"Old portraits round in order set,Carved heavy tables, chairs, buffetOf dark mahogany."Mrs. Southey
For there was a bright fire burning in the room, which sent red rays flickering and dancing in all directions, lighting up the faded tints of the ancient curtains and covers, and bringing rich crimson shades out of the shining, old dark mahogany furniture. There were flowers too; a bouquet of autumn leaves—bronze and copper and olive—with two or three fragile "last roses" in the middle, on which Gratian's eyes rested with pleasure for a moment, on their way to the small figure—the most interesting object of all.
He was lying on a little sofa, placed so as to be within reach of the fire's warmth, and yet nearenough to the window for him to see out into the garden, to watch the life of the birds and the plants, the clouds and the breezes. The autumn afternoon looked later and darker now to Gratian as he glanced at it from within than when he was himself a part of it out-of-doors, and his eyes returned with pleasure to the nearer warmth and colour, though after the first momentary glimpse of the boy on the sofa a sort of shyness had made him look away.
For the child was extremely pale and thin—he looked much more ill than Gratian had been prepared for, and this gave him a feeling of timidity that nothing else could have caused. But the lady soon put him at his ease.
"Fergus, dear," she said, "here is the little friend you have been hoping for. Come over here near us, my dear boy"—for she had sat down on a low chair beside the couch, evidently her usual place—"and I will help you to get over the first few steps of making friends. To begin with," she said smiling, "do you know we don't know your name? That seems absurd, doesn't it? And you don't know ours."
"Yes—I knowhis," said Gratian, smiling too, and with a little gesture towards the invalid, so gentle and half-timid that no one could have called it rude;"you have just said it—Fergus. I never heard that name before."
"It is a Scotch name," said the lady. "One can almost fancy oneself in Scotland here. And tell us your name."
"Gratian," he replied, "Gratian Conyfer."
"What a nice name," said Fergus, speaking for the first time, "and what a queer one! I can say the same to you as you said to me, Gratian—I never heard that name before."
"How did you come by it?" asked Fergus's mother.
"I think it was because mother is called Grace, and there were several baby brothers that died, that were called for father," he replied.
"And how old are you?" asked Fergus, raising himself a little on his elbow. "I'm eight and a half. I'm not so very small for my age when I stand up—am I, mother?"
"No, dear," she answered with a little shadow over her bright face. "And you, Gratian?"
"I am nine," he said; "but they say at school I don't look so much. Tony is twelve, but he is much, much bigger."
"Tony—who is Tony?" asked Fergus; "is he your brother?"
"Oh no, I have no brothers. He's the head boy at the school."
"Yes," said Fergus's mother, "I remember about him. He was the boy Mr. Cornelius first thought of sending."
"And why didn't he come?" asked Fergus.
Gratian looked up at the lady.
"Did the master tell you?" he asked. The lady smiled, and nodded her head.
"Yes," she said, "I know the story. You may tell it to Fergus, Gratian; he would like to hear it. Now I am going away, for I have letters to write. In half an hour or so you shall have your tea. Would you like it here or in the library, Fergus?"
"Oh, in the library," he said eagerly. "I haven't been there for two days, mother. And then Gratian can see the pictures—you told me he liked pictures?—and best of all, you can play the organ to us, little mother."
"Then you feel better to-day, my boy?" she said, stooping to kiss the white forehead as she was leaving the room. "Some days I can't get him to like to move about at all," she added to Gratian.
"Yes, I do feel better," he said. "I don't mind it hurting me when I don't feel that horrible way as ifI didn't care foranything. Have you ever been ill, Gratian? Do you know how it feels?"
Gratian considered.
"I once had a sore throat," he said, "but I didn't mind very much. It was winter, and I had a fire in my room, and I liked to see the flames going dancing up the chimney."
"Yes," said Fergus, "I know how you mean. I'm sure we must have the same thinkings about things, Gratian. Do you like music too, as much as pictures? Mother says people who like pictures very much, often like music too, and—and—there's something else that those kind of people like too, but I forget what."
"Flowers," suggested Gratian; "flowers and trees, perhaps."
"No," said Fergus, looking a little puzzled, "these would count in with pictures, don't you think? I'll ask mother—she said it so nicely. Don't you like when anybody says a thing so that it seems to fit in with other things?"
"Yes," said Gratian, "I think I do. But I think things to myself, mostly—I've not got anybody much to talk to, except sometimes Jonas. He's got very nice thoughts, only he'd never say them except to Watch and me."
"Who's Watch?" asked Fergus eagerly. "Is he a dog?"
"He's our sheep-dog, and Jonas is the shepherd," replied Gratian. "They're sometimes alone with the sheep for days and days—out on the moors. It's so strange—I've been with them sometimes—it's like another world—to see the moors all round, ever so far, like the sea, I suppose—only I've never seen the sea—and not a creature anywhere, except some wild birds sometimes."
"Stop," said Fergus, closing his eyes; "yes, I can see it now. Go on, Gratian—is the sky gray, or blue with little white clouds?"
"Gray just now," said the boy, "and there's no wind that you can feel blowing. But it's coming—you know it's coming—now and then Watch pricks up his ears, for he can tell it much farther off than we can, and old Jonas pats him a little. Jonas has an old blue round cap—a shepherd's cap—and his face is browny-red, but his hair is nearly white, and his eyes are very blue. Can you see him, Fergus? And the sheep keep on browsing—they make a little scrumping noise when you are quite, quite close to them. And just before the wind really comes a great bird gives a cry—up, very high up—and itswoops down for a moment and then goes up again, till it looks just a little black speck against the sky. And all the time you know the wind is coming. Can you see it all, Fergus?"
"All," said the boy; "it's beautiful. You must tell me pictures often, Gratian, till I can go out again. I never had any one who could make them come so, except mother's music—they come with that. Haven't you noticed that they come with music?"
"I don't know," said Gratian. "I've never seen any real pictures—painted ones in big gold frames."
"There are some here," said Fergus; "not very many, but some. I like a few of them—perhaps you will too. But I like the pictures that come and go in one's fancy best. That's the kind that mother's music brings me."
"Yes," said Gratian, his eyes sparkling, "I understand."
"I was sure you would," said Fergus, with a tiny touch of patronising in his tone, which Gratian was too entirely single-minded to see, or rather perhaps to object to if he did see it. "I knew the minute I saw you, you'd suit me. I'm very glad that other fellow didn't come instead of you. But, by the bye, you haven't told me about that—mother said you'd tell me."
Gratian related the story of his satchel of stones. Fergus was boy enough to laugh a little, though he called it a mean trick; but when Gratian told of having found his books again, he looked puzzled.
"How could you find them?" he asked. "It was nearly dark, didn't you say?"
"I don't quite know," replied Gratian, and he spoke the truth. It was always difficult for him to distinguish between real and fancy, dreaming and waking, in all concerning his four friends, and in some curious way this difficulty increased so much if he ever thought of talking about them, that he felt he was not meant to do so. "I have fancies sometimes—like dreams, perhaps—that I can't explain. And they help me often—when I am in any trouble they help me."
"I don't see how fancies can help you to find things that are lost," said Fergus, who, except in his own particular way, was more practical than Gratian, "unless you mean that you dream things, and your dreams come true."
"It's a little like that," Gratian replied. "I think I had a sort of dream about coming here. I did so want to come—most of all since I heard the lady play in church."
"Yes," said Fergus, "isn't mother's playing beautiful? I've not heard her play in church for ever so long, but I'm so glad there's an organ here. She plays to me every day. I like music best of everything in the world—don't you?"
To which Gratian gave his old answer—"I don't know yet."
Then they began talking of more commonplace things. Each told the other of his daily life and all his childish interests. Fergus was greatly struck by the account of Gratian's home—the old house with the queer name.
"How I should like to see it," he said, "and to feel the wind blow."
"The winds," corrected Gratian, "the four winds."
"Thefourwinds," repeated Fergus. "North, south, east, and west. They don't blow all together, do they?"
"I think they do sometimes. Yes, I know they do—at night I'm sure I've heard them all four together, like tones in music."
Fergus looked delighted.
"Ah, you have to come back to music, you see," he said. "There's nothing tells everything and explains everything as well as music."
"You must have thought about it a great deal,"said Gratian admiringly. "I've only just begun to think about things, and I think it's very puzzling, though I'm older than you. I don't know if music would explain things to me."
"Perhaps not as much as to me," said Fergus. "You see it's been my best thing—ever since I was five years old I've been lying like this. At home the others are very kind, but they can't quite understand," he added, shaking his head a little sadly; "they can all run about and jump and play. And when children can do all that, they don't need to think much. Still it is very dull without them—that is why I begged mother to try to get me somebody to play with. But I think you're better than that, Gratian. I think you understand more—how is it? You've never been ill or had to lie still."
"No," said the boy, "but I've had no brothers and sisters to play with me. And perhaps it's with being born at Four Winds—mother says so herself."
"I daresay it is," said Fergus gravely.
"Won't you get better soon?" asked Gratian, looking at Fergus with profound sympathy. For, gentle as he was, the idea of having to lie still, not being able to run about on the moors and feel his dear winds on his face, having even to call to othersto help him before he could get to the window and look out on the sunshine—it seemed perhaps more dreadful to Gratian than it would have done to an ordinary, healthy child like Tony Ferris. "Won't you too be able to walk and run about—even if it's only a little?"
"I hope so," Fergus replied. "Mother says I mustn't expect ever to be quite strong. But they say I'm getting better. That's why mother brought me here. Do you know I can eat ever so much more than when I came? If I can get well enough to play—even on a piano—I wouldn't mind so much. I could make up all sorts of things for myself then—I could make pictures even of the moorland and Four Winds Farm, I think, Gratian."
"I'll try to tell you them—I'll try to make some of my fancies into stories and pictures," said Gratian; "then afterwards, when you get well and can play, you can make them into music."
Just then the door opened, and Fergus's mother came in.
"Tea is ready," she said, "and Andrew is going to carry you into the library, Fergus."
She looked at the boy a little anxiously as she spoke, and Gratian saw that a slight shadow of pain or fear crept over Fergus's face.
"Mother," he said, "would it perhaps be better to stay here after all? You could show Gratian the pictures."
The lady looked very disappointed.
"The tea is so nicely set out," she said, "and you know you can't hear the organ well from here. And Andrew doesn't hurt you—he is very careful."
Gratian looked on, anxious too. He understood that it must be good for Fergus to go into another room, otherwise his mother would not wish it. Fergus caught sight of the eagerness on Gratian's face, and it carried the day.
"I will go," he said; "here, Andrew."
A man-servant, with a good-humoured face and a strong pair of arms, came forward and lifted the child carefully.
"You walk beside me, Gratian, and hold my hand. If it hurts much I will pinch you a little, but don't let mother know," he said in a whisper; and thus the little procession moved out of the room right across the hall and down another corridor.
"There must be a window open," said Fergus; "don't you feel the air blowing in? Oh don't shut it, mother," as the lady started forward, "it's such nice soft air—scented as if they were making hay. Oh, it's delicious."
His mother seemed a little surprised.
"There is no window open, dear," she said. "It must be that you feel the change from the warm room to the hall. Perhaps I should have covered you up."
"Oh no, no," repeated Fergus. "I'm not the least cold. It's not a cold wind at all. Gratian, don'tyoufeel it?"
"Yes," said Gratian, holding Fergus's hand firmly. But his eyes had a curious look in them, as if he were smiling inwardly to himself.
"Golden-wings, you darling," he murmured, "I know you're there—thank you so much for blowing away his pain."
In another moment Fergus was settled on a couch in the library—a lofty room with rows and rows of books on every side, nearly up to the ceiling. It would have looked gloomy and dull but for the cheerful fire in one corner and the neat tea-table drawn up before it; as it was, the sort of solemn mystery about it was very pleasing to Gratian.
"Isn't it nice here?" said Fergus. "I'm so glad I came. And do you know it didn't hurt me a bit. The fresh air that came in seemed to blow the pain away."
"I think you really must be getting stronger," said his mother, with a smile of hopefulness on her face, as she busied herself with the tea-table; "you have brought us good luck, Gratian."
"I believe he has," said Fergus. "Mother, do you know what he has been telling me? He was born where the four winds meet—hemustbe a lucky child, mustn't he, mother?"
"I should say so, certainly," said the lady with a smile. "I wonder if it is as good as being born on a Sunday."
"Oh far better, mother," said Fergus; "there are lots of children born on Sundays, but I never heard of one before that was born at the winds' meeting-place."
"Gratian will be able to tell you stories, I daresay," said his mother—"stories which the winds tell him, perhaps—eh, Gratian?"
Gratian smiled.
"He has been telling me some pictures already," said Fergus; "oh, mother I'm so happy."
"My darling," said his mother. "Now let me see what a good appetite you have. You must be hungry too, Gratian, my boy. You have a long walk home before you."
Gratian was hungry, but he hardly felt as if he could eat—there was so much to look at and to think about. Everything was so dainty and pretty; though he was well accustomed at the Farm to the most perfect cleanliness and neatness, it was new to him to see the sparkling silver, the tea-kettle boiling on the spirit-lamp with a cheerful sound, the pretty china and glass, and the variety of bread and cakes to tempt poor Fergus's appetite. And the lady herself—with her forget-me-not eyes and sweet voice. Gratian felt as if he were in fairyland.
"What is this strange new life, this finer sense,Which lifts me out of self, and bids me... rise to glorious thoughtHigh hopes, and inarticulate fantasies?""Voices."—Songs of Two Worlds
After tea Fergus's mother turned to the two boys.
"Shall I play to you now?" she said, "or shall we first show Gratian the pictures?"
"Play the last thing, please," said Fergus. "I like to keep it in my mind when I go to bed—it makes me sleep better. We can go into the gallery now and show Gratian the pictures; it would be too dark if we waited."
"It is rather dark already," said the lady, "still Gratian can see some, and the next time he comes he can look at them again."
She rang the bell, and when Andrew came, she toldhim to wheel Fergus's couch into the picture-gallery, which opened into the library where they were.
Andrew opened a double door at the other end of the room from that by which they had come in, and then he gently wheeled forward the couch on which Fergus was lying, and pushed it through the doorway. The gallery was scarcely large enough to deserve the name, but to Gratian's eyes it looked a very wonderful place. It was long and rather narrow, and the light came from the top, and along the sides and ends were hung a good many pictures. All down one side were portraits—gentlemen with wigs, and ladies with powder, and some in queer, fancy dresses, mostly looking stiff and unnatural, though among them were some beautiful faces, and two or three portraits of children, which caught Gratian's eye.
"What do you think of them?" asked Fergus.
Gratian hesitated.
"I don't think people long ago could have been as pretty as they are now," he said at last, "except that lady in the long black dress—oh, she is very pretty, and so is the red little boy with the dog, and the two girls blowing soap-bubbles. The big one has got eyes like—like the lady's," he added half-timidly.
The lady looked pleased.
"You have a quick eye, Gratian," she said. "The pictures you admire are the best here, and that little girl is my great-grandmother. Now, look at the other side. These are pictures of all kinds—not family ones."
Gratian followed her in silence. The pictures were mostly landscapes—some so very old and dark that one could scarcely distinguish what they were. And some of which the colours were brighter, the boy did not care for any better—they were not like any skies or trees he had ever seen or even imagined, and he felt disappointed.
Suddenly he gave a little cry.
"Oh, I like that—I do like that," he said, and he glanced up at the lady for approval.
She smiled again.
"Yes," she said, "it is a wonderful picture. Quite as much a picture of the wind as of the sea."
Gratian gazed at it with delight. The scene was on the coast, on what one might call a playfully stormy day. The waves came dancing in, their crests flashing in the sunshine, pursued and tossed by the wind; and up above, the little clouds were scudding along quite as busy and eager abouttheirbusiness, whatever it was, as the white-sailed fishing-boats below.
"Do you like it so very much?" she asked.
"Yes," the boy replied, "that's like what I fancied pictures were. I've never seen the sea, but I can feel it must be like that."
And after this he did not seem to care to see any others.
And when she sat down to play the light sparkled and glowed on her fair hair, making it look like gold.
Fergus too was getting a little tired of lying alone while his mother and Gratian made the tour of the gallery. So Andrew was called to wheel him back again to the other door of the library, from whence he could best hear the organ. It stood at one side of the large hall, in a recess which had probably been made on purpose. It was dark in the recess even at mid-day, and now the dusk was fast increasing, so the lady lit the candles fixed at each side of the music-desk, and when she sat down to play the light sparkled and glowed on her fair hair, making it look like gold.
Gratian touched Fergus.
"Doesn't it look pretty?" he said, pointing to the little island of light in the gloomy hall.
Fergus nodded.
"I always think mother turns into an angel whenshe plays," he said. "Now, let's listen, Gratian, and afterwards you can tell me what pictures the music makes to you, and I'll tell you what it makes to me."
The organ was old and rather out of repair, and Andrew was not very well used to blowing. That made it, I think, all the more wonderful that the lady could bring such music out of it. It was not so fine and perfect, doubtless, as what Gratian had heard from her in church on the Sunday afternoon, but still it was beautiful enough for him to think of nothing but his delight in listening. She played several pieces—some sad and plaintive, some joyful and triumphant, and then Gratian begged her to play the last he had heard at church.
"That is a good choice for our good-night one," she said. "It is a favourite of Fergus's too. He calls it his good-night hymn."
Fergus did not speak—he was lying with his eyes shut, in quiet happiness, and as the last notes died away, "Don't speak yet, Gratian," he said, "you don't know what I am seeing—flocks of birds are slowly flying out of sight, the sun has set, and one hears a bell in the distance ringing very faintly; one by one the lights are going out in the cottages that I see at the foot of the hill, and the night is creepingup. That is whatIsee when mother plays the good-night. What do you see, Gratian?"
"The moor, I think," said the boy, "our own moor, up, far up, behind our house. It must be looking just as I see it now, at this very minute; only the music is coming from some place—a church, I think,veryfar away. The wind is bringing it—the south wind, not the one from the sea. And you know that when the music is being played in the church there are lots of people all kneeling so that you can't see their faces, and I think some are crying softly."
"Yes," said Fergus, "that isn't so bad. I can see it too. You'll soon get into the way, Gratian," he went on, with his funny little patronising tone, "of making music-pictures if we practice it together. That's the best of music, you see. It makes itself and pictures too. Now pictures never make you music."
"But they give you feelings—like telling you stories—at least that one I like so much does. And I suppose there are many pictures like that—as beautiful as that?" he went on, as if asking the question from the lady, who had left the organ now and was standing by Fergus, listening to what they were saying.
"Yes," she said, "there are many pictures I should like you to see, and many places too. Places which make one wish one could paint them the moment one sees them. Perhaps it is pictures you are going to care most for, little Gratian? If so, they will be music and poetry and everything to you—they will be your voice."
"Poetry," repeated Fergus, "that's the other thing—the thing I couldn't remember the name of, Gratian."
Gratian looked rather puzzled.
"I don't know much about poetry," he said. "But I don't know about anything. I never saw pictures before. There are so many things to know about," he added with a little sigh.
"Don't be discouraged," said the lady smiling. "Everybody has to find out and to learn and to work hard."
"Has everybody a voice?" asked Gratian.
"No, a great many haven't, and some who have don't use it well, which is worse than having none. But don't look so grave; we shall have plenty of time for talking about all these things. I think you must be going home now, otherwise your mother will be wondering what has become of you. And thank her for letting us have you, and say I hope youmay come again on Saturday. You don't mind the long walk home—for it is almost dark, you see?"
"Oh no, I don't mind the dark or anything like that," said Gratian with a little smile, which the lady, even though her forget-me-not eyes were so very clear, could not quite understand.
For he was thinking to himself, "How could I be afraid, with my four godmothers to take care of me, wherever I were?"
Then he turned to say good-bye to Fergus, and the little fellow stretched up his two thin arms and clasped them round the moorland child's neck.
"I love you," he said; "kiss me and come again soon, and let us make stories to tell each other."
The lady kissed him too.
"Thank you for being so good to Fergus," she said.
And Gratian, looking up in her face, wished he could tell her how much he had liked all he had seen and heard, but somehow the words would not come. All he could say was, "Thank you, and good-night."
Out-of-doors again, especially when he got as far as the well-known road he passed along every day, it seemed all like a dream. All the way down the avenue of pines he kept glancing back to see thelights in the windows of the Big House—he liked to think of Fergus and his mother in there by the fire, talking of the afternoon and making, perhaps, plans for another.
"I hope his back won't hurt him to-night when they carry him up to bed," he said to himself. "It was very good of Golden-wings to come. But I'm afraid she can't be here much more, now that the winter is so near. Green-wings might perhaps come sometimes, but——"
A sudden puff of wind in his face, and a voice in his ear, interrupted him. The wind felt sharp and cold, and he did not need the tingling of his cheeks to tell him who was at hand.
"But what?" said the cutting tones of Gray-wings. "Ah, I know what you were going to say, Master Gratian. White-wings and I are too sharp and outspoken for your new friends! Much you know about it. On the contrary, nothing would do the lame boy more good than a nice blast from the north, once he is able to be up and about again. It was for the moorland air the doctors, with some sense for once, sent him up here. And I am sure you must know it isn't Golden-wings and Green-wings only who are to be met with on the moors."
"I'm very sorry if I've offended you," said Gratian, "but you needn't be quite so cross about it. I don't mind you being sharp when I deserve it, but I've been quite good to-day,quitegood. I'm sure the lady wouldn't like me if I wasn't good."
"Humph!" said Gray-wings. At least she meant it to be "humph," and Gratian understood it so, but to any one else it would have sounded more like "whri—i—zz," and you would have put up your hand to your head at once to be sure that your cap or hat wasn't going to fly off. "Humph!Idon't set up to be perfect, though I might boast a little more experience, a few billions of years more, of this queer world of yours than you. And I've been pretty well snubbed in my time and kept in my proper place—to such an extent, indeed, that I don't now even quarrel with having averymuch worse name than I deserve. It's good for one's pride, so I make a wry face and swallow it, though of course, all the same, it must be a very pleasant feeling to know that one has been quite,quitegood. I wish you'd tell me what it's like."
"You're very horrid and unkind, Gray-wings," said Gratian, feeling almost ready to cry. "Just when I was so happy, to try and spoil it all. Tellme what you think I've not been good about and I'll listen, but you needn't go mocking at me for nothing."
There was no answer, and Gratian thought perhaps Gray-wings was feeling ashamed of herself. But he was much mistaken. She was only reserving her breath for a burst of laughter. Gratian of course knew it was laughter, though I don't suppose either you or I would have known it for that.
"What is it that amuses you so?" asked the boy.
"It's Green-wings—you can't see her unfortunately—she's posting down in such a hurry. She thinks I tease you, and she knows I'm in rather a mischievous mood to-night. But they've caught her—she can't get past the corner over there, where the Wildridge hills are—and she is in such a fuss. The hills never like her to run past without paying them a visit if they can help it, and she's too soft-hearted to go on her way will-ye, nill-ye, as I do. So you'll have to trust to me to take you home after all, my dear godchild."
"Dear Green-wings," said Gratian, "I don't like her to be anxious about me."
"Bless you, she's always in a pathetic humour about some one or something," said Gray-wings.
"I don't mind you taking me home if you won't mock at me," said Gratian. "Are you really displeased with me? Have I done anything naughty without knowing it?"
Gray-wings's tone suddenly changed. Never had her voice sounded so gentle and yet earnest.
"No, my child. I only meant to warn you. It is my part both to correct and to warn—of the two I would rather, by far, warn. Don't get your little head turned—don't think there is nothing worth, nothing beautiful, except in the new things you may see and hear and learn. And never think yourselfquiteanything. That is always a mistake. What will seem new to you is only another way of putting the old—and the path to any real good is always the same—never think to get on faster from leaving it. You can't understand all this yet, but you will in time. Now put your arms out, darling—I am here beside you. Clasp them round my neck; never mind if it feels cold—there. I have you safe, and here goes——"
A whirl, a rapid upbearing, a rush of cold, fresh air, and a pleasant, dreamy feeling, as when one is rocked in a little boat at sea. Gratian closed his eyes—hewastired, poor little chap, for nothing ismore tiring than new sights and feelings—and knew no more till he found himself lying on the heather, a few yards from the Farm gates.
He looked about him—it was quite night by now—he felt drowsy still, but no longer tired, and not cold—just pleasantly warm and comfortable.
"Gray-wings must have wrapped me up somehow," he said to himself. "She's very kind, really. But I must run in—what would mother think if she saw me lying here?"
And he jumped up and ran home.
The gate was open, the door of the house was open too, and just within the porch stood his mother.
"Is that you, Gratian?" she said, as she heard his step.
"Yes, mother," he replied; and as he came into the light he looked up at her. She was much, much older-looking than Fergus's mother, for she had not married young, and Gratian was the youngest of several, the others of whom had died. But as he glanced at her sunburnt face, and saw the love shining out of her eyes, tired and rather worn by daily work as she was, she somehow reminded him of the graceful lady with the sweet blue eyes.
"I understand some of what Gray-wings said," hethought. "It's the same in mother's face and in hers when she looks at Fergus."
And he held up his mouth for a kiss.
"Have you been happy at the Big House?" Mrs. Conyfer asked. "Were they kind to you? She seems a kind lady, if one can trust to pretty looks."
"Oh! she's very kind," answered Gratian eagerly; "and so's Fergus. He's her boy, mother—he can't walk, nor scarcely stand. But he's getting better—the air here will make him better."
"It's to be hoped so, I'm sure," said the farmer's wife, with great sympathy in her tone. "It must be a terrible grief—the poor child—I couldn't find it in my heart to refuse to let you go when Mr. Cornelius told me of his affliction. But you were happy, and they were good to you?"
"Oh, mother! yes—happier than ever I was in my life."
Mrs. Conyfer smiled and yet sighed a little. She knew her child was not altogether like his compeers of the moor country—she was proud of it, and yet sometimes afraid with a vague misgiving.
"Come in and warm yourself—it's a cold evening. There's some hot girdle cakes and a cup of Fernflower's milk for your supper—though maybe you had somany fine things to eat at the Big House that you won't be hungry."
"Ah, but I am, though," he said brightly; and the big kitchen looked so cheery, and the little supper so tempting, that Gratian smiled with satisfaction.
"How good of you to make it so nice for me, mother!" he said. "I could never likeanywherebetter than my own home, however beautiful it was."
"Now my brothers call from the bay,Now the great winds shoreward blow,Now the salt tides seaward flow,Now the wild white horses play,Champ and chafe and toss in the spray,Children dear, let us away!This way, this way!"The Forsaken Merman
The winter—the real winter, such as it is known up in that country—came on slowly that year. There was no snow and but little frost before Christmas. Fergus gained ground steadily, and his mother, who at first had dreaded the experiment of the bleak but bracing air, was so encouraged that she stayed on from week to week. And through these weeks there was never a half-holiday which the two boys did not spend together.
Gratian was learning much—more than even thosewho knew him best had full understanding of; much, much more than he himself knew.
"He is like a different child," said the schoolmaster one day to the lady, when she had looked in as she was passing through the village; "if you had seen him a year ago; he seemed always dreaming or in the clouds. I really thought I should never succeed in teaching him anything. You have opened his mind."
"His mind had begun to open before he ever saw me, Mr. Cornelius," said Fergus's mother with a smile. "It is like a flower—it asks nothing but to be allowed to grow. He is a very uncommon child—one could imagine that some specially happy influences surrounded him. He seems to take in and to feel interest in so many different things. I wonder what he will grow up."
"Ah yes, ma'am," said the schoolmaster with a sigh. "It is a pity to think of his being no more than his father before him. But yet, what can one do?"
"One would like at least to find out what hemightbe," she said thoughtfully. "He will be agoodman, whether he ever leaves the moors or not—of that I feel sure. And if it is his duty to stay inthis quiet corner of the world, I suppose we must not regret it."
"I suppose not. Itryto think so," said the schoolmaster. But from something in his tone the lady suspected that he was looking back rather sadly on dreams, long ago past, of his own future—dreams which had never come to pass, and left him but the village schoolmaster.
And her sympathy with this half-understood disappointment made her think still more of Gratian.
"Cornelius would live again in this child if he should turn out one of the great few," she thought to herself.
It was one of the afternoons Gratian now always spent with Fergus. She could leave her lame boy with perfect comfort in his friend's care, sure that he would be both safe and happy. As she made her way up the pine avenue and drew near to the house, she heard bright voices welcoming her.
"Mother dear," Fergus called out, "I have walked twelve times along the south terrace—six times up and six times down—with Gratian's arm. It is so sheltered there—just a nice little soft breeze. Do you know, Gratian, I so often notice that breeze when you are here? It is as if it came with you."
"But it is getting colder now, my boy," she answered. "You must come in. I have been to see Mr. Cornelius, Gratian. I am so glad to hear that he is pleased with your lessons. I would not like him to think that being with us distracted your attention."
"I'm sure it doesn't, ma'am," said Gratian simply. "So often the things you tell me about or read to us, or that I hear about somehow when I am here, seem to come in just at the right minute, and to make my lessons easier. I have never found lessons so nice as this winter."
"I don't like lessons," said Fergus. "I never shall like them."
"You will have to look upon them as necessary evils then," said his mother.
"I usedn't to like them," said Gratian. "NowI often think I'd like to go on till I'm quite big."
"Well, so you can, can't you?" said Fergus.
"No," Gratian replied; "boys like me have to stop when they're big enough to help their fathers at home, and I've no big brother like Tony. I'll have to stop going to school before very long. I used to think I'd be very glad. Now I'd be sorry even if I was to be a shepherd."
"How do you mean?" asked the lady.
Gratian looked up at her with his soft brown eyes.
"I used to think being a shepherd and lying out on the heather all day—alone with the sheep and Watch, like old Jonas—would be the best life of any. But now I want to know things. I think one can fancy better when one knows more. And I'd like to do more than fancy."
"What would you like to do?" asked Fergus's mother. "Would you like to learn tomakemusic as well as to play it? That is what Fergus wants to do."
Gratian shook his head.
"I don't know," he replied. "I don't knowyet. And isn't it best not to plan about it, because I know father will need me on the farm?"
"Perhaps it is best," she said. But she answered as if thinking of something else at the same time.
And then Andrew came out to help Fergus up the steps into the house, where tea was waiting for them in the library.
Fergus's mother was rather tired. She had walked some distance to see a poor woman who was ill that afternoon.
"Don't ask me to play much to-day, my dear boys,"she said. "I never like to play much when I am tired; it doesn't seem fair to the music."
"Then you sha'n't play at all, mother darling," said Fergus. "Gratian, I'll tell you what; you shall tell mother and me a story. That will rest her nicely."
Gratian looked up hesitatingly.
"He tells such nice stories," Fergus went on.
"Does he often tell them?" asked the lady.
"Yes, when we are alone," said Fergus.
"The music makes me think of them very often," said Gratian. "It makes Fergus see pictures, and it makes me think stories. Sometimes I can see pictures too, but I think I like stories best."
"He made a beauty the other day, about a Princess whose eyes were forget-me-nots, so that whoever had once seen her could never forget her again; and if they were good people it made them very happy, but if they were naughty people it made them very unhappy—only it did them all good somehow in the end. Gratian made it come right."
"That sounds very pretty," said the lady. "Did that come out of my music?"
"No," said the boy, "that story came mostly out of your eyes. I called you the lady with the forget-me-not eyes the first Sunday in church."
He spoke so simply that the lady could not help smiling.
"My eyes thank you for your pretty thoughts of them," she said. "Will you tell that story again?"
"No," Fergus interrupted. "I want a new one. You were to have one ready for to-day, Gratian."
"I have only a very little one, but I will tell it, if you like," said Gratian. "It isn't exactly like a story. There isn't anything wonderful in it like in the one about the Princess, or the one about the underground fairies."
"No, thatwasa beauty," said Fergus. "But never mind if this one isn't quite so nice," he added, condescendingly.
So Gratian began.
"It is about a sea-gull," he said. "You know about them, of course, for you have been at the sea. This was a little, young sea-gull. It had not long learnt to fly, and sea-gulls need to fly very well, for often they have to go many miles without a rest when they are out at sea, unless there happens to be a ship passing or a rock standing up above the water, or even a bunch of seaweed floating—that might do for a young bird that is not very heavy. There was very stormy weather the year this sea-gull and hisbrothers and sisters were hatched, and sometimes the father and mother sea-gulls were quite frightened to let them try to fly, for fear they should be beaten down by the storm winds and not have strength to rise again. It is quite different, you see, from little land-birds learning to fly. They can just flutter a little way from one twig to another near the ground, so that if they do fall they can't be much hurt. Sea-gulls need to have brave hearts even when they are quite little. This sea-gull was very brave, almost too brave. He loved the sea so dearly that while he was still a nestling, peeping out from his home, high up on a ledge of rock, at the dancing, flashing waves down below, he longed to be among them. He felt as if he almost would go mad with joy if only his mother would let him dash off with her, whirling and curving about in the air, with nothing below but the great ocean. And he would scarcely believe her and his father when they told him that it wasn't so easy to fly as it looked—not at the beginning, and that birds had to learn by degrees. At last one day the father, who had been out sniffing about, came in and told the mother it would be a good day for a beginning. So all the four young ones got ready, and stood at the edge of the nest in great excitement. Ithink it must have been very funny to see them at first—they were so awkward and clumsy. But they didn't hurt themselves—for the old birds kept them at first among the rocks where they couldn't fall far. And our sea-gull wasn't quite so sure of himself the next day, nor quite so impatient to go on flying, and I daresay he got on better when he had become less conceited. When they could fly a little better the father and mother took them to a little bay, where there was nice soft sand, and where the wind blew gently, and there they got on very well. And there they should have been content to stay till the spring storms were over and their wings had grown stronger. They all were quite content except the one I am telling you of."
"What was his name?" asked Fergus.
"He hasn't got one," Gratian replied, "but we can make him one. I daresay it would be better."
"Call him White-wings," said Fergus.
"No," said Gratian, "that won't do," though he didn't say why. "Besides his wings weren't all white. We'll call him 'Quiver,' because he was always quivering with impatience. Well, they were all quite content except Quiver, and he was very discontented. He looked longingly over the sea,wishing so to be in the midst of the flocks of birds he saw sparkling in the sunshine; and at last one morning when his father and mother had gone off for a good fly by themselves, which they well deserved, poor things, after all their trouble with the little ones, he stood up in the nest, flapping his impatient wings, and said to the three others that he too was going off on his own account. The brothers and sisters begged him not, but it was no use—off he would go, he was in such a hurry to see the world and to feel independent. Well, he got on pretty well at first; the sea was far out, and there were several rocks sticking up which he could rest on, and he found it so easy that he was tempted to fly out farther than he had intended, going from one rock to the other. And he didn't notice how far he had gone till he had been resting a while on a rock a good way out, and then looking round he couldn't tell a bit where he was, for there was nothing but sea all round him. He couldn't think what had become of all the other points of rocks—they seemed to have disappeared. But just as he was beginning to feel rather frightened a number of gulls flew up and lighted on the rock. They were all chattering and very excited.
"'We must make haste,' they said, 'and get to the shore as fast as we can before the storm is on us. And we must shelter there till we can get back to our own rocks.'
"They only rested a moment or two, and then got ready to start again. Quiver stood up and flapped his wings to attract attention.
"'May I fly with you?' he said. 'I'm afraid I don't quite know the way.'
"They looked at him in surprise.
"'What are you doing away from your home—a young fledgling like you?' they said. 'Come with us if you like, it's your only chance, but you'll probably never get to shore.'
"Oh how frightened he was, and how he wished he'd stayed at home! But he flew away with them, for it was, as they said, his only chance, and what he suffered was something dreadful. And when at last he reached the shore, it was only to drop down and lie on the sands gasping and bruised, and, as he thought, dying. A man that was passing, in a hurry himself to get home before the storm, picked up poor Quiver, half out of pity, half because he thought his little master might like to have his feathers if he died, or to make a pet of him if he lived. AndQuiver, who was quite fainting by this time, woke up to find himself lying in a little sort of tool-house in a garden, with a boy about as big as you, Fergus, stooping over him.
"'I don't think he's going to die,' the boy said. 'I've made him a bed of some hay here in the corner—to-morrow we'll see how he is.'
"Poor Quiver felt very strange and queer and sad. It took him several days to get better, and he didn't like the food they gave him, though of course they meant to be kind. At last, one day he was able to hop about and even to flap his wings a little.
"'Now I shall soon be able to fly home again,' he thought joyfully. 'If once I can get to the sea I'll be sure to meet some gulls who can show me the way.'
"And when the boy came to look at him, he was pleased to hear himself said to be quite well again.
"'We can let him out into the garden now, can't we?' he said to the gardener, 'and we'll see if he's such a good slug catcher as you say.'
"'No fear but he's that, sir,' said the gardener. 'But first we must clip his wings, else he'd be flying away.'
"And he took Quiver up in his arms, and stretching out his wings, though not so as to hurt them,snipped at them with a big sharp pair of scissors. Quiver didn't feel it, any more than we feel having our nails cut, but he was dreadfully frightened. And he was still all shaking and confused when the gardener set him down on the garden path—though he got better in a minute and looked about him. It was a pretty garden, and he was pleased to be out in the air again, though he felt something strange in it, for he had never before been away from the sea. And he ran a few steps just to try his legs, and then turned round meaning to say good-bye to the boy and thank him in his sea-gull way for his hospitality before starting off. Having done this he stretched his wings to fly—but—oh dear, what was the matter? He could not raise himself more than a few inches from the ground—wings!—he had none left, and with a pitiful cry he rolled over on the ground in misery and despair.
"'Poor bird!' said the boy; 'you shouldn't have clipped his wings, Barnes. It would have been better to let him fly away.'
"'He'd never have got to his home; he's too young a bird to fly so far. And he'll be uncommon good for the slugs, you'll see, sir.'
"So all the summer poor Quiver spent in thegarden. He got more used to it after a while, but still he had always a pain at his heart. He used to rush along the paths as if he was in a desperate hurry and eager to get to the end, and then he would just rush back again. It was the only way he could keep down his impatience and his longing for the sea. He used to pretend to himself that when he got to the end of the path he would feel the salt air and see the waves dancing; but the children of the house, who of course didn't understand his thoughts, used to laugh at him and call him 'that absurd creature.' But his heart was too sore for him to mind, and even catching slugs was very little consolation to him.
"And so Quiver lived all through the summer and the autumn till the winter came round again, and all this time whenever his wings began to grow longer, Barnes snipped them short again. I don't think there ever was a bird so severely punished for discontent and impatience.
"The winter was a dreadfully cold one; there was frost for such a long time that nothing seemed alive at all—there was not a worm or a slug or an insect of any kind in the garden. The little boy and his brothers and sisters all went away when it began toget so cold, but before they went, they told Barnes that he must not leave Quiver out in the garden; he must be shut up for the winter in the large poultry house with the cocks and hens.
"'For there's nothing for him to eat outside, and you might forget to feed him, you know,' the children said.
"So Quiver passed the winter safely, though sadly enough. He had plenty to eat, and no one teased or ill-used him, but he used sometimes almost tochokewith his longing for freedom and for the fresh air—above all, the air of the sea. He did not know how long winter lasted; he was still a young bird, but he often felt as if he would die if he were kept a prisoner much longer. But he had to bear it, and he didn't die, and he grew at last so patient that no one would have thought he was the same discontented bird. There was a little yard covered over with netting outside the hen-house, and Quiver could see the sky from there; and the clouds scudding along when it was a windy day reminded him a little of the waves he feared he would never see again; and the stupid, peaceful cocks and hens used to wonder what he found to stare up at for hours together.Theythought by far the most interesting thing inlife was to poke about on the ground for the corn that was thrown out to them.
"At last—at last—came the spring. It came by little bits at a time of course, and Quiver couldn't understand what made everything feel so different, and why the sky looked blue again, till one day the gardener's wife, who managed the poultry, opened the door of the covered yard and let them all out, and Quiver, being thinner and quicker than the hens, slipped past her and got out into the garden. She saw him when he had got there, but she thought it was all right—he might begin his slug-catching again. And he hurried along the path in his old way, feeling thankful to be free, but with the longing at his heart, stronger than ever. It was so long since he had tried to fly in the least that he had forgotten almost that he had wings, and he just went hurrying along on his legs. All of a sudden something startled him—a noise in the trees or something like that—and without thinking what he was doing, he stretched his wings in the old way. But fancy his surprise; instead of flopping and lopping about as they had done for so long, ever since Barnes had cut them, they stood out firm and steady, quite able to support his weight; he tried them again, and then again,and—it was no mistake—up he soared, up, up, up, into the clear spring sky, strong and free and fearless, for his wings had grown again! That was what they had been doing all the long dull winter; so happiness came to poor Quiver at last, when he had learnt to wait."
"And did he fly home?" asked Fergus breathlessly; "did he find his father and mother and the others in the old nest among the rocks?"
"Yes," replied Gratian, after a moment's consideration, "he met some gulls on his way to the sea, who told him exactly how to go. And he did find them all at home. You know, generally, bird families don't stay so long together, but these gulls had been so unhappy about Quiver that they had fixed to stay close to the old ones till he came back. They always kept on hoping he would come back."
"I am so glad," said Fergus with a sigh of relief. "How beautiful it must have been to feel the sea-wind again, and see the waves dancing in the sunshine! Do you know, Gratian, I was just a little afraid at the end that you were going to say that Quiver had grown so good that he went 'up, up, up,' straight into heaven. I shouldn't have liked that—at least not till he had lived happily by the sea first.And then," Fergus began to get a little confused, "I don't know about that.Dogulls go to heaven, mother? You don't mind my thinking dogs do."
The lady smiled. She had not said anything yet; she seemed to be thinking seriously. But now she drew Gratian to her and kissed his forehead.
"Thank you, dear boy," she said. "I am so glad to have heard one of your stories."
"When Love wants this, and Pain wants that,And all our hearts want Tit for Tat."Matthew Browne
Gratian almost danced along the moor path on his way home that evening; he felt so happy. Never had he loved Fergus and his mother so much—he could not now understand how he had ever lived without them, and like a child he did not think of how he evercoulddo so. He let the future take care of itself.
It was cold of course. He rather fancied that White-wings was not far off, and once or twice he stood still to listen. It was some little time now since he had heard anything of his friends. But at first nothing met his ear, and he ran on.
Suddenly a breath—a waft rather of soft air blew over his face. It was not White-wings, and mostcertainly not Gray-wings. Gratian looked up in surprise—he could hardly expect the soft western sister on such a cold night.
"Yes, it is I," she said; "you can hardly believe it, can you? I am only passing by—no one else will know I have been here. I don't generally come when you are in such merry spirits—I don't feel that you need me then. But as I was not so very far off, I thought I'd give you a kiss on my way. So you told them the sea-gull's story—I am glad they liked it."
"Yes," said Gratian, "they did, indeed. But, Green-wings, I'm glad you've come, for I wanted to ask you, if they ask me if I made it all up myself, what can I say? I'm so afraid of telling what isn't true; but you know I couldn't explain about you and the others. I couldn't if I tried."
"You are not meant to do so," replied she quickly. "What have you said when Fergus has asked you about other stories?"
"I have said I couldn't explain how I knew them—that sometimes they were a sort of dream. I didn't want to say I had made them all myself, though I havepartlymade them—you know I have, Green-wings."
"Certainly—it was not I for instance, who told you the very remarkable fact of natural history that you related at the end of the story?" said Green-wings with her soft laugh. "You may quite take the credit of that. But I won't laugh at you, dear. It is true that they are your stories, and yet a sort of dream. No one but you could hear them—no one would say that the whispers of the wind talking language to you, are anything but the reflection of your own pretty fancies. It will be all right—you will see. But I must go," and she gave a little sigh.
"Green-wings, darling, you seem a little sad to-night," said Gratian. "Why is it? Is it that the winter has come?"
"I am never very merry, as you know. But I am a little sadder than usual to-night. I foresee—I foresee sorrows"—and her voice breathed out the words with such an exquisite plaintiveness that they sounded like the dying away notes of a dirge. "But keep up your heart, my darling, and trust us all—all four. We only wish your good, though we may show it in different ways. And wherever I am I can always be with you to comfort you, if it be but for a moment. No distance can separate us from our child."
"And I am mostyourchild, am I not, dear Green-wings?" asked Gratian. "I knew you the first, and I think I love you the most."
"My darling, good-night," whispered Green-wings, and with a soft flutter she was gone.
There was no mother waiting at the open door for Gratian's return that evening.
"It is too cold for standing outside now," he said to himself as he went in, adding aloud, "Here I am, mother. Did you think I was late?"
Mrs. Conyfer was sitting by the fire. Her knitting lay on her knee, but her hands were idle. She looked up as Gratian came in.
"I am glad you have come, dear," she said; but her voice sounded tired, and when he was close to her he saw that her face seemed tired also.