"And art thou quite happy?"
"Good sir, I thought I was; I never wished to change my lot until to-day."
"Ah! I have heard of thy dislike of the many suitors who sought thy hand."
"Not my dislike, but my indifference. I did not believe in Love. Though it was all around me in Nature, still I had never known it; and there was something so imperfect, so earthly, in the great princes who wished to marry me. Until to-day I was blindly ignorant."
"Until to-day!" reiterated the Prince, gazing at her with eyes indescribably tender and yearning.
"But since thou hast asked my father for my hand, and he hath given his consent, I may tell thee all I feel, may I not?"
"Ah, sweet Princess! I know all that thou dost feel; I feel all that thou wouldst say."
Then they were silent for some time. The moon shone, and the floor of heaven was studded with silver stars. The flowers were asleep, excepting the Evening Primrose. Myra saw her in the arms of Night, and heard their gentle voices. She thought of the Rose-Mallow, and pondered with new-born sympathy on the Violet's pain.
"Dear one, we must part now," said the Prince, as theypaused before the palace gates. "But ere thou goest, tell me, wouldst thou be very unhappy if I never came to thee again?"
A cold fear entered the Princess's heart.
"My dear lord," she said, "I was only born to-day. My past was not life, therefore I am as a little child, and cannot answer thee with wisdom; but inquire of the flowers, whether they would be sad should the sun rise no more. Ah! would they not perish? Would not the world lie down and die from cold? Then, good my lord, and thou lovest me, ask me not so cruel a question."
"It is fate," he murmured, as he held her in his arms and soothed away her pain with tender words.
The Princess awoke the next morning to find the Queen seated beside her bed. Myra was too much in love to notice things which would have impressed her under ordinary circumstances, else she would have thought her royal mother's manner unnecessarily excitable, and would have wondered what secret trouble had suddenly so changed the stately Queen's appearance.
"My child, thy lover waits for thee in thy workroom, therefore rise and robe thee. But before thou goest to him I want thee to refuse the gift with which he will present thee. I am sure it will bring thee ill-luck."
"But good my mother, the Prince loves me too well to offer me aught that could be a source of sorrow to me. What is the gift?"
"It is an Æolian harp," said the Queen, in a whisper.
"An Æolian harp! I have never seen one. Methinks it must be a sweet instrument."
The Queen sighed heavily. She feared that her sin against truth would overtake her at last.
Myra found the Prince and his attendants engaged in fixing the wind harp outside her casement.
"There," he said, as he bent his knee and saluted her hand, "when I am away this will discourse to thee of love."
"But why place it outside the casement, good my lord? I cannot learn to play upon it there."
"Sweet Princess, thou couldst never play upon it, nor could I. The Wind alone can draw music from its heart. When he sweeps the strings the melody is as the very breath of love, so tender and yet so wailing is the strain."
"The Wind!" exclaimed the Princess. "Hast ever seen the Wind?"
"Ay, and romped with him and flown with him over sea and earth."
"Ah! now thou art pleased to be merry, as thou wertyesterday when I saw thee talking to the King, ere we had met. Thy countenance was full of mirth and sunlight then. Tell me, why art thou changed? Wherefore art thou sad?"
"Dear one, I am not sad when I have thy companionship. It is only the thought of losing thee that shadows my face."
So they passed out of the chamber into the garden.
Thus the time wore away. Summer began to wane. The nights grew longer and the days more brief.
The King's impatience to see his daughter married increased hourly. Yet the Prince daily put him off with excuses when asked to fix the date of the wedding. At length His Majesty grew angry at the delay.
"It is time," he said to Myra, "that thou wast settled in life. We are old, and in all probability have little longer to live. Thy good lord seemeth all he should be. In grace of form and beauty of face he stands unsurpassed. But methinks, for all that, he means thee ill."
"Indeed, my father, thou art wrong to say so," replied the Princess, with difficulty suppressing her anger. "He is truth itself, and he loves me."
"But he will not marry thee!" the King muttered.
"There, again, thou art mistaken, my lord. He will marry me to-day—at once, so thou stand pleased withal!"
"Bring him before us, then, and let us hear his vow."
Myra made a deep obeisance, and left the King's closet.
Immediately she had gone His Majesty despatched a page to summon the Queen and Council. They were all assembled before Myra entered with her lover. She had not told him for what reason she had been sent in search of him; therefore, when he saw the grave faces of those present, he was surprised. The King rose and addressed him in dignified words, Myra making her way to her royal mother's side.
"Good my lord, our daughter tells us that thou art willing thy nuptials should be celebrated as soon as we consider meet. We have conferred with these grave counsellors, and they think with us that the ceremony should take place to-day."
"To-day, most powerful sovereign! Is not to-day somewhat soon? Methinks it were not well to hurry the Princess."
"Our child hath given her consent, noble sir. Hast thou not, my daughter?"
"An' it please my dear lord, I have," was the low reply.
There was a long silence in the chamber. Every eye was fixed on Myra's lover. He stood gazing on the beautifulface of her whom he worshipped—a gloomy figure in his purple garments, his eyes full of infinite sorrow.
"It seemeth that the Prince hesitateth," said the King, in a threatening voice.
Myra left the Queen, and with bent head approached her love.
"My good knight," she said, "methinks I do but dream; or, if I am awake, then hast thou changed, or some trouble hath befallen thee. Speak; my father awaits thine answer. Shall our wedding be to-day?"
"Fair lady, nothing could change my love, nor hath any trouble befallen me; and yet, our marriage ceremony cannot be solemnised to-day."
"Then to-morrow, good sir," said the King, "or the week after?"
"Your Majesty, the daughters of earth will never see the celebration of our nuptials."
The King turned grey with wrath, and gasped for breath as if death was upon him. The Council rose; the Queen rushed to her royal consort's side. Myra sank down in a heap at her lover's feet. He knelt beside her for one brief second.
"Forgive me," he murmured, "forgive me, in that I shall suffer eternally, whilst thy pain will end in the grave.Farewell, dear one; would I were mortal for thy sake. Love bids thee farewell."
When the King recovered his senses the Prince had disappeared. The country was scoured for miles round, but not a trace of him nor his followers could be found. No member of the royal household noticed a hundred beautiful red chrysanthemums, which had suddenly rooted themselves in the palace garden.
V.
Myra wandered about the precincts of her home like one distraught with sorrow. The sun of her life had gone out, and left all dark and cold and desolate. The flowers had lost their rare colours, and had clothed themselves in sombre tints of red and purple. The river had lost its merry voice, and went sobbing through the grounds. Many days passed, and life became one long memory. With brooding and sorrowing over her lost Love she grew pale and thin. Her eyes became wan and hollow, and misery closed her lips.
Some weeks after the Prince had disappeared she visited her garden. The flowers had grown tall and straggling, the walks were weedy, the lawn had lost its velvet softness,and all was desolation. As she walked, weeping, beside the once brilliant border, she saw the Rose-Mallow lying half-dead across her path.
"Alas, sweet flower! what aileth thee?" she said, lifting his head and looking into his face.
"My dear mistress, I am hurt to death," he murmured.
"Speak. Tell me thy sorrow."
"I worked by day and by night to climb the wall of the garden, and after much labour I reached the summit, just as the sun was setting. There I saw the lady whose melodious voice had won my heart. Ah, fair Princess! she was more beautiful than dawn or daylight. I gazed at her, and told her that I loved her; but she would not even look at me; she spread forth her pale blossoms with sweet pride. 'I love the Night alone, and only raise my face to his,' she said. Then I drooped and drooped with pain. I am indeed hurt to death," he moaned.
She threw her arms around him, while her tears fell on his poor faded leaves; and when the moon had risen her favourite lay dead in the once happy garden.
The Princess fetched her golden spade, and dug his grave where he had lived. Then she bent down and plucked a little cluster of flowers from the Violet whose love had beenwasted, to place upon the earth above his resting-place; and from each blossom a tear-drop flowed from the Violet's heart.
"Ah! if I had not advised him to seek his love away from those with whom his life had been passed," moaned Myra. "He could have cared for one of the flowers in the garden before he saw the Evening Primrose; his life was spoilt through my counsel, and ended in pain. And, oh! that I had been as other women, and had taken a knight of my father's court for husband. If only I had put up with little imperfections, then this trouble had not come upon me. But now life is over, and I can never know happiness again."
That night Fate told the North Wind the story of his child. On his mountain home he learned of the Queen's treachery, of Myra's early life, and of Love's hateful blunder.
Spreading his powerful wings, by Fate's command, he flew earthwards, to bear his daughter to the halls of that dread arbiter of destiny. He was oppressed with sorrow. The snow-flowers hid their heads as he rushed, sobbing, down the mountain; the earth shook at his voice as he shrieked through village and valley; the dead leaves sighed as he scattered them in thousands before him. But whenhe gained the palace gardens and approached his daughter's window his fierce sorrow abated, and he touched the strings of her harp with gentle fingers. The first strains were more like the voice of the South Wind than that of the wilder North. Then followed long wailing strains of melody, as of a soul in distress.
Myra, sitting brooding on her misery, became strangely roused, as she heard the weird instrument played upon by a master hand. Often the sad music seemed to be the voice of her lover; then the tones softened to a sigh; it was the Rose-Mallow's dying sob.
An overmastering wish seized her to open the casement. She must admit those pleading tones, or her heart would break. Unable to quell the desire, she threw wide the window.
There stood a tall, winged man. His shaggy hair was heavy and black, his face was gaunt and wild. He was sweeping the harp-strings with long, bony fingers. Strange and uncouth and terrible as he looked, there was such strength about the great figure, such power in the face, that the Princess, though terror-stricken, was drawn towards him. And when he saw her leaning from her casement, so gentle an expression crossed his worn visage, that her fear of him departed instantly, and she said:—
"I know thee, great master. Thou art the Wind, and thou hast met my Love. Ah, in mercy take me to him!"
"Wilt thou not be afraid to entrust thyself to my arms?" he whispered.
"Good sir, carry me all over the earth, through frozen worlds of endless ice, so thou layest me at my lord's feet at last, and I shall not know a moment's fear. I love him!" she said simply.
The Wind clasped her in his arms and flew away, lulling her to sleep as he went.
When the Princess awoke she was standing in a gloomy cavern. The walls were of black onyx. A stream of crystal water ran gurgling at her feet.
When her eyes became more accustomed to the haze and dimness of the place, she saw a sight which made her wish to shriek aloud; but her voice seemed to have gone, and she stood powerless and terror-stricken. As she gazed a light seemed to break upon her mind.
Fate, robed in lowering mists, sat gazing into a divining glass, with keen, prophetic eyes; with her right hand she held Love in strong and terrible grasp. In the crouching, penitent figure, Myra recognised, with bursting heart, that her Prince and Love were one. Then she became consciousof the deep voice of Fate ringing through the gloom in threatening tones.
"Thou didst think thou couldst play with her affections as thou dost with those of a mortal maid, couldst win her love and break her heart by thy desertion! But, trickster as thou art, in thine own net art thou caught. See, where each tear she lets fall, a lily springs."
Myra's eyes followed Fate's pointing finger. Love looked up and saw the Princess standing in a cluster of white lilies.
"Know that she is a spirit, immortal as thyself; a child of the Winds, nursed on the salt Sea's breast. Therefore, as thou only canst feel punishment in her agony, she shall be called Grief. Henceforth, in all Love there shall be much of bitterness. Parting from the thing loved shall be the keenest pang of human pain. She shall visit her foster-parents but once again, and mingle her sobs with theirs. She shall pursue thee through the ages, and fear of her coming shall lessen thy rapture. Disappointment, despair, and misery, shall walk in her train. Man shall weep tears of blood in that thou hast created Grief!"
Love shrieked aloud in pain, and flinging aside the cruel hand of Fate, threw his arms about the shrinking girl. They stood in the misty gloom together, his brilliant formregained its strength. Grief lifted her brimming eyes to his and caught their power.
A great wave of tenderness broke over the mournful face of Fate; her calm glance rested prophetically on the two figures as she addressed them for the last time.
"But her love of thee shall endure until the Lilies of Grief are lost in the Roses of Love; for Love shall be king of Grief, and of Time, and of Eternity."
UNTIL THE LILIES OF GRIEF ARE LOST IN THE ROSES OF LOVEUNTIL THE LILIES OF GRIEF ARE LOST IN THE ROSES OF LOVE
The Flower that reached the Sun-lands. No star is ever lost we once have seen, We always may be what we might have been. Adelaide Procter
I.
Though only a miserable little waif, born in sorrow and nurtured in poverty, George Ermen had resolved to be a great man.
He earned six shillings a week at sorting rags and paper, adding frequently to this a smaller sum gained by cleaning pots at a public-house. It was a miserable pittance. He and his mother could hardly be said to live upon it, they only existed; and they found this still more difficult when George's father, a lazy, ne'er-do-well, came to visit them.
The boy and his mother dwelt in a garret in Paradise Court. It was a bare, miserable room, its only furniture an old iron bedstead, a rickety table, and two chairs. Opening out of the attic was a tiny chamber with a mattress in one corner, on which George slept. He had no bed-clothes, and was in the habit of covering himself with papers during the chill winter nights.
On the wall hung a small plaster crucifix. A sprig of box was thrust through the ring by which the cross was suspended. The window looked out upon a wilderness of chimneys and grimy tenement houses.
It seemed to George that God had been very good to him, although he was poor and ragged and half starved, for besides his old mother, whom he loved above everything, he had three good friends—Father Francis, the Roman Catholic priest; Miss Brand, who was devoting both time and money to the suffering poor in the district; and Maggie Reed, his little sweetheart, who was as poverty-stricken and as tattered as himself.
George sang in the choir at the church. He possessed a beautiful voice, and the priest felt sure that were it possible to procure him an efficient musical training he would have a future. But it seemed rash to even hope for a chance for the boy among the squalor and misery and sin which surrounded the poor. Father Francis, however, did not lose heart, because he was a good man, believing in God, and feeling convinced that He would stretch forth Hishand to the waif and help him in His own good time. The lad himself was even more hopeful than the priest, because he was young, and had resolved that death alone should prevent the fulfilment of his vow.
Not that poor George Ermen had much idea of what the term "a great man" meant, excepting that they usually dressed in frock coats, wore gaiters over their boots, and drove about in a carriage, all of which seemed very pleasant and most desirable to the bare-footed waif.
Strangely enough, he was frequently pondering over very material things when he sang his best and when his eyes seemed most dreamy.
"What were you a-thinking of this mornin' in church when you was singin' theAve Maria?" his mother had once inquired.
"Why, didn't I sing it well?" he asked anxiously.
"Yaas, better than ever before, and yer faice looked loike an angel's."
"Well, I was promisin' God that if ever I got rich enough to ride about in a carriage like the lords do that come and lay foundation stones and opens schools and things, I'd invite all the little children what's so miserable to tea and muffins."
Mrs. Ermen smiled sadly. She had no belief in her sonever rising to be anything better than a wretched waif, fated to live and die in Paradise Court. But as long as he was honest, and brave, and true to his friends, she must not complain. She was content, almost happy indeed, when she looked around her and saw boys of George's age swearing and fighting and drinking, while George was sober, well behaved, and industrious.
Maggie Reed knew in her young soul that George would surely live to be a great man, and often when they roamed about the weary streets together, she would cheer him with her childish confidence.
"We'll live on 'Ampstead 'Eath, George, when you're rich and we're married, at one of them big 'ouses by the pond, and we'll 'ave donkey rides and bicycles and things."
"Yes, darling," George would answer.
By the advice of Father Francis they often spent hours in the parks and squares, where the air was sweeter than that of Paradise Court; but frequently George's little sweetheart grew so tired that he had to carry her on his back most of the way home again.
It was a cold day in early spring. Mrs. Ermen sat shivering in a corner of their garret, when her boy bounded into the room carrying a geranium in a pot.
"Mother, mother," he cried in wild excitement, "Miss Brand is gettin' up a geranium show! It's ter come off in July. Four hundred plants have been given out to the children this morning. They are to keep them, water them, attend to them, make them grow and flower, and when the day comes round for the show the plants must be taken to the schoolroom, and the best will get a prize."
"Who is ter judge?" asked Mrs. Ermen, catching George's excitement.
"A lord!"
"A lord?"
"Yes, one of them that wears gaiters over their boots. And I am going to win the first prize!" he added firmly, his sharp face wearing an expression of happy anticipation.
"I 'ope you will, my dear," she answered, kissing him, and breathing a prayer from her poor ignorant soul for the good woman whose unselfish devotion had brought that look into her boy's face.
Time passed, and the bitter, easterly winds proved to be more than Mrs. Ermen could bear. She became too weak to rise, and when George grew alarmed she tried to comfort him by saying that she felt warmer in bed; and when June came she should be about again, and he must not distress himself for her sake.
Supposing she should die! Men and women died frequently in Paradise Court. Their bodies were carried out of the squalid dwellings and rattled over the streets to the crowded burial ground. The thought smote him painfully, and made a burning flush mount to his face. She must not die! What would riches and greatness mean to him unless she were there to share in his good fortune?
II.
The geranium was not at all happy in her new quarters. Although George attended to her wants most carefully she still thought with bitter regret of the greenhouse where she had been reared, and of the old gardener who had ministered to her. Here on the window sill of George's attic thousands of smuts settled daily upon her leaves, and the air was heavy. So great was her discomfort that she would have most certainly ceased to live had not a sunbeam lost his way among the narrow courts of the city, and while darting in and out of the grimy streets in his endeavours to find the sun, espied the unhappy flower. He immediately climbed up his golden ladder, and rested among the broad green leaves, much to her delight.
She confided her pitiful history to this new-found friend,who was so kind and sympathetic that the geranium grew warm and happy. Presently the sun shone out in the murky sky, and immediately the sunbeam glided along his golden thread and rejoined his parent. He did not, however, forsake the plant which had sheltered him, but frequently visited her, so that she forgot her struggle for life, and grew into a fine healthy geranium, much to the delight of her young master.
As time passed George began to realise that his mother would never rise from her bed again. Father Francis had gently told him that there was little hope of her recovery, and that when the great blow fell upon him he must reconcile himself to the will of the Almighty.
The poor waif suffered many hours of agony alone in his garret. Kneeling before the crucifix, he would beg God to spare the one thing he loved in all the world.
"I have so few comforts, dear Lord," he would say, "no clothes, little food; I can stand want if only you will not take her away." But when he was tired out with pain, he would raise his lips to the pierced feet, and kissing them, murmur, "Thy will be done."
His imagination had so often realised the picture that one morning, on finding his mother dead in her bed, he was hardly shocked.
The doctor said that death had resulted from syncope, accelerated by want of nourishment and neglect.
So the waif was left alone. His bright look departed. The wish for greatness was forgotten in his sorrow, and even his little sweetheart failed to comfort him.
On hearing of George's sad plight his father returned to live with him. The boy's saddened face touched Ermen's hard heart, and for a time the son's misery was alleviated by his parent's kindness. His father was decently dressed, and evidently had a little money, for food was more plentiful in the garret than it had ever been during George's remembrance.
Thanks to the sunbeam's care, the geranium continued to thrive marvellously, and as show day drew near she approached her prime.
Miss Brand gave George a clean collar and a decent jacket, and Father Francis bought him his first pair of shoes for the great occasion.
On the morning of the distribution he was up at five o'clock, for at that early hour he had been told to take his geranium to the schoolroom, and enter it for the competition.
Very gently he watered the leaves, taking care that not a drop should fall upon one of the five brilliant blossoms. As he stood admiring the plant he was surprised to hear footsteps in the adjoining room. His father had been away some days. He thought he must have returned earlier than he had expected. He therefore hurried to the door, and opened it, a joyful expression on his face. But it was the landlady, who stood there holding a dirty-looking letter in her hand.
"Look 'ere, sonnie, your father's been took ter gaol. 'E was on 'is way 'ome when the perlice took 'im in charge for that big jewel robbery at Manchester. 'E's wrote me this letter," she said, pausing to unfold the dirty piece of paper, while George stood pale to the lips with terror.
"'E sends you this message: 'Tell my son not ter grieve for me. It's all quite true what they says against me. I am a scamp, and always have been.'"
"'E'll get a lifer, that's a certainty," she observed to the lodgers downstairs when she had left the horror-stricken boy alone.
George couldn't weep at this last blow. He had not shed a tear since his mother's death. The agony in his heart was therefore all the more unbearable. He clenched his hands in pain.
Hours passed, the bitterest he had ever spent. Whatever suffering the future held for him he never experienced such anguish again.
At last he raised his head. His face was white, his eyes were heavy and dull.
"Everything is against me," he moaned. "My mother's dead; my father, who had become so kind, taken and thrown into gaol. Why should I suffer hunger and cold and disgrace and beggary? Other boys, through no merit of theirs, are born rich. Why wasn't I a lord's son instead of a waif of the streets? Why should my mother die of neglect, when others have all they need? Oh! I'll ask God to kill me; death ain't so very terrible. I've seen lots of boys of my age fished out of the river. It's only a few moments' pain, and Jesus wouldn't be 'ard on a little chap what's ben drove to it."
The geranium trembled with fear as she heard the boy's wild words. She spread out her blossoms and endeavoured to attract his attention.
Suddenly the garret was brilliantly illuminated. The sunbeam had glided down his golden ladder, and stood on the window sill.
George was amazed. He must be dreaming! What was this beautiful tiny creature enveloped in a haze of glory?
"The angels are sad when you despair, little boy. Gather your energies. Receive your prize! You are ungrateful to the flower which has grown into so beautiful a plant foryour sake. You are ungrateful to your God thus to abandon hope when you possess one of His greatest gifts."
"What gift?"
"Youth, a magic watchword that can open the enchanted gates in the land of genius."
"Genius?" said the boy wonderingly. "I have never heard of it."
"Live your life. Lose not a moment. At your years time flies. Be a great and a good man. Persevere. Out of the mire of this wilderness a golden flower shall rear its head, and grow in beauty day by day. It may even reach the Sun-lands."
III.
The schoolroom looked like a little paradise to the poor waifs assembled there. Many flags hung from the roof, and festoons of evergreens decorated the walls. A raised platform was covered with scarlet cloth. On this were many well-dressed ladies, the seat of honour being filled by Lord Eltonville, who had consented to distribute the prizes. The geraniums were displayed around the room. Some amongst them were frail and sickly looking,—they had not been able to thrive in their squalid and sunless abodes,—othersappeared more promising, and a few amongst the number had grown strong and handsome.
Of the four hundred plant cuttings thirty alone had not been returned for competition.
At one side of the platform was a table upon which the prizes were arranged. They consisted of workboxes, paints, tops, knives, drums, books, blotters, aprons, pencils, etc.
Miss Brand, much distressed at the news of Ermen's arrest, and at his son's nonappearance, had told the story to some of the visitors, and a great deal of interest and sympathy were excited in his favour.
Father Francis had just uncovered the prizes. The crowd of children pushed and scrambled to get a look at the good things; but at a word from their lady chief even the most turbulent grew quiet.
Some lovely countenances were discernible among the little gathering. Under ordinary circumstances they would hardly have been noticed for the dirt and grime which covered them; but this was a gala day, and, thanks to Miss Brand's kind care, each child's face and hands had been washed, and their white collars lent an air of cleanliness even to the most ragged and worn dress.
Suddenly there was a stir in the room. A boy wasseen advancing through the crowd holding a magnificent geranium in his arms.
Father Francis welcomed George in a quiet, kindly way. His plant was placed upon the platform for inspection, and it was universally agreed that had it been in time for the competition George would have taken the first prize.
Grieved that her little friend should be too late, Miss Brand hastily unfastened a silver compass from her watch chain and gave it to Lord Eltonville, to whom she said a few private words.
The atmosphere was stifling, and George was faint for want of food. Many of the children's mothers were present holding infants in their arms. Their worn, anxious faces beamed with delight as Lord Eltonville rose to distribute the prizes.
"George Ermen, in consideration of your misfortune, Miss Brand wishes to overlook the fact that your geranium was not entered for the competition this morning. I have, therefore, the great pleasure of awarding you a special extra prize, the presentation of which shall have precedence in our day's business."
George walked to the platform and received the pretty silver compass, a flush of pride and delight colouring his pale cheek.
"Let me advise you to cultivate smilax round your window," added his lordship, doubtless thinking of his magnificent greenhouses, and little realising the misery and squalor in which the waifs of the great city dwelt.
"Smilax!" murmured George wonderingly.
"Yes, it is a beautiful creeper, and ought to grow nicely round your window and make you quite a little bower."
The excitement of the children could no longer be curbed. Miss Brand was heartily glad when the distribution was over, and she could see the poor waifs happy with their little presents. It would be difficult to describe their joy. Many of their number had never possessed anything before. To have a book, a doll, a top, a pencil—something that was their very own—seemed like a delightful dream.
Father Francis had resolved to strike a blow for hisprotégébefore the day was over. Just as Lord Eltonville was preparing to depart, he told him that there was a little chorister among his flock who had a lovely voice, and that if his lordship would oblige him by staying through the short prayer with which they were about to end the day's pleasure he would hear the boy sing.
The nobleman graciously complied, and stood, hat in hand, while the priest said a Paternoster and three Aves, thechildren joining in fervently. Then Father Francis rose and sat at the harmonium. His lordship watched George take his place beside his spiritual director. He noticed the lad's pale, worn face, his ragged clothes, and his air of utter helplessness, and felt sorry that the good priest should have prevailed upon him to stay and witness the poor little fellow's failure.
There was not a sound in the schoolroom. The grand ladies held their breath in pity. Miss Brand looked anxious. The children longed for the success of their gentle comrade, and Maggie's heart beat with suppressed excitement.
"Te Deum Laudamus, te Dominum confitemur."
The voice seemed to pierce the heavens, so fresh and pure was its tone. Lord Eltonville's heart stood still. The waif's face had changed with those first words of praise; it had become illuminated with a great light, his insignificant little figure had gained a king's dignity.
"Te æternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur."
Lord Eltonville's imagination was fired by the music. He seemed to be in a little church of his own that was full of the perfume of incense. The low of distant oxen and the ripple of the river came through the open window. His only son, who died at about George's age, lay buried in the churchyard; the small grave was yellow with earlyprimroses. He, too, had an angel's voice, stilled for ever excepting in his father's memory.
"Tu Rex gloriæ, Christe."
Tears fell from the nobleman's eyes. Nor song of lark, nor rustle of waving grass, nor anything he had ever heard in all nature, had touched him so deeply as the waif's rendering of that hymn of praise.
As the last words died away Lord Eltonville stepped forward with outstretched hand; but George's strength was exhausted, the flush died away from his face, and he fell backwards into the priest's arms.
IV.
Time and circumstances change men, some for good and some for ill. It is an acknowledged fact that success often spoils the best natures, although to those on whom Fortune seldom smiles, this is hard to realise.
Thanks to Lord Eltonville's generosity and kind care, George Ermen had become a great man. His wish had been gratified; he had earned money and position.
Twenty years had passed since the geranium show. The ragged waif of that day had owned a sweet, loving nature, which seemed lost in the great musician of St. James's.
His father had died in prison. His mother's memory had scarcely survived. He never spoke of his early days, and looked upon them as a disgrace. Miss Brand's name seldom occurred to him, Father Francis was forgotten, and Maggie Reed languished in poverty.
In a gorgeous mansion, replete with every luxury, the musician sat at dinner with his young wife. The room was elegantly furnished; the walls were hung with fine oil-paintings. The table was decorated with hot-house flowers. Outside it was snowing, and the night was bitterly cold.
There was a great hush in the house. In the morning they had buried their only child. She had lived a year, and the first snow of winter had covered her grave.
George Ermen's selfish heart had been deeply touched by the loss of the little one, and somehow, when dinner was over, and he sat alone in his study, the remembrance of his childhood came over him like a forgotten strain of music.
The snow, every now and then, fell hissing into the fire which blazed upon the hearth.
The musician sat down to the organ and sang a few snatches from his Mass, which was to be given for the first time on Christmas Day.
"There is a poor woman at the door, dear," said his wife, coming in silently and standing near him, a pathetic figure in her black dress.
"Oh, Mary, I can't see anybody to-day," he answered, placing his arm round her with unwonted gentleness.
"Gordon tried to dismiss her, George; but she seemed so distressed, and begged so hard to be allowed to speak with you, that he came to me, and when I saw her——"
"I understand, dear, I know your tender heart. If I gave in to you we shouldn't have a penny in the world——"
"We are so rich, George, we could give and give, and never feel it——"
"Well, well, don't cry, Mary. What is the woman's name?"
"Maggie Reed!"
Maggie Reed. The little face seemed to rise up before him as an angel's among the squalid surroundings of his childhood.
"Let her come in, dear," he said, with a tenderness in his voice that she had seldom heard of late.
Presently Maggie stood before him, ragged and wet, her pale face worn with want and suffering. She must have been about twenty-eight; but she looked ten years older.
"Maggie!" he cried, taking her hand, and placing her in a chair.
"Mr. Ermen. I came ter ask yer somethin, not ter beg. Don't think I've come ter beg. I want yer ter let Father Francis say yer Mass. 'E's seen all about it in the papers, how it's ter be sung on Christmas Day. 'E's an old man, and he would never ask yer 'imself, but 'e always thinks of yer, and prays for yer."
"And do you?" murmured George.
What a low cur he had been to let this poor girl suffer all her life! And his other humble friends, too, whom he had vowed never to forsake!
"I hev' prayed for yer every night and morning since yer left us. I've said, 'God bless him, and make him great.' Yer see, sir, women don't forget."
V.
It was Christmas Day. The church was filled with great and fashionable people. Among the gorgeous crowd were to be seen Miss Brand and Maggie Reed, the latter in a warm dress of grey cloth.
Nearer the altar knelt George and his wife, his eyes often seeking the place where his friends were seated.
Father Francis, assisted by two other priests, was officiating.
George looked happier to-day. The presence of his hitherto forgotten companions had revived him, and the good father had spoken soothing words to him about his child's death. George had been overcome, and unaccustomed tears coursed down his face as he clasped the father's hand, and said,—
"Ah! one's early friends are true. Their love makes life worth having."
While the choir sang theGloria in Excelsis, the musician's thoughts had strayed to his early days. He was thinking of the sunbeam, and wondering whether its visit was a dream. If so, it must have been a dream straight from God, for that day had gained him his career.
The golden flower had reared its head very near to the Sun-lands. Would it ever reach them?
He remembered a secret drawer in his escritoire, in which there was a small plaster crucifix, a faded geranium leaf, and a silver compass. He had kept these little relics, and yet he had ceased to remember the friends who had smoothed the rough pages of his childhood and pencilled his name in the book of fortune.
But Father Francis and Maggie and Miss Brand should be safe now; they should know no further sorrow!
The sun burst forth in the winter sky, shone into the church, and brightened the gloomy corners.
George knew well in his heart that it was not his care that had made the geranium thrive. The sunbeam which he pretended to treat as a dream had nourished it. However, if that chapter in his life was blurred and misty, to-day's was clear.
The Mass that was being sung was his masterpiece. It was the outpouring of his soul. He would compose still greater religious works. What more wonderful theme could he have than a God's agony!
"Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus!" muttered the priest. The consecration drew near, the people bent their heads.
Still the musician remained lost in his thoughts. All over the world the advent of the Babe of Bethlehem was being celebrated. What a wonderful story it was! The star in the East, the wise men, the Infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and cradled in a manger. His unrecorded childhood, His love for little children, the more forsaken and forlorn, the greater His love. And he had been rich and prosperous, and yet had never given a thought to those poor little waifs whose life he himself had once lived. Happy in the love of his own child, he had forgotten the woes of others. God had taken her away; but he would accept the Divinewarning, and follow in the Divine footsteps. He would open his heart to the children of the poor; he would clothe them and give them bread.
The priest lifted the chalice. On the incense veiled altar the musician saw a sunbeam dart into the Holy Cup, and he heard the well-remembered voice breathe forth a glorious message,—
"Clothe them and give them bread. In that last vow the flower has reached the Sun-lands."