Chapter IV: Part 4

"You must be got home, old chap; it's getting ever so late and they will be anxious; do you think you could go by yourself, and tell them where you left me?"--"a pretty tale, truly," thought the Bookie to himself.

Fuzzy was torn by conflicting desires. He hated to leave his wounded friend, and he wanted his mother. Finally, having embraced the Bookie several times, he trotted off down the lane and into the high road once more. When he got home it was nearly eight o'clock. His father and mother, white-faced and anxious, were standing at the drive gate, straining their eyes in the twilight. Nana, having searched vainly herself, had only just come back to confess that Fuzzy was lost. He hardly waited to receive his mother's caresses, but seizing her by the hand, dragged her down the road, crying excitedly: "Come quick! the Bookie's hurted and he's all alone."

By dint of much questioning, the Bookie's whereabouts and the extent of his misfortunes were arrived at. The dogcart and horse were captured in an adjacent village, and the Bookie spent a month indoors. Fuzzy went to see him every day, so did they all, but they never spoke of the accident. They played Poker and Nap round his sick-bed, and the beggar constantly won.

The night before he went down he told them about Fuzzy. He forgot to swear at all during the narrative, but at the end he said: "And I'm damned if those dusty strap-shoes wouldn't get between me and too much of the best champagne ever bottled!"

*X*

*THE DARK LADY*

Nobody knew her--that is to say, none of the other ladies knew her. She was staying at the "Moonstone" for the hunting, accompanied by a maid, a couple of grooms, and six horses. The hotel people called her "the Baroness." Billy always spoke of her as "that pretty lady"; but then it is possible that admiration for her daring horsemanship coloured Billy's views.

On this particular afternoon Billy and the unknown lady found themselves at the same gate, in the gathering gloom of a November afternoon, six good miles from home. She was trying to lift a refractory latch with her hunting-crop when Billy rode up on his shaggy sheltie, dismounted cap in hand, and opened the gate for her.

"We seem to have lost the others, you and I. Shall we jog home together?" she asked, as Billy, having carefully fastened the gate, followed her down the rutty lane. "I'm not very sure where we are; but I suppose this lane leads somewhere," she continued.

"I know the way," answered the little boy cheerfully. "I shall be very glad of your company. Jackson--that's our man--lamed the cob early in the day and had to go home, and it's lonely riding by one's self."

"I am often lonely," said the lady, more to herself than to Billy.

"Are you? So am I. I'm the only one who hunts, you see; but I'm going to school at Easter, then I shan't be lonely any more."

"Are you glad to be going to school?"

"Oh, yes! I shall like being with the other chaps awfully; but, of course, I shall miss my people ... and the dogs, and the pony."

"Your people don't hunt, do they?"

"No; we've only the cob and my pony. Mother doesn't hunt, she's too nervous; and father doesn't care for it. Mother drives to the near meets sometimes, but when it is a long way she likes Jackson to come with me for the day. Not that he's any mortal use," added Billy with a gleeful chuckle. "He's a potterer, and my brother is too little."

"I wonder," the lady began, then stopped suddenly. Billy turned his rosy face towards her, but she did not speak. The child, because he knew one woman so well, divined that this woman was tired and sad. So he, too, was silent. The horses' hoofs went thud, swish, thud, swish, through the foot-deep decaying beech leaves. A delicate silver mist gathered round the roots of the great trees; like the bridal veil of a rosy girl, it spread itself over the stretches of ruddy space. They had turned into the grass-carpeted main avenue of the Earl's famous park, and Billy sniffed delightedly at what he called "the good smell of Christmas." Happy Billy! to whom the death of summer brought no sad thoughts.

"I'm afraid you are very tired!" he said suddenly, in his kind boyish voice. "Would you like to stop a bit?"

The lady started. Not, indeed, that she had forgotten Billy; she was in a subconscious way basking in the warmth that radiates from all simple and kindly people. Her rebellious mood of the last weeks had passed. That mood in which she loved to assert her fascination for men; mentally snapping her fingers in the faces of her sister women so ready to think evil of her. Certain kinds of men come to heel easily and she felt her triumph to be but a poor one. This half-hour's companionship of a friendly little boy had altered everything; at the moment she no longer felt herself to be the sport of circumstance; but her heart ached and her voice was weariful as she said:--"No, we won't stop. I am tired, but we are only about three miles from home. You live just outside the town, don't you?"

"Yes! at that tall grey gabled house where the cross roads meet!"

"I have seen you go into the drive. Do you do lessons--who teaches you?"

"Partly Mother, partly Dad. I am not clever at lessons." Billy flushed as he spoke; he was fully aware that his small love for books was something of a reproach. People expect so much from the child of clever parents. He did not know that his strongly developed sporting instincts were the pride of his bookish father's heart; nor how cheerfully that father had forgone many a rare edition, that Billy might ride to hounds. "A modest lad, a good lad; let him play about in the sunshine--the rest will come." So Billy's father, who would relate with glee how successfully Billy had vetoed one topic of conversation. On an evening, not so very long ago, Billy had put his head round the drawing-room door, demanding, "Is Dad going to talk about 'The Dark Lady of the Sonnets?' 'cause, if he is, I'm not coming in. I've had enough of hearing about her."

So Dad vowed he would talk of her no more, and discussed the habits of "Pug" with a learning that astonished and charmed Billy beyond telling.

The much-vexed question of Mary Fitton's identity with the "Dark Lady of the Sonnets" had raged with violence in Billy's house. His father had written many articles upon the subject--articles appearing in those fat, uninteresting magazines which littered drawing-room and study; in whose closely printed pages Billy sought in vain for "pictures and conversations." He did wish that Dad wrote for the _Strand_.

Curiously enough, as they rode home in the gathering eventide, the thought jumped into Billy's head that the dark lady of the sonnets must have been exactly like the Baroness. With the inconsequent aptness of childhood he proceeded to quote aloud lines learned to please his father:

"For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds."

The lady pulled up short and, turning in her saddle, asked with a catch in her voice, "Why do you say that? What is it? Where is it from?"

"Oh, it's those sonnets, you know--I've learnt lots of 'em to please my dad."

"But what made you quote that just then?" persisted the Baroness, her eyes dark and tragic with some nameless fear: "What made you quote it then? Were you thinking of me?"

Billy blushed and took off his cap that he might rumple his hair, a thing he always did when perplexed.

"I _was_ thinking of you," he said at last, "yet that has nothing to do with you. This has though"--and, blushing more than ever, Billy repeated:

"Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain;
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain:
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Than those two mourning eyes become thy face.

Billy stopped breathless, but confident that he had said the right thing this time.

"It is very pretty!" said the lady with a sigh--"but the other is true. What a queer little boy you are to repeat poetry like that! How old are you?"

"I shall be nine at Easter. Then I go to school. Where are you going when the hunting is over? It ends early here; we never kill a May fox--the crops, you know."

"I don't know where I shall go, probably to London, or to Paris, or----" here she murmured something in a language Billy did not understand, then, turning to him, said dreamily:

"'That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels, I return again.'

You see I know something of your poetry too! But, wherever I go, I shall be lonely--lonely and sad."

There was a sound of tears in her voice. Billy, infinitely distressed, felt that this melancholy lady must be cheered and encouraged, so he said stoutly:

"I've never seen you alone before. You've generally got Mr. Rigby Folaire, or Captain Garth, or Lord Edward, or all of them."

"That's just it," said the Baroness, and Billy was more puzzled than ever. Feeling that he must get on to more comprehensible ground, he asked,

"How did you lose the others?"

"Probably very much as you did. Anyhow, here we are together, and I am very glad. I have enjoyed your society extremely. I shall remember our afternoon."

The Baroness was destined to remember, for at that moment Billy's pony put his foot in a rabbit hole and came down, throwing the child with some violence against the trunk of a tree. They were riding at the edge of the wood.

The pony scrambled up and galloped off; but Billy lay quite still in a pathetic heap. The Baroness had pulled up her tall horse almost on to his haunches, for Billy had been thrown right in front of her. Now, with the reins over her arm, she was stooping over the prostrate Billy, while the nervous thoroughbred trembled and curvetted beside her.

The Baroness was noted for the speed and grace with which she could mount or dismount.

She lifted Billy in her arms. There was a big bruise on his temple, and he seemed stunned by the fall. His head rolled on to her shoulder, lying there heavily. Reaching for her flask from the pocket of her saddle, and with the reins still round her wrist, she sat down on the ground with Billy in her arms. She soaked her handkerchief in brandy, and dabbed his forehead, and, as if to aid her, there pattered down upon his upturned face the first drops of a cold November shower.

The Baroness had faced many dangers in her time. To "scenes" of various kinds she was quite inured; but she trembled as Billy's face touched her neck, and there was a look in her eyes that neither Mr. Rigby Folaire nor Lord Edward had ever seen there. Presently Billy stirred and opened his eyes, saying eagerly, "I'm all right, mother! It wasn't Dalgo's fault I fell off. It's all right."

Sitting up suddenly, he saw the Baroness, and knew where he was. But he had clung to her--she always remembered that.

He scrambled to his feet, exclaiming, "I beg your pardon. Did I frighten you? I am so sorry"; then, turning very giddy, sat down again amongst the wet leaves.

"I wonder if I ought to give him brandy," murmured the Baroness. She put her free arm round him, while the tall horse sniffed inquiringly at them both.

The white mist crept higher among the trees and the rain grew heavier. Billy shivered.

"We can't sit here," said the Baroness decidedly. "You'll have to ride Frivolity in front of me. I don't know where your pony is, and if he has galloped home they will be in a dreadful state. So we must hurry.

"How strong you are!" said Billy, admiringly, as she swung him up to the saddle in front of her--"and how kind!" He put his hand on hers that held the reins, her other arm was round him. Thus they rode home in the cold gloom of that November afternoon.

* * * * *

"Billy's late!" said his mother nervously as she poked the study fire. "I am always worried when he is out without Jackson; he is so reckless, and Jackson came home just before lunch, you know." Billy's father pushed his papers away from him, and came and stood beside her at the fire.

"There he is!" he said, "there's the drive gate."

"That's a horse; besides, Billy always goes straight to the yard--Oh, can he be hurt? and some one has come to tell us. Go down quick and see."

On no occasion did Billy ever go hunting but his mother pictured every possible mishap. Had the child ever realised her agony of apprehension he would never have gone; but she loved him too well to interfere with his pleasures. "He's such a manly little fellow," she would say when he came safely back, forgetting her dread in her pride of him--until next hunting day.

She followed her husband into the fire-lit hall. The door stood open. The well-loved little figure was silhouetted against the gloom, and the kind young voice was persuading some one to come in. "Do come and have some tea," she heard him say; then, as he saw his mother: "It's the dark lady, dear; she has been so kind to me. Has Dalgo come home?"

The mother went out on to the steps beside her husband. The unknown lady had already turned her horse preparatory to departure, but waited just to say in short, jerky sentences:

"Your little boy was thrown, and the pony ran away. I thought it best to bring him home without looking for the pony. He fell with some force against a tree, but I don't think----!"

"Won't you come in?" asked Billy's mother, going down into the rain beside her guest. A great many considerations flashed into her mind, but--"and let me thank you."

The soft voice was so like Billy's. For a moment the Baroness wavered. She looked somewhat wistfully into the hall where the ruddy firelight danced on the old oak furniture, but she gave a little wriggle on her saddle and said lightly and in the voice that jarred, "Thanks! but I'm far too wet. I must go home and change. The boy is wet. I hope the pony will turn up all right," and with that she rode out of the drive.

Billy spent some days in bed with concussion of the brain. He talked constantly of his "dark lady" to the bewilderment of his mother, who had no idea how firmly he was imbued with the notion that _his_ dark lady was _the_ dark lady--"of the sonnets," as he always piously concluded.

As for the lady--when Billy's father went down to the "Moonstone" that very evening in the pouring rain, to thank her for her kindness to his little son, she was declared to be engaged and would see no one.

When Billy's mother went next morning she was told that the Baroness had gone to town the night before. Her servants and her horses followed her, and the hunt knew her no more. She left no address. Mr. Rigby Folaire and Lord Edward inquired her whereabouts in vain. But Billy knew she had "gone back into the sonnets"; for had she not said, as they rode home in the rain that afternoon,

"That is my home of love: if I have ranged
Like him that travels, I return again"?

Billy was sure; and even Billy's father has given up talking about Mary Fitton.

*XI*

*HER FIRST APPEARANCE*

Somehow or other it got noised abroad in the town that Lady Valeria was coming to church the very next Sunday.

The town was much interested. There are people who speak of our town as a "village." Such people are lacking in all sense of proportion. We pity them, and try to ignore the insult.

But to return to Lady Valeria. For nearly four years we have had her in our midst. At first she was known as "the Earl's baby"; but her appearance and character were such that she speedily achieved a distinct entity, and now her doings are chronicled with extreme minuteness.

"Mammy dear! Mammy dear!" said Lady Valeria, "what does God do in church?"

Her mother looked puzzled for a moment, then she said, "He listens to our prayers, and to the psalms and hymns we sing."

"Will He speak to me, mammy dear? Will He want to kiss me?"

Most people wanted to kiss Lady Valeria; she was quite used to it.

"We cannot see God," answered the Countess gravely.

"Why, mammy dear?" asked the persistent treble voice, "what does He hide for?"

The Countess looked beseechingly at her husband, but he would not come to her assistance; he went and looked out of the window, and his shoulders shook. He gave her no help in these matters--no help at all--and, really, there never was a more inquiring child than Lady Valeria.

"I'd like to see God, mammy dear! why can't I?"

"We can none of us see God--yet," said her mother, gently; "we shall see Him some day if we are good. Now listen, sweetheart, you must be perfectly quiet in church, and not talk at all; you must do whatever I do. Remember, it is God's House, and we go there to thank Him for all He gives us, and to pray to Him for help to do right."

Lady Valeria's face was very solemn, and she held it up to be kissed, and she made many protestations with regard to the extreme decorum of her conduct when Sunday should come. Then the head nurse appeared and carried her off to nursery tea.

Her parents had misgivings as to the sobriety of her behaviour in church. The Countess felt nervous and said so; as for the Earl, he laughed and loved her, but he said that nothing would induce him to accompany his daughter to church next Sunday afternoon. Hers was a character of much originality. She acted with decision, and always unexpectedly; and the little Countess, who was only nineteen years older than her daughter, often felt that the baby girl was the stronger of the two.

There was a pleasant flutter of expectation among the Sunday-school children, and, indeed, among the congregation generally, at the children's service on that memorable Sunday when Lady Valeria first came to church. Since her own christening, and that of her small brother, nothing so exciting had occurred. The Earl's seat was high up in the centre aisle, in full view of the congregation. As the young Countess walked in, leading her little daughter by the hand, she had to run the gauntlet of the kindly inquisitive eyes of the entire congregation, an unusually large one. She blushed very much, for she was a shy little lady, who loved to go her gracious way quietly and unobserved. Not so Lady Valeria--from her earliest infancy she had been taught to give pleasure by her pretty smiles, and that to "notice people" was one of the most binding of her obligations. Though certainly no Pharisee, she dearly loved "greetings in the market-place," and as she trotted up the aisle she nodded gaily to her acquaintances, who were there in large numbers. She waved her fat hand to the curate as he took his seat in the choir, much to his confusion.

In the choir were two of the lodge-keeper's sons. Their white garments had for the nonce concealed their identity; but presently Lady Valeria recognised them, and, mounting a high hassock, she nodded and waved ecstatically--she felt so sure they would be delighted to see her in church. She wondered why they looked so red, and why they did not pull their front locks and grin, as they were wont to do when she passed them in the pony carriage. She felt chilled and disappointed at this lack of responsiveness on the part of so many of her friends.

The service began. Lady Valeria carefully copied her mother and made no sound. That lady, who had not noticed "the nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles" which marked her daughter's entrance, felt her cheeks begin to cool and was conscious of a hope upspringing that her temerity in bringing Lady Valeria to church was to be triumphantly vindicated.

Suddenly, however, in the middle of the psalms, which were read in alternate verses by vicar and congregation, she noticed that, in the congregation's verse, somebody was saying in a triumphant sing-song:

"There was a lady loved a swine.
'Honey!' said she,
'Pighog, wilt thou be mine?'
'Hunc!' said he."

The final "hunc" was a life-like imitation of one of the Earl's prize pigs. The verse in question happened to be shorter than Lady Valeria's, and she finished after the congregation.

The curate turned purple, and the vicar's voice trembled. The Countess blushed redder than before, and, stooping down, whispered, "You mustn't say _anything_, darling!"

Lady Valeria looked up in pained surprise.

"Every one else is talking, mammy dear. I'm sure God wouldn't mind."

Her mother shook her head again, and Lady Valeria relapsed into a wondering and somewhat injured silence. Why should those Sunday-school children be allowed to bawl out all sorts of seemingly irrelevant remarks, while she was checked for one little tiny rhyme? Truly, church was a puzzling place. She sighed, and pulled off her gloves, then she rolled them into a neat ball and played catch with them. But she was no hand at catch, and the gloves fell with a soft "plop" into the aisle. Her mother looked up at the little sound and again shook her head. Lady Valeria yawned.

Then something happened. There was a scuffling at the back, and the vicar's wife, who is a strict disciplinarian, marched up the aisle propelling a small boy in front of her--the very small boy who was the cause of the disturbance. Lady Valeria nearly fell off her stool in her excitement. The procession of two, the pusher and the pushed, passed the Earl's pew, and reached the big brass bird, whose classification had been puzzling Lady Valeria for the last ten minutes. The vicar's wife left the small boy just beside the big bird, and marched down the aisle again. The hymn finished, the vicar went into the pulpit and gave out the text. Thomas Beames, the culprit, stuffed his fists into his eyes, and wept copiously, but silently. There he would have to stand, publicly disgraced, with his back in full view of the congregation for the rest of the service.

"I'll turn dissenter, I will!" vowed Thomas, in his miserable soul. "I'll vote yallow when I be growed a man. I won't cap she, when I do meet her in the street."

The vicar's voice exhorting the children to industry, sobriety, and universal charity fell on deaf ears as far as Thomas was concerned. But what he did hear was the soft patter of little feet behind him, then came a pull at his arm by two small impatient hands. He took his fists out of his eyes, and looked down to see Lady Valeria standing beside him. Her blue eyes were full of pity, and she said very softly and distinctly, "Don't ky, little boy! there's plenty of room in our seat!" and before the astonished Thomas could demur, one of the imperative little hands had seized his, and pulled him into the Earl's pew, where he sat crimson and desperately uncomfortable for the rest of the service; but he was not quite so sure that he would vote "yallow when he were growed a man." The sermon was long. The vicar felt this flying in the face of law and order must be lived or preached down.

Lady Valeria yawned again. Heedless of the precepts of St. Paul, she removed her hat. Then she leaned her head against her mother's shoulder and slept.

She slept all through the sermon; even the singing of the closing hymn did not awake her.

The school children, including the now repentant Thomas Beames, had clattered out, and still the Lady Valeria slept.

Her mother kissed and woke her, and as they walked across the sunny market-place, Lady Valeria remarked cheerfully, "Mammy dear, mammy dear! I like church, you feels so nice and fresh when you comes out!"

*XII*

*"OUR FATHERS HAVE TOLD US"*

Ridgeway came in with the morning paper while Johnny was still at breakfast. Johnny was late, but at the beginning of the holidays he generally was late unless it happened to be a hunting morning.

Something had evidently stirred Ridgeway out of his usual stately calm, for instead of bringing in the paper neatly folded upon a salver, he held it open in his hand, and his hands were shaking.

"It's all here, Master Johnny!" he cried. "Bobs 'e spoke and Lord Curzon 'e spoke, and the King and the Viceroy sent messages and no end of nobs besides: and to think of it! the General was there to 'ear it all. An' that gentleman wot writes the books you're so fond of, _he_ was there an' 'e wrote a hymn 'specially for the occasion."

Johnny snatched the paper and Ridgeway retired to the sideboard, where he stood with his back to Johnny, blowing his nose and clearing his throat in a highly unprofessional fashion.

"I'm glad grandfather was there," Johnny said presently. "Don't you wish you'd been there, Ridgeway? But I suppose you were born a bit too late ... you were born after the Mutiny, weren't you?"

"Bless you, yes, Master Johnny. Why, 'owever old do you think I am?"

"Everybody seems rather old in this house after school, you know," Johnny explained apologetically. "At school there's fifty chaps, and Hatton Major's the eldest and he's just fourteen and seven months. He's leaving this term. I shall be leaving at midsummer, you know, for then I shall be fourteen. When'll grandfather be back, Ridgeway?"

"The General said 'e'd telegraph this morning. I expect 'e's a bit tired after that dinner. My word! it must have been a fine sight--all those old chaps, and the officers, all with their medals and their orders on. Somethin' like a _Tamash_ that was. They've seen a deal, they 'ave."

Johnny rose from table with the paper still in his hand. "I think," he said, "that grandfather would wish all the servants to hear what's in this paper, and I'd like to read it to them. Please tell them to come here at once, Ridgeway."

The long line of servants filed into the room just as they did when the General was at home to read prayers. And Johnny, fair-haired, round-faced, and ever so serious, stood up before them all to read aloud about the dinner that the proprietors of a great newspaper had given to the survivors of the Indian Mutiny of 1857.

Everybody was impressed; and the cook, who was fat and full of sensibility, wept audibly.

Johnny's voice did not falter except when he stumbled over one or two of the long words in some of the speeches, till he came to what Ridgeway called "the hymn" written by Mr. Rudyard Kipling.

"One service more we dare to ask:
Pray for us, heroes, pray,
That when Fate lays on us our task,
We do not shame the day."

As he reached this last verse his voice broke.

"That's all," he said hastily, "and thank you very much for listening." Then he fled to the stables, bearing the precious newspaper with him that he might read it all over again to the General's groom and the stable boys.

Johnny was the youngest of a long line of soldiers and civilians who had served our Indian Empire. Father and mother were still in India, though they were coming home before the hot weather and mother would probably not go out again. Johnny, himself, always talked of "going back" when he should be through Sandhurst; although he had left India for good at four years old. Yet he heard "the East a-calling" with the same loud imperative call that all his race had so ungrudgingly obeyed.

Johnny adored the works of Mr. Rudyard Kipling. His nursery days had been enriched and enchanted by the _Jungle Books_ and _Just So Stories_; and as he grew older he chose out for enthusiastic admiration certain heroes from among the short stories, heroes who were to him a never-failing inspiration and example. He was sure, of course, that Mr. Kipling was "a real person," but he was infinitely more confident that Bobby Wicks and John Chinn and Georgie Cottar had actually existed, _did_ actually exist, except poor Bobby Wicks who died of cholera. They were, in fact, far more manifest to the mind of Johnny than the man privileged to chronicle their doings. It was beastly bad luck that Bobby Wicks had died: it always made him want to kick his best friend for at least an hour afterwards when he read that story. All the same, Bobby had not died in vain, for his cheery, unconscious heroism had kindled in the breast of at least one small boy a steady flame of patriotism and the passionate hope that when his time should come he, too, might serve and suffer with the men he hoped one day to lead.

That mild December morning, as he rode alone along the muddy lanes, Johnny's mind was full of the Mutiny, and his heart grew big within him as he thought of the men whose dangers his grandfather had been privileged to share.

When he got back to lunch he found a long telegram from the General saying that certain old friends who had come up for the Mutiny dinner had persuaded him to stay one more night in town, but that he would motor back very early on Christmas morning in plenty of time for church. Johnny felt a bit disappointed, but he went to tea with some cheery neighbours where there was assembled a large and youthful party, and he dined in solemn state with Ridgeway in attendance. After dinner he arranged his gifts for grandfather and the servants and was quite ready for bed when bed-time came. He said his prayers with his usual precipitation: but when he had finally besought blessings upon "father and mother and grandfather and all my kind friends" he found himself still upon his knees repeating:

"One service more we dare to ask:
Pray for us, heroes, pray,
That when Pate lays on us our task,
We do not shame the day."

"How rummy of me!" quoth Johnny to himself as he snuggled down in bed. "I've got that Mutiny dinner on the brain." And then he fell asleep.

Later on he began to dream. He dreamt that he was in the sick-room at school and that he had a very bad cough--a tickling, tiresome, choking cough. He implored the matron to give him some water, but she only laughed at him and hurried out of the room. And the cough grew worse and worse till he thought he should choke. It was so unlike matron, too, to be hard-hearted and unsympathetic, that Johnny grew very angry, and he tried to shout at her but the cough wouldn't let him. Still, he must have managed to make a considerable noise, for the sound of his own voice woke him up, and as he opened his eyes they began to smart violently. He sat up in bed still coughing and choking, and it was gradually revealed to him that the room was full of smoke.

Now Johnny had no fire in his bedroom, for the whole house was heated by hot pipes. Not long ago, too, grandfather had put in the electric light. Johnny turned on the switch at the head of his bed, but no light came.

He sat perfectly still for a few seconds realising the while that the house must assuredly be on fire somewhere. Then he leapt out of bed and flung his window wide open. He hung out of the window and filled his lungs with the good fresh air.

He was wideawake now and quite able to understand that there was danger. His first impulse was to get out of the window and scramble down into safety by the ivy on the wall. His room was on the first floor, the rooms were low and old-fashioned, and he had done it before. Just as he was preparing to scramble out he remembered the servants. The women all slept at the end of a long passage (which went the whole length of the house) through a swing door. Johnny's end was quite unoccupied, as grandfather had taken his own man with him; the lady who did the housekeeping had gone back to her own home for Christmas, and there were no visitors just then. Ridgeway slept in a wing room built over the pantry close to the back staircase. Half-way down the passage was the turret staircase, and in the turret hung the great bell to be rung to rouse the servants in case of fire or sudden illness.

Johnny drew in his head and turned back into his room. The smoke was not quite so bad now, but it was very dark; He opened the door, and as he did so there flowed in great waves and gusts of smoke that drove him back into the room again.

It would be much easier to get out of the window and go round to ring the front-door bell, or throw stones at the servants' windows, or do anything rather than face that stinging, stifling darkness which was not black but grey.

It drove him back to the window again, the window with its easy drop out into the sate, kind night of stars and watery moon and cold wet air.

But the servants! How was he to warn the servants?

And the fire might be spreading. He felt his way to the washstand and dipped one of the towels in water. He wrapped it round his neck like a muffler, covering mouth and nose, and then he opened his door again, ran down the smoke-packed passage as fast as he could; and up the little staircase to the belfry, where he fell gasping, for the acrid smoke was terrible.

Here it was better, for the belfry tower was open to the night. Johnny seized the rope and pulled for dear life. How long must he ring before they would all be roused?

It was a big, loud bell: he heard it clanging overhead, and insensibly it seemed to swing to the rhythm of these words:

"Pray for us, heroes, pray,
That when Fate lays on us our task,
We do not shame the day."

Johnny's arms were tired and his bare feet were cold. Would they hear? Had he rung long enough? Might he go back to his room now and get out of the window?

The smoke was creeping up into the belfry. It was the smoke, of course, that made the tears come into his eyes.

Clang, clang, clang, clang--clang, clang!

Johnny loosed the rope for a minute and listened.

Yes; he heard shouts.

They were roused, then: just a few more pulls and he might go.

The terrified maidservants came huddling down the back staircase and out at the back door. Men came from the stables, and the lodge, and the gardeners' cottages, and Ridgeway dropped from his window, for he could not face the smoke in the passage.

The fire was in the front of the house in the main wing; the dining room was undoubtedly in flames, and the men went round to the front with the hose while one of the grooms galloped off to the nearest town for the fire engine.

Ridgeway was the last to join the frightened group outside the back door, and his first question was, "Where's Master Johnny?"

It took several minutes of most violent language before he discovered that no one had seen Master Johnny, but his window was open, and he must have got out that way: "he was active as a cat."

But Johnny was not with the men.

"Who rang the alarm bell?" Ridgeway shouted.

Apparently no one had rung the alarm bell.

A ladder was set against Johnny's window, and Ridgeway went up and into Johnny's room.

Twice the volumes of smoke drove him back from the door, for Ridgeway had never done fire-drill at school, and knew nothing of the advantages of a wet towel; but the third time he made a dash down the passage and reached the belfry stairs. At the foot of the steps he trod upon something soft and, stooping, picked up Johnny in his arms and staggered back again.

When he appeared at the window with his burden the men sent up a cheer, but Ridgeway gave a hard, dry sob and muttered, "If 'e's dead I'm goin' back into the 'ouse; I'll never face the General."

All the same Ridgeway was the first to face the General when that aged warrior arrived at his drive gate early on Christmas morning. He faced the General with the intelligence that he would find his dining-room, his hall, and a great part of his staircase a mass of charred ruins by reason of the fusing of the wires of the recently installed electric light. And Ridgeway further related that to the General which almost consoled him for the state of chaos in which he found his household.

The General's own man had got out when Ridgeway stopped the motor at the drive gate. He and Ridgeway stood side by side at the door of the brougham while Ridgeway spoke.

"You've made it pretty clear that the boy saved the lot of you," said the General. "But who the dickens fetched the boy out of all that smother? Tell me that, now!"

Ridgeway passed his hand over his very rough chin and looked foolish, saying never a word.

"Get in, man!" said the General, "get in. Do you think we can loaf about here all day--get in!" and the General dragged Ridgeway into the motor with both hands.

As the motor rounded the last corner of the drive, the General beheld, as through a mist, a little figure in an Eton jacket standing outside the bulged and blackened front door.

The figure waved cheerfully and ran to assist the General to alight.

The old soldier grasped Johnny by the shoulder and shook him gently:

"You're a nice person to leave in charge!" he roared. "What have you got to say for yourself, hey?"

Johnny grinned. "You're very well up to time, sir," he said cheerily. "We'll have to have breakfast in the housekeeper's room, for you never saw such a beastly mess in all your life!"

*XIII*

*A GIOTTO OF THE COTSWOLDS*

When Mary Cardross first saw Jethro he was six years old, and still wore petticoats. He was not particularly small for his age, and his appearance was, to say the least of it, peculiar. A cotton frock, made with skirt and body like a housemaid's morning dress, reached to his ankles; and he seemed to have very little underneath, for this outer garment hung limp and straight from waist to heel, except on Sundays, when, fresh from the hands of his aunt, it stuck out all round like a lamp-shade. His hair, cropped very short round the edges, was several inches long on the crown. Mrs. Gegg, by courtesy his "aunt," did not even put a basin on his head by way of guide in the shearing, but, brushing all the hair forward from the centre of the crown, laid the scissors against his forehead, and cut the hair close to the skin all round. It grew again quickly, and stuck out above his temples like a new straw thatch.

"Isn't he rather a big boy for petticoats?" Mary asked, as her landlady removed the supper, pausing at intervals to explain Jethro's presence under her roof.

"Yes, 'e be a biggish boy, but I hain't a-goin' to be at no expense for 'im as I can 'elp. 'E can wait cum Christmas for 'is trowsies. 'E ought to be thankful as 'e weren't tuk to the workus, an' me only 'is mother's cousin, though 'e _do_ call me haunt. 'E be a great expense, and I've 'ad 'im this two year. The most onandiest, nothingly child you ever see,--always a-scribblin' and a-messin' and moonin'. I don't set no store by Jethro, I can tell you, Miss! 'E's got to be brought up 'ard to hearn 'is own livin'"--and Mrs. Gegg paused breathless. Mary said nothing, but she felt rather sorry for Jethro.

Had Mrs. Gegg lived anywhere but in the lovely, lonely Cotswold village perched like a smiling fastness in the midst of beech-clad hills, reached only by the loosest and worst of roads, she would hardly have dared to dress a six-year boy in such extraordinary fashion. Public opinion would have been too strong for her. But Nookham, with its dozen cottages, lived and let live in easy apathy, and Jethro in bitterness of spirit wore his cotton frock. Two years ago Mary had discovered Nookham. Friends had driven her over to have tea in the woods, and to gather the wild strawberries found there in such abundance. She fell in love with the place, and came again upon a private exploring expedition, when she discovered that lodgings were to be had at the post-office, in the house of one Mrs. Gegg. There she spent a most delightful fortnight, sketching. Never was more attentive and honest landlady, never cleaner, more orderly house! It is true that Mary's painting tackle greatly distressed her hostess, partaking as it did of the nature of things "messy and slummicky," which her soul abhorred. Otherwise, she liked Mary, as did most people; and she had in her way great toleration for the "curus ways" of the "gentry" generally, expecting less of them in the matter of common sense than she exacted from people of her own class. And now, after two years in Italy, Mary found herself once more in the dear Cotswold country, in the very middle of a perfect June. Nookham generally was unfeignedly pleased to see her again. Few strangers came to stay there, and the roads were too bad and too hilly for even the ubiquitous cyclist. The squire's house was three miles from the village, the vicarage two, and the tall lady with the abundant wavy grey hair and strong, kind face had made a very distinct and pleasant impression.

Mary did not catch a glimpse of Jethro during her first day until, happening at post-time to want a letter she had left in her bedroom, she ran upstairs to fetch it.

The room, with door flung wide, faced the narrow staircase. In the very middle of the floor stood Jethro, in rapt contemplation of a large photograph of Giovanni Bellini's Madonna,--the one in the sacristy of the Frari at Venice--which Mary had placed on the little mantelpiece.

The day was well on in the week, the cotton frock hung in limp and draggled folds about the childish limbs, and the queer little creature's attitude was almost pathetically boyish as he stood, legs far apart, his hands grasping the lilac cotton where pockets ought to have been.

For a full minute Mary stood watching him. He made no attempt to touch the picture; in fact--and afterwards the circumstance seemed significant--he stood at some distance from it, that he might see it whole.

Mary must have moved, for the stairs creaked. Jethro jumped, did not even turn his head to see who was coming, but darted under the bed with the instant speed of a startled squirrel. She came into the room, shut the door, and sat down on her trunk, remarking, "If you come out I'll show you some more pictures!" Dead silence for five minutes, while Mary sat patiently waiting. She was determined that she would in no way frighten or constrain the timid child, for it seemed to her that the little Cotswold peasant who stood gazing with absorbed interest at her favourite Madonna must be worth knowing.

"I can't think why you stay under there, Jethro," she said at last; "we could have such a nice time together if you would come out, and I must go directly to finish my letters."

But, like Brer Rabbit, Jethro "lay low and said nuffin'", so Mary was fain to go and finish her letters, determined to play a waiting game. From time to time she stopped writing, looking pained and puzzled. "It is dreadful that a little child should be so afraid of one," she said to herself; "what can they have done to him?" Presently Jethro rushed past the open door, and later on there came from the direction of the back kitchen a sound uncommonly like smacks.

Mrs. Gegg laid the supper as though she were dealing cards with the angry emphasis indulged in by certain Bridge players after a series of bad hands. Mary ventured on a timid remark to the effect that Nookham had changed but little during her two years absence. Mrs. Gegg replied that "Squire didn't encourage no fancy building," and that therefore it was likely to remain the same for some time to come. Conversation languished, and she went into the garden to "take in" certain exquisitely white garments still spread upon the currant bushes while Mary stood at the front door waiting for the nightingale to "touch his lyre of gold," when another and very different sound broke into the scented stillness--a breathless, broken sound of sobs--a child's sobs. She listened for a moment, then turned and went back into the house to follow the sound. From the landing window she noted with relief that Mrs. Gegg was engaged in converse with a neighbour (Mary stood in great awe of her landlady); she mounted a ladder leading to the attic, and there, under the slates, lying full length on the outside of his clean little bed, was Jethro, sobbing with an _abandon_ and intensity that left Mary in no doubt as to what she should do this time. Bumping her head violently, and nearly driving it through the slates in her haste, for she could by no means stand upright, she climbed in and reached the side of the bed.

Her entrance was so noisy that the child had plenty of time to vanish, as he had done in the afternoon; but he was evidently so astonished by her appearance that no thought of flight occurred to him; he even forgot to be frightened, left off crying, and asked eagerly:

"Did you 'urt your 'ead?"

"No, not much. I heard you crying, and came to see what was the matter."

Jethro looked queerer than ever. He wore a voluminous unbleached calico nightgown, several sizes too big for him; the big tears on his cheeks' shone like jewels in the soft June twilight, and the thatch of tow-coloured hair was rumpled into a quick-set hedge above his great, grave forehead.

"I've bin beat," he whispered.

"Why, what had you done?"

"I thrown a stwun at Earny Mustoe akez 'e did call oi 'Jemima,' and it did break 's mother's windy."

"Is he bigger than you?"

"Yes, 'e be noine!"

"Then why didn't you go for him and hit him? You couldn't break any windows that way, and it would teach him better manners."

Jethro stared in astonishment at this war-like lady.

"But 'e be ever so much bigger nor me," he exclaimed, "and I be allays beat aterwards"; then, remembering his woes, "and it do 'urt so, it do," and Jethro began to wail again.

Mary gathered the woebegone little figure into her arms and sat down on the floor, saying cheerfully:

"Cheer up, old chap; I'll pay for that window, and you mustn't throw any more stones; and don't cry any more, and we'll have ever such nice times while I'm here."

It was evident that Jethro was not used to being cuddled. He sat stiff and solemn on her knee, staring at her with great puzzled eyes. She talked to him as tender women talk to children, and finally put him to bed, tucked him in, kissed and blessed him, and climbed down the ladder again. Much to her relief she saw that Mrs. Gegg was still in the garden.

Jethro lay awake, staring at a patch of moonlight on the whitewashed wall. Hazily, vaguely, there arose in his mind are collection that at one time some one always tucked him into bed--some one who looked kindly at him. He couldn't remember the face, but the eyes were like the tall lady's--like the lady's in the picture downstairs; and again Jethro wanted to cry, but not because he had been "beat." However, he would not cry; she had asked him not to, and she had such sharp ears, and she would come to see him every night, and she had lots more pictures. Here the tall lady and the lady in the picture became inextricably mixed up, and Jethro slept that blessed sleep of childhood which is oblivion.

"I'd just like to show you, Miss, a present as I've 'ad from my nephew down Cubberly way. 'E's on'y fifteen, and 'e's that clever with 'is fingers----" Mrs. Gegg held up for Mary's admiration a frame made of fir-cones which had been varnished and squeezed together till they looked like a hollow square of highly polished brown sausages. "There, Jethro, if you could make summut like that."

"I likes 'em better a-growin'," said Jethro, softly.

During the scornful scolding that followed Mary watched Jethro. His serene grey eyes under the square, peaceful forehead looked a trifle weary, and he sighed as his aunt harangued him, but he did not seem greatly disturbed. After all, whether people scolded or not, gracious, gentle things continued a-growin', and Jethro through the sweet uses of adversity had early learnt that "Nature, the kind old nurse," never refuses consolation to such of her children as seek it in sweet solitary places with an understanding heart.

Mary found Jethro very difficult to get at. He followed her about, and would sit watching her paint for hours in silent, absolute absorption, but he very seldom spoke himself. One day, as they were walking together down the steep stony road leading to the woods, he suddenly clasped her round the knees, exclaiming, "You be such a dear 'ooman!"

Mary stooped hastily and kissed the little upturned face. In a life compassed about with much affection and many friends no one had ever spoken to her with such a rapture of appreciation, and she fell to thinking how little she had done to deserve it. Two days after she got a letter.

"The mater cannot write herself," it ran, "because she is busy with a big chest in the attic upon which the dust of ages has hitherto been allowed to rest in peace. From time to time you may hear her murmur, 'Six, and an average size. Poor little lad! What a shame!!--this will do, I think.' So you know what is going on. Do you remember the bundles? All neatly docketed--'To fit boy of twelve,' etc. A regular trousseau is coming, so tell that kiddie to cheer up."

Three days later Jethro appeared at school in all the glory of jacket and "trowsies"; and the very boy who had most grievously tormented him about his petticoats chastised another on his behalf who made derisive remarks about a "gal in trowsies." Thus the chief misery in Jethro's life was removed, and he felt that he bade fair to become a social success.

His aunt manifested no objection to the new clothes. A thrifty soul, she believed in taking what she could get, and remarked, quite good-naturedly, that Jethro did look a bit more like other folk now.