confusionLady Kitty came in on a scene of confusion.
Lady Kitty came in on a scene of confusion.
Lady Kitty came in on a scene of confusion.
"My father is very ill," she said in a dull voice. "I am going to catch the express at Euston. You will tell Lady Jane I could not wait to see her."
"You poor child! When did you hear it?"
"The letter came by the first post."
"You are not going without breakfast? Those lazy creatures must have it ready to time for once."
She rang the bell sharply, and a maid came.
"Breakfast immediately for Miss Graydon," she said. "We shall be in the dining-room in three minutes. Tell Dibber itmustbe on the table."
And it was. Pamela ate a few mouthfuls and swallowed a cup of tea. Then the cab was at the door, and her miserable eyes were looking out on the sunshiny street.
"Good-bye, good-bye," she said.
"When you can, send me a word to say how he is," said Lady Kitty.
Pamela stepped back into the dining-room, and put her arms round Lady Kitty's neck.
"No matter, no matter!" she cried. "I love you. You've been human to me in this house, and I love you."
And then Pamela was gone.
It was May now, and the evenings were long and sweet. Eight o'clock rang from the clock-tower at Glengall, and Pamela Graydon stood by the Wishing Well in the woods and looked down into the little cup of clear water. Memory was very keen in her this delicious, scented evening.
No word had come from Anthony Trevithick, and Pamela had ceased to expect any long ago. On her father's account as much as on her own she was filled with dull anger against him—an anger that hurt.
She had had no communication with the house in Brook Street, except her hastily scribbled line to Lady Kitty when Mr. Graydon began to creep back out of the shadow of death, and the answering letter, full of a sympathy which would have surprised some in Lady Kitty's world, if they could but have read it.
"Anthony thinks of getting his Uncle Wilton moved home as soon as possible," was one of Lady Kitty's bits of news. "He will never be very strong again, but he is out of danger. Of course, they will have to go warily, so Anthony will hardly be here before full summer."
"He, may stay away for ever, so far as I am concerned," had been Pamela's comment as she thrust the letter into her little old desk. Indeed, at the time, in the extremity of her relief at her father's illness having taken a turn for the better, her love affair seemed a paltry thing and not worth thinking upon.
But now that the strain was over her loneliness returned. She looked with sad eyes upon the summer landscape, and the moan of May wood-doves from near and far seemed to be the voice of her pain.
She often wondered if she could be the Pamela of a year ago—so gay and careless. Her sadness of late had passed unnoticed—they had all been sad—but whereas Sylvia's spirits had gone up with a bound, and Mary's mood was one of quiet and thankful joy, the great fear being removed, Pamela, after the first relief, felt only a flatness and dulness of the spirit which seemed never likely to lift; for Pam looked to her future with all the hopelessness of very young girlhood.
She sat down on a mossy tree trunk and listened with her chin in her hand to the last song of the thrush.
"Pamela," said a voice close by her, "the dews are falling, child, and you will take cold."
"Oh, Lord Glengall!" Pamela looked up startled, and then stretched a friendly hand to him.
"No; it is not a bit damp," she said. "Just feel it. I am going home presently. Sit down here. There is room for you."
But he stood watching her seriously and made no response to her invitation.
"You have been to Carrickmoyle?" she said.
"Yes, I saw him for a few minutes." There was no necessity to specify who the "him" was. He had been so much in all their minds.
"He was very comfortable," Lord Glengall continued. "Sylvia was reading to him, and his little fire was bright. He grows every day more like himself."
"Yes," said Pamela simply. "It is good to see him growing stronger. One can rest in it, and be glad, without looking forward too much."
"You mean to the winter?"
"Yes; twenty things may happen before then to help us. We have nearly five months before the doctor says he must go abroad. I am not going to think about it."
"Lord Downside may even yet find a human heart in him," said Glengall, watching her seriously.
"Lord Downside—who turned him into the street, wet and hungry, to meet almost his death!" cried Pain, with an angry sob. 'The tender mercies of the wicked.' I shall always think of Lord Downside when I hear that."
"You look as if you needed a change yourself, Pam."
The deep-sunk eyes looked at her with an anxious tenderness, but Pamela did not notice.
"I shall pull up now," she said. "Carrickmoyle in summer is good enough for anyone."
"But the winter, Pam—the winter?"
"Let us forget the winter for a little while," answered Pamela, surprised at his insistence.
"I am very rich, Pam," he said, and then stopped.
"Ah! that is what you are aiming at," said Pam, looking up at him with repentant affection; "and I was feeling cross with you because you wouldn't let the winter be."
"He won't mind taking—a loan—from his old friend? At interest, if he likes. Eh, Pam?"
"Oh! a thousand per cent., if you like," cried Pam airily, but her eyes were dewy. "You may as well charge a big interest, for you know it would be a loan that would hardly have the faintest chance of ever being repaid."
"Oh! I don't know about that," said Lord Glengall, digging a hole in the ground with the toe of his boot.
"You are an optimist," laughed Pam, and her tone was tender.
"He will take it, you think?"
"He never will."
"I have neither chick nor child. Is my gold to lie rotting while the friend I love—wants for it?"
He substituted "wants" at the last moment for another word, and Pamela understood.
"I daresay it is foolish," she said, "but I am afraid we shall not be able to persuade him."
"If not, Pam, there is one other way."
"Ah! no," she cried, putting out both hands as if to push him off; "not that way, Lord Glengall."
She closed her eyes at the moment, and like a sudden stab there came the thought of the young lover who had kissed her in this place, deadly sweet and deadly cruel as well.
"I beg your pardon, Pam," said Glengall's quiet and patient voice. "Of course, I am too old."
"Oh! no, but I am not the right person—that is all. You must marry someone who loves you. I—I am the wrong person."
"We won't talk about it, then," said Glengall, turning away his head. "We must find some other way, Pam."
Pamela jumped up and ran to him, and, as she had often done, thrust her arm into his.
"You are a thousand times too good for a stupid, ungrateful girl like me." She hugged his arm to her unconsciously. "I should be a thousand times a happier girl if I did love you and married you. Indeed, it oughtn't to be hard to love you."
Lord Glengall patted her head.
"Thank you, Pam," he said, "for being sorry for me. I don't deserve your goodness; I am a selfish old fellow for wanting a lovely young creature like you. Ah! Pam, we should form those ties when we are young. Then we should not feel useless and lonely old blocks when we have left our youth behind."
"You're not going to be unhappy?" cried Pam, still hugging his arm.
Lord Glengall laughed.
PamPamela looked up startled.
Pamela looked up startled.
Pamela looked up startled.
"No, Pam," he said. "I don't pretend to be like a young fellow, all fire and despair. I should have liked to take care of you, little girl, and to have the right to take care of you all. But we must find another way."
They walked back together to Carrickmoylein the old friendly fashion, and no one seeing them could have guessed that Glengall was a rejected lover; but that night Pam was thoughtful.
The next morning she was alone with her father. Mr. Graydon lay on a couch, from which he could see the mountains through the open window, and Pamela, on the rug by his side, was trying to teach Mark Antony to balance a straw on his nose.
"Let him alone, Pam," said her father. "He's too old and fat to learn tricks."
Glengall"Is it 'Yes'?" said Lord Glengall.
"Is it 'Yes'?" said Lord Glengall.
"Is it 'Yes'?" said Lord Glengall.
"Then he shan't have his bone; Pat deserves it better. Pat has learned three new tricks since you've been getting well."
"It is good to be getting well again. I don't think I realised before how beautiful the world is."
"Our bit of it," said Pam.
"And yet I am no coward. When my time comes, I shall not be afraid to go. If only I could feel that you children were provided for!"
"Did that trouble you—then?" said Pam, in a low voice.
"It did," answered her father, "though I tried hard for faith and trust."
"Dear, darling dad!" cried Pamela suddenly. "Would it make you happier if I were to marry Lord Glengall?"
"I thought we had settled all that, Pam."
"Oh, yes, in that old life," said Pamela dreamily, "before you were ill. But things are altered now. It is just as well we don't know what's before us."
"But I am getting well, my little Pam."
"Ah, yes, thank God! You are getting well," said Pam. "But you haven't told me if it would make you happier for me to marry Lord Glengall."
"You would be safe," said Mr. Graydon wistfully, "and he would take care of the others. But—but—it is not a question of making me happy, or of anyone but yourself, little Pam. Could you be happy?"
"Sometimes I think I could," said Pamela. "It would be an end of trouble; it would be peace."
"Poor Pam! you talk as if you had been through storms."
Pam shook her head.
"Never mind, darling dad. I think I shall say 'Yes' then, after all."
"He has asked you, Pam?"
"Yes, he has asked me. You don't think, dad, that he would like Sylvia just as well?"
"He seems to prefer you, Pam."
"I shouldlovehim for a brother-in-law."
"If you feel like that, don't think of him for a husband."
"He would never deceive nor betray me," said Pamela, with a sigh.
"Poor little girl!" said her father, and then said no more.
A day or two later, as Lord Glengall was leaving Carrickmoyle, he was overtaken by Pamela.
"I'm coming with you a bit," she said. "I want to give the dogs a run."
"I'll be proud of your company. Shall we take the wood-path?"
"No," said Pamela, with a little shudder. "I hate the wood. Let us cross the bog."
"Why, what has come to you, child? I thought you were a perfect wood-nymph."
"I'm tired of the wood," said Pam, shortly.
They walked on till they were out in the road through the bog. Then Pamela suddenly spoke what was in her mind.
"Lord Glengall," she said, "do you still want me to marry you?"
"Why, it was only on Wednesday I asked you. You don't suppose I've had time to change my mind?"
"Because—I've changed mine. I want to say 'Yes.'"
"'Yes,' Pam? Is it 'Yes'?" said Lord Glengall, turning and facing her. "Are you quite sure you mean 'Yes'?"
"Quite, quite sure," said Pam.
"What's come over you to make you say it, when you said 'No' the other day? You're doing it of your own free will, Pam?"
"Quite of my own free will."
Lord Glengall stooped and kissed the cool cheek, almost as her father might.
"And you won't want to unsay it later on, Pam?"
Pam shook her head.
"I'll be very good to you, little Pam—God helping me."
"I know you will," said Pain. "But why did you like me instead of Sylvia?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. Pam. I never thought of that." He laughed out. "It's lucky I didn't. Pam. What chance should I have had with Sylvia, and all those boys about her?"
"What, indeed?" said Pamela, but she looked mysterious.
A moment later she pulled up again sharply.
"Now that we're engaged," she said, "I've something to tell you. Lord Glengall."
A wave of the loveliest rose flowed over her face, but her eyes were down.
"What is it, Pam?" he said quietly, but he felt a sharp pang as he watched her. She would never flush like that for him, he felt sure. Ah, his lost youth! What would he not have given to recall it?
"I think I ought to tell you," she said, looking on the ground at her feet, "that I have cared for someone else."
"Very much, Pam?"
"Very much."
"Is it all over, Pam?"
"It is all over."
"Was it—a matter of money, Pam? Could nothing be done? I don't want you to marry me at the cost of your own happiness."
Pamela was pulling a wild yellow iris to pieces. He put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face till he could look into her eyes.
"Tell me, tell me, Pam. Be brave and truthful with me. It is my happiness as well as yours. Is there nothing that can be done?"
"There is nothing."
He let her go, and stood away again, and his face was full of trouble. Pamela looked at him for a moment. Then she made a step forward, and drew his arms about her.
"I told you because I thought I must," she said. "But it is all over and done with. I am going to be so happy with you, so happy!" He looked down at her and his face was transformed.
"Don't makemetoo happy, Pam," he said. "It is too much for an old hulk like me."
And so they went home through the summer evening, Pamela saying to herself over and over again that she was really happy. Now she need not dread the autumn for her father, for had not Glengall said that together they would take him to the Riviera, or farther afield to Algiers, and so would make him strong again? And had he not thought, even in his first content, of poor Mary and her hopeless love affair? Mick was to exchange into a home regiment, and a little money would smooth the way for their marriage, so that the two need not wait till some day far distant, when they should look in each other's faded faces and feel that this was not the love of long ago. Sylvia, too, was to have fine frocks and gaiety as befitted her beauty and her youth. And to think that she, Pamela, was the wonder-worker, the magician, to give her beloved ones the things that lay nearest their hearts—she, Pamela, who had always desired to give!
Only Sylvia, of them all, did not congratulate Pamela with approval.
"I don't believe you'll make him half as happy as I should have done," she said. "But never mind—it is your score, and I accept it."
And then she went off with a frown to refuse young St. Quentin for the fifth time, as she had already refused his superior officer.
"I'll do my best to make him happy," Pamela said, remembering before she slept. "Help me to make him happy," she cried, lifting her heart and her eyes.
And so she fell asleep placidly, quite unlike a girl who had been asked in marriage and had accepted only a few hours ago. Just for that one night she was troubled with no thought of Anthony Trevithick.
[END OF CHAPTER TWELVE.]
can
By E. W. Howson, M.A.
LLet me try to picture a scene for you. It is a spring day, towards the end of March, and a group of friends are walking along one of the high roads leading to Jerusalem. They are going, like many others, to attend the Feast of the Passover, in the Holy City, during the following week. Slightly in front of the rest walks Jesus Christ. There is something unusual, almost alarming, in His aspect, and the disciples who are following behind are watching Him with awe and wonder as He strides along with rapid steps. He is evidently possessed and agitated by some deep emotion, some inflexible purpose, which they do not fully comprehend. His thoughts are not their thoughts. They do not know what He knows—that in a few short days He, their Lord and Master, whom they fondly dream is destined to win an earthly crown, will be tried like a common felon and nailed to the bitter cross. They are thinking of a triumph and a throne, and are already discussing the honours which they hope to share. He is thinking of something widely different—of agony, desertion, and death.
Let me try to picture a scene for you. It is a spring day, towards the end of March, and a group of friends are walking along one of the high roads leading to Jerusalem. They are going, like many others, to attend the Feast of the Passover, in the Holy City, during the following week. Slightly in front of the rest walks Jesus Christ. There is something unusual, almost alarming, in His aspect, and the disciples who are following behind are watching Him with awe and wonder as He strides along with rapid steps. He is evidently possessed and agitated by some deep emotion, some inflexible purpose, which they do not fully comprehend. His thoughts are not their thoughts. They do not know what He knows—that in a few short days He, their Lord and Master, whom they fondly dream is destined to win an earthly crown, will be tried like a common felon and nailed to the bitter cross. They are thinking of a triumph and a throne, and are already discussing the honours which they hope to share. He is thinking of something widely different—of agony, desertion, and death.
Presently, two of His disciples—James and John—step forward, with their mother, Salome, to ask Him a question. Jesus looks round and says to her, "What wilt thou?" Salome, who, like many mothers, was ambitious for her sons, replies, "Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on Thy right hand, and the other on Thy left, in Thy kingdom." The other disciples, who overheard her words, are annoyed at the request, which appears to them pushing and selfish. Why should James and John be singled out for special favour? They expect and hope that Jesus will rebuke them. Instead of which, He says gently, but very seriously, "Ye know not what ye ask. Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of? and be baptised with the baptism that I am baptised with?" It was a stern and searching challenge, and a coward would have hesitated to meet it. But James and John were no cowards. They took up the challenge at once, and simply and promptly they answered. Δυνάμεθα—"We can." The request may have been selfish, but the answer was brave; and, what was more, they were destined to seal that promise with their blood.
It is this answer—this one word (for in the Greek it is but one word), Δυνάμεθα, "We can"—which I wish to consider with you for a few minutes this evening.
For an answer like this is a key to character, and shows of what sort of stuff the men were made who gave it. You will find as you grow older that men may be roughly divided into two classes—those who face difficulty with acan, and those who face it with acan't. The former are the material from which heroes are made; the latter may be good, kind and pure, but sooner or later they fall behind, and become the followers, not the leaders, in the work of life.
There is an old Latin proverb—"Possunt quia posse videntur," "They can because they think they can." Nothing could bemore true. For let a man only believe he can do a thing, and he is already half-way to the achievement of his purpose. It is the half-hearted, the faint-hearted, who fail. Belief is the thing we want. "All things are possible to him that believeth." You know this is true in your games. You know that the boy who goes shivering and shaking to the wicket is pretty sure to return after a few overs clean bowled. But it is equally true of every department of life. Napoleon said that the word "impossible" ought to be removed from the dictionary, and the boy or man who, when duty calls him, can answer calmly and deliberately, "I can," is the one who not only deserves but commands success.
"So nigh is grandeur to our dust,So near is God to man,When duty whispers low 'Thou must,'The youth replies—'I can.'"
You remember, no doubt, the old Greek fable of Perseus—how, when he was a boy of fifteen, the goddess Athene appeared to him in a dream and showed him the hideous head of the Gorgon writhing with snakes. "Can you," she asked him, "face this wicked monster, and will you some day try to slay it?" "Yes," he said, "I can; if thou wilt help me, I can." And though Athene told him of all the long journey, and all the terrible perils in the way, he did not shrink or falter, but when he came to be a man he nobly fulfilled his resolution and promise. And this is only an allegory. It means, that if a man or boy has sufficient will and determination, there is no danger, no difficulty, no temptation, which he may not overcome by the assistance of divine support. Pray, every one of you, for God's best gift of a strong will. It is worth, believe me, all the knowledge, wealth, and popularity in the world.
Now, of course, I do not pretend that you and I are called on in our daily school life to act the hero or the martyr on the grander scale. Our life is cast in quiet ways. And yet, as surely as our Lord asked James and John, so He asks each one of us, "Can you drink of My cup? Can you be baptised with My baptism?"
What, then, is this cup, what is this baptism in your school life here at Harrow? For if we dare not share it we cannot be called His disciples. "No pain, no gain." "No sweat, no sweet." So ran the old sayings, and if we cannot bear His cross most assuredly we shall not deserve His crown. Let me, then, take a few homely instances to show what I think is the meaning of Christ's question here at Harrow for you.
You are, let us suppose, in your house with three or four other boys. You have all been talking together about your games, when suddenly the conversation takes a bad turn, and something is said, perhaps in jest, which is coarse or irreverent. The speaker is an influential boy, and you are rather proud to claim his acquaintance. It would be easy for you to join in the laugh; it will please him, it will show that you are as "knowing" as the rest. There is the temptation—it is a very common one; but the question is, can you resist it? Can you refuse the expected smile? Can you sacrifice the cheap popularity? Can you boldly say "Shut up"? Can you walk quietly out of the room? Can you? Very well, then, if so, you can drink the cup of Christ.
Do you think this is asking too much of you? Let me tell you, then, a story—it is a well-known one, but it will bear repetition—of an Eton boy. He was captain of the boats at Eton about fifty years ago, and it was the custom then at boat suppers for coarse and indecent songs to be sung. Patteson (for that was the boy's name) said that if he was present those songs should not be sung. He went to the supper as usual, and a boy got up to sing one of those songs. Patteson jumped up then and there and walked out of the room. I have not a doubt he was laughed at for his pains, and that he lost some of his popularity; but the protest was successful, and, so far as I know, the practice has never, from that day to this, been revived. Some thirty years later Patteson, who had learnt to drink the cup of Christ at school, became a bishop—a missionary bishop—and met a martyr's death in the far islands of the Pacific Ocean, a loyal servant of his Master to the last.
Or again—to take another instance—you have been playing a game and you have come back in a hurry rather late. You have an exercise to show up, and you have not left yourself time to finish it. Another boy in the house has already done his, and the work lies there on the table before your eyes. You are tempted to take it and copy it. It will save you from punishment. No one will be the wiser—except God (and for the moment you forget that). Other boys have often done it. Perhaps your friend offers to lend it you, and would think you something of a prig and simpleton to say no. Can you reject the temptation and refuse to look at it? Can you show up your exercise unfinished and bear the punishment it involves? Can you? If so, you can drink the cup of Christ.
Or, once more, we will say that you are waiting with your form for a master outside the form-room door. While you wait, an unpopular and helpless boy is being teased and pestered. I daresay his appearance is odd, and he is sensitive and excitableand easily provoked. You are tempted to join with the rest and add one more jest at his expense. It will, perhaps, sting him to the quick and make the tears start to his eyes, but you will earn a laugh and get the credit of being thought amusing. Can you check that jest? Can you speak up in defence of the weaker side? Can you take his part and protect him? Can you do more? Can you take the trouble, when the rest are gone, to say that you are sorry for him and give him a word of encouragement and sympathy? Can you? If so, you can drink the cup of Christ.
"They are slaves who fear to speakFor the fallen and the weak;They are slaves who dare not beIn the right with two or three."
I know it is the fashion to say that the life of a boy at a public school is one long round of unbroken pleasure. There could not be a greater mistake. You are not all—you are not any of you—always happy. You have every now and then a cup of bitterness to drink. You may have had a quarrel with your best friend, and you find it hard, almost impossible, to forgive. You are too proud to make the first apology: he would think he had gained his point; and so bad blood gets worse, and soon you are barely on speaking terms. You have been trying to turn over a new leaf, to break off some bad habit which is growing on you like a creeper on a tree—to give up swearing, perhaps; to say your prayers more regularly—and then someone says, with a sneer, that you are turning "pi." You know how the sneer tells. Or perhaps you have been idle and you determine to make a fresh start. You prepare your work carefully, but when you are put on to construe your memory fails; you get turned, and your master thinks you still idle and will not believe that you have tried.
Such are some of your common trials. They may make you very unhappy, but they are God's way of testing you. Can you, He seems to say, do this and that for Me? Can you give up that bad habit, can you bear ridicule, can you do your duty patiently in spite of failure? Oh! answer boldly, "Yes—with Thy help we can." Never give up hope. Fight on and on. Despair is the devil's triumph. When he sees you throw up your hands and give way, he chuckles; for he knows that you are, or soon will be, at his mercy.
The fact is, we cannot go to heaven in an easy-chair, and these trials are, indeed, the hammer strokes which harden the metal of your character. Shirk and evade them, and you will never be a strong and useful man. Bear them, and you will be able to tackle other and fiercer temptations in the larger battle of life—to be brave and pure in your regiment, honest in business, valiant and self-denying in the Church.
But more than this lies in this little word Δυνάμεθα, "We can." For perhaps, as you grow older, you will be called upon to fill some high office of trust and responsibility. Will you, then, at that critical moment, prove worthy of the opportunity, or will you let false modesty, indolence, or nervousness, tempt you to decline it, and let the chance slip by which God has given you of useful service? Will you be one of those contemptible people who say, "No, thank you, it isn't good enough," or, "No, I'm afraid of what others would think or say of me"? Will you not rather rise to the occasion, in a spirit of alacrity, and say, "Yes, I can. I will not be content to lag in the poor-spirited ruck, who die unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. I, too, will take my part in the front rank, and strike as stout a blow as I can for the cause of truth and right"?
But if you are to give such an answer as this (and I trust you will), remember that you must give it relying on that strength which is greater than your own. If you don't, you will be ambitious and selfish, and I daresay successful, and nothing better. Listen to what Christ says: "Without Me ye can do nothing." It is His strength, His spirit, which alone can give the full force and the right direction to our wills. With Him everything, without Him nothing. "I can," said St. Paul in one of his bursts of enthusiasm, "I can do all things," but then he is careful to add, "through Christ which strengtheneth me." There is the secret, that is the only talisman of true success. Let us, then, pray to Him morning by morning, evening by evening, to give us His help.
"Be Thou our guard on peril's brink,Be Thou our guide through weal and woe,And make us of Thy cup to drink,And teach us in Thy path to go.For what is earthly shame or loss?His promises are still our own,The feeblest frame can bear His cross,The lowliest spirit share His throne."
This, then, as I understand it, is the message contained in the words "We can." And whenever a fierce temptation comes upon you, as it will, perhaps, even to-morrow, and you are inclined to say to yourself, "No, I can't face this unpopularity; I can't do this irksome duty; I can't resist this temptation any longer; I can't go on fighting any more," then turn a deaf ear to Satan's whispers, and answer boldly, "I can."
purse
By Myra Hamilton.
C"Caleb! Where are you?"
"Caleb! Where are you?"
"Here, mother," he cried, suddenly rising from one of the hay-cocks upon which he had been resting. He took the little bundle from her hand without one word of thanks, and then he slowly untied the red cotton handkerchief and began to eat his dinner.
"What is the matter with you, my lad?" his mother asked him. "You seem very cross to-day."
Caleb nodded his head moodily.
"I feel cross," he assented. Then he looked searchingly at his mother.
"Don't you want to be rich?" he demanded.
The old woman was horrified at the thought of it.
"Rich? Heaven forbid! I am quite content to live in our little cottage by the stream. I do not dread the cold winter approaching, for you are such a good son to me that I know I shall lack naught."
Caleb moved uneasily. This simple statement did not correspond with his preconceived notion of prosperity, so he tried to explain his views more fully to his mother.
"I want gold," he said firmly. "Bushels and bushels of it! Enough to buy me fine clothes, horses, carriages and food—heaps of different kinds of food that I might eat continuously. That is what I call being rich!"
The old woman packed the empty plate up in the handkerchief before she spoke.
"You will never be happy with those thoughts in your head," she said, sadly. "Money is not the only thing to live for in the world, dearie." Then she walked to his side and laid a wrinkled hand upon his arm. "Don't you bother about the hay any more to-day," she said kindly. "You go and have some fishing. I will give it a toss over."
So this discontented young man walked off to amuse himself, and left his mother to labour under the burning sun to finish his work, and as he sat on the bank patiently waiting for a fish to bite, a shrill voice suddenly addressed him.
"A penny for your thoughts," the voice said.
Caleb looked about him in amazement. The only living thing he could see was a frog, and, of course, he was aware that frogs had not the gift of conversing with human beings; so he went on with his meditation and paid no attention to the mysterious question.
The frog hopped angrily about, and then it repeated its remark.
"I did not know that a frog could speak," said Caleb, feeling very astonished; "I have never heard one do so before."
"Oh, really!" said the frog patronisingly. "You do not know everything yet. You are far too young. A friend of mine, who is a most cultivated sparrow, tells me you were grizzling for money this afternoon. Money indeed! What good could it do you, do you think?"
"Money buys everything worth having," replied Caleb promptly.
"No, it doesn't," snapped the frog, looking very important. "For it does not buy ME! When you are older and wiser, you will find there are many things in the world that gold cannot purchase. Wealth has many advantages certainly," he went on reflectively. "It was through money that I lost my first wife."
"Indeed," said Caleb, politely. "How was that?"
"The frog I selected to wed," explained his companion, "was a very well-bred frog, though unfortunately rather greedy. She was always delighted to discover fresh food at the bottom of the stream, and one day she thought she had found quite a new kind of dainty. As she did not wish to give me a share of it, she swallowed it hurriedly, and it stuck in her throat and choked her. Just before she died, she confessed to me what she had done, and I, from her description of it, knew it was a penny-piece she had attempted to eat. Now, what would you say," the frog went on calmly, "if I gave you the power to be as rich as you liked, to possess more gold than you knew how to spend, to gratify every wish your heart contains?"
"Can you really do this?" gasped Caleb, incredulously. "I have not met you before. I cannot understand why you are so good to me."
The frog puffed himself out with pride. "I am accustomed to judge character by faces," he replied. "I can see that you will never settle down here or be content without money. I, as the head of our family, am allowed to offer our wonderful purse to any mortal I may choose to confer such an honour upon. If you like to accept it, you are welcome to do so."
Caleb was quite bewildered at this stroke of good luck. "For how long may I keep it?" he asked.
"Until you realise there are certain things in the world that cannot be bought by gold; until you weary of the sight of riches, until you loathe the purse," said the frog solemnly.
"Then I shall keep it for ever!" declared Caleb.
But the old frog shook his head. "No you won't," he replied gravely. "You will want to get rid of it very soon, I think."
"Where shall I find this extraordinary gift?" asked Caleb cautiously.
"When you get home, look under the pillow of your bed and you will discover a shabby green purse lying there," said the frog. "As long as you desire money, you will be able to take out of it as much as you require, but when you have learnt your lesson thoroughly the purse will cease to supply you. Then it must be returned to me, and I will guard it until I meet another mortal as discontented as yourself. Farewell! I wish you a short period of wealth, for you will never enjoy it."
Caleb hastened back to the cottage, and ran up to his room, where he easily found the wee purse. It was so small that the young man felt dubious when he opened it, and he was greatly relieved to see that there was one gold piece inside. He drew it out and peered in again. There was another coin waiting in precisely the same place. This he also removed, but still there came another. When he found the supply of gold did not fail him, he rushed downstairs to tell his mother of his good fortune. But she, poor soul, did not appreciate the change in his position.
"There is trouble to come, lad," she prophesied, as she heard of his wealth. "I suppose you will leave your old mother now, and go out into the world. You won't want to waste your riches here."
"I was thinking," Caleb admitted nervously, "that it would be fine to go about a little, but you must come too."
His mother shook her head decidedly. "No, I shall stay here," she replied, "for I am too old to wander amid strange scenes. Let me hear of you, dearie, from time to time, for I shan't live much longer, I know. I shall have Volta the orphan to live with me, and then we shall be able to manage the work."
"No, mother, no," interrupted Caleb. "You forget I am rich now. I will engage servants to labour for you. You must never do anything again."
But his mother declared she wished to live as she had done hitherto. Servants and fine clothes would worry her, she told him, and she could not bear to be idle all day long. Her way of participating in her son's good fortune would be to hear of his grand doings occasionally, and to look forward to the time when he would return to sit by her side and describe the wonderful things he had seen.
Caleb bought a suit of clothes from the village tailor and a horse from the landlord of the inn, and then he set off. As he rode down the lane the birds sang to one another, "Here comes silly Caleb!" but he was too full of his own importance to realise they were mocking him, and when the tall branches of the trees bent forward and whispered to him, "Go back! Go back!" he set spurs to his horse and galloped on. His mother watched him out of sight. She hoped he would wave his hand to her from the top of the hill, but he was so occupied with his own thoughts that he only remembered he had promised to do so when it was too late.
Caleb rode for many hours, until he reached a beautiful town, where he arranged to purchase a castle. He installed himself in one that stood deep in the shadow of the wood, and he supplied himself with servants, horses, and carriages. He had decided not to travel, for he did not want to learn anything about foreign lands—he only desired to live grandly, to eclipse his neighbours and make them envious of his wealth.
He had almost forgotten his mother. He never sent her news of himself, although, at first, he occasionally ordered one of his servants to ride to the cottage and carry her some gold. He was so ashamed of her humble origin that he would not admit he was her son, and when the man returned from his errand Caleb used to avoid him, for fear he had discovered the secret of his birth.
At last the young fellow grew very discontented, for he had no interests in his life; so he determined to marry. He was sure that no high-born lady would wed him, for, in spite of his riches, he was only the son of a peasant woman, so he made up his mind to select a poor girl who would be properly impressed with his position.
As he had no acquaintances, he decided to walk slowly over the land and ask the first damsel he met to be his wife. So he called his dogs together, and away they went upon this extraordinary search for a bride, but for a long time they saw nobody.
On the way home, however, Caleb encountered a young maiden, who was tripping merrily along with a bundle of sticks balanced upon her head. As she stood aside to allow this grand gentleman to pass her, her face seemed so familiar that Caleb thought he had seen her before. He looked at her critically; she was certainly very pretty, young, and graceful, so he promptly raised his plumed cap and addressed her.
"I fear those sticks are too heavy for you," he remarked. "Will you allow me to carry them for you?"
But she shook her head. "I am used to them," she explained. "Besides, I could not trouble you so much. You are a great lord, and I am only a poor country girl."
Caleb was not very quick with his tongue, and as he wondered what to say she gave him a little nod and hastened away.
The next day he met her again, and the day following also; for he was really in love with this peasant girl.
One day he brought her a handsome silver casket full of rare jewels, but she just glanced at them and then laid them aside.
"What are they?" she asked innocently. "Bits of glass?"
"Bits of glass?" he exclaimed in astonishment at her ignorance. "No; they are precious stones, and worth a fortune. I hope you will accept them," he added.
But she shook her head. "They are useless to me," she declared candidly. "If they are so valuable, why do you wish to part with them? I should not know what to do with such jewels if they were mine."
Caleb could not understand his companion at all. For the first time since he possessed the wonderful purse he had encountered somebody who did not appreciate his wealth.
She looked so fascinating as she sat in the sunshine, with the contents of the jewel-case glittering in her lap, that Caleb fell on his knees before her and entreated her to marry him. He talked of his estate and his money, but his words made no impression.
"I do not care for you, my lord," she said. "Neither do you really love me. It is my beauty that attracts you."
"But I am rich," he objected; "I have——"
"Yes, I know," she interrupted impatiently; "you have gold, land, and jewels—in fact, everything that money can purchase. But you cannot buy affection. If we loved each other, I would marry you, even though you were the poorest beggar in the land. Although I am honoured by your proposal, it cannot be. Besides, I should not be a fit wife for one so great."