III

We were awakened by the sonorous music of the Cathedral chimes. It was

Sunday. That meant stiff white Eton collars, and texts gabbled between

mouthfuls of porridge; and, later, our three small bodies arrayed in short

surplices, and the long service in the Cathedral. The Seraph was the very

smallest boy in the choir. I think he was only tolerated there through

Margery's intervention, because it would have broken his loyal little heart

to be separated from Angel and me. He was highly ornamental too, as he

collected the choir offertory in a little velvet bag, his tiny surplice

jauntily bobbing, and the back of his neck, as an old lady once said, was

more touching than the sermon.

Angel had a voice like a flute.

Beyond the tall choir stalls I could catch fleeting glimpses of Jane's

little face beneath her daisied hat, looking on the same prayer-book with

Margery. I swelled my chest beneath my surplice and chanted my very loudest

in the hope that Jane might hear me. "O ye Showers and Dew, bless ye the

Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever."

Her dreamy blue eyes peered over the edge of the book, the daisies on her

hat nodded; she smiled; I smiled ecstatically back at her; and so two

childish hearts stemmed the flood of praise that rose above the old grey

pillars.

At dinner, over his bread pudding, The Seraph murmured in a throaty

voice--"When you is in love, first you burns yike a furnace, an' en you

shwivel up wiv the cold. It's a vewy bad fing to be in love."

I threw Angel a bitter look. This was his doing. So, contemptuously, had he

treated my confidence, made as man to man. To tell the irresponsible Seraph

of all people!

"What's that, Alexander?" questioned Mrs. Handsomebody, sharply.

"It's love," replied The Seraph, meekly, "you catch it off a girl. John's

got it."

Mrs. Handsomebody sank back in her chair with a groan.

"Alexander," she said it solemnly, "I _tremble_ for your future. You are

not the boy your father was. I tremble for you."

"John," she continued, turning to me, "you will come into the parlour with

me. I wish to have a talk with you. David and Alexander, you may amuse

yourselves with one of my bound volumes of 'The Quiver.'"

I followed her with burning cheeks into the stiff apartment where not only

her eye was riveted upon me, but every glittering eye of every stuffed

bird, to say nothing of the pale fixed gaze of Mr. Handsomebody.

Needless to recall the lecture I received, the probing into my reluctant

heart, the admonition which I could not heed for my fearful watching of

that hard grey face.

But, at last, it was over. I slipped into the hall, closing the door softly

behind me, and listened. Silence abounded. On tiptoe I made my way to the

kitchen. It was clean and empty. I noiselessly opened the back door. On the

doorstep sat The Seraph busily engaged with a caterpillar.

"Where's Angel?" I demanded curtly.

"I fink," breathed The Seraph, stroking the caterpillar the wrong way, and

then looking at his fingers, "I fink that he's witin' to father to tell on

you. So there!"

I waited to hear no more. Casting my care behind me I sped lightly along

the passage between the houses, crossed the Bishop's lawn, and sought Jane

in the garden.

There I stood a moment, dazzled, by the golden August sunshine, the

iridescent spray of the fountain, and the brilliant colours of the

hollyhocks beside the wall.

I saw Jane there, and my heart swelled with disappointment and rage--for

she was not alone!

Too late I repented my confidence to Angel; I might have known that he

would never let the grass grow under his feet till he had tasted this new

excitement. Well, he had not let the grass grow.

Jane, I remember, had on a pale blue sash, and a fluffy white frock,

beneath the frills of which, her slender black silk legs moved airily. By

her side sauntered the traitorous Angel, his head bent toward her tenderly,

and, most sickening of all, pushing before him, with an air of

proprietorship, the perambulator containing the doll, Dorothea. Jane was

simpering up at him in a way she had never looked at me.

I saw at a glance that all was over, yet I was not to be cast aside thus

lightly. I strode across the garden, and, pushing myself between them, I

laid my hand masterfully on the handle of the "pram," beside Angel's.

Neither of them uttered a word. So the three of us walked for a space in

tense silence.

Then, suddenly, Angel began to hammer my hand with his fist.

"You let go of that!" he snarled. "Ge--tout of here!"

"I won't!" I roared tragically. "She said I was the fa-ather of it!"

"She did not!" yelled Angel. "I'm the father!"

Jenny glanced fearfully at the windows of the Bishop's house. All was

silent there. Then, with a scornful little kick at me, she said--"Go 'way,

you nasty boy! _I_ don't want you. I only like Angel."

There was nothing more to be said. I hung my head, and, with a sob in my

throat, turned away. I could hear them whispering behind me.

Before I reached our own yard Angel came running after me.

"Tell you what I'll do, John," he said, as he came abreast, "tell you what

I'll do--I'll fight you for her. Like knights of old, you know. We could go

down to the coal cellar, and have a reg'lar tourney. It'd be bully fun. We

could have pokers for lances. Say, will you?"

I was not in a fighting mood, but I had never refused a challenge, and,

somehow, the thought of bloodshed eased my pain a little. So,

half-reluctantly, I followed him, as he eagerly led the way to the coal

cellar.

Even on this August day it was cold down there. Long cobwebs trailed,

spectre-like from the beams, and a faint squeaking of young mice could be

heard in the walls.

We searched among the debris of years for suitable weapons. Finally,

brandishing pokers, and with two rusty boiler lids for shields, we faced

each other, uttering our respective battle cries in muffled tones. Angel

had put a battered coal scuttle over his head for a helmet; and, through a

break in it, I could see his dark eyes gleaming threateningly.

With ring of shield we clashed together. I delivered--and

received--stunning blows. Dust, long undisturbed, rose, and blinded us.

How many a gallant fray has been broken up by a screaming woman! Now Mary

Ellen, true to the perversity of her sex, rushed in to separate us.

"Oh, losh! I never seen the beat o' ye!" she cried. "Ye've scairt me out av

a year's growth! Sure the missus'll put a tin ear on ye, if she catches ye

in the cellar in yer collars an' all!" Imperiously she disarmed us, and,

without ceremony, we were hustled up the dark stairs to the kitchen sink.

"It was a tournament, Mary Ellen, about a lady," I explained, with as much

dignity as I could muster, "you shouldn't have interrupted."

"There ain't a lady livin' that's worth messin' up yer clane clothes for,"

said Mary Ellen, sternly. "Lord! To see the cinders in yer hair, an' the

soot in yer ears--it does bate all--" As she talked, she scrubbed us

vehemently with a washcloth.

"Ouch!" moaned Angel, "oh, Mary El-len, you're _hurting_ me! That's my

so-ore spot, eeeoow!"

"Well, Master Angel," said Mary Ellen, "I don't want to hurt ye, but it do

make me heart-sick to see ye bashin' aitch other wid pokers for the sake av

a bit girl that's not worth a tinker's curse to ye! Now thin--here's a

piece of cowld puddin' to each av ye--sit on the durestep where the missus

won't see ye, an' git outside av it."

In a chastened mood we sat outside the back door and ate our pudding. It

was cold, clammy, very sweet, and deliciously satisfying.

To our right the wall excluded any glimpse of the Bishop's garden, and

beyond loomed the Cathedral, with two grey pigeons circling about its

spire.

I yearned to know what was going on beyond the wall. I could not help

fancying that Jane, touched by remorse, was weeping by the fountain for me,

and me only. Angel spoke.

"I say--" he hunched his shoulders mischievously--"let's go 'round and see

what she's doin' all alone, eh?"

I leaped to the proposal. I had an insatiable desire to hear her speak once

more, if it were only to taunt me.

We made the passage stealthily; all the world seemed drowsing on that hazy

Sunday afternoon. The blinds in the Bishop's study were drawn. Little did

he guess the life his great-niece led!

The grass was like moist velvet beneath our feet. A pair of sparrows were

quarrelling over their bath at the fountain rim. We heard a low murmur of

voices. A glint of Jane's white frock could be seen behind a guelder rose

near the fountain. We crept up behind and peered through the foliage.

There on a garden bench sat Jane, and there, clasped in her slim white arms

was--The Seraph! The wretched Dorothea lay, face downward, on the grass at

their feet.

We strained our ears to hear what was being said. Jane spoke in that

silvery voice of hers:

"Say some more drefful things, Seraph. I jus' love to hear you."

There was a moment's silence; then, The Seraph said in his blandest tone,

the one word--

"Blood!"

Jane gave a tiny, ecstatic shriek.

"Oh, go on!" she begged, "say more."

"Blood," repeated The Seraph, firmly, "Hot blood--told blood--wed

blood--thick blood--thin blood--bad blood."

Again Jane squealed in fearful pleasure.

"Go on," she urged. "Worser."

Thus encouraged, The Seraph rapped out, without more ado, "Tiger

blood--ephelant blood--caterpillar blood--ole witch blood"--then, after a

pause, that the horror of it might sink deep in--"Baby blood!"

Angel and I gave each other a look of enlightenment. It was gore then, that

this delicately nurtured young person craved, good red gore, and plenty of

it! Well--enough--we were free. Wait! What was she saying?

"I _hate_ those other boys, Seraph, darling. Let's jus' you and me play

together always. And you should be Dorothea's _father_, and Dorothea should

want to paddle in the--"

Away! Away! With sardonic laughter, we sped along the pebbled drive, nor

stopped until we reached our own domain.

Then in the planked back yard, we sat on our steps, with a volume of "The

Quiver" on our knees, in case Mrs. Handsomebody should invade our privacy,

and played a rollicking game of pirates. And when any of the fair sex fell

into our hands we were none too gentle with them.

"Chuck 'em overboard, lieutenant!" was Captain Angel's way of dealing with

the case.

Just as the Cathedral clock struck five, The Seraph swaggered up. He

stopped before us, hands deep in pockets.

"Well," said Angel, eyeing him resentfully, "you'll make a nice bishop, you

will, usin' the language we heard a bit ago!"

"Maybe I shan't have time to be a bishop, after all," replied The Seraph,

condescendingly. "You see I'm goin' to mawy Jane. It'll keep me vewy busy."

_Chapter III: Explorers of the Dawn_

I

Fast on the winged heels of Love came our discovery of the Dawn. Of course

we had known all along that there was a sunrise--a mechanical sort of

affair that started things going like clockwork. But Dawn was a bird of

another feather.

If we had had our parents with us they would have, in all likelihood,

unfolded the mystery of it in some bedtime visit; but Mrs. Handsomebody, if

she ever thought about the Dawn at all, probably looked on it with

suspicion, and some disfavour, as a weak, feeble thing--a nebulous period

fit neither for honest folk nor cutthroats.

So it came about that we heard of it from our good friend the Bishop. Mrs.

Handsomebody had given a grudging permission for us to take tea with him.

In hot weather her voice and eyes always seemed frostier than usual. The

closely shut windows and drawn blinds made the house a prison, and the

glare of the planked back yard was even more intolerable. Therefore, when

Rawlins, the Bishop's butler, told us that we were to have tea in the

garden, it was hard for us to remember Mrs. Handsomebody's injunction to

walk sedately and to bear in mind that our host was a bishop.

But, as we crossed the cool lawn, our spirits, which had drooped all day,

like flags at half-mast, rose, and fluttered in the summer breeze, and we

could not resist a caper or two as we approached the tea-table.

The Bishop did not even see us. His fine grave face was buried in a book he

had on his knees, and his gaitered legs were bent so that he toed in.

When we drew up before him, Angel and I in stiff Eton collars and The

Seraph fresh as a daisy, in a clean white sailor blouse, he raised his eyes

and gave us a vague smile, and a wave of the hand toward three low wicker

chairs. We were not a bit abashed by this reception, for we knew the

Bishop's ways, and it was joy enough that we were safe in his garden

staring up at the blue sky through flickering leaves, and listening to the

splash of the little fountain that lived in the middle of the cool grass

plot.

Surely, I thought, there never was such another garden--never another with

such a rosy red brick wall, half-hidden by hollyhocks and larkspur--such

springy, tender grass--such a great guardian Cathedral, that towered above

and threw its deep beneficent shade! Here the timorous Cathedral pigeons

strutted unafraid, and dipped their heads to drink of the fountain, raising

them Heavenward, as they swallowed--thanking God, so the Bishop said, for

its refreshment.

It was hard to believe that next door, beyond the wall, lay Mrs.

Handsomebody's planked back yard. Yet even at that moment I could see the

tall, narrow house, and fancied that a blind moved as Mrs. Handsomebody

peered down into the Bishop's garden to see how we behaved.

Rawlins brought a tray and set it on the wicker table beside the Bishop's

elbow. We discovered a silver muffin dish, a plate of cakes, and a glass

pot of honey, to say nothing of the tea.

Still the Bishop kept his gaze buried in his book, marking his progress

with a blade of grass. Rawlins stole away without speaking and we three

were left alone to stare in mute desire at the tea things. A bee was

buzzing noisily about the honey jar. It was The Seraph who spoke at last,

his hands clasped across his stomach.

"Bishop," he said, politely, but firmly. "I would yike a little nushment."

"Bless me!" cried the Bishop. "Wherever are my manners?" And he closed the

book sharply on the grass blade, and dropped it under the table. "John,

will you pour tea for us?"

We finished the muffins and cake, all talking with our mouths full, in the

most sociable and sensible way; and, after the honey pot was almost empty,

we made the bee a prisoner in it, so that, like that Duke of Clarence, who

was drowned in a butt of Malmsey, he got enough of what he liked at last.

I think it was Angel who put the question that was to lead to so much that

was exciting and mysterious.

He said, leaning against the Bishop's shoulder: "What do you think is the

most beautiful thing in the world, Bishop?"

Our friend had The Seraph between his knees, and was gazing at the back of

his head. "Well," he replied, "since you ask me seriously, I should say

this little curl on The Seraph's nape."

The Seraph felt for it.

"I yike it," he said, "but I yike my wart better."

"Good gracious," exclaimed the Bishop. "Don't tell me _you've_ a wart!"

"Yes, a weal one," chuckled The Seraph. "It's little, but it's gwowing. I

fink some day it'll be as big as the one on Mrs. Handsomebody's chin. _It

can wiggle._"

"You don't say so!" said the Bishop, rather hastily. "And where do you

suppose you got it?"

The Seraph smiled mischievously. "I fink I got it off a toad we had. He was

an awful dear ole toad, but he died, 'cos we--"

"Oh, I say, don't bother about the old toad, Seraph!" put in Angel hastily,

feeling, as I did, that the manner of the toad's demise was best left to

conjecture. "We want to hear about the most beautiful thing in the world.

Please tell it, Bishop!"

"Well--since you corner me," said the Bishop, his eyes on the larkspur, "I

should say it is the wing of that pale blue butterfly, hovering above those

deep blue flowers."

Angel's face fell. "Oh, I didn't mean a little thing like that," he said.

"I meant a 'normous, wonderful thing. Something that you couldn't _ever_

forget."

"Well--if you will have it," said the Bishop, "come close and I'll

whisper." Instantly three heads hedged him in, and he said in a sonorous

undertone--"_It's the Dawn._"

"The Dawn!" We three repeated the magic words on the same note of secrecy.

"But what is it like? How can we get to it? Is it like the sunset?"

"I won't explain a bit of it," he replied. "You've got to seek it out for

yourselves. It's a pity, though, you can't see it first in the country."

"Must we get up in the dark?"

"Yes. I think your tallest attic window faces the east. You must steal up

there while it's still grey daylight. Have the windows open so that you can

hear and smell, as well as see it. But I'm afraid the dear Seraph's too

little."

"Not me," asserted The Seraph, stoutly. "I'm stwong as two ephelants."

"You mustn't be frightened when you hear its wings," said the Bishop, "nor

be abashed at the splendour of it, for it was designed for just such little

fellows as you. You will come and tell me then what happens, won't you? I

shall probably never waken early enough to see it again."...