved away, leaving Tommy by the paling. It was cold – there was going to be a hard frost – and Miss Octavia’s plants and flowers would certainly be spoiled. Tommy thought he ought to be glad, but he wasn’t. He was sorry – not for Miss Octavia, but for her flowers. Tommy had a queer, passionate love for flowers in his twisted little soul. It was a shame that they should be nipped – that all the glory of crimson and purple and gold hidden away in those little green rows and circles should never have a chance to blossom out royally. Tommy could never have put this thought into words, but it was there in his heart. He wished he could save the flowers. And couldn’t he? Newspapers spread over the beds and tied around the dahlias would save them, Tommy knew. He had seen Miss Octavia doing it other springs. And he knew there was a big box of newspapers in a little shed in her backyard. Ned Williams had told him there was, and that the shed was never locked.
Tommy hurried home as quickly as he could and got a ball of twine out of his few treasures. Then he went back to Miss Octavia’s garden.
The next forenoon Miss Octavia got off the train at the Arundel station with a very grim face. There had been an unusually severe frost for the time of year. All along the road Miss Octavia had seen gardens frosted and spoiled. She knew what she should see when she got to her own – the dahlia stalks drooping and black and limp, the nasturtiums and balsams and poppies and pansies all withered and ruined.
But she didn’t. Instead she saw every dahlia carefully tied up in a newspaper, and over all the beds newspapers spread out and held neatly in place with pebbles. Miss Octavia flew into her garden with a radiant face. Everything was safe – nothing was spoiled.
But who could have done it? Miss Octavia was puzzled. On one side of her lived Mrs. Kennedy, who had just moved in and, being a total stranger, would not be likely to think of Miss Octavia’s flowers. On the other lived Miss Matheson, who was a “shut-in” and spent all her time on the sofa. But to Miss Matheson Miss Octavia went.
“Rachel, do you know who covered my plants up last night?”
Miss Matheson nodded. “Yes, it was Tommy Puffer. I saw him working away there with papers and twine. I thought you’d told him to do it.”
“For the land’s sake!” ejaculated Miss Octavia. “Tommy Puffer! Well, wonders will never cease.”
Miss Octavia went back to her house feeling rather ashamed of herself when she remembered how she had always treated Tommy Puffer.
“But there must be some good in the child, or he wouldn’t have done this,” she said to herself. “I’ve been real mean, but I’ll make it up to him.”
Miss Octavia did not see Tommy that day, but when he passed the next morning she ran to the door and called him.
“Tommy, Tommy Puffer, come in here!”
Tommy came reluctantly. He didn’t like Miss Octavia any better than he had, and he didn’t know what she wanted of him. But Miss Octavia soon informed him without loss of words.
“Tommy, Miss Matheson tells me that it was you who saved my flowers from the frost the other night. I’m very much obliged to you indeed. Whatever made you think of doing it?”
“I hated to see the flowers spoiled,” muttered Tommy, who was feeling more uncomfortable than he had ever felt in his life.
“Well, it was real thoughtful of you. I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you, Tommy, and I believe now you didn’t break my scarlet geranium. Is there anything I can do for you – anything you’d like to have? If it’s in reason I’ll get it for you, just to pay my debt.”
Tommy stared at Miss Octavia with a sudden hopeful inspiration. “Oh, Miss Octavia,” he cried eagerly, “will you buy a doll and give it to me?”
“Well, for the land’s sake!” ejaculated Miss Octavia, unable to believe her ears. “A doll! What on earth do you want of a doll?”
“It’s for Bessie,” said Tommy eagerly. “You see, it’s this way.”
Then Tommy told Miss Octavia the whole story. Miss Octavia listened silently, sometimes nodding her head. When he had finished she went out of the room and soon returned, bringing with her the very identical doll that had been in Mr. Blacklock’s window.
“I guess this is the doll,” she said. “I bought it to give to a small niece of mine, but I can get another for her. You may take this to Bessie.”
It would be of no use to try to describe Bessie’s joy when Tommy rushed in and put Roselle Geraldine in her arms with a breathless account of the wonderful story. But from that moment Bessie began to pick up again, and soon she was better than she had ever been and the happiest little lassie in Arundel.
When a week had passed, Miss Octavia again called Tommy in; Tommy went more willingly this time. He had begun to like Miss Octavia.
That lady looked him over sharply and somewhat dubiously. He was certainly very ragged and unkempt. But Miss Octavia saw what she had never noticed before – that Tommy’s eyes were bright and frank, that Tommy’s chin was a good chin, and that Tommy’s smile had something very pleasant about it.
“You’re fond of flowers, aren’t you, Tommy?” she asked.
“You bet,” was Tommy’s inelegant but heartfelt answer.
“Well,” said Miss Octavia slowly, “I have a brother down at Chelton who is a florist. He wants a boy of your age to do handy jobs and run errands about his establishment, and he wants one who is fond of flowers and would like to learn the business. He asked me to recommend him one, and I promised to look out for a suitable boy. Would you like the place, Tommy? And will you promise to be a very good boy and learn to be respectable if I ask my brother to give you a trial and a chance to make something of yourself?”
“Oh, Miss Octavia!” gasped Tommy. He wondered if he were simply having a beautiful dream.
But it was no dream. And it was all arranged later on. No one rejoiced more heartily in Tommy’s success than Bessie.
“But I’ll miss you dreadfully, Tommy,” she said wistfully.
“Oh, I’ll be home every Saturday night, and we’ll have Sunday together, except when I’ve got to go to Sunday school. ‘Cause Miss Octavia says I must,” said Tommy comfortingly. “And the rest of the time you’ll have Roselle Geraldine.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bessie, giving the blue-silk doll a fond kiss, “and she’s just lovely. But she ain’t as nice as you, Tommy, for all.”
Then was Tommy’s cup of happiness full.