had learnt some queer things. It was no great wonder that he got the
name of being something of a wizard, for there was no doubt that he knew
of things happening or going to happen in ways that could not be
explained. But notwithstanding this, he was not regarded with fear, only
with a kind of respectful awe. Even his godsons felt this, though at the
same time they were really attached to him and grateful for his
hospitality, in itself of a very strange character. For though he was
never known to buy food of any sort, and was supposed to live entirely
upon the fruit and vegetables he himself grew, and though he had no one
to cook for him and no fireplace or stove where anything but the very
simplest things could be boiled or roasted or even heated, the weekly
dinner provided for his three guests, every Sunday, was of the very
best. Not only was the food of excellent quality, it was also abundant.
Indeed, at times when work was short, as in the winter often is the
case, both for artisans in towns and for labourers in the country, I
doubt if the three cousins would have kept as well and hearty as they
did but for this substantial and nourishing meal regularly once a week.
They had often wondered how Uncle Peter managed it, and once or twice
they had hazarded a tactful enquiry of their host on the subject. But it
had served no purpose. On the contrary, both Hodge and Giles, who had
been the questioners, had been quickly silenced by the old man's reply.
"Did you never hear the proverb about not looking a gift horse in the
mouth?" he said the first time. "True, there is nothing about my dishes
which you are not free to test if you choose, both as to quality and
cooking. All the same, I think the saying conveys a broad hint as to the
courtesy suited to those who accept a gift."
And to Giles he was even more severe.
"When you invite me to a Sunday feast, my good nephew," he said, "I
promise to eat thereof with gratitude, and with no curiosity as to
whence or how you procured it," at which reprimand Giles looked very
foolish, and could only humbly ask Peter's pardon, adding, "That day, I
misdoubt me, my respected uncle, will never dawn."
For, as I have already said, the three young men were very poor.
Still, when they were sitting of an evening by themselves, with no fear
of offending the old man by their talk, it was only natural that they
should discuss the mystery. There was a peculiar rule about their Sunday
visit. They were obliged to be exceedingly punctual, by which I mean,
neither too early nor too late. Half an hour after noon was the
appointed time, so they arranged to meet at church, and when the service
was over to wait in the porch till the ancient clock struck twelve, as
they found that by then starting at once for Peter's cottage and walking
rather quickly they reached it just a minute or two before the dinner
hour.
Often, when waiting thus at the church door, they would receive a smile
and a nod from the girl they all adored--pretty Ysenda--and now and then
she would even stop a moment and say to whichever of the three happened
to be nearest at hand, "My love to Uncle Peter, and a pleasant visit to
him." Not that he was her uncle or any relation, but she had got into
the habit of going to see him sometimes out of pity for his loneliness,
and the old man had taken a great fancy to her. In fact she was the only
visitor he ever received, with of course the exception of the nephews on
Sunday.
Once--some time ago it was, when the custom had first begun--Michael had
by accident arrived at Peter's cottage some minutes before the others.
He was on the point of knocking at the door when something stopped him.
He afterwards declared that he did not know what. But standing there, he
heard sounds within--curious sounds--his uncle's voice, slow and solemn
as if reciting something, then a very delicate tinkle as of a tiny bell,
and lastly a whirring sound as of wheels moving quickly, and then
complete silence. And while he was debating as to whether he should
knock or not, to his relief he heard his cousins' footsteps approaching.
He turned back a little way to meet them, but before he had time to tell
them what he had heard, the door opened and their host stood there
bidding them welcome.
Ever after that they all three came together as I have told you, and
waited at a little distance till their uncle made his appearance. For
Michael confided to his cousins that there had been something uncanny
about the mysterious sounds. Furthermore he felt instinctively that he
had not been meant to overhear them, and that if Peter knew of it he
might have been angry, and possibly would never have invited them again.
Hence, Michael, of the three, was the most careful as to what he said to
the old man, and never did he venture to show any curiosity on the
subject of the whence or how of the mysterious feast.
But now and then he had a queer feeling that pretty Ysenda
_knew_--what?--he could not define it, more clearly than by suspecting
that she was in old Peter's confidence in a way that he and his friends
were not.
And one evening--it was a Saturday--when the three were sitting together
in his cottage, he expressed something of the kind to Hodge and Giles.
They were very much surprised.
"She is a good, true-hearted maiden," he added. "I don't for a moment
mean that she has any selfish motives for her attentions to our
godfather."
"That's to say you don't suspect her of trying to supplant us in his
favour, as to inheriting whatever he has to leave?" said Hodge. There
was some suspicion in his tone, much as he admired Ysenda.
"One never knows," added Giles. "_She_ may have no thought of the
kind--why should she? She is rich already--all the same, Uncle Peter may
make her his heir, without her being to blame."
"I think it most unlikely," replied Michael. "No such idea was in my
mind. Besides," he went on, growing rather indignant, "Ysenda is just
the girl to put a stop to anything unfair. She is as kind and generous
as a woman can be. We all know of her goodness in any case of poverty or
distress that she hears of. No, all I meant was that she may know
something of Uncle Peter's dealings with the 'good people'; she is just
the sort of sweet maiden that the fairies love."
"Maybe," said Giles, who was not very ready to believe in anything he
could not see with his own eyes, "maybe she herself is the only fairy in
the matter. Maybe _she_ provides the feast."
"Impossible," said Hodge and Mike, and so it was.
"Anyway," persisted Giles, "I daresay it's she who tells him of the
misfortunes and accidents he gets to know of so quickly."
"On the contrary," replied Michael, "she has told me herself that it has
often been Uncle Peter who has been _her_ informant in such matters, and
that he has employed her to carry assistance to the sufferers. There
was that great fire last winter at Olden Wood. She happened to see him
the very same morning while it was still blazing, five miles off, and no
one hereabouts knew of it! And the letter from over the sea telling of
Widow Martha's son's death, reducing her to poverty, for he'd been a
good son, always sending her money. _Why_," Mike went on very solemnly,
"_he knew what was in that letter_ before it had reached Martha's
hands!"
There was no reply to this. Even Giles was much impressed, and all three
started when just at that moment there came a tap at the door, for it
was getting late, and being far on in the autumn the evening grew dark
very early.
The cousins looked at each other half timorously, for even the bravest
of men--and they were by no means cowards--may be momentarily frightened
by anything uncanny.
The tap was repeated.
Michael got up and opened the door cautiously. What he expected to see
he could not have said, but a witch astride on a gander, or a goblin
with scarlet ears as big as a donkey's and a long tail, would scarcely
have surprised him!
Instead--how different!--there stood two small figures--children
evidently, and as a very plaintive little voice reached him, he threw
open the door more widely, so that the light from within fell on the
new-comers, and he perceived that they were a boy and girl, apparently
about twelve or fourteen years old, poorly though decently clad, each
carrying a bundle, and with pale, travel-tired faces.
"Please," said the voice--it was the boy's, the elder of the two--"oh
please can you tell me if Dame Martha Swann lives here or near here?"
Michael started again. It was of this very dame he had just been
speaking. Were these two of the "good people" in disguise, come to visit
him for some mysterious reason? He took care to answer very politely.
"Not here, but not so very far off," he replied, and the gentleness of
his tone encouraged the child to ask further. "Then can you show us the
road there? We are dreadfully tired--at least my little sister is, and
we have lost our way somehow."
As the boy went on speaking, Michael's misgivings left him. The two were
plainly ordinary human beings, though something in the child's voice or
accent showed that they did not belong to this part of the world.
"Come in and rest yourselves for a while," said Mike. "Warm yourselves
too. It is a chilly evening."
"Oh thank you," was the reply, as the two eagerly accepted his
invitation. He led them towards the fire and drew forward seats, while
Hodge and Giles, their pipes in their hands, stared in surprise.
"Whom have we here?" exclaimed Hodge; his tone sounded suspicious, and
Giles too hung back a little.
"How should I know?" said Michael sharply. "You see as much as I.
Whoever they are and wherever from, it's surely the least one can do to
let them rest for a few minutes. No doubt they can explain about
themselves. You were asking for old Dame Martha, my boy?" he went on.
"Yes, yes," was the ready reply, "we are her grandchildren. My name is
Paul--Paul Swann, like father," his voice shook, "and----"
"I'm Mattie," said the girl, speaking for the first time. "That's for
'Martha,' like granny. Oh how I wish this was her house! I'm so tired."
"Poor little maid," said Michael kindly. "Well it's not so far to your
granny's, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll carry you there myself.
But first you must have a bite of bread and a drink of milk. I'll have
it ready in a minute," and he turned to the cupboard, which was almost
as bare as Mother Hubbard's, for the bread and milk were all there was
for his own breakfast!
The children were famishing. The food disappeared in a twinkling. Then
the boy explained that they had come all across the sea to take refuge
with their grandmother in their desolation since their father's death,
for their mother had died five years ago. Some kindly disposed people
had seen them on board the ship, and given them a little money to carry
them the rest of the way on landing. But the very first night ashore
some wicked person had stolen it, so there was nothing for it but to
come on, on foot. It was really no very great distance, not more than
eight to ten miles from the seaport, but they were strangers in a
strange land, almost afraid to ask their way, and they had probably
wandered astray. This was their pitiful story.
But already Michael's kindness had revived them, and they stood up,
eager to get to the only home they had now a chance of. The cousins
looked at each other. What was in store for the poor things? Their
grandmother, a loving soul, would welcome them no doubt, and share with
them all she had. But that "all" was really nothing. She was feeble and
crippled with rheumatism. But for old Peter and his friend Ysenda, she
would before this have risked dying of starvation.
However--"Cheer up," said Michael, as he hoisted little Mattie on to his
shoulder, Paul loading himself with the bundles. "Cheer up. We'll be at
the good dame's in no time. Giles," he went on, for Hodge was looking
sulky and disapproving, "Giles, you might do worse than help the boy--or
at least bring a bundle of my faggots and come with us. Martha's fire
will be none too big."
Giles started forward, half shamed into doing his part--and Hodge, who
was, after all, more stupid than bad-hearted, drew out of his pocket two
small copper coins, which he handed to Paul.
"Tell your granny," he said, "that's to help to get you some milk for
breakfast from the farm near by her cottage."
Paul smiled gratefully and thanked him.
Then they set off--Hodge walking with them a part of the way, till he
reached the turning to his own home.
The poor dame was still up--sitting by the tiny fire in her kitchen,
grudging to lose any of its welcome warmth, when Michael--leaving the
others at the door--stepped in warily with a cheerful "good evening," so
as not to terrify the lonely old woman.
Mingled indeed were her feelings, as you can imagine. Loving delight as
she clasped the little travellers in her trembling arms, though even in
that first moment the dire misgiving seized her as to how they were to
be fed and clothed! So pathetic are often the greatest joys of the very
poor.
But the children for the moment had no such fears.
"Oh granny, granny," cried the little girl, "it is so sweet, so lovely
to have found you," and Paul turned away to hide the tears which he
thought himself too big a boy to give way to.
They were near Michael's own eyes, and even Giles had a lump in his
throat as he set to work to build up the fire with the bundle of his
cousin's faggots.
The dame looked about her anxiously.
"My darlings, you must be hungry," she was beginning, but the little
new-comers interrupted her.
"No, no," they said, with the quick thoughtfulness of the children of
their class, "this kind man," pointing to Michael, "gave us supper at
his house. We only want to go to bed, and it will be so beautiful to
wake in the morning and to find we are with our own granny."
"And I have money to get some more bread and milk for breakfast," added
Paul, jingling the two coppers in his pocket, "so that will be all
right."
With the help of the two young men, a bed was soon made up for the boy
on the old kitchen settle, as there was room for little Mattie beside
the dame. Everything in the cottage was scrupulously clean, for to have
had it otherwise would have broken Dame Martha's heart, and by the handy
way that the children moved about, tired though they were, she was
pleased to see that they had been well and carefully brought up. So for
the moment she tried to dismiss her anxiety.
But when the cousins said good-night and set off on their way home
Michael's heart felt heavy for the little family.
"Good Lord!" he murmured, "if only I were rich!"
"What then?" asked Giles. "You'd be for taking the lot of them on your
shoulders, I suppose. Well, as things are, you can't do so. Of course
they must all go to the workhouse, though to-night it would have been
cruel to hint at such a thing."
Michael said nothing, but he had some hope that this might be avoided.
That very day--I have said it was a Saturday--a long conversation had
taken place at old Peter's between himself and his favourite Ysenda.
She had looked in as she often did, and was startled and distressed to
find him far from well.
"Yes," he said, in answer to her kindly enquiries, "yes, my dear young
friend, I am failing fast. You must not grieve about it--the thought of
dying is very familiar to me and far from unwelcome. But there is
something I wish to consult you about. You know my secret. You know the
only legacy I can leave behind me. It is as to this that I want to know
your opinion, for you have a good sound judgment as well as a kind
heart. To me myself the greatest pleasure would be to bequeath my magic
gift to _you_, my dear Ysenda."
But the girl, as he had in his heart expected, shook her head.
"No, dear Peter," she replied. "There are those nearer to you than I,
and more in need of help. Besides--I know the secret; the fulfilling its
conditions would therefore be no test of my deserving its benefits. Nor
do I stand in want of them. No--dear friend--if, as you kindly say, you
consider my advice worth attending to, I would propose this. Bequeath
the enchanted table to whichever of your three nephews discovers the
inner spell which governs it. In this there will be nothing unfair. You
can teach them the magic words, and then inform them that the further
secret must be sought and found by themselves--or by himself. Hodge is
the eldest--let him have the first trial, then Giles, and lastly
Michael."
"And if--supposing Hodge succeeds?" said Peter with a rather curious
enquiry in his tone.
Ysenda's face flushed a little.
"Well then, it would be all right. He would continue to use his power as
it should be used."
"And Giles?"
"In the same way, of course," she replied.
"But--if both failed, and Mike came to have his try at it?"
Ysenda raised her pretty head with a gesture of pride.
"_Then_," she replied, "it would most certainly be all right. As to
_Michael's_ good heart I have no misgiving whatever. Quite independently
of the spell, no sooner would he have it in his power to show kindness
to any one in need of it than he would be eager to do so."
"I agree with you," said her old friend; and to himself he added, "I
suspected as much. Ah well, they are worthy of each other, and I trust
that all will prosper with them."
Then after a moment's silence he went on again:
"I will do as you advise, my child. To-morrow I will announce my
intention, and take the three into my confidence as far as is necessary.
Then when my own summons comes I shall feel that I have acted for the
best--fairly by all, though my own wishes are with that good young
fellow, Michael."
Ysenda rose to go.
"You will come again soon?" said the old man. "The sands are running out
quickly, I feel, and I am not likely to be mistaken."
"Dear Peter," whispered the young girl, and the tears rose to her eyes.
"Bless you, my child," laying his hand on her shoulder. Then just as she
was turning away, a curious, listening expression crept over his face.
"Yes, yes," he murmured, as if in reply to some inaudible voice, "yes."
Ysenda felt a little frightened, and of this Peter seemed at once aware.
He patted her again.
"Do not be alarmed," he said, with a smile. "I have no dealings with the
black arts. But certain things are communicated to me in ways that I
must not reveal. And just now--I am glad you were still here. Trouble,
or rather perplexity--for the trouble is mingled with joy--is at hand
for our good old friend Dame Martha. Will you go to see her to-morrow,
Ysenda, and learn about it?"
"I was already intending to enquire how she is," said the girl. "I will
certainly not fail to see her, and I will do all I can to help her, you
may be sure."
"Of that I have no doubt," said Peter. "Good-night, my child."
Many things passed through Ysenda's mind as she walked slowly home. She
had no mother, and her father, though devoted to her, his only child,
was a hard man. He thought her fanciful and romantic, as she had on
several occasions refused to marry to please him. For his great idea was
that her husband should be a wealthy man.
"He must at least show on his side as handsome a sum as will be the
dowry I give you," he had often repeated. But so far, none of the
suitors that in this respect were approved of by the father had found
favour in his daughter's eyes, so that he began to think the girl had
determined against marrying at all, little suspecting the love that had
already crept into her sweet heart.
"Ah, well," he thought to himself, "better live single than make a poor
choice of some pauper who would squander her fortune, though for that
matter, unless I look to it, she will be for giving it all away in
charity once the breath's out of my body. Ysenda is too 'giving' by
half."
And with this idea, rich though he was, the father kept the girl but
slenderly supplied with money. She had to account to him for every
farthing, and only by denying herself many little things she had
naturally a right to expect, was she able to help her poorer neighbours.
And without old Peter's contributions, though in cash he had not much to
give, still less would it have been possible for her to assist those in
need.
"How I shall miss him!" she said to herself. "For some reasons I could
wish he had bequeathed the magic table to me--to what advantage I could
have used it! But it would not have been fair or right. Oh if only
Michael wins it! Somehow----" and vague hopes began to flutter in her
heart, for that the young fellow--no less than the others, in their own
way--adored her, she could not doubt. "It might make things different,"
she thought. But then she resolutely put the idea away. "No, no, I must
not dwell on it. It is almost as if I were looking forward to dear old
Peter's death. And oh, by the bye, I must not forget to go to see old
Martha Swann to-morrow. I wonder what new trouble has befallen
her--trouble mingled with joy, he said, and of course _I_ know, as no
one else knows, that Peter is in touch with the good people; the really
good fairies, they must be, for he would have no dealings with
mischievous, spiteful imps."
Now I must tell you what happened the next day--the eventful Sunday on
which the old man felt that the time had come for his strange secret to
be revealed to his three godsons.
They were there in good time as usual, waiting outside for the opening
of the door and their host's appearing.
Hodge, as was his way, was very hungry and in a hurry to set to work at
the excellent dinner which no doubt awaited them. Giles too agreed with
him that under the circumstances time passed far too slowly. Michael,
who of the three had every reason for more than ordinary hunger, as he
had not tasted food since his early supper the day before, his
breakfast, as you will remember, having been otherwise disposed of--poor
Michael said nothing. His thoughts were running on the two little waifs
that he had escorted to their grandmother, and not only on them and Dame
Martha, but on kind Ysenda. For, coming out of church, she had whispered
to him that she feared their old friend was in trouble. "I am going to
her at once," she said, and ran off before the young man had time to
reply.
"How did she know?" Michael wondered. "Perhaps through Uncle Peter's
queer ways. However, she'll look after the poor things for a day or two,
though it isn't very much that even Ysenda, bless her, can do, rich
though her father is," for the farmer's peculiarities were no secret.
So Michael had plenty to think of, as well as of being hungry, while
standing with his cousins outside the old man's cottage.
And after all, they were kept waiting a shorter time than usual. It
still wanted some minutes to the half-hour after noon when the door
opened and their uncle beckoned to them to enter.
Even as they did so, they felt that things were not quite the same as on
former occasions. To begin with, the dinner was not ready; far from it,
the table was not even to be seen!
Hodge's face fell, so did Giles's, as the same misgiving seized them.
"Supposing he's not going to give us any dinner at all," they thought.
"Maybe he's been too feeble to see to it."
For a glance showed them that their host had sadly changed, even in a
week. His face was as white as his hair, and as he sank into his old
armchair he almost looked as if he was going to faint. Michael sprang
forward.
"Dear uncle," he cried, and you may be sure that the fear of losing his
dinner had no place in his thoughts, "dear uncle, you are
ill--suffering. Will you let me run for the doctor?"
But even as the young man spoke, a little colour returned to Peter's
cheeks and he smiled.
"No, no, my boy," he said, and his voice was very gentle, "no need for
doctors. I can manage for myself. It was just a turn, but I shall be
better again now for a bit, though not for long. I have been anxious to
see you all to-day, for I misdoubt me if it is not the last time----"
Michael gave a little exclamation of distress, and the other two looked
very grave. "I am very old, you know, my dear nephews, and tired. I
shall be glad to rest. But first I have something to tell you. I have no
money to leave behind me, and but few little possessions, but I have a
secret, and the time has now come for me to reveal it to you three, my
only living relations."
He stopped for a moment and drank a little water, which seemed to revive
him.
"The country-folk, you know, call me a wizard," he went on.
"Well--well--it does me no harm! I have learnt some strange things--I
have wandered some little way into regions where few mortals are allowed
to tread; I have had some dealings with beings of another kind of life
than ours; in some ways I have been of use to the 'good people,' as they
are called, and they to me. But such knowledge as I have acquired I can
truly declare I have only used for the advantage of my fellows. My
learning of this sort will pass away with me--I can leave behind me none
of my secrets save one, and this--this spell I am now about to reveal to
you three."