"IT'S ONLY I, MOTHER."
"How well my own heart knew
That voice so clear and true."
The summer in the wolds, so long looked forward to, was over. It had
been very happy, in spite of the rain having given the visitors at the
Skensdale farm-house rather more of his company than they had bargained
for, and it left many happy memories behind it.
And the coming home again was happy too. The days were beginning to
"draw in" as people say, and "home," with its coal-fires--which, though
not so picturesque, are ever so much _warmer_ than wood ones, I assure
you--its well-closing doors and shutters, its nice carpets and curtains,
was after all a better place for chilly days and evenings than even the
most interesting of farm-houses. And Ted had his school-work to think of
too; he was anxious to take a very good place at the next examinations,
for he was getting on for twelve, and "some day" he knew that he would
have to go out into the world as it were, on his own account--to go
away, that is to say, to a big boarding-school, as Percy had done before
him.
He did work well, and he was rewarded, and this Christmas was a _very_
happy one. There was plenty of skating, and Ted got on famously. Indeed,
he learnt to be so clever at it, that Cissy used to feel quite proud,
when people admired him for it, to think that he was her brother, though
Ted himself took it quite simply. Skating was to him the greatest
pleasure he knew. To feel oneself skimming along by one's own will, and
yet with a power beyond oneself, was delightful past words.
"I do think," thought Ted to himself, one clear bright frosty day, when
the sky was as blue, _almost_, as in summer, "I do think it's as nice as
flying."
And then looking up, as he skimmed along, at the beautiful sky which
winter or summer he loved so much, there came over him that same strange
sweet _wonder_--the questioning he could not have put into words, as to
whether the Heaven he often thought of in his dreamy childish way, was
really up there, and what it was like, and what they did there. It must
be happy and bright--happier and brighter even than down here, because
_there_, in some way that Ted knew that neither he nor the wisest of
mankind could explain, one would be nearer God. But yet it was difficult
to understand how it could be much brighter and happier than this happy
life down below. There was no good trying to understand, Ted decided.
_God_ understood, and that was enough. And as He had made us so happy
here, He might be trusted to know what was best for us there. Only--yes,
that _was_ the greatest puzzle of all, far more puzzling than anything
else--_everybody_ was not happy here--alas! no, Ted knew enough to know
that--many, many were not happy; many, many were not good, and had never
even had a chance of becoming so. Ah, that _was_ a puzzle!
"When I'm a man," thought Ted--and it was a thought that came to him
often--"I'll try to do something for those poor boys in London."
For nothing had made more impression on Ted, during his stay in London,
than the sight of the so-called "City Arabs," and all he had heard about
them. He had even written a story on the subject, taking for his hero a
certain "Tom," whose adventures and misadventures were most thrilling;
ending, for Ted liked stories that ended well, with his happy adoption
into a kind-hearted family, such as it is to be wished there were more
of to be found in real life! I should have liked to tell you this story,
and some day perhaps I shall do so, but not, I fear, in this little
book, for there are even a great many things about Ted himself which I
shall not have room for.
There were other pleasures besides skating this Christmas time. Among
these there was a very delightful entertainment given by some of Ted's
father's and mother's friends to a very large party, both old and young.
It was a regular Christmas gathering--so large that the great big
old-fashioned ball-room at the "Red Lion" was engaged for the purpose.
Dear me, what a great many scenes this old ball-room had witnessed!
Election contests without end, during three-quarters of a century and
more; balls of the old-world type, when the gentlemen had powdered wigs
and ribbon-tied "queues;" which, no doubt, you irreverent little people
of the nineteenth century would call "pig-tails;" and my Lady Grizzle
from the hall once actually stuck in the doorway, so ponderous was her
head-gear, though by dint of good management her hoop and furbelows
had been got through. And farther back still, in the Roundhead days,
when--so ran the legend--a party of rollicking cavaliers, and a company
commanded by one Captain Holdfast Armstrong, passed two succeeding
nights in the Red Lion's ball-room, neither--so cleverly did the
cautious landlord manage--having the least idea of the other's near
neighbourhood.
But never had the old ball-room seen happier faces or heard merrier
laughter than at this Christmas party; and among the happy faces none
was brighter than our Ted's. He really did enjoy himself, though one of
the youngest of the guests, for Cissy had been pronounced _too_ young,
but had reconciled herself to going to bed at her usual hour, by Ted's
promise to tell her all about it the next day. And besides his boy
friends--Percy, of course, who was home for the holidays, and Rex, and
several others--Ted had another companion this evening whom he was very
fond of. This was a little girl about his own age, named Gertrude, the
daughter of a friend of his father's. I have not told you about her
before, because, I suppose, I have had so many things to tell, that I
have felt rather puzzled how to put them all in nicely, especially as
they are all simple, everyday things, with nothing the least wonderful
or remarkable about them. Gertrude was a very dear little girl; she
almost seemed to Ted like another kind of sister. He had Mabel, and
Christine her sister, as big ones, and Cissy as his own particular
little one, and Gertrude seemed to come in as a sort of companion
sister, between the big ones and the little one. Ted was very rich in
friends, you see, friends of all kinds. He used often to count them up
and say so to himself.
Well, this evening of the big Christmas party was, as I said, one of the
happiest he had ever known. All his friends were there--all looking as
happy as happy could be.
"When I'm a man," thought Ted to himself, "I'd like to give parties like
this every Christmas," and as he looked round the room his eyes gleamed
with pleasure. Gertrude was standing beside him--they were going to be
partners in a country-dance, which was a favourite of Ted's. Just then
his mother came up to where they were standing.
"Ted, my boy," she said, "I am going home now. It is very late for you
already--half-past twelve. The others, however, are staying later, but
I think it is quite time for you and me to be going, don't you?"
Ted's face clouded--a most unusual thing to happen.
"Gertrude isn't going yet," he said, "and Rex and his brothers; they're
staying later. O mother, _must_ I come now?"
His mother hesitated. She was always reluctant to disappoint the
children if it could be helped, yet, on the other hand, she was even
more anxious not to _spoil_ them. But the sight of Ted's eager face
carried the day.
"Ah well," she said, smiling, "I suppose I must be indulgent for once
and go home without you. So good-night, Ted--you will come with the
others--I hope it won't be _very_ late."
As she turned away, it struck her that Ted's face did not look
_altogether_ delighted.
"Poor Ted," she said to herself, "he doesn't like to see me go away
alone." But hoping he would enjoy himself, and that he would not be
_too_ tired "to-morrow morning," she went home without any misgiving,
and she was not sorry to go. She found the Christmas holidays and all
they entailed more fatiguing than did the children, for whom all these
pleasant things "grew" without preparation.
It was a rather dark night--so thought Ted's mother to herself as she
glanced out of her window for a moment before drawing the curtains close
and going to bed--all the house was shut up, and all those who had
stayed at home fast asleep by this time, and it had been arranged that
the others should let themselves in with a latch-key. Ted's mother felt,
therefore, rather surprised and a little startled when she heard a bell
ring; at first she could hardly believe that she was not mistaken, and
to be quite sure she opened the window and called out "Is there any one
there?" There was half a moment's silence, then some one came out a
little from under the porch, where he had been standing since ringing
the bell, and a well-known voice replied--how clearly and brightly its
young tones rose up through the frosty air--
"It is only I, mother. I thought I'd rather come home after all."
"You, Ted," she replied;--"you, and alone?"
"Yes, mother. I thought somehow you'd like better to have me, so I just
ran home."
"And weren't you frightened, Ted?" she said a little anxiously, but with
a glad feeling at her heart; "weren't you afraid to come through the
lonely streets, and the road, more lonely still, outside the town? For
it is very dark, and everything shut up--weren't you afraid?"
"Oh no, mother--not a bit," he replied, "only just when I had left all
the houses I did walk a _little_ faster, I think. But I'm so glad I
came, if you're pleased, mother."
And when his mother had opened the door and let him in and given him a
good-night kiss even more loving than usual, Ted went to bed and to
sleep with a light happy heart, and his mother, as she too fell asleep,
thanked God for her boy.
* * * * *
I must now, I think, children, ask you to pass over with me nearly a
whole year of Ted's life. These holidays ended, came, by slow degrees
that year, the always welcome spring; then sunny summer again, a bright
and happy summer this, though spent at my little friends' own home
instead of at the Skensdale farm-house; then autumn with its shortening
days and lengthening evenings, gradually shortening and lengthening into
winter again; till at last Christmas itself, like the familiar figure of
an old friend, whom, just turning the corner of the road where we live,
we descry coming to visit us, was to be seen not so far off.
Many things had happened during this year, which, though all such simple
things, I should like to tell you of but for the old restrictions of
time and space. And indeed I have to thank you for having listened to
me so long, for I blame myself a little for not having told you more
plainly at the beginning that it was _not_ a regular "story" I had to
tell you in the "carrots" coloured book this year, but just some parts,
simple and real, of a child-life that I love to think of. And I would
have liked to leave it here--for some reasons that is to say--or I would
have liked to tell how Ted grew up into such a man as his boyhood
promised--honest-hearted, loving, and unselfish, and as happy as a true
Christmas child could not but be. But, dears, I _cannot_ tell you this,
for it was not to be so. Yet I am so anxious that the little book I have
tried to write in such a way that his happy life and nature should be
loved by other children--I am so anxious that the ending of this little
book should not seem to you a _sad_ one, at Christmas-time too of all
times, that I find it a little difficult to say what has to be said. For
in the truest sense the close of my book is _not_ sad. I will just tell
it simply as it really was, trusting that you will know I love you all
too well to wish to throw any cloud over your bright faces and
thoughts.
Well, as I said, this year had brought many little events, some troubles
of course, and much good, to our Ted. He had grown a good deal taller,
and thinner too, and he never, even as a tiny toddler, could have been
called fat! But he was well and strong, and had made good progress at
school and good progress too in other ways. He was getting on famously
at cricket and football, and was a first-rate croquet-player, for
croquet was then in fashion. And the museum had not been neglected; it
had really grown into a very respectable and interesting museum, so that
not only Ted's own people and near friends were pleased to see it, but
even his parents' friends, and sometimes others, again, who happened to
be visiting them, would ask the little collector to admit them. I really
think it would be a good thing if more boys took to having museums; it
would be a good thing for them, for nothing can be more amusing and
interesting too, and a very good thing for their friends, especially in
bad weather or in holiday-time, when now and then the hours hang heavily
on these young people's hands, and one is inclined to wish that some
fancy work for _boys_ could be invented. Ted's museum had grown very
much, and was always a great resource for him and for Cissy too, for, to
tell the truth, her tastes were _rather_ boyish.
His library had grown too. I cannot tell you how many nice books he had,
and still less could I tell you how he treasured them. When, through
much service, some of them grew weak in the back, he would, though
reluctantly, consent to have them re-bound; and he had a pretty, and to
my mind a touching, way of showing his affection for these old friends,
which I never heard of in any other child. Before a book of his went to
be bound he would carefully--tenderly I might almost say--cut off the
old cover and lay it aside; and among the many sweet traces left by our
boy--but I did not mean to say that, only as it came naturally of itself
I will leave it--few went more to his mother's heart than to find in one
of his drawers the packet carefully tied up of his dear books' old
coats.
Nothing gave Ted so much pleasure as a present of a book. This Christmas
he had set his heart on one, and Christmas was really coming so near
that he had begun to think of presents, and to write out, as was his
habit, a list of all the people in the house, putting opposite the name
of each the present he had reason to think would be most acceptable. The
list ended in a modest-looking "self," and opposite "self" was written
"a book." But all the other presents would have to be thought over and
consulted about with mother--all except hers of course, which in its
turn would have to be discussed with his father or Mabel perhaps--ever
so many times, before it came to the actual buying.
One Sunday--it was about three weeks to Christmas by this time--the head
master of Ted's school, who was also a clergyman, mentioned after the
usual service that he wished to have a special thanksgiving service this
year for the good health that had been enjoyed by the boys this "half."
It had been almost exceptionally good, he said; and he himself, for one,
and he was sure every one connected with the school would feel the same,
_was_ very thankful for it.
Ted's mother and Mabel, who were both, as it happened, at the
school chapel service that afternoon, glanced at their boy when this
announcement was made. They knew well that, despite his merry heart,
Ted was sensitive to things that do not affect all children, and they
were not surprised to see his cheeks grow a little paler. There was
something in the thought of this solemn Thanksgiving, in which he was
to take part, that gave him a little of the same feeling as he had had
long ago in the grand old church, when he looked up to the lofty roof,
shrouded in a mystery of dim light his childish eyes could not pierce,
and the sudden carillon broke out as if sung by the angels in heaven.
And a little chill struck to his mother's heart; she knew the service
was a good and fitting acknowledgment of God's care, and yet a strange
feeling went through her, for which she blamed herself, almost like
that of the poor Irishwomen, who, when any one remarks on the beauty and
healthiness of their children, hasten to cross themselves and to murmur
softly "In a good hour be it spoken." For human nature, above all
_mother_ nature, is the same all the world over!
But on their way home she and Mabel talked it over, and decided that it
was better to say nothing about it to Ted.
"It would only deepen the impression and _make_ him nervous," said Mabel
wisely.
A day or two later--a damp, rainy day it had been, there were a good
many such about this time--Ted's mother, entering the drawing-room in
the evening, heard some one softly singing to himself, gently touching
the piano at the same time. It was already dusk, and she went in very
quietly. The little musician did not hear her, and she sat down in
silence for a moment to listen, for it was Ted, and the song in his
sweet, clear tones--tones with a strange touch of sadness in them like
the church bells, was "Home, sweet home."
It brought the tears to her eyes.
"Ted," she said at last.
"O mother," he said, "I didn't know you were there."
"But you don't mind _me_," she said.
Ted hesitated.
"I don't know how it is, mother," he said, frankly. "It isn't as if I
_could_ sing, you know. But I can't even try to do it when anybody's
there. Is it silly, mother?"
"It's very natural," she said, kindly. "But if it gives me pleasure to
hear you?"
"Yes," he said, gently.
"And when you're a man I hope and think you may have a nice voice."
"Yes," he said again, rather absently.
Something in his tone struck his mother; it sounded _tired_.
"You're quite well, Ted, aren't you?" she said.
"Oh yes, mother--just a very little tired. It's been such a rainy day;
it isn't like Christmas coming so soon, is it? There's no snow and no
skating."
"No, dear."
"There was no snow the Christmas I was born, was there, mother?"
"No, dear," said his mother again.
Ted gave a little sigh.
"You're going to Rex's to-night; it is his party, isn't it?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, "but I don't seem to care much to go."
"But you're quite well, I think," said his mother cheerfully. "It would
be unkind not to go when they are all expecting you."
"Yes," said Ted. "It would be."
So he went off to get ready; and his mother felt pleased, thinking the
dull weather had, for a wonder, affected his spirits, and that the merry
evening with his friends would do him good.