Bertram was indoors for nearly a week after the accident, thoroughly unwell, but no sooner was he able to go out again, than affairs took a new aspect. If Miles were for a moment unemployed, Bertie was sure to rush up, exclaiming, "You don't want Miles just now, I see, so he can come and do something for me."
"I suppose he isn't here, sir, for nought but play," Nichols would retort, immediately setting Miles to work; and very soon Miles had as much to do as he could manage. He proved himself so apt and obliging, that Nichols speedily learnt his value, and the two became firm friends.
Still, I think that even then the real strength of Miles' affection went out towards Bertram. Everybody loved Bertie, and Miles was no exception. If Bertie wanted him, and Nichols was in a mood to make no objection, the boy's face would gleam with delight. Bertie liked Miles greatly; and the two boys drew together, much after the same fashion that Mrs. Murchison and I drew together; belonging indeed to different positions in life, yet none the less each loving and trusting the other.
But I must speak now of poor Murchison, lying helplessly on his bed. A few days brought him back to clear consciousness; and though his head was weak still, from the blow it had received, improvement in that direction was pretty steady, and the broken bones were slowly mending. In other directions matters were less satisfactory. There was a marked powerlessness of the lower limbs,—whether likely to be permanent no one could or would say. Dr. Wray seemed reluctant to give a decided opinion; yet I thought from the first that he was not very hopeful.
Murchison had two devoted nurses—Mrs. Coles and his wife. My husband took care that Coles should be no loser; and indeed for many weeks we undertook nearly all the expense of rent for the lodgings. This could not, of course, go on indefinitely. Our purse had many and heavy calls upon it, and we were paying Miles beyond his real due, so far as his powers of work were concerned.
Happily, the little home at Littleburgh had found a tenant, otherwise I do not know how the Murchisons would have managed to get on, despite our help and Miles' earnings.
For a while it seemed to me that Mrs. Murchison hardly realised how the days were slipping by, and how slight was the improvement in her husband's state, until one particular afternoon when the whole appeared to come upon her sharply, like a fresh blow. I had seen her in the morning, anxious, yet placid, able to smile and be pleased when I told her how we all liked Miles. Later in the day I went again, to find her alone, seemingly overwhelmed. I cannot forget the hollow look of misery in her eyes, as she stood gazing at me.
"He will never get well, ma'am," she said quietly, with the quiet of despair, "never! Jervis asked the doctor himself, and I was there. The doctor didn't say just that, you know, but he meant it. He said it would be long—long—and he bid my husband not look forward."
"No," I said, "I don't think either of you ought to look forward too much just now. 'Day by day' must be your motto."
"But if it's to be always?" she said.
"You cannot tell that it is to be always," I answered. "Don't be sure that you know what the doctor meant, beyond what he said."
"I couldn't help knowing, ma'am, and Jervis knows too," she said. "Dr. Wray is a kind man. He's young, but he's uncommon kind. He said he made no doubt my husband would get better; only he couldn't promise he'd ever be up to hard work again. He said he wouldn't be the man he had been. And Jervis says to him, 'Shall I be able to walk?' and the doctor said he couldn't promise; time might do a deal, but he couldn't promise. And when the doctor was gone, Jervis says, 'I know what that means, Annie. I'm a cripple for life,' says he. And then he groaned, like as if he'd break his heart, and he says, 'I'd better have died; a deal better,' says he. And I came away, for I couldn't stand it, ma'am. If the trouble's got to be, it's got to be borne; but, oh, it's hard! He's been a good husband to me; God bless him!"
I don't know how much more she said, but she came to a stop suddenly, and hid her face, rocking to and fro. I heard her whisper, "My husband's all alone."
"I will go to him," I said; and before I went I said just a few words of sympathy,—something about how God loved them both, and would care for them still, and how she must try to rest her troubles on Him. Then I passed on to the room behind.
He looked up at me, poor fellow, in his helplessness: a kind of sad protesting look, yet braver than hers, not so crushed.
"My poor little woman is terrible upset, ma'am," he said. "The doctor's let it out at last. Not but what I've been pretty sure."
I sat down by him, and said—
"I could wish you had not asked yet."
"Think so, ma'am? I don't know as it's any good not knowing." Then he said, in almost his wife's words, "If a thing's got to be—"
"If God wills it for you, then you will be willing too," I said.
"Ay, that's a better way of putting it," he said. "But I won't deny it's hard to bear. It is hard!" and his face showed what he felt. "Me, that's always been so strong, and maybe I've thought too much of my strength; me to come down to this, and be a burden on them I'd ought to work for! It is hard."
"But you do not really know that it will be so always," I said. "The doctor did not say that."
"He said he couldn't promise I'd ever be up and about again."
"No," I said, "he cannot promise that. Still, he did not say positively that you never could or would. He only spoke doubtfully. You must try to leave the matter as he left it. There is room for prayer and for hope."
"And hope's a wonderful help," Murchison said, almost cheerfully. "Yes, thank you, ma'am, I'll try to hope." Then he added, "But my poor little woman!"
So he thought most of her in this trouble, and she thought most of him. I could but wish that all husbands and wives were like-spirited.
AFTER once I got to Mrs. Coles' cottage that first day, I don't seem to have but a dim memory of what came next. Looking back to those weeks, is like looking at a lot of trees ever so far off, which all run and mix together, so that one can't see them apart. Ever so many things happened, but I can't rightly piece them out.
I know Louey got better soon, and was up and about again. And I know one day my little Bessie was taken away, and laid to rest in the Churchyard. And I know Miles began to work at the Rectory under old Nichols, which wasn't the manner of life I'd expected for my boy, and yet it seemed we'd no choice. And I know I had a deal of pain in my shoulder, before I got over the blow I'd had. And I know how good and kind Mr. and Mrs. Kingscote were, coming in and out, and giving me a lot of help that I was ashamed to take it.
It wasn't many days before my husband's sense came back, and I know what joy it was to be told that his head wasn't much hurt; not near so much as we'd feared at first. I thought he'd get well fast, and everything would soon be all right again.
Then, as time went on, it seemed odd he didn't get back strength in his legs—for he didn't. He had no more strength in them than a baby; no, nor near so much, for he couldn't stir either. He wasn't able to lift his head from the pillow, for all it was grown sensible again, and he'd little enough power in the arm that wasn't broken. It was natural he should be weak, and I wasn't surprised; but it did surprise me that when he began to seem better in himself, there was no manner of change in the helplessness.
I didn't see what it meant, though Jervis did, till one day, all of a sudden, he put the question to the doctor, whether he would ever be able to walk again.
Dr. Wray was young still, and a kindhearted gentleman as ever I saw. He didn't like to trouble us, that was plain. And yet he wouldn't say what wasn't true. But I seemed to know what he meant, and Jervis was sure.
It was like a great black cloud coming down, and shutting off all joy in the rest of our life,—like to the blackness that came while I was on the beach watching for my husband and child to be dug out. I couldn't see any lightening of it, nor any hope.
Jervis to be a cripple for life! That was what seemed so terrible to me. I didn't scarcely know how to face the thought. He'd been always so good, and taken such care of me and the children. And now he had to be cared for like a baby. And it would be so always! It never could be anything else! I made up my mind to that, and it weighed me down. Mrs. Kingscote tried to make me feel I couldn't be sure. She said Dr. Wray hadn't said so much, which was true; and she said nobody could tell, which was true too. Doctors know a wonderful lot more than common folks, but they don't know everything, and they'd be the first to say so.
I couldn't take any comfort, though. It was worse to me than losing my little Bessie. For I could think of her as always happy and cared for; but if Jervis was to be a helpless cripple, he'd be miserable, and I should be miserable, and there was no knowing what would become of us all.
I suppose there's hardly any sort of trouble that folks don't get in a manner used to as time goes on. Even if it's a trouble that changes everything, still one gets used to the change after a time, so as to bear it patient; and even if it's a burden always pressing, one learns to bear up better under the burden. Looking back, I could think it was a very long while before I was able to fit in with this trouble, and yet it couldn't have been so very long. The summer weather hadn't begun to fade before I was feeling almost as if he'd been years and years like that, and as if we'd never been used to depend on him.
And the wonderful thing was that Jervis didn't seem miserable, as I'd thought he would be. He didn't fret, or fuss, or worry, but just lay and looked happy. And for a good while I couldn't make it out. A strong active man like him, struck down all at once, and made as helpless as a baby; why, one wouldn't have been surprised if he'd broken his heart over it, or been cross, and fractious, and complaining. But he didn't; not he! There was never a word of grumbling, and never a sign of fretting. And it only came to me slowly that he wasn't so of himself, but that he was being taught and helped, and put through what Mr. Kingscote called "a school of patience."
It was wonderful how manly and thoughtful Miles grew, all of a sudden, after that first day at Ermespoint. Though hardly fifteen yet, he was growing tall and big; and I'm sure he might have been twenty, by the way he cared for his father, and tried to save me trouble.
I won't say but what it was a grief to me that he shouldn't go into the trade. When he had talked of wanting a country life, I had sometimes wanted it too for him, but not anything of this sort. I hadn't looked for my Miles to be, so to speak, in service. Yet there didn't seem to be anything else we could do. He was earning more than he could have earned any other way; and the boy himself said it was right. I wondered sometimes what Jervis thought, for I had asked no questions, not liking to worry his head while it was weak.
But one day, after many weeks, when he was getting better and stronger every way, except that he'd little or no power yet over his legs, he said to me—
"So Miles has his wish, after all. Are you pleased, Annie?" says he.
"No," says I; "it isn't what I'd have chosen for the boy. And you know that," says I.
"Maybe the boy wouldn't choose it for himself now," says he.
"I didn't know," I said. Miles was happy enough I could see. He liked flowers, and he liked the pony; and he would do anything in the world for Master Bertram.
"Well, it don't seem we've much choice yet awhile," says Jervis. "They'd have him in the works at Littleburgh; but he wouldn't earn what he's earning now, and you couldn't do with less."
"And you don't mind?" says I, wondering to myself. He had such a peaceful sort of look.
"It don't do no good to worry," says he; "only makes other folks wretched. I'm laid here, and I've got to lie here, just as long as God tells me to. That's where it is, Annie," says he. "Seems to me, I've learnt a deal lying here, and I shouldn't wonder if I've got more to learn."
"More of what?" says I.
"More of God's love, and more of God's will," says he. "It's uncommon little I've known till now. And I'm sure of one thing," says he; "I'm sure God will take care of my little woman for me, now I can do nothing."
Then he wanted to know what I was thinking of doing; and the wonder had been often enough in my own mind. For of course we couldn't go on much longer in these lodgings, letting Mr. Kingscote pay so much for us. He had spoken of doing it three months, and the three months were running fast away.
I'd some thoughts that we might get a little cottage, I said, quite a small one, and farther back from the sea, where rents were lower. And there, with Miles' earnings, and what I could make by fine needlework, we should get on. At least I hoped so. I didn't speak out my doubts and fears, and Jervis seemed to have none.
"It'll be all right," says he. "Shouldn't wonder if the cottage is waiting for us."
But I'd got the burden of it all on me, and I was tired with long nursing, and I didn't feel near so hopeful.
I couldn't see the way to our getting on at all; and sometimes, when I was alone, I had a good cry, thinking of what lay before us.
IT must have been one day not much later that Mr. Kingscote came in, as he often did come in, and sat down for a chat. He was rather a short gentleman, not quite so tall as his wife, and thin, and very quiet. And though he wasn't like Master Bertram in face, he'd got a way of laughing like Master Bertram.
"I don't want to see your husband yet," said he, "I want a few words with you first." And then he asked the very question Jervis had asked,—"What was I thinking of doing?"
"For I suppose it is time we should face matters," said he. "Don't you think so, Mrs. Murchison? We can't expect to see your husband a great deal better at present, I'm afraid."
I know I got very red and flustered, and felt ashamed; for it seemed to me he thought I'd been taking his help too easy, and going on too long without talking of a change. And I tried to say so, and couldn't get out the words, for I was near crying. And when I looked up, his eyes had the funniest look—like Master Bertram in a mischievous mood.
"Now what does all this mean?" said he.
"I thought," said I—and the tears began to come again—"I—"
"Oh yes, you thought," said Mr. Kingscote, smiling. "You thought what?"
"I thought, perhaps, I'd let you help me too long. But, indeed, sir—"
"Quite a mistake," said he. "Three months was the time I named for paying part of your rent, and it isn't three months yet. I would be glad to make it six," said he, "but I must think of others who need help, for I haven't a very deep purse. And perhaps it would not be quite right for yourselves. There's plenty of time, and you needn't think I'm going to throw you overboard," said he. "But it's best we should come to some conclusion, eh?"
I said "Yes;" and I tried to look cheerful.
"That's right," said he. And then he told me—what was news to me—that Mrs. Coles didn't want to go on living in this little house. A nephew of hers had come home unexpected from abroad, and he wanted to have her to live with him, and Mrs. Coles was minded to go. She didn't like to part from Mr. and Mrs. Kingscote, but the nephew was a favourite nephew, and her own flesh and blood, and he'd had a lot of trouble, and wanted her. So when she'd talked things over with Mr. Kingscote, she took his advice, and settled to go.
Then the question was, Would we like to stay on in the little house and do as she'd meant to do? The rent was more than we should have to give for a cottage further inland, but then we could let well in the summer months, and make more than enough to pay our whole year's rent. I knew this, because again and again people had come to ask, and if we hadn't been there Mrs. Coles would have let the rooms easily. And if I made people comfortable, and the house got a good name, why, we might be full pretty near all the year round, except just in the depth of winter.
Of course it would mean a lot of work, and I had my husband to see to. But then I never was one to mind work, and Louey would soon be able to give me ever so much help. Even Rosie, though she was only nine, could dust a room as nice as possible, and answer the bell, and wash up, when she wasn't at school.
Mr. Kingscote put the matter before me, and said he'd like me to think it over. He didn't want me to settle in a hurry, and he didn't want to decide for me, but he did think it sounded a hopeful plan.
"And you may be sure, Mrs. Murchison," said he, "well do our best to find you lodgers."
I was sure of that, and in my heart I'd no doubt the thing was to be, though I only thanked him, and said I'd see what Jervis thought.
"And now there's something else," said he. "I'm rather thinking of dismissing Miles, and getting another boy in his place."
Well, that did startle me; and if it hadn't been for Mr. Kingscote looking funny, I should have been in a fright. But I saw he meant something or other that wasn't bad, and I said, "Yes, sir;" not a word more.
"You don't mind that, do you?" said he.
I didn't know what to say, except that I couldn't think Miles had done anything so very wrong; and I didn't see how we were to get on without his earnings.
"No; that's the thing,—just what I told Mr. Laurence," said he.
Then he asked me if I had ever seen Mr. Laurence, and I couldn't say I had not. Miles had told me of the old gentleman who was often in at the Rectory, and who seemed so fond of Master Bertram—as who wasn't?—and he had pointed him out to me in Church. And though I said, "Sh-sh," and told the boy after I did dislike to have people whispering and looking about in Church, when they'd ought to be occupied with better things, still I couldn't help seeing Mr. Laurence, for he was just in front of me, and uncommon-looking, and I'd noticed him before, not knowing his name. And I felt an interest in seeing him too, because he'd been kind to my Miles, and had asked him a lot of questions, and told him things he wanted to know. He lived in a biggish house, all alone; and he had a beautiful garden, and he was very clever, and he wrote learned books, and he had telescopes and microscopes, and all sorts of wonderful things.
"Yes, sir; I've seen him," said I.
Then Mr. Kingscote told me that Mr. Laurence had taken quite a fancy to my Miles. "He is struck with the boy's intelligence, and with his nice modest manners," Mr. Kingscote said, and anybody can guess how pleased I was. "He has been looking out for some time for a boy, to be trained as his helper,—a really careful trustworthy lad,—and he thinks Miles might be the very boy."
I asked what sort of work it would be, and Mr. Kingscote said he could hardly tell. It would mean the cleaning and handling of instruments and telescopes, needing a lot of care, and helping in some sorts of experiments, and having to do with books, and any sort of thing that was wanted. If the boy worked well, he might rise to a trusted position, and be of great value to Mr. Laurence. Everything would depend on how he took to the work. Mr. Laurence was getting elderly; and he wanted some young fellow to be a help to him when old age should come.
He had talked this all over with Mr. Kingscote; and Mr. Kingscote had told him how quick and clever and attentive Miles was. He told him, too, how much we depended on the boy's earnings: so Mr. Laurence had offered to give the same for the first year, and to raise the sum at the year's end, if Miles did well.
"I cannot think you would be wise to refuse," Mr. Kingscote said. "Mr. Laurence is in a position to help your boy on, and he likes him. Partly, no doubt for Miles' own sake; partly for his courage in saving my son from injury. Mr. Laurence is godfather to Master Bertram, as perhaps you know. It is quite a different line of life from your husband's, but I imagine that it is one for which Miles is well adapted. However, you must consider the matter, and let me know your decision."
It didn't take a great deal of considering after all, and Miles was wild to go. "Mother, I'll be able to learn everything there," he cried. And I wondered where he got his love of learning from: for Jervis, though a first-rate workman, was no such great scholar. But then, to be sure, I always did love books, and wish I'd more time for them.
MOTHER seems to have come to a stop in her writing. She says she's too busy, and I don't see why I shouldn't take it up instead, till she gets the inclination again. I should like to tell how Mr. Laurence came to think of having me in his house.
Though it's years and years ago, I can remember so well the very first day I ever saw him. Most likely I'd passed him in Ermespoint before that, and hadn't noticed. It wasn't a large place, and he was always going about. But anyhow, I hadn't remarked him particularly.
It was one day, when I was working in the garden under Nichols. I had been watering some beds, and I saw Mr. Bertram coming along the path with an old gentleman. Not that he was old, really, only he had grey hair, and a great many wrinkles; and even middle-aged people seem old to a boy of fifteen. They came close to where I was, and Mr. Bertram said, "This is the boy, Mr. Laurence."
Mr. Laurence repeated the words,—"This is the boy!"—slowly. Then he said again, "This is the boy that saved your life."
I always do say too much was made of that. I hadn't a moment to think, one way or the other, and to pull somebody else out of danger was the natural thing for anybody who wasn't a downright coward. I don't think I ever was a coward. But in my eyes it wasn't so brave a deed as if I'd had time to consider, and to know that I was putting my own life in danger. Not that I suppose I didn't know after a fashion, one thinks so quickly; but still, as I say, it was the natural thing to do for any lad of courage.
However, I suppose it's natural too that Mr. Bertram's friends should think more of it than I did, and I know they've never forgotten that moment. As for paying back, it's been paid back in kindness a hundred times to me and mine.
Well, when Mr. Laurence spoke so, Mr. Bertram said, "Didn't you, Miles?"
"It was a biggish piece of rock, sir," said I, for I didn't know what else to say.
"Thundering big," said he, in his quick way.
I don't know what there always was about Mr. Bertram that made everybody love him, but I know everybody did. When he was near, I couldn't keep my eyes off him.
Then Mr. Laurence came close, and he fixed on me a pair of bright eyes from underneath such shaggy eyebrows, and he said, "Why didn't you run away and save yourself, my boy? You might have been killed, trying to help my godson."
I'm not sure that I didn't laugh,—it seemed such a question to ask,— and I made an uncommonly stupid answer. "Mother wouldn't have liked it," I said.
"Ah!" said Mr. Laurence, with a curious look. "That's a wonderful check, isn't it? Quite right always to think of what your mother would like. And I'll tell you what, Somebody else wouldn't have liked it either. God wouldn't. We ought to be always ready to put ourselves in danger, if it's for the saving of somebody else."
Well, I saw Mr. Laurence any number of times after that. When Mr. Bertram was at home, he was often coming in; and even when Mr. Bertram was at school he never let a week pass without a call. Now and then, if he was walking through the garden, he would stop where I was, and would ask me a lot of questions, and sometimes he would get me to ask him questions, and he would answer them.
I never saw anybody who seemed to know such an amount about everything as Mr. Laurence. You couldn't ask him a question that took him by surprise. If he didn't know exactly what you wanted to hear, he would say so; but he always knew something about it. He had been reading hard, and studying hard, all his life, and this was the outcome. Not reading books only, but studying the things around him, and looking into Nature for himself, till it was wonderful the lot of knowledge that he had got together.
All my life I had been fond of books and of learning. I think I had that from my mother, and she often said she'd like to make a "scholar" of me. But it was seeing and hearing Mr. Laurence that first made me feel how little people in general know, and how much there is to be known, if only we would take the trouble to learn.
For the world around us is full of beautiful and extraordinary things, and the more we examine into them the more we see how beautiful and extraordinary they are; and yet ninety-nine men in a hundred walk through life blind and deaf to all they might see and hear.
One day, Mr. Laurence bade me look at the clouds,—white fleecy clouds,—scurrying over the sky, driven by a sharp breeze; with little firm white clouds between, not seeming to move at all. I had not been noticing them, but when I began to look I saw all at once how beautiful they were, with the blue sky beyond.
"What are those clouds made of?" Mr. Laurence asked.
Of course I didn't know; how should I? Nobody had ever told me. I had never even heard the question put before.
"Those lower clouds, moving so quickly, are made of fine mist," said he; "mist like a thick fog, or like the thick white mist which cools out of the hot steam leaving the funnel of a steam-engine."
I had always thought that was smoke, and I said so.
Mr. Laurence shook his head, smiling. "People often make that mistake," he said. "It is not smoke, but mist, or cooled steam. It is made of fine floating particles or specks of water. Smoke is made of little floating particles of charcoal. Quite a different matter, you see."
He had a short clear sort of way of saying such things, which stuck firm in one's mind; and I used to think over his words afterward, and not forget them.
"But all those clouds may not be made of mist," he went on. "Those little white streaks, far beyond and not seeming to move, are most likely made of snow. Yes, even in summer," said he, as I couldn't help showing how astonished I was. "So high up in the air as that is always intensely cold. There can scarcely be a doubt that those little clouds are frozen."
Another day he came into the garden with a little stone in his hand, hard as rock, but marked like a shell. He showed it me, and said it really was a shell, only very very old, and turned into stone. He called it a "fossil," which was a new word to me then.
"Where do you think I found this, Miles?" asked he.
"I don't know, sir," I said.
"Not on the sea-shore, but on the top of the cliff, buried deep. How do you think it came there?"
I couldn't tell, of course.
"Once upon a time, ages ago," said he, "those cliff-tops were under the waves. Not that the sea was higher, but that the land was lower. Once upon a time all England was deep under the sea, and the ground rose up very slowly to its present height. So you see how easily sea-shells can have become embedded in the highest rocks."
I had been doing a good deal of cloud-gazing for many days, picturing to myself how strange it was that all those wonderful shapes should be made of mist or snow. The next thing I did was to spend my spare time wandering about the cliffs, hunting for fossils above, or looking up from below and trying to fancy how all those heights had been once under the sea.
One day Mr. Laurence found me on the beach, busy in this way; and when he learnt what I was after he did seem pleased. "That's the way to get on," he said, "to study Nature for yourself, my boy." Then he pointed out to me the lines of old old sea-beaches, high up on the front of the cliff; where, as the land slowly rose, one part after another had been level with the sea. And he showed me how the cliffs were actually built up of tiny sand grains, once dropped upon the ocean's floor, and gradually pressed into hard rock, ready to be heaved up into the big cliffs I could now see.
You may fancy how wonderful all this was to a boy who really loved to be taught, but who had never been in the way of any such learning before.
I used to go home, and tell it all to my mother, whenever she had time to attend to me; and of course she told Mrs. Kingscote what a lot I thought of all Mr. Laurence said, though I didn't know it at the time; and Mrs. Kingscote told Mr. Laurence. So he knew his words were not quite thrown away.
The next thing he did was to lend me little books on such subjects, which I could read to myself, and I got so full of them, that it was hard never to neglect my work. Old Nichols had a sharp eye on me, however, and my mother kept me up to the mark; so I wasn't allowed to fall into careless habits.
One other day, I can remember, about the same time, something had brought to my mind what Mr. Bertram had said about the tides, the very afternoon of the cliff-accident. I hadn't thought of it again since, and Mr. Bertram was gone back to school, so I could not speak to him; but next time Mr. Laurence offered to lend me a book, I scraped up courage to ask if it might be "something about the tides."
"What do you know about the tides?" he asked; and I told him what Mr. Bertram had said.
"If it isn't giving you trouble, sir," I said.
"No; no trouble," said he; "only it's a difficult subject for anyone to understand, without knowing a few other matters first. But I'll try to find something readable for you." Then he asked: "What is it keeps the ocean in its bed? Why doesn't the sea pour all over the land?"
I had never thought of putting that question before; and I had to think. "Doesn't water always run downhill, sir?" said I; "and isn't it downhill into the ocean?"
"Good!" said he; "I like to see that you can think. And what makes water run downhill?"
"Isn't it—because it's heavy?" said I. "And what makes it heavy?" said he. There I was posed, and had no more to say. Mr. Laurence picked up an apple and let it drop.
"What makes that apple fall downward? Being heavy, you will say. But what makes it heavy? I will tell you. Because the earth attracts or draws it downward. The earth attracts everything to itself. The force of that attraction holds the ocean in its bed."
I asked him a lot of questions, and he told me a good deal more to make this clear.
"But the moon has power to attract as well as the earth," he said. "The moon cannot attract so strongly as to draw the ocean out of the bed; but it attracts strongly enough to draw up a great wave of sea-water which travels round and round the earth. Also, by drawing the body of the earth away from the other side, it makes another great wave there. Where these waves are it is high tide, and between them it is low tide."
All this comes back to me, the more clearly, I suppose, because of what followed. For before I could ask any more questions, Mr. Laurence said suddenly, "You would like to spend your life studying these questions."
"I can't, sir; I've got to work," I said.
"My boy, there is no harder work than headwork," said he. "But you mean that you have to work so as to earn money for your parents, and you are right." Then he stood and thought. "I don't see why not," he said; "it's what I have been looking for."
"I don't understand, sir, please."
He laughed and said, "No, I dare say not;" and he didn't tell me any more that day. But a few days later, it came out what he'd been thinking about. He talked things over with Mr. Kingscote first, and Mr. Kingscote spoke to my mother, and then it was put before me.
Mr. Laurence wanted to find a boy to help him in his studies and researches; a quick and thoughtful boy, he said, really interested in such things as interested him. He wanted a boy whom he could trust to help clean his microscopes and telescopes, and other instruments; and to dust and arrange his books; and to keep in order his museum of curiosities; and to do all sorts of things that he wanted done. But also he meant such a boy to have time for study, and he meant to teach him; and he said that if he could find the right sort of boy, he might even some day train him into a sort of "secretary" to himself. That would all depend on what the boy was, of course.
"I had pretty nearly given up the hope of finding him," he said; "but if Miles is willing, I think Miles would do."
To make matters easy, he offered to give me for the first year exactly the same wages as I was receiving from Mr. Kingscote, and at the year's end, if I was growing useful to him, he would give me more.
Mother didn't seem to know what to think of the matter at first. She said I mightn't like it when I was there; and she didn't see that I was going to be trained for anything. But Mr. Kingscote told her she needn't be afraid, for Mr. Laurence knew what he was about, and he would not let me be a loser. He had helped forward many young fellows, Mr. Kingscote said, though without taking them into his house, which was what he wanted to do with me.
Mother thought a lot of what Mr. Kingscote said, and my father seemed to be willing, and I had set my heart on going: so it was soon arranged. I only had to wait till a boy had been found to do my work at the Rectory.
IT was settled that I should make my home altogether at The Myrtles— which was the name of Mr. Laurence's house—because he wanted to have me always within call.
The first evening I got there, things did seem strange. The house was so big and quiet, and I seemed to belong to nobody. The servants' hall and kitchen were lively enough, no doubt, but I was told I had no business there, and I could see that the maids looked upon me with no friendly eyes. They didn't see what on earth I was come for, one of them said; and another muttered something about "one of master's new freaks," which was not over respectful.
However, I was not likely to interfere much with them, or they with me, since my work lay upstairs. I had a cosy bedroom all to myself, nicely fitted up—the first time I had ever slept alone in my life. My meals I was to take with the housekeeper, Mrs. Crane, in her sitting-room, and not in the servants' hall. Mr. Laurence had settled all this, in a way he'd got, which did not allow anybody to question his will. He always spoke very quietly, and never raised his voice; but nobody in the house dared go against him, when once he said a thing was to be.
Mrs. Crane made no complaint; but it was easy to see she didn't like the arrangement. She was tall and stout, and she commonly wore black silk, with a pile of red ribbons on her head. She moved about in a very slow dignified sort of way, and she had a pair of cold eyes which made me feel uncomfortable whenever she fixed them on me, which was pretty often. I dare say it was a bore to have a strange boy set down at her table: though I can say one thing for myself, and that is, that I knew how to behave there, thanks to my mother, who'd always been so particular to teach us nice ways, and to cure us of ugly tricks. Everybody knew that if Mr. Laurence said a thing he meant it. Mrs. Crane was not obliged to stay, but if she stayed she had to do what Mr. Laurence chose, which was only fair and just, seeing she received his money, and ate his food, and was sheltered by his roof. She was much too wise to want to leave, and so she gave in; but all the same I could feel I wasn't welcome.
There were no indoor men-servants, for Mr. Laurence disliked the bother of them. The maids could all be under Mrs. Crane, but a man he would have had to manage himself. As it was, he just gave all his orders to the housekeeper, and held her responsible for what went wrong.
But with me he made a difference, having me with him, and giving me his orders direct from the first, which Mrs. Crane objected to.
I suppose I was in a rather difficult position—difficult because it was uncertain. I was not exactly one thing or the other—neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. I had to make my own standing as it were, and this could not be an easy matter for a boy of fifteen, brought up hitherto in a busy crowded little home, where all were on a level, and all knew and loved the rest.
After tea with Mrs. Crane—and a silent tea it was, scarcely a word passing between us—I was sent for to the study, where Mr. Laurence commonly sat. It opened out of the great library, which was lined with books; and the museum, a biggish room, full of all sorts of curiosities, was on the other side of the library. The dining-room was beyond the hall, and so was the drawing-room, not often used. The little observatory was up at the top of the house.
Mr. Laurence was at his writing-table when I came in, and another table in the bow window had microscopes on it, under glass cases. He looked up and said—
"How do you do, Miles? Had your tea?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Ready for work?"
I said "Yes" again.
Then he stood up and wiped his pen carefully, and laid it down, for he was always neat, and never in a hurry. After that he took me through the library, into the museum, which I had not seen before. There was matting over the floor, and a chair and table stood near the farthest window, while all round close to the walls were glass-fronted cases, with stuffed birds, or insects, or curiosities from foreign parts, arranged in them. Other odd things lay about on tables, or were fastened to the walls.
"This is to be your especial charge," Mr. Laurence said. "I hope I shall find you capable. We must begin slowly. I have never allowed anybody to handle my specimens or to dust my books; but I am beginning to feel the need of help. You will have to learn—gradually."
He pointed out to me a great bone, lying on the top of a case, and he said it was part of an animal which had lived long long before the time of Adam. "The bone has turned into stone now," he went on, "so it is a fossil."
"May I come in any time, sir?" I asked wonderingly.
Mr. Laurence gave me a look, and asked—"Would you like it?"
"I should like to learn all about everything here," I said.
"So you shall—as far as I can put you in the way of learning. No man alive knows 'all' about any one thing; but some of the little that can be known you shall learn. You will have a key, and when you are not here the door is always to be locked. By-and-by I hope you will be able to copy out things for me. I know that you write a clear hand. Remember, if you wish to be of real use to me by-and-by, you must study and read steadily. When the bell in the corner rings, you will know that I want you."
Then he pointed out a glass case full of weapons from distant countries.
"Some day these things must all be turned out and cleaned or dusted," he said; "but not just yet." He stood still, looking at me. "Do you know what the first thing is that I have to find out about you, Miles?"
"Whether I won't break things?" I asked. "But I'll take care, really, sir."
"I am sure you will. That is important; yet not the most important. What I want to know is whether you are fully and utterly true in all that you say and do—whether I may depend, not only upon your honesty, for that I do not doubt, but upon your absolute truthfulness and trustworthiness."
"I wouldn't tell a lie for anything," I said.
"I don't think you would. I hope not. Your mother says the same. But I want more than just the absence of direct falsehood. I want to be able to place entire confidence in you. Now how is that to be brought about?"
I understood in a measure, yet I was at a loss what to say.
"I will tell you," he said, and he spoke slowly. "If anything goes wrong—if anything in your charge is injured or broken—mind you never attempt to hide it, but come at once and tell me. Sooner or later you would be found out, and then I could never be sure of you again. Be brave, and speak out always. Never try to shield yourself from just blame. Then again you have to be obedient. When I am absent, just as when I am present, do what I tell you to do. You have leave to come to the museum yourself, but not to admit others without asking me. Remember that! No matter who asks, you have to say 'No'!"
"Yes, sir, I will."
"That is right. Now about the matter of your going home. I do not wish for incessant running to and fro; but you may see your people reasonably often—once a week, at all events. When you wish to go, ask me, and if possible I will arrange it. If I send you out on an errand for myself, don't spend the time in going to your parents, but be back as sharp as you can. If I send you out for an hour or two to amuse yourself, then you may do as you choose. But do not go out without asking my leave."
"No, sir, I won't," I said.
"One more thing, Miles. When you are in my study, among my books and papers, remember that I am trusting you. Nothing is to be read, except what you know that I intend you to read. And what you do see, or read, or hear, is not to be talked about elsewhere—either among my servants or out of this house. Do you understand me? Can I put confidence in you?"
A rush of pride swept through me, as I thought that he should do so— that I would make myself worthy of his confidence. It was my first real glimpse of what is meant by "honour." He was "putting me on my honour," and he should not be disappointed.
"It will do, I see," said Mr. Laurence, smiling. "You understand."
I was so busy, thinking, I hadn't said a word, but only just gazed up in his face.
THE next few days passed smoothly, so far as my work was concerned. Not that I wasn't often clumsy and stupid, doing things awkwardly enough from want of practice; but I tried hard, and Mr. Laurence was wonderfully patient. He saw at least how anxious I was to learn. If I forgot, he told me again, and if I blundered he made me try a second time. He showed me exactly how he liked his books dusted—so many shelves every week, and each shelf by itself, and every volume put back into its own place. He stood by while I did it, over and over again, till he was sure I knew how.
I had not leave to take away books for my own reading, of course, but he lent me one at a time, choosing those I could understand, and he was always pleased if I asked him questions. Sometimes he would come into the museum, and give me quite a lesson on the things there.
It was wonderful how much bigger and wider the world grew as I listened to him. Every day I grew more eager to learn, and more fond of Mr. Laurence, and more bent on serving him rightly.
He did not yet allow me to go alone into the observatory. That was to come later. "A careless touch might do such harm," he said; though he was pleased to add that he did not count me careless. "But it would not be fair yet to you, my boy," he said in his kind way.
The one real trouble in my new life was the way the maids looked askance at me, and most of all the way I was disliked by Mrs. Crane. To be sure, Mr. Laurence did not want me to have much to do with the maids or with the servants' hall, and he told me so plainly; but still I'd rather have been on pleasant terms, and I couldn't think why they must all treat me as if I had no right to be in the house.
Of course I know now well enough that the feeling sprang from jealousy, because I was favoured by Mr. Laurence, and was made free to go in and out where none of them might venture. Besides, they did not like me being put to meals with Mrs. Crane, instead of in the servants' hall.
If I had been of a surly or an ill temper I should have found it hard not to be unpleasant again; but as it was, I only felt uncomfortable, and wondered what it all meant.
It was a good thing my mother had not trained me to be dainty in my eating, for Mrs. Crane never asked me what I would like, but always gave me the worst that was on the table. She had plenty of nice things for herself, and I shouldn't have minded a little of them too; but all the same I ate what she put on my plate, and I made no fuss, which was best, of course, in every way. She would soon have used against me any manner of grumbling on my part, and it is good for everybody to learn not to mind what one eats. I do despise daintiness! Mr. Laurence never seemed to care what he had on his plate, and as often as not he just ate without knowing what he ate. Everybody can't be like that, I suppose, because everybody hasn't such a mind as he had; but I do think it contemptible when a man's happiness and good temper depend on his victuals being to his taste. Or a woman's either—which perhaps isn't quite so common, though I'm not sure.
The only person about the house who spoke kind words to me, beside Mr. Laurence, was Andrews, the head gardener—a big slow man, who knew what he was about. He had been used to come in once a week to dust out the museum, because Mr. Laurence wouldn't trust anybody else among his treasures. But Andrews didn't seem to mind seeing me there instead. He always had a pleasant smile.
The very first Sunday after I got to The Myrtles, Mr. Laurence asked if I would like to go home for the afternoon and evening: and right glad I was to do it. Weeks might have passed, instead of only days, since I'd seen them all.
There was plenty to hear and plenty to tell, though I was mindful of what Mr. Laurence had said, and I wouldn't let myself gossip about things I'd no business to repeat. Mother saw I was careful, and then she grew careful too, and wouldn't ask many questions, and I knew she thought me right.
Before I left home it had been all settled about Mrs. Coles' little house being taken on by my parents, and now Mrs. Coles was gone, and our house at Littleburgh was given up, and our furniture was on the way down. The furniture in our new home did not belong to Mrs. Coles, but to Mr. Kingscote; and as Mrs. Coles would not need the things where she was going, Mr. Kingscote was going to let mother have the use of some of them for the present—enough to furnish nicely the rooms for letting, as we shouldn't have had enough of our own.
So it was all settled, and mother hoped to have all straight in a week or two ready for lodgers. Two or three people had been already to ask about lodgings.
I did not think my father seemed better, but he was as good and patient as could be, and he had begun to have a little feeling in one of his legs, which the doctor said was a good sign.
The wonderful thing to us all was that he should lie, day after day, so quiet and contented, not worrying or fretful. It is bad enough for anybody to be cut off from work, and laid on a bed for nobody can say how long; but with a strong active man like my father, always used to be busy, it must have been especially bad, and yet he didn't fuss or grumble. It often seemed as if, when God laid him there, He gave him a spirit of quiet willingness; though I didn't understand this till long after. When father sometimes said with a little smile, "I'm learning lessons, Miles!" I could not see at all what he meant.
It was before dinner that I went home that first Sunday, and afterward father had to be left quiet, and Louey and Rosey went to Sunday-school. I'd been used to go too from Mr. Kingscote's, as he liked me to belong to the class of big boys; but I could not know yet how it would be from Mr. Laurence's house; and this day I wanted most of all to have a talk alone with my mother. She saw I wanted that; and when the children were gone, she began by asking if I was happy.
"Yes," I said, "Mr. Laurence was so good;" and I told her all about what he had said to me the first evening.
"Right too!" said she. "You can't be too careful, Miles. If Mr. Laurence is to trust you, there's no other way."
"Only I may speak out to you, mother," I said.
"No," said she; "not one single thing to do with Mr. Laurence's ways or habits, nor with his work. Not a single thing that you don't feel sure he'd wish me to know. If you've troubles of your own, you may tell them to me."
"Well, I don't know if I ought to call them troubles," I said, and I laughed. "Not quite so bad as that; only I don't think the servants like me being there."
"Which servants?" said she.
"Why,—all of them," I said, "except the gardener. Mrs. Crane, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Perkins, the cook, and the parlour-maid and the housemaid and the under-housemaid. I don't think any of them like me."
She asked one or two questions, and when I told her I had my meals with Mrs. Crane, and was allowed in rooms where they mightn't go, she said, "That's it!"
"What is?" I asked.
"It might have been wiser the other way," said she slowly, as if thinking aloud. "I mean if you'd had your meals for a time with the rest. But then there'd have been difficulties later, if—And Mr. Laurence has a right to settle it as he will."
"I don't know what you mean, mother," I said.
"No," said she; "never mind; it's all right, Miles. You've just got to do what Mr. Laurence tells you, and you mustn't mind a few cross looks."
"Mr. Laurence doesn't want me to be much in the servants' hall," I said. "He told me so."
"Then you're quite clear as to what you've got to do. Mind, Miles, you're there, taking Mr. Laurence's wages; and you're there to do what he bids you. Your time is his, not your own."
"But if they don't like it?" I said.
"Well, then they must do without liking it," said she. "You're not a coward, Miles. You can stand a few hits, if it's in the way of duty, I hope. Only don't give them cause to be vexed,—not any real cause, I mean. Don't you give yourself airs, or be rude. You're only the son of a working-man; and it's as likely as not that some of their fathers are better off than yours. That's neither here nor there, for Mr. Laurence has a right to settle his household as he will. And if anybody don't like it, why they've got the remedy in their own hands, and they can go. But all the same I dare say it's a grievance, seeing you put to your meals with Mrs. Crane, so you've got to be doubly careful to give no offence."
THE advice my mother gave me that afternoon was uncommonly wise advice, and the very best that could have been given, I do believe; and yet it isn't always possible to follow out to the letter what seems wise advice.
I went back to The Myrtles that evening, fully resolved that I would do my best to keep smooth with everybody, and would give no offence; and after all I had to give great offence, only the very next day.
On second thoughts, though, it was not going contrary to my mother's advice: for what she had said and fully meant was that I should not give real cause for offence, not just cause, and this could not be called just or real cause, for my duty to Mr. Laurence had of course to stand first.
On Monday evening Mr. Laurence had an engagement which would keep him away till past ten o'clock. When he was starting he gave me a long list of names that he wanted to have copied out. "They are hard names, and so you will have to be very careful not to make mistakes," he said. "Let me see how well you can do it, Miles." Then he told me to sit in the museum if I liked, and to spend part of the time in reading the last book he had lent me. I had been in the afternoon for a good walk on an errand for him.
I was never a boy who minded being alone and quiet, and I think the love of quiet was growing with the love of study.
After he was gone, I took my things to the little table in the museum, and worked steadily at the copying, which was not very easy, because all the words were new to me, and I had to, spell them carefully. I spoilt one sheet and began over again; and I was half-way through, when there came a smart rap at the door.
In a moment I jumped up and went to see who it was; but before I could reach the door it was thrown open, and the housemaid, Rose, came in, giggling, with the under-gardener, Will, behind her.
"I told you he'd be here," said she. "Look! isn't it a concern! What a lot of old bones!"
It took me by surprise her walking in so suddenly, for I knew well that nobody was ever allowed there without leave; and almost before I knew what I was going to say, I asked, "Did Mr. Laurence say you might come?"
Rose turned round and mimicked me, with her head on one side. She was a pretty girl; and Will, who was a great lanky awkward fellow, roared with laughter.
"Did Mr. Laurence say we might come?" said she, in an affected voice. "O dear me! the innocence of the youth! Just hear him, Will! Why, dear me, no!" she went on, when Will had roared again. "Who ever would think of asking Mr. Laurence, while the mighty Mr. Miles Murchison was sitting here in state! It is enough to ask him, any day!" She dropped a mock curtsey as she spoke. "Please, Mr. Miles Murchison, will you let your humble servants take a look round?"
"I can't do it, Rose," I said, straight out, though I was worried. "You know I can't; I'm put here in charge, and Mr. Laurence forbids any one to come in without his leave. I can't give it."
"Hear him. Will! The innocent child! 'I can't give it.'"
She mimicked me again, cleverly enough, and my face got as red as fire, for Will shouted afresh.
"Come, we'll take a look," said she, in a daring sort of voice, and she walked to the middle table and picked up a fossil bone that was lying there. "What's this?" said she. "We're poor ignorant creatures— ain't we, Will?—don't know nothing at all about such things! Couldn't the learned Mr. Miles Murchison teach us?"
It was a great temptation to me to give in. No boy of fifteen likes to be laughed at; nor to make enemies; nor to have to stand alone. For one moment I was tempted. Mr. Laurence was away for another hour or more, I thought, and if I did let them stay a few minutes they would not do any mischief, and nobody would know. It was not likely that they would tell of themselves.
But I am glad to say this temptation had power only for one moment. Then I remembered that I was in charge, and that I was upon honour; that I had to do my employer's will, and to prove myself trustworthy. Whether they liked it or did not like it made no difference at all. They were in the wrong, and if I yielded to them I should be in the wrong too.
I went after Rose, and I said—
"Rose, if you and Will stay, I shall have to tell Mr. Laurence."
"You will!" said she, turning sharp round to face me.
"I shall have to," I said.
"Then you're a pitiful miserable sneak!" said she. "Take that!" and she gave me a smart box on the ear with her hand, which was not by any means a soft one.
My ear tingled, and my temper tingled more, for I hadn't been used to that sort of thing; but still the main thought with me was how to get rid of them both, and to prove myself trustworthy. Almost without thought I found myself saying again—
"If you don't both go this minute, I'll tell Mr. Laurence as soon as ever he comes back."
"Very well; we'll go," said she. "You sneak! I'll never speak to you again!"—and she looked as if she meant it. "Come, Will, 'tisn't worth staying for, after all."
She turned round with such a whisk, in her anger, that she bounced up against Will, and sent him staggering against the nearest case of stuffed birds; and between them they gave it such a shake that a small plaster head, standing on the top, fell with a crash and broke across at the neck.
"Bother!" said she. "That's like your clumsiness, Will. What a plague!"
Before I could stop her she picked up the two pieces and set the head on the neck.
"Oh, that's all right! It doesn't show. Mr. Laurence won't see it for weeks, you may be sure. Come along, Will," and she went off, not giving me a look. But just outside the door she turned back and glared at me, and her eyes didn't look pretty then. "Mind," she said, "if you let slip one word of this to Mr. Laurence, you won't stay long in the house. I'll see to that, I promise. If you tell one tale, Will and I'll tell another—and that will be two to one. So you just take care."
She was gone before I could answer, and I shut and locked the door, but I heard them talking loudly in the passage for some minutes.
Well, I cannot say I was not angry too as well as puzzled and dismayed. Should I, or should I not, tell Mr. Laurence about the breakage? If I'd done it myself I would never have thought of hiding it; but I didn't see how I was to tell without blaming others. Yet if I said nothing, and he found it out late; as he was pretty sure to do, how could he ever be sure of me again?
As for Rose's threats, I gave little thought to them. Of course I knew that anybody has power to harm anybody else if bent upon it; but I minded much more being called "a sneak." Still, if it came in the way of my duty, better far to be called "a sneak" than to be untrue.
My hand was not steady enough for writing for some minutes, for I had been not a little flustered. It was the first time I had ever had in my life to make such a stand against people older than myself; yet I was glad I had made it, and had not given in. I finished the copying by half-past nine, and then to my surprise the bell rang, which showed me that Mr. Laurence was in his study. As I was going I took down the broken plaster head, carrying the two pieces with me.
Mr. Laurence looked up from his desk, and when he saw what was in my hands, he said—
"I am very sorry, sir," I said, thinking that I wouldn't tell more than was needful.
He took both pieces from me and examined them.
"How did it happen, Miles?"
"The case had a shake, sir, and it tumbled down."
"You must be more careful. Quite right to let me know at once."
Then, just as I thought all was straight, he asked—
"Did you do it yourself?"
I made no answer, and he looked straight at me.
"How did the thing happen, my boy?"
I felt myself getting as red as fire again.
"Something not explained yet, eh? Have you been doing anything you are ashamed of, Miles?"
"No, sir."
"That's decisive, at all events. Then has somebody else?"
"If you wouldn't mind, sir—please—not asking me," I said. "It was an accident, and I don't think it will happen again. I'll take care. I will really."
"Yes, I think you will," Mr. Laurence said slowly; "I am sure you will. If you had done as Rose told you, and not mentioned the breakage, I should not have felt so confident as now. But you have done well all through; first, in refusing them admittance; then, in not concealing the accident. You have proved yourself trustworthy, Miles."
I was so amazed to find how much he knew that I could take no pleasure in his words of praise; and I must have stared. He did not smile; he only said—
"I came home earlier than I intended."
Then he must have seen or heard with his own eyes and ears. Well, it was not my fault; but I knew I should be blamed, and I couldn't help being sorry.
Mrs. Crane was out that evening with friends, and I had had my supper early, for somebody's convenience. I didn't see the rest till prayer-time, and then I only had askance looks. Coming out I overheard Matilda, the parlour-maid, say something about Mr. Laurence getting home early, and Rose said, in a scared tone—
"What time? Why didn't you tell us?"
"Why should I?" Matilda asked. "Mr. Laurence just let himself in with his latchkey and went straight to the study. Some time between half-past eight and nine."
I knew what that meant, and Rose knew too; but all the same, she tossed her head with a sneer when I went by.
Next morning Mr. Laurence had Rose and Will into his study, an uncommon thing, as he left the maids to Mrs. Crane generally, and the under-gardeners to Andrews. Mrs. Crane was present, but he spoke himself to them, and he dismissed them both, with a month's wages each. He'd been actually passing outside the open door of the museum, at the moment that Rose boxed my ear; and when they talked so loud afterwards in the passage, he was in the library, and could hear every word. He told them all this quite plainly: and he told them too that he had questioned me, and that I had not let out about them. Then he rebuked them strongly for their deceit and disobedience, and their trying to lead me astray; and he said he wouldn't have them in the house another night. Rose cried her eyes out, and Will looked wretched; but nothing could move Mr. Laurence. He could put up with dulness and stupidity, but the one thing he never would stand was deceit, or a person doing differently behind his back from before his face.
They were both gone before night: and it was long before I heard of them again. All these particulars leaked out slowly. Mr. Laurence did not refuse to give them some sort of a character, but he said he must explain about what had passed, and would advise any future master or mistress to keep a sharp look-out upon them both. Seems to me, he couldn't honourably do anything else.
My position in the house was, in some respects, better after that evening. I had shown that I would do my duty, and that I could hold my own; and nobody dared to meddle with me. But I couldn't help seeing how I was dislike by Mrs. Crane and Matilda; and if it had not been for Mr. Laurence's great kindness, I should have felt sometimes very dull and even unhappy.
NOTHING particular happened, that I can remember, through the early part of that winter, up to Christmas, except that my father got on perhaps a little better than was expected, and was able to sit up and use his hands, though he could not stand, and his legs still had little or no power in them. We all knew well enough by this time that he never could be an able-bodied man again; though, as years went on, he might slowly improve. The wonderful thing still was how quietly he took it all.
I suppose, where great trouble is sent, strength to bear it is sent too; at least it was so in his case. And my mother was just her old self; always busy, and always a little anxious, but happy in her own way, and thinking of everybody before herself.
I had a week at home at Christmas and New Year, and didn't once see Mr. Laurence the whole week through.
Mr. Bertram came back, of course, for the Christmas holidays, and he was growing tall and thin, and not looking over well; but he was full of fun and high spirits. He used to come in and talk nonsense, till we were all in such fits of laughter we didn't know what, to do with ourselves. And through all the fun, he was so kind and gentle to my father. Well, I never did see any one quite like Mr. Bertram, and for the matter of that I don't think I ever shall.
When I went back at the week's end, there was a visitor at The Myrtles—Mr. Laurence's only grandchild. I knew he was expecting her for the New Year, and I wondered how that quiet house would seem with a child in it. Children do make such a difference where they are, and, to my mind, no home is perfect without children.
I got there after dark in the afternoon, and I was told that Mr. Laurence had gone out on business. So I went straight to the museum, thinking I'd take a look round there the first thing. I found the door unlocked which rather startled me, as it was so uncommon; and when I first opened the door I saw nobody. So I shut it, and stopped to take a look at a side-table, where a new piece of red granite was lying which had not been there when I went away. Mr. Laurence was always getting fresh things to add to his collection. And then I went on a few steps, and to my surprise, all at once I saw somebody sitting in my chair, sound asleep.
She was the prettiest little lady, and I always did say she had a look of our poor little Bessie, who was killed by the falling of the cliff. I don't know how it was, but she had a look of her, somehow. I saw it in a moment, though little Miss Adela was very fair, with rosy cheeks, and blue eyes, and short flaxen hair. The blue eyes were fast shut when I saw her first, and her head was dropping over to one side, and one little round white arm lay over the table where I always wrote.
I was so taken aback, I stood and looked at her, not knowing what to think. And then she suddenly woke up, and looked at me without moving.
"How d'you do?" she said sleepily. "What o'clock is it?"
"It is getting on for half-past five, Miss," I said.
"Oh, to be sure. I've had my tea," she said, and she got up slowly. I saw she was about as tall as our Rosie, or taller, though I found later she was only eight years old. "Grandpapa's gone out," she said. "And they told me the museum-boy was coming back, so I thought I would be here to see him. Are you the museum-boy? And is your name Miles?"
"I'm Miles Murchison, Miss," I said; "and I've got to look after the museum."
"Oh yes; I know all about it," said she. "And the housemaid and under-gardener tried to get in, and you wouldn't let them. That was like a soldier doing his duty;" and she held up her head. "My papa is a soldier, so I know all about it. And he told me a story once—about the private and the Duke, you know."
"No, Miss; I don't know the story," I said.
"Don't you? Why, I thought everybody did," said she. "Let me see, how did the story begin? There was a private soldier put at a door to keep people from going in, except those that had got a written order— at least, I think that was it. The soldier was told to turn back everybody else, you know; and of course he had to turn back lots. And presently a duke came up, at least, I think it was a duke; and I believe it was the Duke of Wellington, only I'm not sure. But anyhow, the Duke hadn't a written paper to show, and he wanted to go in without it, and the soldier wouldn't let him. And of course the soldier was right, because he only just had to do as he was bid. And the Duke gave up, and went away quietly; and when the soldier heard who it was he had turned back, he was rather frightened, because he thought the Duke would be angry. But instead of that, the Duke saw the soldier afterward, and praised him for obeying, and said he was perfectly right. Wasn't it nice of the Duke? And I think," Miss Adela went on, "it was a wee bit like that, when you turned Rose and Will out of the museum; only not quite the same, because there wasn't any Duke."