"We works in a shed there, in a field by the smithy ... and we're as jolly as sand-boys."
"There's about a dozen, altogether," began Jesse, with, for the first time, a sort of shyness. "It began with one or two at the farm; seein' me so busy of an evening, they thought it'd be better fun nor throwin' sticks into the water for the dogs to catch, or smokin' them rubbishin' sham cigars. We sat in the barn, and then one day I met Barney—Barney Coles, cousin's son to Uncle Bill at Draymoor. Barney's not a bad chap, and he's been ill and can't go in the mines. And we talked a bit, and he axed how it was I never come their way, and I said how busy I was, and he might see for hisself. So he comed, and he's got on one of the fastest—with plain work like," and Jesse picked out one or two neat little boxes and plates, with stiff unfanciful patterns, carefully done. "He's lots of time just now, you see, and he's got a good eye for measuring. And then he brought one or two more, but I was afraid master wouldn't be best pleased at such a lot of us, so now I go two evenings a week to Bollins, close by your place, miss," with a nod, not in the least intended to be disrespectful, in Miss Lilly's direction, "and we works in a shed there, in a field by the smithy. We got leave first, that's all right, and we fixed up a plank table and some benches, and we're as jolly as sand-boys. I've often had it in my mind to tell you, but I thought I'd better wait a bit till I had somethin' to show."
"You will tell Mr. Brock about it?" said Miss Lilly. "He will benearlyas pleased as we are—he can't bequite. I don't think I have ever been more pleased in my life, Jesse."
It was "wonderful," as Ferdy had said. JessePiggot, the ringleader in every sort of mischief, the "cheeky young rascal" out of one scrape into another, to have started a class for "art work" among the rough colliery boys of Draymoor!
"Oh, I do wish grandfather were back again," Eva went on. "Hewill help you, Jesse, in every way he possibly can, I know."
"We should be proud if the old doctor'd look at what we're doing," said Jesse. "And there's several things I'd like to ask about. Some of the boys don't take to the carving, but they're that quick at drawin' things to do, or fancy-like patterns that couldn't be done in wood, but'd make beautiful soft things—couldn't they be taught better? And Barney says he's heard tell of brass work. I've never seen it, but he says it's done at some of the Institutes, Whittingham way, and he'd like that better than wood work."
He stopped, half out of breath with the rush of ideas that were taking shape in his mind.
"I know what you mean," said Miss Lilly. "I have seen it. I think it is an ancient art revived again. Yes, I don't see why it would not be possible to get teaching in it. And then there'sbasket work, that is another thing that can be quite done at home, and very pretty things can be made in it. It might suit some of the lads who are not much good at carving."
"Them moss baskets of Master Ferdy's are right-down pretty," said Jesse. "And you can twist withies about, beautiful."
His eyes sparkled—his ideas came much quicker than his power of putting them into words.
"There's no want of pretty things to copy," he said after a little silence.
"No indeed," said Miss Lilly.
But at that moment the door opened to admit Mr. Brock. A start of surprise came over the wood-carver as he caught sight of the table covered with Jesse's exhibition. And then it had all to be explained to him, in his turn. He was interested and pleased, but scarcely in the same way as Eva and Ferdy.
"We must look them all over," he said, "and carefully separate any work that gives signs of taste or talent. It is no use encouraging lads who have neither."
Jesse's face fell. He had somehow known thatMr. Brock would not feel quite as his other friends did about his "pupils."
"Yes," said Miss Lilly, "it will no doubt be a good thing to classify the work to some extent. But I would not discourageany, Mr. Brock. Taste may grow, if not talent; and if there are only one or two boys with skill enough to do real work, surely the pleasure and interest of makingsomethingin their idle hours must be good for all?"
The wood-carver smiled indulgently. He thought the young lady rather fanciful, but still he could go along with her to a certain extent.
"Well, yes," he agreed. "At worst it is harmless. When the doctor returns, Miss Lilly, we must talk it all over with him; I am anxious to consult him about—" he glanced in Jesse's direction meaningly, without the boy's noticing it. For Jesse and Ferdy were eagerly picking out for their teacher's approval some of the bits of carving which their own instinct had already told them showed promise of better things.
It was a Saturday afternoon.
Ferdy, as he lay on his couch in the oriel window, looked out half sadly. The lawn and garden-paths below were thickly strewn with fallen leaves, for the summer was gone—the long beautiful summer which had seemed as if it were going to stay "for always." And the autumn was already old enough to make one feel that winter had started on its journey southwards from the icy lands which are its real home.
There were no swallow voices to be heard.
Oh no; the last of the little tenants of the nests overhead had said good-bye several weeks ago now. Ferdy's fancy had often followed them in their strange mysterious journey across the sea.
"I wonder," he thought, "if they reallywererather sorry to go this year—sorrier than usual, because of me."
He took up a bit of carving that he had been working at; it was meant to be a small frame for a photograph of Chrissie, and he hoped to get it finished in time for his mother's birthday. It was very pretty, for he had made great progress in the last few months. In and out round the frame twined the foliage he had copied from the real leaves surrounding his dear window, and up in one corner was his pet idea—a swallow's head, "face," Ferdy called it, peeping out from an imaginary nest behind. This head was as yet far from completed, and he almost dreaded to work at it, so afraid was he of spoiling it. To-day he had given it a few touches which pleased him, and he took it up, half meaning to do a little more to it, but he was feeling tired, and laid it down again and went back to his own thoughts, as his blue eyes gazed up dreamily into the grey, somewhat stormy-looking autumn sky.
Some changes had come in the last few months. Dr. Lilly was at home again, so Ferdy and Christine no longer had entire possession of their dear governess, though they still saw her every day except Sunday, and sometimes even then too.Ferdy was, on the whole, a little stronger, though less well than when able to be out for several hours together in the open air. What the doctors now thought as to the chances of his ever getting quite well, he did not know; he had left off asking. Children live much in the present, or if not quite that, in a future which is made by their own thoughts and feelings in the present. And he had grown accustomed to his life, and to putting far before him, mistily, the picture of the day when hewouldbe "all right again." He had not really given up the hope of it, though his mother sometimes thought he had.
The truth was that as yet the doctors did not know and could not say.
But the present had many interests and much happiness in it for Ferdy, little as he would have been able to believe this, had he foreseen all he was to be deprived of in a moment that sad May morning.
His friendship for Jesse was one of the things he got a great deal from. Nothing as yet was settled about the boy's future, eager though Mr. Brock was to see him launched in another kindof life. For both Mr. Ross and Dr. Lilly felt that any great step of the sort must first be well thought over, especially as Jesse was now working steadily at Farmer Meare's and earning regular wages, and seemingly quite contented. Though he had had his troubles too. Some of his old wild companions were very jealous of him and very spiteful; and bit by bit a sort of league had been started against him among the worst and roughest of the Draymoor lads, several of whom were angry at not being allowed to join the class in the shed at Bollins, some still more angry at having been sent away from the class, for Jesse and his friend Barney who acted as a sort of second in command were very particular as to whom they took as pupils. Or rather as to whom theykept; they did not mind letting a boy come two or three times to see "what it was like," but if he turned out idle or disturbing to the others, and with no real interest in the work, he was told in very plain terms that he need not come back.
They were patient with some rather dull and stupid lads, however. Barney especially so. For he was very "quick" himself. And some of thesedull ones really were the most satisfactory. They were soveryproud of finding that they could, with patience and perseverance, "make" something, useful at any rate, if not highly ornamental. No one who has not been tried in this way knows the immense pleasure of the first feeling of the power to "make."
These things Ferdy was thinking of, among others, as he lay there quietly this afternoon. He was alone, except for an occasional "look in" from Thomas or Flowers, as Mr. Ross had taken his wife and Christine for a drive.
Ferdy had grown much older in the last few months in some ways. He had had so much time for thinking. And though he did not, as I have said, trouble himself much about his own future, he thought a good deal about Jesse's.
There was no doubt that Jesse wasveryclever at carving. Ferdy knew it, and saw it for himself, and Miss Lilly thought so, and the old doctor thought so; and most of them all, Mr. Brock thought so. But for some weeks past Mr. Brock's lessons had stopped. He had been sent away by the firm at Whittingham who employed him, tosee to the restoration of an old house in the country, where the wood carving, though much out of repair, was very fine, and required a careful and skilful workman to superintend its repair.
So there seemed to be no one at hand quite as eager about Jesse as Ferdy himself.
"The winter is coming fast," thought the little invalid, "and they can't go on working in the shed. And Jesse may get into idle ways again—he's not learning anything new now. It fidgets me so. I'd like him to be sent to some place where he'd get on fast. I don't believe he cares about it himself half as much as I care about it for him. And he's so taken up with his 'pupils.' I wonder what could be done about getting some one to teach them. Barney isn't clever enough. Oh, if only mamma wouldn't be so afraid of my tiring myself, and would let me have a class for them up here in the winter evenings! Or I might have two classes,—there are only ten or twelve of them altogether,—and once a week or so Mr. Brock might come to help me, or not even as often as that. If he came once a fortnight or even once a month he could see how they were getting on,—extracoming, I mean, besides his teaching me, for of course the more I learn the better I can teach them. And another evening we might have a class for something else—baskets or something not so hard as carving. Miss Lilly's learning baskets, I know. And then Jesse wouldn't mind leaving his pupils. Oh, I do wish it could be settled. I wish I could talk about it again to Dr. Lilly. I don't think Jesse's quite am—I can't remember the word—caring enough about getting on to be something great."
Poor Jesse, it was not exactly want of ambition with him. It was simply that the idea of becoming anything more than a farm-labourer had never yet entered his brain. He thought himself very lucky indeed to be where he now was, and to have the chance of improving in his dearly loved "carving" without being mocked at or interfered with, neither of which so far had actually been the case, though there had been some unpleasant threatenings in the air of late. His efforts to interest and improve the boys of the neighbourhood had been looked upon with suspicion—with more suspicion than he had known till quite lately, when he and Barneyhad been trying to get some one to lend them a barn or an empty room of any kind for the winter.
"What was he after now? Some mischief, you might be sure, or he wouldn't be Jesse Piggot."
So much easier is it to gain "a bad name," than to live one down.
"Oh," thought little Ferdy, "I dowishsomething could be settled about Jesse."
He was growing restless—restless and nervous, which did not often happen. Was it the gloomy afternoon, or the being so long alone, or what? The clouds overhead were growing steely-blue, rather than grey. Could it be going to thunder? Surely it was too cold for that. Perhaps there was a storm of some other kind coming on—heavy rain or wind, perhaps.
And mamma and Chrissie would getsowet!
If only they would come in! Ferdy began to feel what he very rarely did—rather sorry for himself. It was nervousness, one of the troubles which are the hardest to bear in a life such as Ferdy's had become and might continue. But this he was too young to understand; he thought he was cross and discontented, and this self-reproach onlymade him the more uncomfortable. These feelings, however, were not allowed to go very far that afternoon. A sound reached Ferdy's quick ears which made him look up sharply and glance out of the window. Some one was running rapidly along the drive towards the house.
It was Jesse.
But fast as he came, his way of moving told of fatigue. He had run far, and seemed nearly spent.
Ferdy's heart began to beat quickly, something must be the matter. Could it be an accident? Oh! if anything had happened to his father and mother and Chrissie, and Jesse had been sent for help! But in that case he would have gone straight to the stable-yard, and as this thought struck him, Ferdy breathed more freely again. Perhaps, after all, it was only some message and nothing wrong, and Jesse had been running fast just for his own amusement.
The little boy lay still and listened. In a minute or two he heard footsteps coming upstairs. Then a slight tap at the door—Thomas's tap—and almost without waiting for an answer, the footman came in.
"It's Jesse, Master Ferdy," he began. "JessePiggot. He's run all the way from Bollins, and he's pretty well done. He's begging to see you. He's in some trouble, but he won't tell me what. I'm afraid your mamma won't be best pleased if I let him up, but I don't know what to do, he seems in such a state."
Ferdy raised himself a little on his couch. There must be something very much the matter for Jesse, merry, light-hearted Jesse, to be in a "state" at all.
"Let him come up at once, Thomas, I'll put it all right with mamma," he began, but before Thomas had time for any more hesitation the matter was taken out of his hands by Jesse's short-cropped, dark head appearing in the doorway.
"Oh, Master Ferdy!" he exclaimed, in a choking voice, "mayn't I come in?"
"Of course," said Ferdy quickly. "It's all right, Thomas," with a touch of impatience, "I'll call you if I want you," and Thomas discreetly withdrew, closing the door behind him.
"They're after me, Master Ferdy," were Jesse's first words, "at least I'm afraid they are, though I tried my best to dodge them."
"Who?" exclaimed Ferdy.
"The p'lice and Bill Turner's father, and a lot of them, and oh, Master Ferdy, some one called out he was killed!"
"Who?" said Ferdy again, though his own cheeks grew white at Jesse's words. "And what is it that's happened, and what do you want me to do. You must tell me properly, Jesse."
It said a good deal for Ferdy's self-control that he was able to speak so quietly and sensibly, for he was feeling terribly startled. Jesse choked down his gasping breath, which was very nearly turning into sobs.
"I didn't want to frighten you, Master Ferdy. I didn't ought to, I know, but I couldn't think what else to do. It's that Bill Turner, Master Ferdy," and at the name he gave a little shudder. "He was in the class once, but it was only out of mischief. He did no good and tried to upset the others. So Barney and I wouldn't keep him at no price, and he's gone on getting nastier and nastier, and the other day he 'called' me—he did—so that I couldn't stand it, and I went for him. It didn't hurt him, but it made himmadder than ever, and he said he'd pay me out. And this afternoon when Barney and me were sorting the carvings at the shed—we've a box we keep them all in, there—Bill comes down upon us, him and some others. They got hold of 'em all and smashed 'em up and kicked them to pieces—all to pieces, Master Ferdy"—with a sort of wail, almost of despair, in his voice. "All the things we've been at for so long! We were going to make a show of them at Christmas; and I couldn't stand it, I went at him like a wild beast—it was for the other lads I minded so—though he's much bigger nor me, and I got him down, and he lay there without moving, and some one called out he was dead, and then the p'lice came, and one of 'em caught hold of me, but I got loose and I started running—I scarce knew what I was doing. I just thought I'd get here, and you'd tell me what to do. He can't be dead, Master Ferdy," he went on, dropping his voice—"you don't think he can be? I didn't seem to know what it meant till I got here and began to think."
"I don't know," said Ferdy, again growing verypale, while poor Jesse's face was all blotched in great patches of red and white, and smeared with the tears he had tried to rub off. "Oh, I do wish papa and mamma would come in! I don't know what to do. Do you think they saw you running this way, Jesse?"
"I—I don't know, Master Ferdy. I hope not, but there was a lot of the boys about—Draymoor boys, I mean—Bill's lot, and they may have tracked me. Of course none ofmyboys," he added, lifting his head proudly, "would peach on me, whatever the p'lice did."
But even as he spoke, there came, faintly and confusedly, the sound of approaching steps along the road just beyond the hedge, and a murmur of several voices all talking together. It might not have caught Ferdy's attention at any other time, but just now both his ears and Jesse's were sharpened by anxiety.
"They're a coming, Master Ferdy," exclaimed the poor boy, growing still whiter.
"Never mind," said Ferdy, trying hard to be brave, "Thomas is all right, he won't let them come up here."
"Oh, but maybe he can't stop them," said Jesse. "The p'lice can force their way anywheres. I wouldn't mind so much if ithadto be—like if your papa was here and said I must go to prison. But if they take me off now with no one to speak up for me, seems to me as if I'd never get out again."
Poor Ferdy was even more ignorant than Jesse of everything to do with law and prisons and the like; he looked about him almost wildly.
"Jesse," he said in a whisper. "I know what to do. Creep under my couch and lie there quite still. Thomas is all right, and nobody else saw you come up, did they?"
"No one else saw me at all," Jesse replied, dropping his voice, and going down on his hands and knees, "better luck. I'll keep still, no fear, Master Ferdy," his boyish spirits already rising again at the idea of "doing the p'lice," "and they'd never dare look under your sofa."
He scrambled in, but put his head out again for a moment to whisper in an awestruck tone, "But oh, Master Ferdy, if they do come up here, please try to find out if Bill Turner's so badlyhurt as they said. I know itcan'tbe true that I did as bad asthat."
All the same he was terribly frightened and remorseful. Ferdy scarcely dared to reply, for by this time a group of men and boys was coming up the drive, and a constable in front marched along as if he meant business, for as Ferdy watched them, he turned round and waved back the eight or ten stragglers who were following him, though he still held by the arm a thin, pale-faced little fellow whom he had brought with him all the way. This was Barney, poor Jesse's first lieutenant.
Another minute or two passed. Then hurrying steps on the stairs again, and Thomas reappeared, looking very excited.
"Master Ferdy," he exclaimed, but stopped short on seeing that his little master was alone. "Bless me!" he ejaculated under his breath, "he's gone! and I never saw him leave the house."
"What is it, Thomas?" said Ferdy, trying to speak and look as usual. "I saw the constable come in—you must tell him papa's out."
"I have told him so, sir, and I'm very sorry, buthe will have it he must see you. Some one's been and told that Jesse ran this way."
"Let him come up then," said Ferdy, with dignity, "though I'm sure papa will be very angry, and I don't believe he's any right to force his way in! But I'm not afraid of him!" proudly.
"Masterwillbe angry for certain," said Thomas, "very angry, and I've told the constable so. But he's in a temper, and a very nasty one, and won't listen to reason. He says them Draymoor boys are getting past bearing. I only hope," he went on, speaking more to himself, as he turned to leave the room again, "I only hope he won't get me into a scrape too for letting him up to frighten Master Ferdy—not that heisfrightened all the same!"
Two minutes later the burly form of Constable Brownrigg appeared at the door. He was already, to tell the truth, cooling down a little and beginning to feel rather ashamed of himself; and when his eyes lighted on the tiny figure in the window—looking even smaller and more fragile than Ferdy really was—the clumsy but far from bad-hearted man could at first find nothing to say for himself. Then—
"I beg pardon, sir, I hope I haven't upset you, but dooty's dooty!"
Ferdy raised his head a little, and looked the constable straight in the face, without condescending to notice the half apology.
"What is it you want of me?" he said coldly.
"It's all along of that there Jesse Piggot," replied Brownrigg, "as bad a lot as ever were!"
"What's he been doing?" said Ferdy again in the same tone, rather turning the tables upon the constable, as if he—Brownrigg—and not Ferdy himself, was the one to be cross-questioned.
The man glanced round him half suspiciously.
"He was seen coming here, sir."
"Well, suppose hehadcome here, you can't take him up for that?" said the boy. "I'm asking you what harm he'd done."
"He got up a row at Bollins this afternoon, and half killed a poor lad—Bill Turner by name—threw him down and half stunned him."
"Half stunned him," repeated Ferdy, "that's not quite the same as half killing him. Have you sent him to the hospital?"
"Well no, sir," said the constable, "he come to again—them boys has nine lives more than cats. I don't suppose he's really much the worse. But these Draymoor fights must be put a stop to, they're getting worse and worse; I've had orders to that effect," drawing himself up.
"And has Jesse Piggot been mixed up with them lately?" said Ferdy severely.
Again the constable looked rather small.
"Well no, sir," he repeated, "but what does that matter, if he's been the offender to-day."
This was true enough.
"But what do you wantmeto do?" asked Ferdy.
"To detain the lad if he comes here and give him up to the lawful authorities," said Brownrigg more fluently. "Everybody knows you've been very kind to him, but it's no true kindness to screen him from the punishment he deserves."
A new idea struck Ferdy.
"Did he begin the fight then?" he said. "There's such a thing as—as defending oneself, quite rightly. Supposing the other boy started it?"
"That will be all gone into in the proper time and place," said Brownrigg pompously. "An example must be made, and—"
Before he had time to finish his sentence Ferdy interrupted him joyfully. He had just caught sight of the pony-carriage driving in rapidly. For some garbled account of what had happened had been given to Mr. Ross by the group of men and boys still hanging about the gates, and he hurried in, afraid of finding his boy startled and upset.
Nor did the sight of the stout constable reassure him. On the contrary it made Mr. Ross very indignant. He scarcely noticed Brownrigg's half-apologetic greeting.
"What's all this?" he said sharply. "Who gave you leave to come up here and disturb an invalid?"
Brownrigg grew very red, and murmured something about his "dooty."
"Step downstairs, if you please, and then I'll hear what you've got to say."
"You've exceeded it in this case, I think you'll find," the master of the house replied severely. "Step downstairs if you please, and then I'll hear what you've got to say," and to Ferdy's inexpressible relief, for the consciousness of Jesse's near presence was beginning to make him terribly nervous.
Mr. Ross held the door wide open and the constable shamefacedly left the room. Scarcely had he done so when there came a subterranean whisper, "Master Ferdy," it said, "shall I come out?"
"No, no," Ferdy replied quickly. "Stay where you are, Jesse, unless you're choking. Mamma will be coming in most likely. Wait till papa comes back again, and I can tell him all about it."
Rather to Ferdy's surprise, the answer was a sort of giggle.
"I'm all right, thank you, Master Ferdy—as jolly as a sand-boy. And you did speak up to the old bobby, Master Ferdy; you did set him down. But I'm right down glad Bill Turner's none the worse, I am. It give me a turn when they called out I'd done for him."
And Ferdy understood then that the giggle came in part from relief of mind.
"Hush now, Jesse," he said. "I want to watch for Brownrigg's going. And till he's clear away, you'd best not come out, nor speak."
There was not very long to wait. For though Mr. Ross spoke out his mind very plainly to the constable, he made short work of it, and within ten minutes of the man leaving the oriel room, Ferdy had the pleasure, as he announced to Jesse in a sort of stage whisper, of seeing the worthy Mr. Brownrigg walking down the drive, some degrees less pompously than on his arrival. Nor was he now accompanied by poor little Barney, whom Mr. Ross had kept back, struck by pity for the lad's white, frightened face, as the constablecould not say that there was any "charge" againsthim, except that he had been an eye-witness of the "row."
"It's all right now, Jesse," Ferdy added in a minute or two. "He's quite gone—old Brownrigg, I mean—so you'd better come out."
Jesse emerged from his hiding-place, a good deal redder in the face than when he went in, though he was still trembling inwardly at the idea of meeting Ferdy's father.
"You don't think, Master Ferdy—" he was beginning, when the door opened and both Mr. and Mrs. Ross came in.
"Ferdy, darling," exclaimed his mother, "you've not been really frightened, I hope—" but she stopped short, startled by an exclamation from her husband.
"Jesse!" he said. "You here after all! Upon my word!" And for a moment he looked as if he were really angry. Then the absurd side of the matter struck him, and it was with some difficulty that he suppressed a smile.
"My dear boy," he went on, glancing at the tiny, but determined-looking figure on the couch, "you'llbe having your poor old father pulled up for conniving at felony."
"I don't know what that is, papa," said Ferdy. "But if it means hiding Jesse under the sofa—yes, Ididdo it, and I'd do it again. It wasn't Jesse thought of it, only he was afraid that if Brownrigg took him away he'd be put in prison and have nobody to speak up for him, and perhaps have been kept there for ever and ever so long."
"Your opinion of the law of the land is not a very high one apparently, Jesse," said Mr. Ross, eying the boy gravely.
Jesse shuffled and grew very red.
"I'll do whatever you think right, sir," he said stoutly. "If I must give myself up to Brownrigg, I'll run after him now. I don't want to get Master Ferdy nor you into any bother about me, after—after all you've done for me," and for the first time the boy broke down, turning his face away to hide the tears which he tried to rub off with the cuff of his sleeve.
"Oh, papa," said Ferdy pleadingly, his own eyes growing suspiciously dewy, "mamma, mamma, look at him."
Up to that moment, to tell the truth, Mrs. Ross's feelings towards Jesse had not been very cordial. The sight of him had startled her and made her almost as indignant with him as with the constable. But now her kind heart was touched. She glanced at her husband, but what she saw already in his face set her mind at rest.
"Come, come," said Mr. Ross, "don't put yourself out about it, Ferdy. Tell me the whole story quietly, or let Jesse do so," and after swallowing one or two sobs, Jesse found voice to do as he was desired. He told his tale simply and without exaggeration, though his voice shook and quivered when he came to the sad part of the destruction of the many weeks' labour of himself and his "pupils," and Mrs. Ross could not keep back a little cry of indignation.
"It is certainly notJessewho deserves punishment," she said eagerly, turning to her husband.
"If he could have controlled himself," said Mr. Ross, "to the point ofnotknocking down that bully, Turner, his case would have been a still stronger one. Do you see that, my boy?" hewent on, turning to Jesse, who murmured something indistinctly in reply.
"I'm glad he did knock him down all the same, papa," said Ferdy. "You don't now think Jesse need give himself up to the p'lice?" he added anxiously.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Ross, "but it will be best for me to see Brownrigg and tell him all I now know—except—no I don't think I will tell him of the hiding-place under your sofa, Ferdy." Then turning again to Jesse, "To-morrow is Sunday," he said; "do you generally go to see your friends at Draymoor on a Sunday?"
"Sometimes," said Jesse; "not always, sir."
"Then they won't think anything of it if they don't see you to-morrow?"
"Oh lor, no," Jesse replied. "They'd think nothing of it if they never saw me again. It's only Barney that cares for me or me for him of all that lot."
"Oh yes, by the bye—Barney!" said Mr. Ross, starting up. "I left him downstairs, poor little fellow. He is in my study—you know where that is, Jesse, run and fetch him," and Jesse,delighted at this proof of confidence, started off quite cheerfully on his errand.
When he was out of hearing, Mr. Ross said thoughtfully, "It won't do for that lad to remain in this neighbourhood, I see. I must have a talk about him again with Dr. Lilly, and probably with Brock. Something must be decided as to his future, and if he really has talent above the average he must be put in the right way towards making it of use."
Ferdy's eyes sparkled; sorry as he would be to be parted from Jesse, this was what he, as well as Miss Lilly, had long been hoping for. Before he had time to say anything, a tap at the door told that the two boys were outside.
"Come in," said Mr. Ross, and then Jesse reappeared, half leading, half pushing his small cousin before him.
Mrs. Ross was touched by Barney's white face and general air of delicacy.
"Don't look so scared," she heard Jesse whisper to him.
"You must be tired, Barney," she said kindly. "Jesse and you must have some tea before you go back to Draymoor."
"Jesse's not to go back to Draymoor, mamma," said Ferdy, looking up quickly.
"No," said Mr. Ross, "that is what I wish to speak to Barney about. Will you tell your father, Barney—is it to your father's house that Jesse goes on Sundays generally?"
"No, sir, please, sir, I haven't a father—mother and me's alone. It's my uncle's."
"Well, then, tell your uncle from me," continued Mr. Ross, "that I think it best to keep Jesse here at present, and that he was not to blame for the affair this afternoon. I shall see the constable again about it myself."
Barney's face expressed mingled relief and disappointment.
"Yes, sir," he said obediently. "There'll be no more classes then, I suppose?" he added sadly. "Is Jesse not even to come as far as Bollins?"
"Not at present," replied Mr. Ross, and then, feeling sorry for the little fellow, he added: "If your mother can spare you, you may come over here to-morrow and have your Sunday dinner with your cousin in the servants' hall."
Both boys' faces shone with pleasure.
"And will you tell the lads, Barney," said Jesse, "how it's all been. And what I minded most was their things being spoilt."
Barney's face grew melancholy again.
"Don't look so downhearted," said Mr. Ross. "We won't forget you and the other boys. Your work has already done you great credit."
Ferdy's lips opened as if he were about to speak, but the little fellow had learnt great thoughtfulness of late, and he wisely decided that what he had to say had better be kept till he was alone with his parents.
Just then Christine made her appearance, very eager to know more about the constable's visit and the exciting events of the afternoon. So Mrs. Ross left her with her brother while she herself took the two boys downstairs to put them into the housekeeper's charge for tea, of which both struck her as decidedly in need.
"Papa," said Ferdy, when he had finished going over the whole story again for his sister's benefit, "don't you think if Jesse has to go away thatImight take on the class, one or two evenings a week any way? Mr. Brock might come sometimes—extra,you know—just to see how they were getting on. And they would be quite safe here, and nobody would dare to spoil their things."
"And Miss Lilly and I would help," said Christine eagerly. "There are some of them, Jesse has told us, that want to learn other things—not only wood-carving—thatwecould help them with. Miss Lilly's been having lessons herself in basket-making."
"Dr. Lilly has reason to be proud of his granddaughter," said Mr. Ross warmly. "We must talk it all over. It would certainly seem a terrible pity for the poor fellows to lose what they have gained, not merely in skill, but the good habit of putting to use some of their leisure hours—miners have so much idle time."
"There's the big empty room downstairs near the servants' hall," said Ferdy. "Could not I be carried down there, papa?"
Mr. Ross hesitated. He felt doubtful, but anxious not to disappoint the boy, for as his eyes rested on the fragile little figure and he realised what Ferdy's future life might be, he could not but think to himself how happy and healthy athing it was that his child should be so ready to interest himself in others, instead of becoming self-engrossed and discontented.
"We must see what Mr. Stern says," he replied, "and—yes, it will soon be time for the other doctor's visit. It would be a long walk from Draymoor for the lads."
"Theywouldn't mind," said Ferdy decisively.
"And now and then," said Christine, "we might give them tea for a treat—once a month or so. Oh! it would be lovely!"
Again a spring morning, only two or three years ago. Evercombe and the Watch House look much as they did when we first saw them; one could fancy that but a few months instead of ten years had passed since then. The swallows are there, established in their summer quarters above the oriel window, the same and yet not the same, though their chirping voices may, for all we know, be telling of the little boy who for so long lay on his couch below, and loved them so well.
He is not there now, nor is his couch in its old place. Instead of the small white face and eager blue eyes, there stands at the post of observation a tall young girl, a very pretty girl, with a bright flush of happy expectancy on her fair face.
"Mamma, mamma," she exclaims to some one farther in the shade of the room. "I think I hear wheels. Surely it will be they this time!If it isn't I really shan't have patience to stand here any longer."
But "this time" her hopes were fulfilled. Another moment and a carriage, which Christine, for Christine of course it was, quickly recognised as their own, turned in at the lodge gates. And before those inside had time to look up at the window, Chrissie had flown downstairs followed by her mother.
"Ferdy, Ferdy," she exclaimed, as the carriage-door opened, and her brother, his face flushed with pleasure equal to her own, got out, slowly, and with a little help from his father, for the young man was slightly lame, though his face told of health and fair strength. He was sunburnt and manly looking, full of life and happy eagerness.
"Isn't he looking well, mamma?" said Chrissie, when the first loving greetings had sobered down a little.
"And haven't I grown?" added Ferdy, drawing himself up for approval. "And isn't it delightful that I managed to get back on my birthday after all?"
"Yes, indeed, my darling," said Mrs. Ross; whilehis father gently placed his hand on the young fellow's shoulder, repeated her words—"yes, indeed! When we think of this day—how many years ago! Ten?—yes, it must be ten—you were nine then, Ferdy, how very, unutterably thankful we should be to have you as you are."
"And to judge by my looks you don't know the best of me," said Ferdy. "I can walk ever so far without knocking up. But oh! what heaps of things we have to talk about!"
"Come in to breakfast first," said his mother. "It is ten o'clock, and after travelling all night you must be a little tired."
"I am really not, only very hungry," said Ferdy, as he followed her into the dining-room, where the happy party seated themselves round the table.
Ferdy had been away, abroad, for nearly two years, both for study and for health's sake, and the result was more than satisfactory. School-life had been impossible for him, for the effect of his accident had been but very slowly outgrown. Slowly but surely, however, for now at nineteen, except for his slight lameness, he was perfectly well, and able to look forward to a busy and useful life, though theexact profession he was now to prepare himself for, was not yet quite decided upon. A busy and useful and happy life it promised to be, with abundance of interests for his leisure hours. He was no genius, but the tastes which he had had special opportunity for cultivating through his boyhood, were not likely to fail him as he grew up. And in many a dull and sunless home would they help him to bring something to cheer the dreary sameness of hard-working lives. They had done so already, more than he as yet knew.
Breakfast over and his old haunts revisited, Mrs. Ross at last persuaded him and his sister to join her on the lawn, where she had established herself with her work for the rest of the morning.
"This is to be a real holiday, Ferdy," she said. "Chrissie and I have been looking forward to it for so long. We have nothing to do but to talk and listen."
"I have heaps to tell," said Ferdy, "but even more to ask. My life in Switzerland was really awfully jolly in every way, but I'll tell you all about it by degrees; besides, I did write long letters, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did," said his mother and Chrissie together; "you have been very good about letters all the time."
"Of course," began Ferdy, after a moment or two's silence, "the thing I want to hear most about is how the classes have all been getting on. You kept me pretty well posted up about them, but in your last letters there was some allusion I didn't quite understand—something that the Mayhews have been trying to arrange."
Christine glanced at her mother.
"I may tell him, mayn't I, mamma? Now that it is all settled? It is not only the Mayhews' doing, but Jesse Piggot's too." And as Ferdy's face lightened up at the mention of his friend's name—"He hasn't told you about it himself, surely?" in a tone of some disappointment. "I know that he wrote you long letters regularly, but I thought he understood that we wanted to keep this new thing as a surprise for you when you came back."
Ferdy looked puzzled.
"He hasn't told me anything special except about himself. The last big piece of news, since of course it was all settled about his getting that capital berthat Whittingham, that Brock was so delighted about—the last big piece of news was his getting the order for the carved reredos at Cowlingsbury Abbey. But that was some time ago!"
"Oh yes," said Christine, "we have got over the excitement about that. Though when you think of it," she went on thoughtfully, "it is wonderful to realise how Jesse has got on."
"And is going to get on," added Mrs. Ross. "And without flattery, Ferdy dear, we may say that it is greatly, very greatly owing to you."
Ferdy's face grew red with pleasure.
"I can't quite see that," he said. "Genius must make its own way. But do tell me thenewnews, Chrissie."
"It is that Mr. Mayhew has got ground and money and everything for a sort of,—we don't know what to call it yet—'Institute' is such an ugly word, we must think of something prettier,—a sort of art college at Draymoor for the afternoon and evening classes. It won't be on a large scale. It would spoil it if it were, and a great part of their work can still be done at home, which is of course the real idea of itall. But this little college will really be for teaching what, up to now, has had to be done in odd rooms here and there."
"Oh!" Ferdy exclaimed, "that is splendid!"
"For you see," Chrissie continued, counting up on her pretty fingers as she spoke, "what a lot of different kinds of work we've got to now. Wood-carving to begin with—we must always count it first!"
"No," said Ferdy, laughing, "strictly speaking, moss baskets came first."
"Wood-carving," repeated Chrissie, not condescending to notice the interruption. "Then the modelling, and pottery classes, basket work, brass hammering, and the iron work, not to speak of the girls' embroidery and lace work. Yes," with a deep sigh of satisfaction, "itistime for a little college of our own."
"A great, great deal of it," said Ferdy, "is owing to Miss Lilly—I always forget to call her Mrs. Mayhew. If only she hadn't gone and got married we might have called it the 'Lily College,' after her."
"If she hadn't gone and got married, as youelegantly express it, Mr. Mayhew would never, probably, have been the vicar of Draymoor," said Chrissie. "For it was through his being such a great friend of Dr. Lilly's that he got to know the old squire, who gave him the living. And just think of all he has done—Mr. Mayhew I mean—for Draymoor."
Ferdy did not at once reply. He gazed up into the blue sky and listened to the sweet bird-chatter overhead, with a look of great content on his face.
"Yes," he said, "things do turn out so—quite rightly sometimes. Just when you'd have thought they'd go wrong! There was that row of Jesse's to begin with, when he thought all he had tried to do was spoilt, and then there were all the difficulties about the evening classes, while I was still ill, and it almost seemed as if we would have to give them up. And then—and then—why! when it was fixed for me to go away two years ago, I could scarcely believe they'd go on, even though Mr. Mayhew had come by that time. Yes, it's rather wonderful! I say, Chrissie," with a sudden change of tone, "doesn't it really soundas if the swallows were rather excited about my coming home!"
Christine looked up at the oriel window with a smile.
"I wonder," she said, "ifpossiblyany of them can be the same ones, or if they are telling over the story that has been handed down from their great-grandparents—the story of the little white boy that used to lie on the couch in the window?"
This is not a completed story, dear children, as you will have seen. It is only the story of the beginning of a life, and of the beginning of a work, which in many and many a place, besides gloomy Draymoor, started in the humblest and smallest way. If ever, or wherever any of you come across this endeavour to brighten and refine dull, ungraceful, and ungracious homes, you will do your best to help it on, I feel sure, will you not?
Tell Me a Story, and Herr Baby."Carrots," and A Christmas Child.Grandmother Dear, and Two Little Waifs.The Cuckoo Clock, and The Tapestry Room.Christmas-Tree Land, and A Christmas Posy.The Children of the Castle, and Four Winds Farm.Little Miss Peggy, and Nurse Heatherdale's Story."Us," and The Rectory Children.Rosy, and The Girls and I.Mary. Sheila's Mystery.Carved Lions.
"It seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child than to draw a lifelike man or woman: Shakespeare and Webster were the only two men of their age who could do it with perfect delicacy and success; at least, if there was another who could, I must crave pardon of his happy memory for my forgetfulness or ignorance of his name. Our own age is more fortunate, on this single score at least, having a larger and far nobler proportion of female writers; among whom, since the death of George Eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite and masterly, whose love is so thoroughly according to knowledge, whose bright and sweet invention is so fruitful, so truthful, or so delightful as Mrs. Molesworth's. Any chapter ofThe Cuckoo Clockor the enchantingAdventures of Herr Babyis worth a shoal of the very best novels dealing with the characters and fortunes of mere adults."—Mrs. A. C. Swinburne, inThe Nineteenth Century.
"There is hardly a better author to put into the hands of children than Mrs. Molesworth. I cannot easily speak too highly of her work. It is a curious art she has, not wholly English in its spirit, but a cross of the old English with the Italian. Indeed, I should say Mrs. Molesworth had also been a close student of the German and Russian, and had some way, catching and holding the spirit of all, created a method and tone quite her own.... Her characters are admirable and real."—St. Louis Globe Democrat.
"Mrs. Molesworth has a rare gift for composing stories for children. With a light, yet forcible touch, she paints sweet and artless, yet natural and strong, characters."—Congregationalist.
"Mrs. Molesworth always has in her books those charming touches of nature that are sure to charm small people. Her stories are so likely to have been true that men 'grown up' do not disdain them."—Home Journal.
"No English writer of childish stories has a better reputation than Mrs. Molesworth, and none with whose stories we are familiar deserves it better. She has a motherly knowledge of the child nature, a clear sense of character, the power of inventing simple incidents that interest, and the ease which comes of continuous practice."—Mail and Express.
"Christmas would hardly be Christmas without one of Mrs. Molesworth's stories. No one has quite the same power of throwing a charm and an interest about the most commonplace every-day doings as she has, and no one has ever blended fairyland and reality with the same skill."—Educational Times.
"Mrs. Molesworth is justly a great favorite with children; her stories for them are always charmingly interesting and healthful in tone."—Boston Home Journal.
"Mrs. Molesworth's books are cheery, wholesome, and particularly well adapted to refined life. It is safe to add that Mrs. Molesworth is the best English prose writer for children.... A new volume from Mrs. Molesworth is always a treat."—The Beacon.
"No holiday season would be complete for a host of young readers without a volume from the hand of Mrs. Molesworth.... It is one of the peculiarities of Mrs. Molesworth's stories that older readers can no more escape their charm than younger ones."—Christian Union.
"Mrs. Molesworth ranks with George Macdonald and Mrs. Ewing as a writer of children's stories that possess real literary merit."—Milwaukee Sentinel.
"So delightful that we are inclined to join in the petition, and we hope she may soon tell us more stories."—Athenæum.
"One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."—Examiner.
"A very sweet and tenderly drawn sketch, with life and reality manifest throughout."—Pall Mall Gazette.
"This is a capital story, well illustrated. Mrs. Molesworth is one of those sunny, genial writers who has genius for writing acceptably for the young. She has the happy faculty of blending enough real with romance to make her stories very practical for good without robbing them of any of their exciting interest."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.
"Mrs. Molesworth'sA Christmas Childis a story of a boy-life. The book is a small one, but none the less attractive. It is one of the best of this year's juveniles."—Chicago Tribune.
"Mrs. Molesworth is one of the few writers of tales for children whose sentiment though of the sweetest kind is never sickly; whose religious feeling is never concealed yet never obtruded; whose books are always good but never 'goody.' Little Ted with his soft heart, clever head, and brave spirit is no morbid presentment of the angelic child 'too good to live,' and who is certainly a nuisance on earth, but a charming creature, if not a portrait, whom it is a privilege to meet even in fiction."—The Academy.
"A beautiful little story.... It will be read with delight by every child into whose hands it is placed."—Pall Mall Gazette.
"The author's concern is with the development of character, and seldom does one meet with the wisdom, tact, and good breeding which pervades this little book."—Nation.
"Mrs. Molesworth's delightful story ofTwo Little Waifswill charm all the small people who find it in their stockings. It relates the adventures of two lovable English children lost in Paris, and is just wonderful enough to pleasantly wring the youthful heart."—New York Tribune.
"It is, in its way, indeed, a little classic, of which the real beauty and pathos can hardly be appreciated by young people.... It is not too much to say of the story that it is perfect of its kind."—Critic and Good Literature.
"Mrs. Molesworth is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories are always acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and her record of the adventures of the little waifs is as entertaining and enjoyable as we might expect."—Boston Courier.
"Two Little Waifsby Mrs. Molesworth is a pretty little fancy, relating the adventures of a pair of lost children, in a style full of simple charm. It is among the very daintiest of juvenile books that the season has yet called forth; and its pathos and humor are equally delightful. The refined tone and the tender sympathy with the feelings and sentiments of childhood, lend it a special and an abiding charm."—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.
"This is a charming little juvenile story from the pen of Mrs. Molesworth, detailing the various adventures of a couple of motherless children in searching for their father, whom they had missed in Paris where they had gone to meet him."—Montreal Star.
"Mrs. Molesworth is a popular name, not only with a host of English, but with a considerable army of young American readers, who have been charmed by her delicate fancy and won by the interest of her style.Two Little Waifs, illustrated by Walter Crane, is a delightful story, which comes, as all children's stories ought to do, to a delightful end."—Christian Union.
"Mrs. Molesworth is the queen of children's fairyland. She knows how to make use of the vague, fresh, wondering instincts of childhood, and to invest familiar things with fairy glamour."—Athenæum.
"The story told is a charming one of what may be called the neo-fairy sort.... There has been nothing better of its kind done anywhere for children, whether we consider its capacity to awake interest or its wholesomeness."—Evening Post.
"Among the books for young people we have seen nothing more unique thanThe Tapestry Room. Like all of Mrs. Molesworth's stories it will please young readers by the very attractive and charming style in which it is written."—Presbyterian Journal.
"Mrs. Molesworth will be remembered as a writer of very pleasing stories for children. A new book from her pen will be sure of a welcome from all the young people. The new story bears the name ofThe Tapestry Roomand is a child's romance.... The child who comes into possession of the story will count himself fortunate. It is a bright, wholesome story, in which the interest is maintained to the end. The author has the faculty of adapting herself to the tastes and ideas of her readers in an unusual way."—New Haven Paladium.
"It is conceived after a happy fancy, as it relates the supposititious journey of a party of little ones through that part of fairyland where Christmas-trees are supposed to most abound. There is just enough of the old-fashioned fancy about fairies mingled with the 'modern improvements' to incite and stimulate the youthful imagination to healthful action. The pictures by Walter Crane are, of course, not only well executed in themselves, but in charming consonance with the spirit of the tale."—Troy Times.
"Christmas-Tree Land, by Mrs. Molesworth, is a book to make younger readers open their eyes wide with delight. A little boy and a little girl domiciled in a great white castle, wander on their holidays through the surrounding fir-forests, and meet with the most delightful pleasures. There is a fascinating, mysterious character in their adventures and enough of the fairy-like and wonderful to puzzle and enchant all the little ones."—Boston Home Journal.
"This is a collection of eight of those inimitable stories for children which none could write better than Mrs. Molesworth. Her books are prime favorites with children of all ages and they are as good and wholesome as they are interesting and popular. This makes a very handsome book, and its illustrations are excellent."—Christian at Work.
"A Christmas Posyis one of those charming stories for girls which Mrs Molesworth excels in writing."—Philadelphia Press.
"Here is a group of bright, wholesome stories, such as are dear to children, and nicely tuned to the harmonies of Christmas-tide. Mr. Crane has found good situations for his spirited sketches."—Churchman.
"A Christmas Posy, by Mrs. Molesworth, is lovely and fragrant. Mrs. Molesworth succeeds by right to the place occupied with so much honor by the late Mrs. Ewing, as a writer of charming stories for children. The present volume is a cluster of delightful short stories. Mr. Crane's illustrations are in harmony with the text."—Christian Intelligencer.
"The Children of the Castle, by Mrs. Molesworth, is another of those delightful juvenile stories of which this author has written so many. It is a fascinating little book, with a charming plot, a sweet, pure atmosphere, and teaches a wholesome moral in the most winning manner."—B. S. E. Gazette.
"Mrs. Molesworth has given a charming story for children.... It is a wholesome book, one which the little ones will read with interest."—Living Church.
"The Children of the Castleare delightful creations, actual little girls, living in an actual castle, but often led by their fancies into a shadowy fairyland. There is a charming refinement of style and spirit about the story from beginning to end; an imaginative child will find endless pleasure in it, and the lesson of gentleness and unselfishness so artistically managed that it does not seem like a lesson, but only a part of the story."—Milwaukee Sentinel.
"Mrs. Molesworth's stories for children are always ingenious, entertaining, and thoroughly wholesome. Her resources are apparently inexhaustible, and each new book from her pen seems to surpass its predecessors in attractiveness. InThe Children of the Castlethe best elements of a good story for children are very happily combined."—The Week.
"Mrs. Molesworth's books are always delightful, but of all none is more charming than the volume with which she greets the holidays this season.Four Winds Farmis one of the most delicate and pleasing books for a child that has seen the light this many a day. It is full of fancy and of that instinctive sympathy with childhood which makes this author's books so attractive and so individual."—Boston Courier.
"Like all the books she has written this one is very charming, and is worth more in the hands of a child than a score of other stories of a more sensational character."—Christian at Work.
"Still more delicately fanciful is Mrs. Molesworth's lovely little tale of theFour Winds Farm. It is neither a dream nor a fairy story, but concerns the fortune of a real little boy, named Gratian; yet the dream and the fairy tale seem to enter into his life, and make part of it. The farm-house in which the child lives is set exactly at the meeting-place of the four winds, and they, from the moment of his birth, have acted as his self-elected godmothers.... All the winds love the boy, and, held in the balance of their influence, he grows up as a boy should, simply and truly, with a tender heart and firm mind. The idea of this little book is essentially poetical."—Literary World.
"This book is for the children. We grudge it to them. There are few children in this generation good enough for such a gift. Mrs. Molesworth is the only woman now who can write such a book.... The delicate welding of the farm life about the child and the spiritual life within him, and the realization of the four immortals into a delightful sort of half-femininity shows a finer literary quality than anything we have seen for a long time. The light that never was on sea or land is in this little red and gold volume."—Philadelphia Press.