Larger Image"HE SNATCHED UP HIS UNTASTED GLASS OF WINE AND FLUNG THE CONTENTS IN THE FACE OF VASSILITCH."
"HE SNATCHED UP HIS UNTASTED GLASS OF WINE AND FLUNG THE CONTENTS IN THE FACE OF VASSILITCH."
"HE SNATCHED UP HIS UNTASTED GLASS OF WINE AND FLUNG THE CONTENTS IN THE FACE OF VASSILITCH."
"Are you mad?" exclaimed Tweed, grasping the outstretched arm.
A waiter who had observed the action took a step forward, then hesitated, ready for developments.
The ex-officer of Cossacks wiped the liquid from his face and coat. He was very pale. He turned to Tweed.
"I compliment you on the manners of your friends," said he; "they are delightful. I have the honour to wish you good evening." He bowed slightly, twice—the second time to Stefanovitch, who had sunk into a chair; then he quitted the room.
The fatalistic idea that he was being carried onward in spite of himself would occur insistently; he felt that he was no longer master of circumstance.
It was hardly to be wondered at, since it was largely a matter of nerves. Vassilitchhad returned to his hotel after the scene at the club, and spent half the night writing a letter to Gabrielle; slept badly, breakfasted on four cups of black coffee, spent the best part of the day in pacing the narrow dimensions of his sitting-room, and was now—as the afternoon waned—as undecided as ever.
He told himself that the only clear part of the business was that he could not do without her—no, nor would he; that he was guiltless of the crime that had awakened her abhorrence and fierce desire for justice. For her brother had escaped death, it appeared, and had come back. But that brother would denounce him, would have to be reckoned with. It was certainly awkward. The difference in their names did not puzzle him. Doubtless the name of Stefanovitch had been assumed from political reasons of prudence.
But, then, he told himself, brother and sister must have met in England, perhaps weeks, even months past. In that case Gabrielle must have learned the truth, and so might very well be playing with him. This thought was terrible. Yet when he called to mind the obvious surprise and discomfiture of Stefanovitch he felt relieved. Then another suspicion arose: what if that meeting had been a prearranged thing? It was a little unusual that the Englishman, George Tweed, should accost him—a mere acquaintance—in Regent Street, and invite him to supper. Yes, it really did appear as if he were the dupe of Gabrielle and Stefanovitch, that they were indeed amusing themselves at his expense. If not, how strange that she should have said to him, of all men on earth, "Kill the man who killed my brother."
This frightful suspicion was not to be endured. He combated it, since it was for his life. He strove to remember one soft look that she might have given him. He had imagined at times that she trusted a little in him.
A firm resolve to act came at last to him. He tore into small pieces the letter that he had written. He would see Gabrielle—would end this torment.
He examined a time-table and started to leave the hotel. Half-way down the stairs he paused, returned quickly, and slipped into his pocket a Derringer pistol, which he took, without exactly knowing why, from a drawer. A minute later he was bowling towards King's Cross Station.
On the platform he saw Stefanovitch, and guessed rightly that the latter was bound for the same destination as himself. If Vassilitch had been sure of this he would have abandoned his intention; as it was he resolved to go on without losing sight of the other.
The train sped from the Metropolis, rushing with piercing cries through the winter-laden country. The short day was passing from fields and sky; already the tops of the leafless trees mingled with the grey of evening.
When Ivan Vassilitch alighted at his station he perceived that Stefanovitch was before him, that he was just quitting the platform, moving with sharp strides, as if he were in a hurry. Vassilitch had half a mind to turn back, but, not caring to wait for perhaps a long time till an up train came in, he almost mechanically followed the other at a safe distance.
Stefanovitch stopped once or twice, and appeared to make inquiries as to his way. This mystified Vassilitch. Was it possible, he asked himself, that Gabrielle had not met her brother; that the latter had but just set foot in England? The consideration was comforting.
Stefanovitch walked on with great strides, not looking behind, or scarcely to right and left. Gabrielle's cottage was isolated from other habitations. It was built on an eminence that was sheltered on three sides by poplar trees, while the gravelled drive that led to the front of the house was bordered by elms, whose branches met overhead and formed an avenue.
Stefanovitch was approaching the head of this avenue when he perceived, coming toward him, the figure of a woman. His heart almost stopped beating, then continued with great thumps of excitement. The waning, pallid twilight obscured the form, but something in the poise of that figure, in the walk, brought back to him a flood of dear remembrance. With fingers that shook he lifted the latch of the gate and continued down the avenue, that was covered with dead leaves of autumn. And then he saw that it was indeed she.
He cried out in stifled tones:—
"Gabrielle! Gabrielle!"
She stopped; the quick panting of her breath reached his ears.
"It is I—Boris! I have come back to you, Gabrielle—come back, after all these years! My heart! Why do you look at me like that? No word of welcome, Gabrielle? Ah! you thought that I was dead? My selfishness has made me too abrupt." Stefanovitch had caught the white hands and was drawing her towards him.
"Yes, I—I—thought that you were—dead," answered Gabrielle. The sound of his voice, its infinite tenderness, the joy that glowed in his eyes, moved her so that she broke out into sobs—sobs that startled him.
"My love! my dear love! I have frightened you. Oh, you must not cry like that. Look at me, Gabrielle! How I have lived for you! Not one hour in which I have not thought of you. And this, God's mercy, is greater than His trial." Stefanovitch raised the drooping head and covered her face with his passionate kisses. "My love! My love!" he said.
And Gabrielle at that moment seemed to wake from a dream. Here was the heart that she could rest upon. What other thoughts were those which she had permitted to linger for awhile? They were fading already, were passing with her tears.
Larger Image"SHE PUT HER ARMS ABOUT HIS NECK."
"SHE PUT HER ARMS ABOUT HIS NECK."
"SHE PUT HER ARMS ABOUT HIS NECK."
She put her arms about his neck; and so they were silent for a time, standing motionless beneath the trees. Stefanovitch said at last:—
"Who told you that I was dead, little one? Who caused you such pain?"
"It is so terrible a story. I heard that you escaped—"
"And so I did."
"That in the forest you were caught by a regiment of Cossacks, and that—"
Stefanovitch interrupted her. "What!" he cried out, "you heard of that? Yes, it was true; but, Gabrielle, at a moment like this, when my cup is overflowing, I can forgive even Ivan Vassilitch—"
Gabrielle sprang from him as if he had struck her. In an instant she saw the whole truth. The cry she would have uttered died on her parted lips. She remained mute, bewildered, paralyzed with astonishment.
"Ah, you know the man," said Stefanovitch. "I had forgotten that. Well, let him pass, Gabrielle. Come, you are shivering. It is so cold out here. May I come indoors for an hour?"
The ex-captain of Cossacks closed the gate as he left the avenue. He had heard every word. And he had let them go. Why, he might have pistolled Stefanovitch as he stood there!
He remained in the snow-covered road, staring at the darkened fields, pallid with grief and rage.
Suddenly he snatched the Derringer from his pocket. The barrel into which he looked was but a tiny orifice, yet wide and deep as the pit of death. He lifted his arm. A pressure of the finger, that was all that was needed—
"Bah! for a woman? She is not worth it!"
Vassilitch fired into the air. The report echoed and re-echoed—a note of thunder in the quiet night!
By Louis Nikola. With Illustrations by the Author.
Asa preliminary to the practical reproduction of the experiments herein described, it is necessary to invade the kitchen and to carry off the following articles, viz.: four forks, a plate, a tea-cup, a bottle, some corks, the cook's basting-ladle and strainer, and a few other odd things which will be found enumerated from time to time in connection with the experiments in which they become necessary.
The first experiment is a very simple one. Partly fill the bottle with water; then take one of the corks, make a slit in one end in the direction of its length, into which insert a coin. Next stick two forks into the cork, on opposite sides and near the other end, at angles of about 30deg. With the forks so placed, as balance-weights, it is an easy matter to balance the coin upon one edge of the mouth of the bottle, as in Fig. 1. With a steady hand it is also possible to execute the effective termination shown in the lower portion of the same illustration—i.e., to slope the bottle gradually so as to pour out a glass of the contents, retaining the while the coin in equilibrium upon the neck of the bottle.
By a slight variation of the previous arrangements the coin may be balanced edgeways upon a needle-point and made to rapidly revolve thereupon. Fig. 2 shows the experiment in operation.
To balance a pin upon a needle would seem rather a formidable undertaking; but by an application of the same principle no considerable difficulty is encountered. Stick the pin into another cork in position corresponding to that of the coin in the first experiment, into which also fix two forks as in the previous examples. With a little care it is then quite practicable to rest the head of the pin upon the point of the needle, where it will remain balanced as in Fig. 3.
By another variation of the conditions it is possible to balance the pin upon the needle-point in a horizontal position and to make it revolve thereon in that situation. The only alteration necessary to the preparations already made is to substitute for the two forks two ordinary pocket-knives. By bending the handles of the knives at an angle to the blade, the pin may be sustained in a horizontal position. Or, by the substitution of a long needle for the pin, the forks may be retained as balance-weights, as in the previous example and as shown in the present illustration. The pin may be rested upon the needle-point as in the figure, and by a gentle touch of the finger may be set revolving. In time, by reason of the relative differences in hardness of the two metals, the commencement of a tiny hole will be drilled by the sharp steel point of the needle in the softer brass of the pin, and if the motion be continued for a sufficient length of time a hole will ultimately be an accomplished fact.
A further application of similar principles, and a plate may be balanced and spun upon the needle-point. The corked bottle with the needle in position remains as before. Two other corks are taken and split into two by a vertical cut. Into one end of each half-cork, upon the flat side, are stuck the prongs of a fork, and thus the four forks are hung at equal distances around the edge of the plate. Then, with a little care, the plate will be held in perfect equilibrium, as in Fig. 5.
Next cut a slight concavity in one end of one of the corks, so as to adapt it as exactly as possible to one end of an egg. Then insert two forks, as before, into the sides of the cork, letting the hollowed-out end be the lower. Then rest the cork with the forks as counter-weights upon the end of the egg to which the concavity has been adapted. So aided, the egg may be balanced upon the mouth of the bottle, as in Fig. 6.
In this case a cork with two balance-weights attached, in the shape of forks as previously employed, is provided in addition with a pair of legs, formed by the insertion of a couple of stout pins or small round-headed nails into the bottom of the cork, as in Fig. 7. The figure is placed upon an inclined narrow slip of wood at the highest point of the incline and set gently oscillating, so that the weight is thrown alternately on one side and then on the other, which will cause the figure to make the descent of the incline in a series of jerks.
As shown in the illustration, this experiment is performed with a lead pencil and a razor. The razor is partly opened and the end of the blade fixed into the wood of the pencil about an inch or two above the point, in the position and at about the angles shown in the illustration, Fig. 8, when the pencil may be readily balanced upon its point on the extremity of a stout needle thrust horizontally into the bottle cork, as shown.
A development of the last experiment may be made with a basting ladle and a razor or folding pocket-knife. Open the knife to an angle of a little over 45deg., and engage the hook of the ladle with the outside angle at the junction of handle and blade, as in Fig. 9, which permits of the whole being placed in self-supporting position upon the edge of the table, as shown. The junction of knife and ladle may be made firm, if necessary, by a slice of cork wedged in beneath the hook of the ladle handle.
Fig. 10 looks a little startling! There is, however, no risk if the experiment is properly conducted. The requirements are: a kitchen table, a pail of water, a stout, flat stick three or four feet long on which to hang the pail, and another and slighter piece of stick. The larger stick is first laid upon the table with about one-third of its length projecting over the edge. The pail—empty—is next hung upon the projecting end of the stick. The smaller stick is then placed with one end against the inside angle of the bottom of the pail at the point nearest the table, and the other end cut away at such a length as will permit it to wedge tightly against the under side of the main stick, at which point a notch may be cut in the latter to prevent slipping. The whole bears a structural resemblance to the balanced ladle of Fig. 9. The pail may then be partly filled with water, when it should remain balanced as in Fig. 10.
This is an elaboration of the experiment described in paragraph 4. A pencil is first thrust through the centre of a cork and two forks into the sides of the cork. This will permit of the pencil being balanced horizontally, as in Fig. 11. A second pencil is balanced by the insertion of two pen-holders in positions relatively similar to those which the forks bear to the balanced object in Experiments 1, 2, and 3, and so arranged it may be balanced upon the unsupported end of the first pencil. The whole structure may be made to revolve upon the needle.
Making use again of the basting-ladle, a cork is first fixed into the hook of the handle, and into this is thrust the point of a knife or the prongs of a fork, the latter being at an angle of about 45deg. or so to the former. A glass is filled with water, and by placing the fork or knife-handle upon the edge of the glass the ladle will balance as in Fig. 12.
By still another application of the basting-ladle, or a walking-stick or umbrella, a bottle may be balanced upon a slack cord. All that is necessary is to insert the hook of the ladle-handle or the handle of the stick into the neck of the bottle and support upon the cord, as shown.
Bend up a piece of stiff wire, such as a hairpin, into the shape shown in the lower right-hand corner of Fig. 14, with a hook at one end and a clip at the other, the latter adjusted to grip a coin tightly. By hanging a fairly heavy finger-ring upon the hook as a counter-weight, the whole may be balanced with the penny upon the point of a needle, and made to revolve on it.
A similar experiment may be performed on a larger scale by bending up a longer and proportionately stouter piece of wire, and substituting for the coin a small plate and for the ring a bunch of keys—Fig. 15—or a larger plate and a tea-cup. In the latter case the weight of the tea-cup may be built up to counter-balance the plate by dropping a number of coins one by one into the cup until the required weight is obtained.
This experiment is not a case of pure balancing, but depends principally upon the nice adjustment of the two pieces of stick by means of which the position of the two glasses is maintained. A couple of slender pen-holders may be used, and must be trimmed down at the ends until the right length is obtained. The position of the sticks and the manner in which the glasses are supported can best be gathered by a study of the illustration below.
Simple methods of balancing a milk-jug and tea-cup respectively are shown in Figs. 17, A and B. In the first illustration the cork is placed inside the handle of the vessel, in which position it should fit with moderate firmness, so as not to slip, and then two knives are thrust in, one from each side of the handle, between the cork and the cup itself, when the cup may be balanced upon any fixed point. In the second a cork is fixed into the handle, as before, and into the cork the prongs of a fork are fastened, holding the fork in such a position as to bring the centre of gravity below the point of suspension. The cup may then be balanced as before.
This is a rather more elaborate experiment and one of the most effective of the whole series. The requirements are: a plate, the basting-ladle used in previous experiments, and, in addition, a "skimmer." The handle of the ladle is hooked over the edge of the plate and made secure by a wedge cut from a bottle cork. The opposite edge of the plate is then rested upon the edge of a bottle in the position shown in Fig. 18, and the handle of the skimmer is finally hooked into the bowl of the ladle, making the structure shown.
Here is a little after-dinner experiment requiring some delicacy of manipulation. The end in view is to balance three tumblers one upon the edge of the other as in Fig. 19. With two tumblers the experiment is comparatively easy: with the third it becomes a genuine test of skill.
A delicate test of balancing may be attempted with the shovel and tongs. The position of the two implements is shown in the illustration Fig. 20. The extremity of one arm of the tongs is rested against the inside of the shovel, and the other extremity is placed in the angle formed by the junction of the shovel with the handle. By delicate poising the two may be induced to remain in equilibrium in the position illustrated. A formation which permits of the tongs being engaged with the shovel after the manner shown is an important factor.
An effective combination is shown in Fig. 21. A carafe, partly filled with water to give stability, forms the basis of the structure. Upon this a trio of wine-glasses, lying horizontally, are arranged, and so held while the bottle, half filled with water, is placed in position above them. A little careful adjustment will secure an accurate reproduction of the experiment as illustrated.
A similar structure, formed with seven glasses and a carafe, is shown in Fig. 22, which is self-explanatory.
A simple experiment for impromptu performance at the table can be made with a couple of pins and a coin. The accomplishment consists of picking up the coin by two opposite edges between the points of the two pins, as in Fig. 23, in which position it may, with steady hands, safely be held. By blowing smartly upon one edge of the coin it may be made to rapidly revolve between two points. The feat has the appearance of an exhibition of considerable skill, but, as a trial will show, it is in no way difficult of execution. The selection of a milled-edged coin will facilitate the matter.
With three forks, a serviette ring, and a plate, one may improvise a stand for a soup tureen or water carafe. The forks are merely passed through the ring and spread into the form of a tripod, the handles resting upon the table. A plate placed upon the prongs of theforkslocks the whole and provides the necessary rest for the article to be supported. The fruit dish in the illustration happens to be of just the right size to rest in the support formed by the extremities of the forks, the plate being in this case unnecessary.
In our last example we have a succession of keys built up by interlocking the wards and bows one within the other, upon the summit of which may, by special care, be balanced a bottle or similar object. Where the bottle is added to the pile, it takes the place of the uppermost key shown in our illustration, and rests upon one taking a more gentle incline, as in the case of the one immediately below. This rather ambitious structure forms a fitting climax to our series, and may be left to the ingenuity of the reader, whose accumulated experience should by this time be good equipment for the negotiation of the difficulties to be surmounted.
By Winifred Graham.
LittleHal Court knew nothing of towns; he had been brought up in the solitude and beauty of Northern Ireland. The country had given to this small boy something of its own peculiar charm, a wildness wedded mysteriously to peace. He could be so still and thoughtful, or so full of life and movement, he might have borrowed his child's personality from the waves of the great blue sea.
Nature made a bold nurse—a teacher who whispered to Hal of things intense, of stories wonderful, bringing him the funds of her vast wisdom, the fairy tales of a country-side teeming with romance.
"I live with my grandmother," he told his new governess, "because I have a different kind of mamma to other boys. She isn't the ordinary sort that stays at home; she—she's a celebrity!" He paused before alighting upon the correct word, bringing it out with so grave an air that Miss Ainsworth could hardly repress a smile.
Larger Image"I HAVE A DIFFERENT KIND OF MAMMA TO OTHER BOYS."
"I HAVE A DIFFERENT KIND OF MAMMA TO OTHER BOYS."
"I HAVE A DIFFERENT KIND OF MAMMA TO OTHER BOYS."
"Yes," he continued, hugging his knee and gazing through the window at the turbid waves of the Lough, a lovely inland sea, sending its green waters brimming to the verge of Castle Stewart's old garden. "She sings, you know! She sings—well, just like an angel, people say; but the angels don't have to travel about and leave their little boys at home. Mother makes heaps of money when she sings a song. They send for her right across the world, and she travels like a Princess; the people crowd to see her get into the train. It's always that way if you can sing. Don't you wish you had a voice like an angel, Miss Ainsworth?"
"Yes, indeed."
A sudden, almost painful, longing rang in the reply, as the dazzling picture of a world-famed artiste was conjured up by the simple description of a child.
"I expect," added Miss Ainsworth, "you miss your mother?"
"Why, of course. I wear this picture of her round my neck, and I love her so much I don't mind when other boys call it girlish; one doesn't mind being girlish for her!"
A throb as of martyrdom crept into the child's voice—an almost passionate hunger for the mother-love denied him.
"She said," he continued, "she would be back for the New Year. She can't get here in time for Christmas, because the boat from Australia won't bring her fast enough, but she promised to come for certain on New Year's Eve. I am to write to her in London. I always begin my letters now, 'Don't forget about the New Year,' because she has so much to remember. Then she answers back, 'Dear little boy, I'm safe for the New Year,' or something of that kind. The winter seems very long here, and one rather wants a mother. In the summer I don't mind her being away so much."
His wistful eyes saw in fancy the smiling summer-time, which sped on lightning wings. For him the warm days spelt gladness, giving beautiful little bays for playgrounds and creeks with wooded shores, while winter presented unlighted rocks and shoals lashed by one of the strongest tides in the kingdom. He had grown to love and reverence the castles of old Kings which faced each other across the tide, and to know intimately those wonderful islands which dotted the sea. But to Miss Ainsworth, freshly arrived from a busy city, Castle Stewart in mid-winter held something of terror with its watery wastes, guarding the little village of Slaneyford.
She liked hearing her small charge talk of his mother: it brought a human note into all the dreariness and desolation of this storm-swept country. Since her arrival she had been forced to associate Slaneyford with a driving whirlwind of ceaseless rain.
"We sha'n't mind the weather when mother comes," said Hal, cheerfully. "Everything is different then; she's so jolly, you know. She will bring me lots of toys in her box, but I don't want them when I've got her to play with, and her cheek is so much softer to kiss than grandmamma's."
Miss Ainsworth noticed that the thought of his mother's coming predominated Hal's mind. Everything reminded him of some past action or saying of hers—what she liked or disliked. When he became silent and dreamy, his watchful companion knew well that the child-soul wandered to a mother's knee, through the bright mazes of imagination.
Larger Image"A SURPRISE FOR THE FAIR LADY OF SONG."
"A SURPRISE FOR THE FAIR LADY OF SONG."
"A SURPRISE FOR THE FAIR LADY OF SONG."
In restless moments his energies ever centred in arranging some surprise for the fair lady of song—shells he had collected for her in the summer were to be hidden under her pillow, and long dried ribbons of white seaweed found their way to the guest-chamber prepared for Mrs. Court.
Miss Ainsworth herself caught his feverish excitement—the coming of the famous singer held the charm of novelty.
As yet she had met none of the celebrated people of the world, but founded her social creed upon the daily lives of the middle classes.
Even little Hal, with the strain of his mother's genius running in his blood, came as a revelation of something peculiar and mystifying.
"I sha'n't notice Christmas at all," he told Miss Ainsworth, as the festive season drew near; "I shall just wait for mother and the New Year and open all my presents then. She will like to be the first to see them." So the Yuletide drifted by uneventfully, save for a thrill of expectation heralding the arrival of a beloved traveller—that child-likecounting of days and hours in which the oldest may share, when the heart pines and the spirit yearns for the touch of an absent hand.
The days were drawing near to New Year's Eve when Mrs. Court wrote announcing her safe arrival in London. Hal's grandmother read the letter aloud, and Miss Ainsworth watched the rapt expression on his face with a strange intuition of coming sorrow, a fear lest disappointment, black-winged and ugly, should mar the seraphic beauty of the child's features. The little mouth, slightly inclined by Nature to droop, smiled softly as the older woman read, and a flush crept over the boy's cheek, while his whole attitude denoted breathless excitement. So keen was the tension that, as the letter closed, Miss Ainsworth felt she could hardly bear the concluding words:—
"It is just possible, tell Hal, that, after all, I may not get to Slaneyford for the New Year. Your account of the weather is not encouraging, and, dearly as I long to be with you, I am bound to be cautious and not run any risks. I have a slight cold in my throat, and the thought of the floods round Castle Stewart holds terrors, with their suggestion of dampness. My doctor advises me to give up all thought of visiting Ireland while these stormy days of deluge last. Ask my sweet boy to write to me."
Grandmamma laid the letter down with quite a matter-of-fact air, remarking, "Cristina was very wise!"
Miss Ainsworth took a sidelong glance at Hal. He had not moved, but his lip trembled and he stared very hard at the floor.
"I shall be writing to-day," said grandmamma, "so you had better put in a line, Hal, and she will get it in London to-morrow morning."
Hal nodded. His voice sounded odd and strangled as he replied:—
"Please, I would rather send my letter quite alone in an envelope by itself."
"Very well."
The boy walked slowly to the door. The pathetic droop of his shoulders spoke more eloquently than words, telling of a spirit crushed by hope deferred, of a little heart breaking under a childish tunic of blue serge.
"The day after to-morrow will be New Year's Eve," he thought; "and she—she is afraid of the weather, because of her voice!"
Perhaps he had always been unconsciously jealous of that wonderful gift which took her away from him, though to the child's pure nature all hurtful emotions came as aliens, tarrying but for a moment on forbidden ground.
He crept to the far corner of the school-room, and, hiding the tiresome tears that made writing difficult, scribbled hastily in his new drawing-book.
"She shall have the first sheet as a letter," he said, tearing it out, and re-reading the words, clearly written in a bold, childish hand. "Perhaps she will come after all, when she gets this."
Miss Ainsworth saw with relief Hal looked happier as the post-boy trudged with a bag of correspondence down the soaking drive.
The following morning there was a certain watchfulness about Hal. He could settle down to nothing, and appeared to be constantly listening; every bell sent him running to the hall door.
At last his energy met with reward, for he was the first to bring in a telegram addressed to his grandmother. He waited by her knee with glistening eyes, his pulses throbbing painfully as she read the flimsy paper: "Shall be with you to-morrow; crossing to-night.—Cristina."
It seemed to the boy that his heart stopped beating and would never go on again as he heard the wonderful intelligence. He struggled for breath as he gasped out the good news to Miss Ainsworth, who had just appeared to take him for a walk.
"She will be here for New Year's Eve! She rests in Dublin, you know, and gets to us late in the afternoon," he cried, his face like a sunbeam. "She changed her mind when she got our letters; I expect she saw we wanted her very, very badly."
The hours flew quickly with so much gladness in store, and Hal was quite ready to go to bed early, that to-morrow might come the sooner—to-morrow, the day of days, long waited for, through weary months of watching. Miss Ainsworth came to the boy's bedside fearing he would never sleep—with his brain in such a whirl of feverish expectation.
She found him open-eyed and flushed. Immediately he began speaking of his mother.
"To-morrow night she will come in, shading the candle with her hand," he said. "She will wear a lovely dress she calls a tea-gown, all soft and lacey, and she doesn't mind how much I crumple it." He smiled at the thought and hugged his pillows.
"I wonder why she suddenly changed hermind?" murmured Miss Ainsworth. Hal sat bolt upright, his eyes very alert.
"It was all through my letter," he answered, triumphantly.
Larger Image"'IT WAS ALL THROUGH MY LETTER,' HE ANSWERED."
"'IT WAS ALL THROUGH MY LETTER,' HE ANSWERED."
"'IT WAS ALL THROUGH MY LETTER,' HE ANSWERED."
"What did you say?" Miss Ainsworth felt very curious as she put the question; she had never before dealt with a child of uncommon character.
"I begged her to come," he replied, his tone vibrating with the energy of a youthful passion. "I said I would like her to lose her voice on the way and never find it again; then she would stay with me always, like other mothers, who live at home with their children. I put: 'Never mind about the old voice, dearest; it's always a bother, taking you away,' and lots of things like that, just to show her how much I cared. Oh! and I dropped some tears on the letter, so it all went crinkly."
An expression of intense longing lit his face as he paused, clutching Miss Ainsworth's sleeve. "Do you think she will lose her voice on the journey?" he gasped, hopefully. "It would be lovely if she did!"
Miss Ainsworth listened horrified; righteous indignation surged within her well-meaning breast as she pictured the mother, torn by natural affection, driven to risk her glorious gift of song for the whim of an exacting child.
"Oh!" cried Miss Ainsworth, shaking him off angrily, "I had no idea you were such a wicked little boy. I thought you really loved your mother, and now I see you don't at all; you are thoroughly selfish and horrid. Your letter must have hurt her very deeply. Of course, she values her voice above everything. God gave it to her as a wonderful inheritance, a divine talent, and you—youhopeshe will lose it, never to find it again! I don't want to talk to you any more, but if ill befalls your mother it will be a judgment on you! Naturally she ought not to travel against the advice of her doctor, but she is sacrificing her health for the sake of granting an unkind and inconsiderate request!"
With these scathing words of rebuke Miss Ainsworth snatched up the candle and strode from the room, shutting the door firmly behind her without saying "good-night."
Hal remained very still. All in a moment the room had become peopled with dark fancies and ugly forms. Dread stole like a human presence to the disconsolate little soul. Hal shivered and, shrinking down, hid his head in the sheets. The lecture, with its awful truths, returned like a heavy blow, causing physical pain to the sensitive temperament of the highly-strung boy. He had meant no harm by the ignorant words,whose child-like pathos touched the deepest chord in the heart of the famous singer. Not for the world would she have had one syllable of Hal's letter altered by the tutoring hand of a shocked Miss Ainsworth, while tears and smiles together answered the appeal of that quaint, unstudied expression of the boy's mind.
But Hal knew nothing of this as the darkness gathered round him. He heard only the condemning phrases: "You are thoroughly selfish and horrid! I thought you really loved your mother! If ill befalls her it will be a judgment upon you!" He set his lips and pressed his knuckles firmly to his eyes. What was this dreadful thing he had done—all unconsciously—to the mother for whom he would willingly have given his life? She was on the sea now, against her doctor's advice, and the wind was beating on his window-pane and moaning round the house. He felt he could hardly bear the thought, and the sound of the pitiless rain tortured him.
Of course, Miss Ainsworth was right; he had been inconsiderate and unkind. If mother lost her voice God would be very angry, because Miss Ainsworth said it was a "divine talent." Whatever happened, the precious voice must be preserved, even if it took the one he loved away from him to the end of the chapter. As he mused a sudden thought came, bringing with it one bright ray of hope through the terrifying gloom.
Away across the mile-wide tideway, in the small town of Ferryport, a certain Miss Cairn, an old, wrinkled spinster, kept a wondrous sweet-shop, renowned for its good wares. When last Hal paid her a visit one calm autumn day she had shown him a large glass jar of cough-drops, bidding him remember when the winter came that for loss of voice, or sore throat, she knew no equal in all the wide world. Miss Cairn confided to him she had once assisted in a chemist's shop, and knew the dark secrets of medicine. These drops were her own manufacture, and held the magic of deep knowledge acquired in the past.
Her words came back now with a force and power which made the great flood surging between him and the desired goal as nothing compared with the thought of saving mother's voice! The very difficulties in the way made the staunch little heart resolve to let no human power stay him from the task ahead.
What matter that the ferry could not traverse the foaming waters? Old Micky (known as Mad Micky, for risking his life in the wildest weather) crossed every morning in his worn boat with the regularity of a postman!
The inhabitants on either side were glad enough to make use of his fearless enterprise, for to be cut off from communication often proved highly inconvenient. So they paid him to carry their wares, and traded with each other, while they shrugged their shoulders at the danger entailed.
"Poor craythur!" they would say; "shure, and he's bound to go under some day, but there's none at home to mourn him, and he's set his mind on a watery grave!"
To Hal that night Mad Micky appeared as the one bright spot on the dark horizon of his childish sorrow.
If only he had Miss Cairn's cough-drops safely at Castle Stewart when Mrs. Court arrived, all anxiety could be at an end. The lost voice must needs return under the influence of such wonderful round, coloured lozenges, with purple or pink stripes for choice. He fancied mother would like the pink stripes best, because they were prettier.
Lulled by the glad notion of repairing his sinful past, little Hal let his heavy, tear-stained eyes close, and dreamt of a beauteous lady in a tea-gown, of Mad Micky, and sweets in a huge glass jar away across the tide.
When Hal, after many difficulties, escaped the watchful eyes of Miss Ainsworth, and running through torrents of rain hid himself under a drenched tarpaulin at the bottom of Micky's boat, the supreme moment of his life had been reached.
He suspected that on such a morning of storm even Mad Micky might possibly refuse to pilot human cargo across the rough water, for New Year's Eve outvied the previous days of tempest.
The boat, moored at the Castle Stewart end of Slaneyford Lough, lay in sight of the roaring sea, whose billows broke upon innumerable creeks made alive by the hurrying presence of foam-crested waves.
Hal had collected all the money he possessed in his small pockets—silver for Miss Cairn, and three big pennies for Mad Micky when the moment should arrive to reveal his hidden presence.
No wonder the boy's heart beat furiously, for of all his life's adventures this appeared the most thrilling and terrifying.
It was one thing to play at shipwrecked mariners and to storm castles in which noogres dwelt—it proved a different matter to lie calmly concealed while Micky, who "had set his mind on a watery grave," let his frail barque tear across the Lough under a single head-sail.
The boy knew enough of the treacherous current and the strength of the tide to realize fully the perils of his passage.
Peeping from under his covering he could see the reckless face of his unconscious guide, fully aware that no man valuing his safety would sail as Mad Micky sailed that morning.