A PEACOCK'S FEATHER AND A KISS.
"We tried to quarrel yesterday.
Ah!... kiss the memory away."
In Ted's pleasant home there was a queer little room used for nothing in
particular. It was a very little room, hardly worthy indeed of the name,
but it had, like some small men who have very big minds, a large window
with a most charming view. I think it was partly this which made Ted
take such a fancy to this queer little room in the first place--he used
to stand at the window when they first came to the house and gaze out at
the stretch of sloping fields, with peeps here and there of the blue
river fringed with splendid trees, and farther off still the distant
hills fading away into the mysterious cloudiness, the sight of which
always gave him a strange feeling as if he would like to cry--Ted used
to gaze out of this window for ever so long at a time, till somehow the
little room came to be associated with him, and the rest of the family
got into the way of speaking of it as his. And gradually an idea took
shape in his mind which he consulted his mother about, and which she was
quite pleased to agree to. Might he have this little room for his
museum? That was Ted's idea, and oh how eagerly his blue eyes looked up
into his mother's face for her reply, and how the light danced in them
with pleasure when she said "yes."
There were shelves in the little room--shelves not too high up, some of
them at least, for Ted to arrange his curiosities on, without having to
climb on to a chair, and even Cissy, when she was trusted as a great
treat to dust some of the treasures, could manage nicely with just a
footstool. It would be impossible to tell you half the pleasure Ted got
out of his museum. It was to him a sort of visible history of his simple
happy life, for nowhere did he go without bringing back with him some
curious stone or shell, or bird's feather, or uncommon leaf even, to be
placed in his collection, both as a remembrance of his visit and as a
thing of interest in itself.
There were specimens of cotton in its different stages, of wool too,
from a soft bit of fluff which Ted had picked off a Welsh bramble, to a
square inch of an exquisitely knitted Shetland shawl, fine as a cobweb,
which Ted had begged from Mabel when she was giving the remains of the
shawl to Cissy for her doll. There were bits of different kinds of coal;
there was "Blue John" from a Derbyshire cavern, and a tiny china doll
which, much charred and disfigured, had yet survived the great fire of
Chicago, where one of the children's uncles had passed by not long
after; there was a bit of black bread from the siege of Paris; there
were all manner of things, all ticketed and numbered, and their
description neatly entered in a catalogue which lay on a little table
by the door, on which was also to be seen another book, in which Ted
requested all visitors to the museum to write their names, and all the
big people of the family so well understood the boy's pride and pleasure
in his museum, that no one ever thought of making his way into his
little room without his invitation.
Ted had begun his museum some months before the great excitement of the
nest in the tree, but the delights of the long summer days out of doors
had a little put it out of his head. But the latter part, as well as the
beginning of these holidays, happened to be very rainy, and the last
fortnight was spent mostly by Percy and Ted in the tiny museum room,
where Percy helped Ted to finish the ticketing and numbering that he had
not long before begun. And Cissy, of course, was as busy as anybody,
flopping about with an old pocket-handkerchief which she called her
duster, and reproving the boys with great dignity for unsettling any of
the trays she had made so "bootily clean."
"You must try to get some more feathers, Ted," said Percy. "They make
such a pretty collection. There's a fellow at our school that has an
awful lot. He fastens them on to cards--he's got a bird-of-Paradise
plume, an awful beauty. Indeed he's got two, for he offered to sell me
one for half-a-crown. Wouldn't you like it?"
"I should think I would," said Ted, "but I can't buy anything this half.
You know my money's owing to mother for that that I told you about."
He gave a little sigh; the bird of Paradise was a tempting idea.
"_Poor_ Ted," said Cissy, clambering down from her stool to give him a
hug.
Ted accepted the hug, but not the pity.
"No, Cissy. I'm not poor Ted for that," he said merrily. "It was ever
so kind of mother to put it all right, and ever so much kinder of
her to do it that way. I shouldn't have liked not to pay it myself."
"I'll see if I can't get that fellow to swop his bird of Paradise for
some of my stamps, when I go back to school," said Percy.
"Oh, thank you, Percy," said Ted, his eyes shining.
"Anyway you might have some peacocks'," Percy went on. "They're not so
hard to get, and they look so pretty."
"Mother's got some screens made of them on the drawing-room mantelpiece,"
said Ted, "and one of them's got a lot of loose feathers sticking out at
the back that are no use. Perhaps she'd give me one or two. Then I could
make a nice cardful, with the peacocks' at the corners and the little
ones in a sort of a wreath in the middle."
He looked at the sheet of white paper on to which, at present, his
feathers were fastened. "Yes, it would be very pretty," he repeated. But
just then the tea-bell rang, and the children left the museum for that
day.
The boys were in it the next morning, when Ted's mother appeared with a
rather graver face than usual. She did not come in, she knew that Ted
was putting all in perfect order, and that he did not want her to see it
till complete, so she only slightly opened the door and called him out.
"Ted," she said quietly, but Ted saw that she was sorry, "Ted, do you
know anything of this?"
She held up as she spoke a pretty and valuable little china ornament
which always stood on the drawing-room mantelpiece. It was broken--quite
spoilt--it could never be the same again.
"Oh dear," exclaimed Ted, "what a pity! Your dear little flower-basket.
I am so sorry. How could it have got broken?"
"I don't know," said his mother. "I found it lying on the floor. It
seemed as if some one had knocked it over without knowing. You are sure
you were not trying to reach anything off the mantelpiece yesterday
evening?"
"Sure," said Ted, looking sorry and puzzled.
"It stood just in front of my screen of peacock feathers," his mother
went on. She did not in the very very least doubt his assurance, but his
manner gave her the feeling that if she helped his memory a little, he
might be able to throw some light on the mystery.
"In front of the peacock-feather fan," he repeated absently.
"Yes," said his mother, "but do not say anything about it, Ted. We may
find out how it happened, but I do not like questioning every one about
it. It gives the servants a feeling that I don't trust them, for they
always tell me if they break anything. So don't say anything more about
it to _any one_."
"No," said Ted. His tone and manner were still a little puzzled, as if
something was in his mind which he could not make clear to himself, and
his mother, knowing that he sometimes was inclined to take things of the
kind too much to heart, made up her mind to think no more about her poor
little vase, and to treat its breakage as one of the accidents we have
all to learn to bear philosophically in daily life. But though no more
was said, Ted did not forget about it: it worried and puzzled him behind
other thoughts, as it were, all day, and little did he or his mother
think who was really the innocent culprit.
Late that night, just before going to bed herself, Ted's mother glanced
into his room, as she often did, to see that the boy was sleeping
peacefully. The light that she carried she shaded carefully, but a very
wide-awake voice greeted her at once.
"Mother," it said, "I'm not asleep. Mother, I do so want to speak to
you. I've not been able to go to sleep for thinking about the little
broken vase."
"O Ted, dear," said his mother, "don't mind about it. It is no use
vexing oneself so much about things when they are done and can't be put
right."
"But, mother," he persisted, "it isn't quite that. Of course I'm _very_
sorry for it to be broken, however it happened. But what makes me so
uncomfortable is that I've begun to wonder so if perhaps I _did_ do it.
I know we were all talking about your peacock-feather screens yesterday.
I said to Percy and Cissy there were some loose ones in one of them, and
perhaps you'd give me some for my card of feathers, and I've got a sort
of wondering feeling whether perhaps I _did_ touch the screen and
knocked down the china flower-basket without knowing, and it's making me
so unhappy, but I _didn't_ mean to hide it from you if I did do it."
He looked up so wistfully that his mother's heart felt quite sore. She
considered a minute before she replied, for she was afraid of seeming to
make light of his trouble or of checking his perfect honesty, and yet,
on the other hand, she was wise, and knew that even conscientiousness
may be exaggerated and grow into a weakness, trying to others as well
as hurtful to oneself.
"I am sure you did not mean to hide anything from me, dear Ted," she
replied, "and I don't think it is the least likely that you did break
the vase. But even if you did, it is better to think no more about it.
You answered me sincerely at the time, and that was all you could do.
We are only human beings, you know, dear Ted, always likely to make
mistakes, even to say what is not true at the very moment we are most
anxious to be truthful. We can only do our best, and ask God to help us.
So don't trouble any more, even if we never find out how it happened."
Then she stooped and gave Ted an extra good-night kiss, and in five
minutes his loving anxious little spirit was asleep.
But the very next day the mystery was explained.
"Ted's _new_seum is bootly neat," Cissy announced at breakfast-time,
"but he wants some more fevvers. I tried to get down muzzer's screen off
the mantelpiece to see if there was some loose ones, but I couldn't
reach it. Muzzer, _won't_ you give Ted some loose ones?"
Mother looked at Ted, and Ted looked at mother.
"So _you_ were the mouse that knocked over my little vase, Miss Cissy!"
said mother. "Do you know, dear, that it was broken? You should not try
to reach things down yourself. You will be having an accident, like
'Darling' in the picture-book, some day, if you don't take care."
The corners of Cissy's mouth went down, and her eyes filled with tears.
"I didn't know," she said in a very melancholy voice. "I only wanted to
find some loose fevvers for Ted."
"I know that, dear," said her mother. "Only if you had asked me you
would have got the feathers without breaking my vase. Come with me now,
and you'll show me what you want."
There proved to be two or three loose feathers as Ted had said--beautiful
rainbow eyes, which would not be missed from the screen with the careful
way in which Ted's mother cut them out, and the children carried them
off in delight. They were neatly tacked on to the feather card, which
had a very fine effect on the wall of the museum. And for both Ted and
Cissy there was a little lesson, though the two were of different kinds,
fastened up with the feathers on the card.
Illustration:
"They were neatly tacked on to the feather card, which had a very
fine effect on the wall of the museum".--P. 170.
Before long the holidays were over. Percy went back to school, and
poor Ted hid himself for a few hours, as he always did on these sad
occasions, that his red eyes might not be seen. Then he came out again,
looking paler than usual, but quite cheerful and bright. Still he missed
Percy so much that he was not at all sorry that his own holidays were
over. For Ted now went early every morning to a regular big school--a
school at which there were so many boys that some little fellows of his
age might have felt frightened and depressed. But not so Ted. He went on
his own cheery way without misgiving. The world to his thinking was a
nice and happy place--not _all_ sunshine of course, but very good of
its kind. And school-life, though it too had its shadows, was full of
interest and satisfaction. Ted loved his fellows, and never doubted, in
his simple taking-for-granted of things being as they should be, but
that he was loved by them; and how this way of looking out on the world
helped him through its difficulties, how it saved him from unreasonable
fears and exaggerated anxieties such as take the bloom off many a
child-life, it would be difficult for me to describe. I can only try to
put you in the way of imagining this bright young life for yourselves.
The boy whom, of course only _next_ to his dear Percy, Ted loved best in
the world was, to use his own words, "a fellow" of about his own age,
whose name was Rex. That is to say, his short name; for his real one
was Reginald, just as Ted's was Edmond. They had been together at the
big school from the first of Ted's going, being about equal in their
standing as to classes, though Rex was rather the elder, and had been
longer at school. At Ted's school, as at all others, there were quarrels
and fights sometimes; and many a day he came home with traces of war, in
the shapes of bumps and bruises and scratches. Not that the battles were
all _quarrels_,--there were plenty of good-tempered scrimmages, as well
as, occasionally, more serious affrays, for boys will be boys all the
world over. And, worse than that, in all schools there are to be found
boys of mean and tyrannical spirit, who love to bully and tease, and who
need to be put down now and then. And in all schools, too, there are
boys of good and kindly feelings, but of hasty and uncontrolled temper,
and they too have to be taught to give and take, to bear and forbear.
And then, too, as the best of boys are _but_ boys after all, we are
still a long way off having any reason to expect that the best of
schools even can be like dovecots.
I don't know that Ted's school was worse than others in these respects,
and Ted himself was not of a quarrelsome nature, but still in some ways
he was not very patient. And then, slight and rather delicate though he
was, he assuredly had a spirit of his own. He couldn't stand bullying,
either of himself or others, and without any calculation as to the odds
for or against him, he would plunge himself into the thick of the fray;
and but for Rex, who was always ready to back up Ted, I daresay he would
often have come off worse than he did. As it was, many were the wounds
that fell to his share, and yet he managed, by his quickness and
nimbleness, to escape more serious damage.
"What have you been doing with yourself, my boy?" his mother said one
day not long after the grand doing-up of the museum, when Ted appeared
in her room on his return from school, to beg for some sticking-plaister
and arnica lotion. He really looked rather an object, and he could not
help laughing as he caught sight of his face in the glass; for one eye
was very much swollen, and a long scratch down his nose did not add to
his beauty.
"I _am_ a fright," he said. "But there's not much the matter, mother. It
was only a scrimmage--we were all quite good friends."
"But really, Ted," said his mother, "I think you must curb your warlike
tastes a little. Some day you may really get hurt badly."
"No fear, mother," he said. "Besides, after all, a boy wouldn't be worth
much who couldn't fight sometimes, would he?"
"_Sometimes_," said his mother. "Where was Rex to-day--wasn't he beside
you?"
Ted's face clouded a little.
"Rex was in a bad humour to-day. He wouldn't play," Ted replied.
"Rex in a bad humour!" repeated his mother. "Surely that's very
uncommon."
Ted did not reply, and his mother did not ask him any more, but she
noticed that the cloud had not entirely disappeared, and the next
morning it was not quite with his usual springing steps that the boy set
off to school. Rex's house was on the same road; most days the boys met
each other at the gate and went on together, but this time no Rex was to
be seen. Either he had taken it into his head to go very early, or he
was not yet ready. Ted cast a glance towards the path, down which he
was used to see his friend running, satchel over his shoulders, to join
him--then he walked on slowly.
"I'm not going to wait for him if he doesn't care to come," he said to
himself; and when he got to school he was glad he had not done so, for
there was Rex already in the schoolroom, and at his desk busy writing,
though it wanted some minutes to school-time.
"Good morning, Rex," said Ted.
"Good morning," replied Rex; but that was all. Whether or not he had
been in a bad humour the day before, he was certainly not in a pleasant
frame of mind towards Ted _to-day_. The morning passed much less
cheerfully than usual, for when all was happy between the boys, though
they could not speak to each other in school hours, there were many
pleasant little ways in which they could make each other feel that his
friend was next door. Ted's lessons suffered from his preoccupation,
and, altogether, things seemed to go the wrong way. But Ted did not seem
able to care. "What was the matter with Rex?" That was the one question
always in his mind.
School over, the boys could not help meeting. Their roads lay together,
and both had too much self-respect to wish to make an exhibition of the
want of good feeling between them to the other boys. So they set off as
if nothing were the matter, and walked some little way in silence. At
last Ted could stand it no longer.
"What's the matter with you, old fellow?" he said. "Why wouldn't you
play with me yesterday?"
Rex looked up.
"I couldn't," he said. "I had got my French exercise all blotted, and I
wanted to copy it over without telling any one; that was why I wouldn't
come out. So _now_ you see if it was true what you said of me to
Hatchard."
"What did I say of you to Hatchard?" cried Ted.
"_What?_ Why, what he told me you said--that I was a mean sneak, and
that I wouldn't play because I wasn't as good at it as you."
"I never said so, and you know I never did," retorted Ted, his cheeks
flaming.
"Do you mean to say that I'm telling a lie?" cried Rex in his turn.
"Yes I do, if you said I said that," exclaimed Ted. And then--how it
happened I don't think either of the boys could have told--their anger
grew from words into deeds. Rex hit Ted, and Ted hit at him again! But
one blow--one on each side--and they came to their senses. Ted first,
when he saw the ugly mark his clenched fist had left on his friend's
face, when he felt the hot glow on his own.
"O Rex," he cried, "O Rex! How can we be like that to each other? It's
like Cain and Abel. O Rex, I'm so sorry!"
And Rex was quick to follow.
"O Ted, I didn't mean it. Let's forget we ever did it. I _do_ believe
you never said that. Hatchard's a mean sneak himself. I only didn't want
to tell you that it was you who blotted my exercise by mistake when you
passed my desk. I thought you'd be so sorry. But it would have been
better to tell you than to go on like this."
Rex's explanation was too much for Ted. Ten years old though he was,
the tears rushed to his eyes, and he felt as if he could never forgive
himself.
He told his mother all about it that evening. He could not feel happy
till he did so, and even before he had said anything she knew that the
little tug to her sleeve and the whispered "Mother, I want to speak to
you," was coming. And even when he had told her all about the quarrel
and reconciliation, he hung on, looking as if there were something more
to tell.
"What is it, my boy?" said his mother; "have you anything more to say?"
Ted's face flushed.
"Yes, mother," he said. "I wanted to ask you this. When Rex and I had
settled it all right again, we still felt rather unhappy. It did seem so
horrid to have hit each other like that, it seemed to leave a mark. So,
mother, we wanted to take it quite away, and we _kissed_ each other. And
we felt quite happy, only--was it a very babyish thing to do? Was it
_unmanly_, mother?"
His mother drew him towards her and looked lovingly into his anxious
face.
"Unmanly, my boy? No indeed," she said, "it was kind and good, and
kindness and goodness can never be unmanly."
And Ted, quite at rest now, went off to bed.