"Now for our dance—our rainbow dance, sisters—no need to wake him roughly. We need only kiss his eyelids."
"Never mind all that.Idon't grumble, though I might. What can one do with millions of tons of sand for a toy, I should like to know? And little else comes in my way that I can play catch-and-toss with! I can waft my scents about, to be sure—there is some pleasure in that. But now for our dance—our rainbow dance, sisters—no need to wake him roughly. We need only kiss his eyelids."
And Gratian, who had not all this time, strange to say, known that his eyes were closed again, felt across his lids a breeze so fresh and sudden that he naturally unclosed them to see whence it came. And once open he did not feel inclined to shut them again, I can assure you.
The sight before him was so pretty—and not the sight only. For the voices had melted into music—far off at first, then by slow degrees coming nearer; rising, falling, swelling, sinking, bright with rejoicinglike the song of the lark, then soft and low as the tones of a mother hushing her baby to sleep, again wildly triumphant like a battle strain of victory, and even while you listened changing into the mournful, solemn cadence of a dirge, till at last all mingled into a slow, even measure of stately harmony, and the colours which had been weaving themselves in the distance, like a plaited rainbow before the boy's eyes, took definite form as they drew near him.
He saw them then—the four invisible sisters; he saw them, and yet it is hard to tell what he saw! They were distinct and yet vague, separate and yet together. But by degrees he distinguished them better. There was his old friend with the floating sea-green-and-blue mantle, and the streaming fair hair and loving sad eyes, and next her the sister with the golden wings and glowing locks and laughing rosy face, and then a gray shrouded nimble figure, which seemed everywhere at once, whose features Gratian could scarcely see, though a pair of bright sparkling eyes flashed out now and then, while sometimes a gleam of radiant red lighted up the grim robe. And in and out in the meshes of the dance glided the white form of the genius of the north—cold and stately, sparkling as she moved,though shaded now and then by the steel-blue veil which covered the dusky head. But as the dance went on, the music gradually grew faster and the soft regular movements changed into a quicker measure. In and out the four figures wove and unwove themselves together, and the more quickly they moved the more varied and brilliant grew the colours which seemed a part of them, so that each seemed to have all those of the others as well as her own, and Gratian understood why they had spoken of the rainbow dance. Golden-wings glowed with every other shade reflected on her own rich background, the sister from the sea grew warmer with the red and yellow that shone out among the lapping folds of her mantle, with its feather-like trimming of foam, the gray of the East-wind's garments grew ruddier, like the sky before sunrise, and the cold white of the icy North glimmered and gleamed like an opal. And faster and faster they danced and glided and whirled about, till Gratian felt as if his breath were going, and that in another moment he would be carried away himself by the rush.
"Stop, stop," he cried at last. "It is beautiful, it is lovely, but my breath is going. Stop."
Instantly the four heads turned towards him, thefour pairs of wings sheathed themselves, the eyes, laughing and gentle, piercing and grave, seemed all to be gazing at him at once, and eight outstretched arms seemed as if about to lift him upwards.
"No—no—" he said, "I don't want—I don't——."
But with the struggle to speak he awoke. He was in his own bed of course, and by the light he saw that it must be nearly time to get up.
He stretched himself sleepily, smiling as he did so.
"What nice dreams I have had," he said to himself. "I wonder if they come of working well at my lessons?Theysaid it was to be a treat for me. I wish I could go to sleep and dream it all over again."
But just then he heard his mother's voice calling up the stair to him.
"Are you up, Gratian? You will be late if you are not quick."
Gratian gave himself a little shake of impatience under the bedclothes; he glanced at the window—the sky was gray and overcast, with every sign of a rainy day about it. He tucked himself up again, even though he knew it was very foolish thus to delay the evil moment.
"It's too bad," he thought. "I canneverdo what I want. Last night I had to go to bed when I wanted to sit up, and now I have to get up when I do so want to stay in bed."
But just at that moment a strange thing happened. The little casement window burst open with a bang, and a blast of cold sharp wind dashed into the room, upsetting a chair, scattering Gratian's clothes, neatly laid together in a little heap, and flinging itself on the bed with a whirl, so that the coverlet took to playing antics in its turn, and the blankets no doubt would have followed its example had Gratian not clutched at them. But all his comfort was destroyed—no possibility of feeling warm and snug with the window open and all this uproar going on. Gratian sprang up in a rage, and ran to the window. He shut it again easily enough.
"I can't think what made it fly open," he said to himself; "there was no wind in the night, and it never burst open before."
He stood shivering and undecided. Now that the window was shut, bed looked very comfortable again.
"I'll just get in for five minutes," he said to himself; "I'm so shivering cold with that wind, I shan't get warm all day."
He turned to the bed, but just as one little foot was raised to get in, lo and behold, a rattle and bang, and again the window burst open! Gratian flew back, it shut obediently as before. But he was now thoroughly awakened and alert. There was no good going back to bed if he was to be blown out of it in this fashion, and Gratian set to to dress himself, though in a rather surly mood, and keeping an eye on the rebellious window the while. But the window behaved quite well—it showed no signs of bursting open, it did not even rattle! and Gratian was ready in good time after all.
"You look cold, my boy," said his mother, when he was seated at table and eating his breakfast.
"The wind blew my window open twice, and it made my room very cold," he replied rather dolefully.
"Blew your window open? That's strange," said his father. "The wind's not in the east this morning, and it's only an east wind that could burst in your window. You can't have shut it properly."
"Yes, father, I did—the first time I shut it just as well as the second, and it didn't blow open after the second time. But IknowI shut it well both times. I think it must be in the east, for it felt so sharp when it blew in."
"It must have changed quickly then," said the farmer, eyeing the sky through the large old-fashioned kitchen window in front of him. "That's the queer thing hereabouts; many a day if I was put to it to answer, I couldn't say which way the wind was blowing."
"Or which way itwasn'tblowing, would be more like it," said Mrs. Conyfer with a smile. "It's to be hoped it'll blow you the right way to school anyway, Gratian. You don't look sure of it this morning!"
"I'm cold, mother, and I've always got to do what I don't want. Last night I didn't want to go to bed, and this morning I didn't want to get up, and now I don't want to go to school, and I must."
He got up slowly and unwillingly and began putting his books together. His mother looked at him with a slight smile on her face.
"'Must''s a grand word, Gratian," she said. "I don't know what we'd be without it. You'll feel all right once you're scampering across the moor."
"Maybe," he replied. But his tone was rather plaintive still. He was feeling "sorry for himself" this morning.
Things in general, however, did seem brighter, as his mother had prophesied they would, when hefound himself outside. It was really not cold after all; it was one of those breezy yet not chilly mornings when, though there is nothing depressing in the air, there is a curious feeling of mystery—as if nature were holding secret discussions, which the winds and the waves, the hills and the clouds, the trees and the birds even, know all about, but which we—clumsy creatures that we are—are as yet shut out from.
"What is it all about, I wonder?" said Gratian to himself, as he became conscious of this feeling—anautumnfeeling it always is, I think. "Everything seems so grave. Are they planning about the winter coming, and how the flowers and all the tender little plants are to be taken care of till it is over? Or is there going to be a great storm up in the sky? perhaps they are trying to settle it without a battle, but it does look very gloomy up there."
For the grayness had the threatening steel-blue shade over it which betokens disturbance of some kind. Still the child's spirits rose as he ran; there was something reviving in the little gusts of moorland breeze that met him every now and then, and he forgot everything else in the pleasure of the quick movement and the glow that soon replaced the chilly feelings with which he had set out.
He had run a good way, when something white, or light-coloured, fluttering on the ground some little way before him, caught his eye. And as he drew nearer he saw that it was a book, or papers of some kind, hooked on to a low-growing furze bush. Suddenly the words of the mysterious figure of the night before returned to his mind—"Look for the furze bush on the right of the path where it turns for the last time," she had said.
Gratian stopped short. Yes—there in front of him was the landmark—the path turned here for the last time, as she had said. He looked about him in astonishment.
"This was where my books were last night, then," he said to himself. "I had no idea I had come so far! Why, I was home in half a second—it is very strange—I could fancy it was a dream, or else that last night and the rainbow dancewasn'ta dream."
He ran on to where the white thing was still fluttering appealingly, as if begging him to detach it. Poor white thing! It was or had been an exercise-book. At first Gratian fancied it must be one of his copy-books, left behind by mistake after his fairy friend had given him back the rest of his books. But as soon as he took it in his hands and saw theneat, clear characters, he knew it was not his, and he did not need to look at the signature, "Anthony Ferris," to guess that it belonged to the miller's son—for Tony was a clever boy, almost at the head of the school, and famed for his very good writing.
"Ah ha," thought Gratian triumphantly, "I have you now, Master Tony."
He had recognised the book as containing Tony's dictation lessons, for here and there were the wrongly spelt words—not many of them, for Tony was a good speller too—marked by the schoolmaster.
"Tony must have meant to take the book home to copy it out clear, and correct the wrong spelling," thought Gratian. And he remembered hearing the teacher telling Tony's class that on the neatness with which this was done would depend several important good marks. "He'll not be head of his class, now he's lost this book. Serve him right for the trick he played me," said Gratian to himself, as he rolled up the tattered book and slipped it into his satchel. "It's not so badly torn but what he could have copied it out all right, but it would have been torn to pieces by this evening, now that the wind's getting up. So it isn't my fault but his own—nasty spitefulfellow. Where would allmypoor books have been by now, thanks to him?"
The wind was getting up indeed—and a cold biting wind too. For just as Gratian was thus thinking, there came down such a gust as he had but seldom felt the force of. For an instant he staggered and all but fell, so unprepared had he been for the sudden buffet. It took all his strength and agility to keep his feet during the short remainder of the moorland path, so sharp and violent were the blasts. And it was with face and hands tingling and smarting painfully that he entered the schoolroom.
"For 'tis sweet to stammer one letterOf the Eternal's language;—on earth it is called forgiveness!"The Children of the Lord's Supper.—Longfellow
Tony's face was almost the first thing he caught sight of. It was not late, but several children were already there, and Tony, contrary to his custom, instead of playing outside till the very last moment, was in the schoolroom eagerly searching for something among the slates and books belonging to his class. Gratian understood the reason, and smiled to himself inwardly—but had he smiled visibly I don't think his face would have been improved by it. Nor was there real pleasure or rejoicing in the feeling of triumph which for a moment made him forget his smarting face and hands.
"How red you look, Gratian," said Dolly, Tony's sister, "have you been crying?"
"Crying—no, nonsense, Dolly," he replied in a tone such as gentle Gratian seldom used. "Whose face wouldn't be red with such a horrible wind cutting one to pieces."
"Wind!" repeated Dolly, "I didn't feel any wind. It must have got up all of a sudden. Did you get home quickly last night?"
Gratian looked at her. For half an instant he wondered if there was any meaning in her question—had Dolly anything to do with the trick that had been played him? But his glance at her kindly, honest face reassured him. He was going to answer when Tony interrupted him.
"Got home quick," he said, looking up with a grin; "of course he did. He was in such a hurry to get to work. Didn't you see what a lot of books he took home with him? My! your shoulders must have ached before you got to the Farm, Gratian. Mine did, I know, though 'twas only a short bit I carried your satchel."
"It was pretty heavy," said Gratian, unfastening it as he spoke, and coolly taking out the books one after another, watching Tony the while, "but nothing to hurt. And I got all my lessons done nicely. It was kind of you, Tony, to help me to carry my satchel."
Tony stared—with eyes and mouth wide open.
"What's the matter?" said his sister. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost, Tony."
The boy turned away, muttering to himself.
"Tony's put out this morning," said Dolly in a low voice to Gratian, "and I can't help being sorry too. He's lost his exercise-book that he was to copy out clear—and the master said it'd have to do with getting the prize. Tony's in a great taking."
"How did he lose it?" asked Gratian with a rather queer feeling, as he wondered what Dolly would say if she knew that at that very moment the lost book was safely hidden away at the bottom of his satchel, which he took care not to leave within Tony's reach.
"He doesn't know," said Dolly dolefully. "He's sure he had it when we left school last night. We were looking for it all evening, and then he thought maybe it'd be here after all. But it isn't."
Then the bell rang for lessons to begin, and Gratian saw no more of Tony, who was at the other side of the schoolroom in a higher class, and though Dolly was in the same as himself, she was some places off, so that there was no chance of any talking or whispering.
Gratian's lessons were well learnt and understood. It was not long before he found himself higher in his class than he had almost ever done before, and he caught the master's eye looking at him with approval, and a smile of encouragement on his face. Why was it he could not meet it with a brightly answering smile as he would have done the day before? Why did he turn away, his cheeks tingling again as if the wind had been slapping them, here inside the sheltered schoolroom?
The master felt a little disappointed.
"He will never do really well if he is so foolishly shy and bashful," he said to himself, when Gratian turned away as if ashamed to be grateful for the few kind words the teacher said to him at the end of the morning's lessons; and the boy, in a corner of the playground by himself when the other children had run home for their dinner, felt nearly, if not quite, as unhappy as the day before.
"I don't see why I should mind about Tony," he was thinking as he sat there. "He's a naughty, unkind boy, and he deserves to be punished. If it hadn't been forherhelping me, I wouldn't have known my lessons a bit this morning, and the master would have thought I was never going to try. I justhope Tony will lose his place and the prize and everything. Oh, how cold it is!" for round the wall,throughit indeed, it almost seemed, came sneaking a sharp little gust of air, so cold, so cutting, that Gratian actually shivered and shook, and the smarting in his face began again. "I feel cold even in my bones," he said to himself.
Just then voices reached his ear. The door of the schoolhouse opened and the master appeared, showing out a lady, who had evidently come to speak to him about something. She was a very pleasant-looking lady, and Gratian's eyes rested with satisfaction on her pretty dress and graceful figure.
"Then you will not forget about it? You will let me know in a few days what you think?" Gratian heard her say.
"Certainly, madam," replied the schoolmaster. "I have already one or two in my mind who, I think, may be suitable. But I should like to think it over and to ask the parents' consent."
"Of course—of course. Good-bye then for the present, and thank you," said the lady, and then she went out at the little garden-gate and the schoolmaster returned into his house.
"I wonder what they were talking about," thought Gratian. But he soon forgot about it again—his mind was too full of its own affairs.
Tony looked vexed and unhappy that afternoon, and Dolly's rosy face bore traces of tears. She overtook Gratian on his way home in the evening, and began again talking about the lost book.
"It's so vexing for Tony, isn't it?" she said, "and do you know, Gratian, it's even more vexing than we thought. Did you see a lady at the school to-day? Do you know who she was?"
Gratian shook his head.
"She's the lady from the Big House down the road, that's been shut up so long. It isn't her house, but she's the sister or the cousin of the gentleman it belongs to, and he's lent it to her because the doctors said the air hereabouts would be good for her little boy. He's ill someway, he can scarcely walk. And she came to the school to-day to ask master if one of the boys—his best boy, she said—might go sometimes to play with her little boy and read to him a little. And Tony was sure of being the top of the class if only he had finished copying out those exercises—he'd put right all the faults the master had marked, and it only wanted copying. Butnow he's no chance; the other boys have theirs nearly done."
"How do you know about what the lady said?" Gratian asked.
"The master told mother. He met her in the village just before afternoon lessons, and asked her if she'd let Tony go, if so be as he was head of his class."
"And would he like to go, d'ye think, Dolly?" asked Gratian.
"He'd like to be head of his class, anyway," the sister replied. "I don't know as father can let him go, for we're very busy at the mill, and Tony's big enough to help when he's not at school. But he'd not like to see Ben or that conceited Robert put before him. If it were you now, Gratian, I don't think he'd mind so much."
Gratian's heart beat fast at her words. Visions of the pleasure of going to see the pretty lady and her boy, of hearing her soft voice speaking to him, and of seeing the inside of the Big House, which had always been a subject of curiosity to the children of the village, rose temptingly before him. But they soon faded.
"Me!" he exclaimed, "I'd have no chance—even failing Tony."
"I don't know," said Dolly. "You're never a naughty boy, and you can read very nice when you like. Master always seems to think you read next best to Tony. I shouldn't wonder if he sent you, if he's vexed with Tony. And he will be that, for he told him to do out that writing so very neatly. I think it was to be shown to the gentlemen that come to see the school sometimes. But I musn't go any farther with you, Gratian. It'll be dark before I get home. I'm afraid Tony must have dropped the book out here, and that it blew away. Good-night, Gratian."
"Good-night, Dolly," he replied. And then after a little hesitation he added, "I wish—I wish Tony hadn't lost his book."
"Thank you, Gratian," said the little girl as she ran off.
Gratian stood and looked after her with a queer mixture of feelings. It was true, as he had said to Dolly, he did wish Tony had not lost his book, but almost more he wishedhehad not found it. But just now, standing there in the softly fading light, with the evening breeze—no longer the sharp blast of the morning—gently fanning his cheeks, looking after little Dolly as she ran home, and thinking ofTony's sunburnt troubled face, the angry feelings seemed to grow fainter, till the wish to see his schoolfellow punished for his mischievous trick died away altogether. And once he had got to this, it was a quick step to still better things.
"Iwill, Iwill," he shouted out aloud, though there was no one—wasthere no one?—to hear. And as he sprang forward to rush after Dolly and overtake her, it seemed to him that he was half-lifted from his feet, and at the same moment another waft of the breeze he had been feeling, though still softer and with a scent as of spring flowers about it, blew into his face.
"Are you kissing me, kind wind?" he said laughing, and in answer, as it were, he felt himself blown along almost as swiftly as the night before. At this rate it did not take him long to gain ground on the miller's daughter.
"Dolly, Dolly," he called out when he saw himself within a few paces of her. "Stop, do stop. I have something for you—something to say to you."
Dolly turned round in astonishment.
"Gratian!" she exclaimed, "have you been running after me all this time? I would have waited for you if I'd known."
"Look here, Dolly," and he held out to her the poor copy-book which he had already taken out of his satchel.
"Never mind. I ran very fast," said Gratian. "Look here, Dolly," and he held out to her the poor copy-book which he had already taken out of his satchel. "This is what I ran after you for; give it to Tony, and——"
"Tony's lost exercise-book!" cried Dolly. "Oh Gratian, how glad he will be. Where did you find it?Howgood of you! Did you find it just now, since you said good-night to me?"
Gratian's face grew red, but it was too dark for Dolly to see.
"No," he said, "I found it before. But—but—Tony had done me a bad turn, Dolly, and it wasn't easy—not all at once—to do him a good one instead. But I've done it now, and you may tell him what I say. I'm quite in earnest, and I'm glad I've done it. Tell him I hope he'll be the head of his class now, anyway, and——"
"Gratian," said Dolly, catching hold of his arm as she spoke, "I don't know what the trick was that Tony played you, or tried to play you. But I know he's terrible fond of tricks, though I don't think he's got a bad heart. And it was too bad of him to play it on you, it was—you that never does ill turns to none of us."
"I've been near it this time, though," said Gratian, feeling, now that the temptation was over, the comfort of confessing the worst. "I was very mad with Tony, and I didn't like bringing myself to give back his book. I don't want you to think me better than I am, Dolly."
"But I do think you very good all the same, I do," said the little girl earnestly, "and I'll tell Tony so. And you shan't have any more tricks played you by him—he's not so bad as that. Thank you very much, Gratian. If he gets the prize, it'll be all through you."
"And about going to the Big House," added Gratian, rather sadly. "He'll be the one for that now. I think that's far before getting a prize. It was thinking of that made me feel Imustgive him his book. I'd give a good deal, I know, to be the one to go the Big House."
"Would you?" said Dolly, a little surprised, for it was not very often Gratian spoke so eagerly about anything. "I don't know that I'd care so much about it. And to be sure you might have been the one if you hadn't helped Tony now! But I don't know that it would be much fun after all—just amusing a little boy that's ill."
"You didn't see the lady, Dolly, butIdid," said Gratian. "She's not like any one I ever saw before—she's so beautiful. Her hair's a little the colour of yours, I think, but her skin's like—like cream, and her eyes are as kind as forget-me-nots."
"Was she finely dressed?" asked Dolly, becoming interested.
"Yes—at least I think so. Her dress was very soft, and a nice sort of shiny way when she moved, and she spoke so prettily. And oh, Dolly, it'd be terribly nice to see the Big House. Fancy, I've heard tell there are beautiful pictures there."
"Pictures—big ones in gold frames, do you mean?" Dolly inquired.
"I don't know about gold frames. I've never seen any. But pictures of all sorts of things—of places far away, I daresay, where the sky is so blue and the big sea—like what the master tells us sometimes in our geography. Oh, I'd like more than anything to see pictures, Dolly."
"I never thought about such things. What a funny boy you are, Gratian," said Dolly, as she ran off joyfully, with Tony's tattered book in her hand.
It did not take Gratian long to make his way home—the feeling of having done right "adds featherto the heel." But as he sped along the moorland path he could not help wondering to himself if his soft-voiced friend of the night before were anywhere near.
"I think she must be pleased with me," he thought. "It feels like her kissing me," as just then the evening breeze again met him as he ran. "Is it you Golden-wings, or you, Spirit of the Waves?" he said, for he had learnt in his dream to think of them thus. And a little soft laughter in the air about him told him he was not far wrong. "Perhaps it is both together," he thought. "I think they are pleased. It is nicer than when that sharp East-wind comes snapping at one—though after all, East-wind, I think perhaps I should thank you for having stung me as you did this morning—I rather think I deserved it."
Whiz, rush, dash—came a sharp blast as he spoke. Gratian started, and for half a moment felt almost angry.
"I didn't deserve it just now, though," he said. But a ripple of laughter above him made his vexation fade away.
"You silly boy," came a whisper close to his ear. "Can't you take a joke?"
"Yes, that I can, as well as any one;" and nosooner were the words out of his mouth than again, with the whir and the swoop now becoming familiar to him, he was once more raised from the ground, and really, before he knew where he was, he found himself at the gate of the farm-house.
His mother was just coming out to the door.
"Dear me, child," she said, "how suddenly you have come! I have been out several times to the gate to look for you, but though it is not yet dark I didn't see you."
"I did come very quickly, mother dear," said Gratian, and for a moment he thought of telling her about his strange new friends. But somehow, when he was on the point of doing so, the words would not come, and his feelings grew misty and confused as when one tries to recollect a dream that one knows was in one's memory but a moment before. And he felt that the voices of the winds were as little to be told as are the songs of the birds to those who have not heard them for themselves. So he just looked up in his mother's face with a smile, and she stooped and kissed him—which she did not very often do. For the moorland people are not soft and caressing in their ways, but rather sharp and rugged, though their hearts are true.
"I wonder where you come from, sometimes, Gratian," said his mother half-laughing. "You don't seem like the other children about."
"But mother, I'm getting over dreaming at my lessons. I am indeed," said the child brightly. "I think when you ask the master about me the next time, he'll tell you he's pleased with me."
"That's my good boy," said she well pleased.
So the day ended well for the child of the Four Winds.
"Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory."Shelley
As Gratian was running into school the next morning he felt some one tugging at his coat, and looking round, there was Tony, his round face redder than usual, his eyes bright and yet shy.
"She give it me, Gratian—Doll did—and—and—I've to thank you. I was awful glad—I was that."
"Have you got it done? Will it be all right for the prize and all that?" asked Gratian.
Tony nodded.
"I think so. I sat up late last night writing, and I think I'll get it done to-night. It was awful good of you, Gratian," Tony went on, growing more at his ease, "for I won't go for to say that it wasn't a mean trick about the stones. But I meant to go back andget the books and keep them safe for you till the next morning. You did look so funny tramping along with the bag of stones," and Tony's face screwed itself up as if he wanted to laugh but dared not.
"It didn'tfeelfunny," said Gratian. "It felt very horrid. Indeed it makes me get cross to think of it even now—don't say any more about it, Tony."
For it did seem to him as if, after all, the miller's boy was getting off rather easily! And it felt a little hard that all the good things should be falling to Tony's share, when he had been so unkind to another.
"I want to forget it," he went on; "if the master knew about it, he'd not let you off without a good scolding. But I'm not going to stand here shivering—I tell you I don't want to say any more about it, Tony."
"Shivering," repeated Tony, "why it's a wonderful mild morning for November. Father was just saying so"—and to tell the truth Gratian himself had thought it so as he ran across the moor. "But, Gratian, you needn't be so mad with me now—I know it was a mean trick, and just to show you that I know it, I promise you the mastershallknow all about it," andTony held his head higher as he said the words. "There's only one thing, Gratian. I do wish you'd tell me where you found my book, and how you knew where I'd hidden yours? I've been thinking and thinking about it, and I can't make it out. Folks do say as there's still queer customers to be met on the moor after nightfall. I wonder if you got the fairies to help you, Gratian?" added Tony laughing.
Gratian laughed too.
"No, Tony, it wasn't the fairies," he said, his good-humour returning. And it was quite restored by a sweet soft whisper at that moment breathed into his ear—"no, not the fairies—but who it was is our secret—eh, Gratian?" And Gratian laughed again softly in return.
"Who was it then?" persisted Tony. But just then the school-bell rang, and there was no time for more talking.
Tony was kept very busy for the next day or two with his writing-out, which took him longer than he expected. Gratian too was working hard to make up for lost time, but he felt happy. He saw that the master was pleased, and that his companions were beginning to look up to him as they had neverdone before. But he missed his new friends. The weather was very still—for some days he had heard scarcely a rustle among the trees and bushes, and though he had lain awake at night, no murmuring voices in the chimney had reached his ears.
"Have they gone away already? Was it all a dream?" the child asked himself sadly.
Sunday came round again, and Gratian set off to church with his father and mother. Going to church was one of his pleasures—of late especially, for the owner of the Big House, though seldom there himself, was generous and rich, and he had spent money in restoring the church and giving a beautiful organ. And on Sunday mornings an organist came from a distance to play on it, but in the afternoon its great voice was silent, for no one in the village—not even the schoolmaster, who was supposed to know most things—knew how to play on it. For this reason Gratian never cared to go to church the second time—he would much rather have stayed out on the moor with Jonas and Watch, and sometimes, in the fine summer weather, when the walk was hot and tiring even for big people, his mother had allowed him to do so. But now, with winter at hand, it was not fit for sauntering about or lying on theheather, especially with Sunday clothes on, so the child knew it was no use asking to stay at home.
This Sunday afternoon brought a very welcome surprise. Scarcely was the boy settled in his corner beside his mother, before the rich deep tones fell on his ear. He started and looked about him, not sure if his fancy were not playing him false. But no—clearer and stronger grew the music—there was no mistake, and Gratian gave himself up to the pleasure of listening. And never had it been to him more beautiful. New fancies mingled with his enjoyment of it, for it seemed to him that he could distinguish in it the voices of his friends—the loving, plaintive breath of the west, telling of the lapping of the waves on some lonely shore; the sterner, deeper tones of the strong spirit of the north; even the sharply thrilling blast of the ever-restless east wind seemed to flash here and there like lightning darts, cutting through and yet melting again into the harmony. And then from time to time the sweet, rich glowing song of praise from the lips of Golden-wings, the joyful.
"Yes, they are all there," said Gratian to himself in an ecstasy of completest pleasure. "I hear them all. That is perhaps why they have not come to melately—it was to be a surprise! But I have found you out, you see. Ah, if I could play on the organ you could never hide yourselves from me for long, my friends. Perhaps the organ is one of their real homes. I wonder if it can be."
And his face looked so bright and yet absorbed that his mother could not help smiling at him, as they sat waiting for a moment after the last notes had died away.
"Are you so pleased to have music in the afternoon too?" she said. "It is thanks to the stranger lady—the squire's cousin, who has come to the Big House. There—you can see her. She is just closing the organ."
Gratian stood up on his tiptoes and bent forward as far as he could. He caught but one glimpse of the fair face, but it was enough. It was the same—the lady with the forget-me-not eyes; and his own eyes beamed with fresh delight.
"They must be friends of hers too," was the first thought that darted through his brain; "she must know them, else she couldn't make their voices come like that. Oh dear, if I could but go to the Big House, perhaps she would tell me about how she knows them."
But even to think of the possibility was very nice. Gratian mused on it, turning it over and over in his mind, as was his wont, all the way home. And that evening, while he sat in his corner reading over the verses which the master always liked his scholars to say on the Monday morning—his father and mother with their big Sunday books open on the table before them as usual—a strange feeling came over him that he was again in the church, again listening to the organ; and so absorbing grew the feeling that, fearful of its vanishing, he closed his eyes and leaned his curly head on the wooden rail of the old chair and listened. Yes, clearer and fuller grew the tones—he was curled up in a corner of the chancel by this time, in his dream—and gradually in front, as it were, of the background of sound, grew out the voices he had learnt to know so well. They all seemed to be singing together at first, but by degrees the singing turned into soft speaking, the sound of the organ had faded into silence, and opening his eyes, by a faint ray of moonlight creeping in through the window, he saw he was in his own bed in his own room.
How had he come there? Had his mother carried him up and undressed him without awaking him asshe had sometimes done when he was a very tiny boy?
"No—she couldn't. I'm too big and heavy," he thought sleepily. "But hush! the voices again."
"Yes, I carried him up. He was so sleepy—he never knew—nobody knew. The mother looked round and thought he had gone off himself. And Golden-wings undressed him. He will notice the scent on his little shirt when he puts it on in the morning."
"Humph!" replied a second voice, in a rather surly tone, "you are spoiling the child, you and our sister of the south. Snow-wings and I must take him in hand a while—a whi—ile."
For the East-wind was evidently in a hurry. Her voice grew fainter as if she were flying away.
"Stop a moment," said the softest voice of all. "It's not fair of you to say we are spoiling the child—Sea-breezes and I—we're doing nothing of the kind. We never pet or comfort him save when he deserves it—we keep strictly to our compact. You and our icy sister have been free to interfere when you thought right. Do you hear, Gray-wings! do you he—ar?"
And far off, from the very top of the chimney, came Gray-wings's reply.
"All right—all right, but I haven't time to wait. Good-night—go—od-ni—ght," and for once East-wind's voice sounded soft and musical.
Then the two gentle sisters went on murmuring together, and what they said was very pleasant to Gratian to hear.
"Isay," said Golden-wings—"Isay he has been a very good boy. He is doing credit to his training, little though he suspects how long he has been under our charge."
"He is awaking to that and to other things now," replied she whom the others called the Spirit of the Sea. "It is sad to think that some day our guardianship must come to an end."
"Well, don't think of it, then.Inever think of disagreeable things," replied the bright voice.
"But how can one help it? Think how tiny he was—the queer little red-faced solemn-eyed baby, when we first sang our lullabies to him, and how we looked forward to the time when he should hear more in our voices than any one but a godchild of ourscanhear. And now——"
"Now that time has come, and we must take care what we say—he may be awake at this very moment. But listen, sister—I think we must do something—youand I. Our sterner sisters are all very well in their places, but all work and no play is notmyidea of education. Now listen to my plan;" but here the murmuring grew so soft and vague that Gratian could no longer distinguish the syllables. He tried to strain his ears, but it was useless, and he grew sleepy through the trying to keep awake. The last sound he was conscious of was a flapping of wings and a murmured "Good-night, Gratian. Good-night, little godson—good-ni—ight," and then he fell asleep and slept till morning.
He would have forgotten it all perhaps, or remembered it only with the indistinctness of a dream that is past, had it not been for something unusual in the look of the little heap of clothes which lay on the chair beside his bed. They were soveryneatly folded—though Gratian prided himself rather on his own neat folding—and the shirt was so snow-white and smooth that the boy thought at first his mother had laid out a fresh one while he was asleep. But no—yesterday was Sunday. Mrs. Conyfer would have thought another clean one on Monday very extravagant—besides, not even from her linen drawers, scented with lavender, could have come that delicious fragrance! Gratian snuffed and sniffed with ever-increasingsatisfaction, as the words he had overheard in the night returned to his memory. And his stockings—they too were scented! What it was like I could not tell you, unless it be true, as old travellers say, that miles and miles away from the far-famed Spice Islands their fragrance may be perceived, wafted out to sea by the breeze. That, I think, may give you a faint idea of the perfume left by the South-wind on her godson's garments.
"So it's true—I wasn't dreaming," thought the boy. "I wonder what the plot was that I couldn't hear about. I shall know before long, I daresay."
At breakfast he noticed his mother looking at him curiously.
"What is it, mother?" he said; "is my hair not neat?"
"No, child. On the contrary, I was thinking how very tidy you look this morning. Your collar is so smooth and clean. Can it be the one you wore yesterday?"
"Yes, mother," he replied, "just look how nice it is. And hasn't it a nice scent?"
He got up as he spoke and stood beside her. She smoothed his collar with satisfaction.
"It is certainly very well starched and ironed,"she said. "Madge is improving; I must tell her so. That new soap too has quite a pleasant smell about it—like new-mown hay. It's partly the lavender in the drawers, I daresay."
But Gratian smiled to himself—thinking he knew better!
"Gratian," said his mother, two mornings later, as he was starting for school, "I had a message from the master yesterday. He wants to see me about you, but he is very busy, and he says if father or I should be in the village to-day or to-morrow, he would take it kindly if we would look in. I must call at the mill for father to-day—he's too busy to go himself—so I think I'll go on to school, and then we can walk back together. So don't start home this afternoon till I come."
"No, mother, I won't," said Gratian. But he still hung about as if he had more to say.
"What is it?" asked his mother. "You're not afraid the master's going to give a bad account of you?"
"No, mother—not since I've cured myself of dreaming," he answered. "I was only wondering if I knew what it was he was going to ask you."
"Better wait and know for sure," said his mother. So Gratian set off.
But he found it impossible not to keep thinking and wondering about it to himself. Could it be anything about the Big House? Had Tony kept his promise, and told the master of the trick he had played, so that Gratian, and not he, should be chosen?
"He didn't seem to care about it much," thought Gratian, "not near so much as I should—oh, dear no! Still it wouldn't be very nice for him to have to tell against himself, whether he cared about it or not."
But as his mother had said, it was best to wait a while and know, instead of wasting time in fruitless guessing.
Tony seemed quite cheerful and merry, and little Dolly was as friendly as possible. After the morning lessons were over and the other children dispersed, the schoolmaster called Gratian in again.
"It is too cold now for you to eat your dinner in the playground, my boy," he said. "After you have run about a little, come in and find a warmer dining-room inside. But I have something else to say to you. I had a talk with Anthony Ferris yesterday."
Gratian felt himself growing red, but he did not speak.
"He told me of the trick he'd played you. A very unkind and silly trick it was, and so I said to him; but as he told it himself I won't punish him.He told me more, Gratian—of your finding his book and giving it back to him, when you might have done him an ill turn by keeping it."
"I did keep it all one day, sir," said Gratian humbly.
"Ah well, you did give it him in the end," said the master smiling. "I am pleased to see that you did the right thing in face of temptation. And Tony feels it himself. He's an honest-hearted lad and a clever one. He has done that piece of work I gave him well, and no doubt he stands as the head boy"—here the master stopped and seemed to be thinking over something. Then he went on again rather abruptly.
"That was all I wanted to say to you just now, I think. Tony is really grateful to you, and if he can show it, he will. Did your father or mother say anything about coming to see me?"
"Please, sir, mother's coming this afternoon. I'm to wait and go home with her."
"Ah well, that's all right."
But Gratian had plenty to think of while he ate his dinner. He was very much impressed by Tony's having really told.
"I wonder," he kept saying to himself, "I do wonder if perhaps——"
"The light of love, the purity of grace;The mind, the music breathing from her face;The heart, whose softness harmonised the whole."
Mrs. Conyfer was waiting for Gratian at the gate of the schoolhouse when he came out.
"We must make haste," she said; "I think it's going to rain."
Gratian looked up at the sky, and sniffed the cold evening air.
"Yes," he said, "I think it is."
"It's not so cold quite as it was when I came down," Mrs. Conyfer went on—the dwellers at Four Winds often spoke of "coming down," when they meant going to the village—"that's perhaps because the rain is coming. I don't want to get my bonnet spoilt—I might have known it was going to rain when father said the wind was in the west."
"Why does the west wind bring rain?" asked Gratian; "is it because it comes from the sea?"
"Nay," said his mother, "I don't know. You should know better about such things than I—you that's always listening to the winds and hearing what they've got to say."
Gratian looked up, a little surprised.
"What makes you say that, mother?" he asked.
Mrs. Conyfer laughed a little.
"I scarcely know," she said. "We always said of you when you were a baby that you seemed to hear words in the wind—you were always content to lie still, no matter how long you were left, if only the wind were blowing. And it seems to me even now that you're always happiest and best when there's wind about, though it's maybe only a fancy of mine."
But Gratian looked pleased.
"No, mother," he said, "I don't think it's a fancy. I think myself it's quite true."
And he pulled off his cap as he spoke and let the wind blow his hair about, and lifted up his face as if inviting its caresses.
"It's getting up," he said. "But I think we'll get home before the rain comes."
His mother had not heard the whisper that had reached his ear through the gust of wind.
"I will help you home, Gratian, both you and your mother, though she won't know it."
He laughed to himself when he felt the gentle, steady way in which they were blown along—never had the long walk to the Farm seemed so short to Mrs. Conyfer.
"Dear me," she said, when they were within a few yards of the gate, "I couldn't have believed we were home! It makes a difference when the wind is with us, I suppose."
Gratian pulled her back a moment, as she was going in.
"Mother," he said, "what was it the master wanted to say to you? Won't you tell me?"
"I must speak first to father," she replied; "it's something which we must have his leave for first."
Gratian could not ask any more, and nothing more was said to him till the next morning when he was starting for school. Then his mother came to the door with him.
"I've a message for the master," she said. "Listen, Gratian. You must tell him from me that father and I have no objection to his doing as he likesabout what he spoke to me of yesterday. He said he'd like to tell you about it himself—so I won't tell you any more. Maybe you'll not care about it when you hear it."
"Ah—I don't think that," said the boy, as he ran off.
He needed no blowing to school that morning. The way seemed short, even though it was still drizzling—a cold, disagreeable, small rain, which had succeeded the downpour of the night before. But Gratian cared little for rain—what true child of the moors could?—he rather liked it than otherwise, especially when it came drifting over in great sheets, almost blinding for the moment, and then again dispersed as suddenly, so that standing on the high ground one could see on the slopes beneath when it was raining and when it stopped. It gave one a feeling of being "above the clouds" that Gratian liked. But this morning there was nothing of a weather panorama of that kind—just sheer, steady, sapping rain, with no wind to interfere.
"They are tired, I daresay," thought Gratian; "for they must have been hard at work last night, getting the clouds together for all this rain. I expect Golden-wings goes off altogether when it'sso cold and dreary. I wonder where she is. I would like to see her home—it must be full of such beautiful colours and scents."
"And mine—wouldn't you like to see mine?" whistled a sudden cold breath in his ear. "Yes, I have made you jump. But I'm not going to bring the snow just yet—I've just come down for a moment, to see how much rain Green-wings has got together. She mustn't waste it, you see. I can't have her interfering with my reservoirs for the winter. I hold with a good old-fashioned winter—a snowy Christmas and plenty of picture exhibitions for my pet artist, Jack Frost. A good winter's the healthiest in the end for all concerned."
"Yes, I think so too," said Gratian. He wished to be civil to White-wings. It was interesting to have some one to talk to as he went along, and the North-wind in a mild mood seemed an agreeable companion, less snappish and jerky than her sister of the east.
"That's a sensible boy," said the snow-bringer condescendingly; "you've something of the old northern spirit about you here on the moorlands still, I fancy. Ah! if you could see the north—the real north—I don't fancy you would care muchabout the sleepy golden lands you were dreaming of just now."
"I'd like toseethem," replied the child; "I don't say I'd like to live in them always. But the scents and the colours—they must be very beautiful. I seem to know all about them when Golden-wings kisses me."
"Humph," said the Spirit of the North. Both she and Gray-wings had a peculiar way of saying "humph" when Gratian praised either of the gentler sisters—"as for scents I don't say—scent is a stupid sort of thing. I don't understand anything about it. Butcolours—you're mistaken, I assure you, if you think the south can beat me in that. You've got your head full of the idea of snow—interminable ice-fields and all the rest of it. Why, my good boy, did you never hear of Arctic sunsets—not to speak of the Northern Lights? I could show you sunsets and sunrises such as you have never dreamt of—like rainbows painted on gold. Ah, it is a pity you cannot come with me!"
"And why can't I?" asked Gratian. "I'm not afraid of the cold."
The North-wind gave a whistle of good-natured contempt.
"My dear, you'd have no time to be afraid or not afraid—you'd be dead before you'd even looked about you. Ah—it's a terrible inconvenience, those bodies of yours—if you were like us, now! But I mustn't waste my time talking, only as I was passing I thought I'd say a word or two. When my sisters are all together there's never any getting in a syllable edgeways. Good-bye, my child. We'll meet again oftener during the next few months."
"Good-bye, Godmother White-wings," said Gratian, and a gust of wind rushing past him with a whistle seemed to answer, "Good-bye."
"I'm very glad to have had a little talk with her," he said to himself; "she's much nicer than I thought she was, and she makes one feel so strong and brisk. Dear me—what wonderful places there must be up in the north where she lives!"
The master called him aside after morning lessons.
"Did your mother send any message to me, Gratian?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," and he repeated what Mrs. Conyfer had said.
The schoolmaster looked pleased.
"I'm glad she and your father have no objection," he said. "I think it may be a good thing for you inseveral ways. But I must explain it to you. You know the Big House as they call it, here? A lady and her son have come to stay there for a time—relations of the squire's——"
"Yes, sir, I know," interrupted Gratian; "she plays the organ on Sunday afternoons, and her little boy is ill."
"Not exactly ill, but he had a fall, and he mustn't walk about or stand much. It's dull for him, as at home he was used to companions. His mother asked me to send him one of my best boys—a boy who could read well for one thing—as a playmate. At first I thought of Tony Ferris, and I spoke of him. But Tony has begged me to choose you instead of him."
Gratian raised his brown eyes and fixed them on the master's face.
"Does Tony not want to go?" he asked. "I shouldn't like to take it from him if he wants to go."
"I think he would be happier for you to go," said the master, "and perhaps you may be more suitable. Besides Tony thinks that he owes you something. He has told me of the trick he played you, as you know—and certainly you deserve to be chosen more than he. I am not sure that he would care muchabout it; but still it will give him pleasure to think he has got it for you, and we may let him have this pleasure."
"Yes, sir," said Gratian thoughtfully. And then he added, "it was good of Tony to ask for it for me."
"Yes, it was," agreed the master.
"Then when am I to go?" asked Gratian.
"This afternoon. I will let you off an hour or so earlier, and you can stay at the Big House till it is dark. It is no farther home from there than from here, if you go by the road at the back of it. We shall see how you get on, and then the lady will tell you about going again."
Gratian still lingered.
"What is it?" said the master. "Do you not think you shall like it?"
"Oh no, sir, oh no," exclaimed the child. "I was only wondering. Are there pictures at the Big House, do you think, sir?"
"Yes, I think there are some. Are you fond of pictures?"
"I don't know, sir. I've never seen any real ones. But I've often thought about them, and fancied them in my mind. There are such lots of things I'd like to see pictures of that I can't see any other way."
"Well, perhaps you will see some at the Big House," said the master with a smile.
Out in the playground Gratian ran against Tony.
"Has he told you?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes," said Gratian. "I'm to go this afternoon. It was very good of you, Tony, to want me to go instead of you."
Tony got rather red.
"I don't know that I'd a-cared about it much, Gratian," he said. "It wasn't that as cost me much. But to tell you the truth, I did want to get out of telling the master about the trick I'd played you. And I don't know as I'd have told it, but a mighty queer thing happened—it's thanks to that I told."
"What was it?" asked Gratian.
"It was at night after I was in bed. I'd put off telling, and I thought maybe it'd all be forgotten. And that night all of a sudden there came such a storm of wind that it woke me up—the window had burst open, and I swear to you, Gratian—I've not told any one else—I saw a figure all in white, and with white wings, leaning over my bed, as if it had brought the storm with it. I was so frightened I began to think of all the bad things I had done, and I hollered out, 'I'll tell master first thing to-morrowmorning, I will.' And with that the wind seemed to go down as sudden as it came, and I heard a sort of singing, something like when the organ plays very low in church, and there was a beautiful sweet scent of flowers through the room; and I suppose I fell asleep again, for when I woke it was morning, and I could have fancied it was all a dream, for nobody else had heard the wind in the night."
"We hear it most nights up at our place," said Gratian, "but I'm never frightened of it."
"You would have been that night—leastwaysIwas. I durstn't go back from my word, dream or no dream—so now you know, Gratian, how I came to tell. And I hope you'll enjoy yourself at the Big House."
"I shall thank you for it if I do, all the same, Tony," Gratian replied.
"It's more in your way than mine. I'd feel myself such a great silly going among gentry folk like that," said Tony, as he scampered off to his dinner.
About three o'clock that afternoon Gratian found himself at the gates of the Big House. He had often passed by that way and stood looking in, but he had never been within the gates, for they were always keptlocked; and there had been a strange, almost sad look of loneliness and desertedness about the place, even though the gardens had not been allowed to be untidy or overrun. Now it looked already different; the padlock and chain were removed, and there were the marks of wheels upon the gravel. It seemed to Gratian that even if he had not known there were visitors in the old house he would have guessed it.
He walked slowly up the avenue which led from the gates to the house. He was not the least afraid or shy, but he was full of interest and expectation. He wanted to see everything—to miss nothing, and even the walk up the avenue seemed to him full of wonder and charm. Ithada charm of its own no doubt, for at each side stood pine-trees like rows of sentinels keeping guard on all comers, tall, stately, and solemn, only now and then moving their heads with silent dignity, as if in reply to observations passing among them up there, too high to be heard. The pines round Gratian's home were not so tall or straight—naturally, for they had a great deal of buffeting to do in order to live at all, and this of course did not help them to grow tall or erect. Gratian looked up in wonder at the great height.
"How I wish I knew what they say to each other up there," he said.
But just then a drop of something cold falling on his face made him start. It was beginning to rain.
"I wouldn't like to be wet when I first see the lady and the young gentleman," he thought. "I must be quick."
So off he set at a run, which perhaps did not much hasten matters, for when he got to the hall door he was so out of breath that he had to stand still for several minutes before venturing to ring.
The bell, when he did ring it, sounded sharp and hollow, almost like a bell ringing in an empty house. And when the door was opened, he saw that the large hall did look bare and empty, and he felt a little disappointed. But this feeling did not last long. Before he had time to say anything to the servant, a sweet, bright voice came sounding clearly.
"Oh, here he is, Fergus," were the words she said, and in another instant the owner of the voice appeared. It was the lady of the organ. She came forward smiling, and holding out her hand, but Gratian gazed at her for a moment without speaking, nor seeming to understand that she was speaking to him. He had never seen any one like her before.She was tall and fair, and her face was truly lovely. But what made it so, more than the delicate features or the pretty soft colours, was its sunny brightness, which yet from time to time was veiled by a look of pitying sadness, almost sweeter. And at these times the intense blueness of her eyes grew paler and fainter, so that they looked almost gray, like the sea when a cloud comes over the sunny sky above; only as Gratian had never seen the sea, he could not think this to himself.
What he did say to himself told it quite as well.
"She is like Golden-wings and Green-wings mixed together," was his thought.
And then having decided this, his mind seemed to grow clearer, the sort of confused bewilderment he had felt for a moment wafted itself away, and he distinguished the words she had repeated to him more than once.
"You are the little boy Mr. Cornelius has kindly sent to see my poor little boy. It is kind too of you to come. I hope you and Fergus will be great friends."
She thought he was shy when at first he did not answer. But looking at him again she saw that itwas not shyness which was speaking out of his big brown eyes.
"You are not afraid of me, are you?" she said smiling again.
"Oh no," he replied. "I didn't mean to be rude. I couldn't be frightened of you. I was only thinking—I never saw anybody so beautiful as you before," he went on simply, "and it made me think."
The lady flushed a little—a very little.
"I am pleased that you like my face," she said. "I like yours too, and I am sure Fergus will. Will you come and see him now? He is waiting eagerly for you."
She held out her hand again, and Gratian this time put his little brown one into it confidingly. And thus she led him out of the large, cold hall, down a short passage, rendered light and cheerful by a large window—here a door stood open, and a glow of warmth seemed to meet them as they drew near it.