BERTIE AND PHIL.
BERTIE was not at all angry at being ordered home by his imperious
little companion, neither was he indisposed to obey the mandate. He
liked Queenie, she amused and interested him, but he found her a little
overwhelming, and he was not altogether sorry to quit her presence and
be alone once more.
Several new impressions had been made upon him during the past hour, and
a little of the aching sense of bewilderment, now slowly leaving him,
had been awakened by his visit to the stable and the appearance of Sir
Walter Arbuthnot. He could not tell why some things seemed to hurt him
in an odd, inexplicable fashion, whilst others made no impression upon
his mind. Yet undoubtedly such was the case, and, as the dim and
undefined sense of familiarity was always followed by a sort of reaction
of sorrowful bewilderment and distress, Bertie was rather glad to be
left alone to pursue his way unmolested and in peace.
His little face was pale and sad as he paused at last beneath a great
beech-tree and sat down upon its gnarled roots to think. He looked down
at the primroses growing at his feet, and put out his hand as if to
pluck them; but he drew it back again, and then instead began stroking
their leaves with gentle, loving touches.
“Poor little pretty things!” he said, half aloud; “I won’t take them
away; I’m sure they’ll be happier here.”
Bertie looked up from the flowers to the blue sky overhead, and, as he
looked, sudden tears glistened in his eyes.
“I wish I was a primrose, growing in a nice quiet place like this.
Everybody is fond of flowers; but nobody wants me.”
The child’s lip quivered. A wave of desolation was sweeping over the
lonely little heart. With the greater clearness of perception that was
coming to him by degrees, was coming also a clearer understanding of the
peculiar isolation of his position. He had less and less hope of
remembering the past—its fleeting memories grew rather less than more
defined, and eluded his grasp with even greater pertinacity than at
first. He was not old enough to realize to the full the curious position
he occupied; but he did begin to understand something of the situation,
and to feel his loneliness and friendlessness with the acute sensibility
peculiar to childhood.
“Nobody wants me,” he said, slowly; “I don’t belong to anybody in the
world; I haven’t even got a name. The Squire is very kind; but he
doesn’t want me. He would rather I was somewhere else.”
A tear rolled slowly down each of the child’s cheeks and fell upon his
little thin hands. Bertie looked meditatively at them as they sparkled
in the sunshine, and then he slowly wiped his eyes.
“I mustn’t be a baby,” he said, shaking his head. “That won’t do any
good, and people will think I am naughty and ungrateful. I wish I could
be happy like Queenie; but she has a papa and mamma and a home of her
own, and I have nobody.” He put his hands up to his head again with the
old perplexed look, but that faded in time, as the blank of the present
closed him in.
“I think I’ll go and see David,” he said, slowly; and, rising to his
feet, he wandered down to the shore.
David was always more or less on the look-out for his beloved companion.
His tender admiration for Bertie had in no wise diminished; indeed, it
seemed rather to increase as time passed by, though he gave it little
expression.
He ran up eagerly to meet Bertie as he approached, but all he said was,—
“I do be glad thee’s come.”
Still these simple words of welcome were sweet to Bertie at this minute.
“David,” he said, as they wandered down to the margin of the waves, hand
in hand and with slow, lingering steps, “I’m afraid He’s forgotten me—I
am indeed.”
David’s eyes opened wide.
“Who?” he asked, briefly.
“God,” answered the child, with deep gravity and a sort of settled
sadness that was not without its effect upon his companion. “I think He
must have quite forgotten me.”
“Why?”
“I feel forgotten,” answered Bertie, and his lip quivered. “I feel as if
everybody had forgotten me, and God too. If He hadn’t, why don’t I
remember?—He might let me, I think.”
But Bertie couldn’t get on any further than that, and David stood
staring over the sea, as if to glean inspiration from the ever-changing,
tossing sheet of water.
When his answer came, it was spoken with a sort of modest diffidence, as
if he hardly knew whether it would be accepted as an answer at all.
“He don’t forget easy, I don’t think, lovy. He don’t never forget to
stop the sea when he’s come up high enough. It don’t matter whether it’s
nights or days, He’s always watching, and sends it back again. If He
forgot only once, our cottage would be drownded, it would, but He never
do. Father’s lived there all his life, and his father afore him; that’s
ever so many years, and He’s never forgot once all that time. It do seem
as if forgetting wasn’t much in His way.”
This was such a very long speech for David to make, that when it was
done he seemed almost afraid of his own boldness; but Bertie made no
answer, only stood quite still, looking dreamily out over the water.
After a long silence David took courage and spoke again.
“I don’t see as He could forget thee,” he said, with a certain finality
in his tone that was comforting in its assurance,— “’specially when
thee’s so much down by the sea here. He must see thee when He looks down
to make the waves go back.”
Bertie looked up into the sunny sky, and a little smile broke over his
face.
“I didn’t think of that,” he said, slowly. “I wonder if He does.”
“I’m main sure He must,” answered David, with an increase of confidence.
“I ain’t no scholar, but I know teacher said as them words on my card
were for everybody as would take un. Teacher knows all about it; I know
she’d tell you as He doesn’t ever forget, and I can kind of understand
it too, because He don’t forget the sea, you know.”
Bertie’s face looked a little less sad, though still very grave and
thoughtful. He seemed to have a purpose in his mind, which he proceeded
to confide to David.
“When will it be high tide, David?”
“In half an hour about.”
“Then I’ll wait for it,” said Bertie. “Let’s sit down just above
high-water mark.”
David obeyed readily, and when they were seated upon the loose dry sand
he looked at his little companion as if awaiting instructions.
Bertie rested his chin in his hand, in one of his favorite attitudes,
and when he spoke it was with great deliberation.
“You’re sure it’s God who makes the tide turn, David?”
“Yes, quite sure. Mother says so, and father and teacher and everybody.
Besides nobody else _couldn’t_ do it.”
“No,” answered Bertie; “there was a king once who tried to—no, let me
think how it was. His servants told him he could, because he was such a
great king; but he knew he couldn’t, and did not like the people to say
such things. So he came down and sat on the sand one day when the tide
was coming in, and told it to go back, and of course it wouldn’t; and
the silly men who had pretended to think the sea would obey him were
made ashamed of themselves. Somebody told me the story once—it was a
lady—we were sitting in a big room with red curtains, by a fire—”
Bertie stopped suddenly; the flash had gone and left him in darkness; he
could see nothing more. David had listened with deep attention.
“That’s a nice story,” he said, adding, after a moment’s pause, “I knew
there wasn’t nobody but God as could stop the sea.”
Bertie gave himself a little shake and brought himself back to the
present.
“Do you think God looks down out of heaven every time to send it back?”
“I think He must. It do all go so regular like; don’t see how it could
if He didn’t look after it well.”
Bertie turned his answer over, and seemed convinced.
“Then, if we go on sitting here, He can’t help seeing us too?”
“No, I don’t see as He can.”
“Very well,” said Bertie, with an odd look of purpose on his face,
“we’ll sit and wait. You tell me when it’s high tide.”
Upon that level shore each wave seemed to advance upon the last, and the
distance between high and low-water mark was very great. As a natural
consequence, the turn of the tide was more easily defined along that
coast than upon one more steep, and the practised eye of the habitual
watcher could distinguish with considerable accuracy the moment at which
the tide might be fairly said to “be on the turn.”
The children sat very silent during the space of time that elapsed
before this turn should occur. David’s face had caught some of the awe
from Bertie’s, and he felt as if an impending crisis were approaching
with the advancing waves.
At length David said, in a low voice,—
“It be turning now.”
And Bertie suddenly rose and knelt down, baring his head as he did so,
whilst David copied every movement and clasped his hands together, as he
saw his little companion do.
Side by side upon the warm sand the two children knelt for many long
minutes. A look of awe was upon Bertie’s face. He felt, as he saw the
advancing waves gradually begin to retire, as if the great God of heaven
were very near to them, looking down from His holy place, bidding the
great ocean keep its appointed limits. Surely He must see the two little
children kneeling before Him; and surely He would listen to their
prayers.
Bertie’s prayer took no articulate form. He could not put into words the
strange longing that was in his mind—a longing to be remembered, helped,
comforted—not to be left so utterly alone. It was more a cry than a
prayer that arose from his heart, and yet he felt that he had been
heard.
He knelt for many minutes beside the receding waves, and when he rose
his face wore a look of calmness and serenity very different from its
troubled expression half an hour before.
“David,” he said, “I do think God was very near us then. I think He
heard.”
“Ay, ay, He’d be sure to hear thee. What did thee say?”
“I don’t quite know,” answered Bertie, gravely; “but I’m sure God
understood.”
“I be sure too,” returned David, with absolute confidence.
“I should like to come here every day when the tide turns,” said Bertie.
“I wish thee would. I’d always be here too, I would.”
Bertie pondered for a few moments.
“I’ll come as often as I can,” he said; “but I can’t be sure of coming
every day at the right time. If I’m not here, David, will you do just as
we did alone, and ask Him not to forget us ever, and to let me find out
some day the things I can’t remember? I don’t want to be impatient; I
know He knows best; but I do want to remember some day.”
“And I’m sure He’ll help thee some day,” answered David, with some
fervor. “I’ll ask Him every day for thee, that I will; and He’ll be sure
to answer when He’s ready. All good folks say so, and they must know
best. I’ll come here every day when the tide turns, and then He’s sure
to see me.”
So Bertie went away comforted, a sweet sense of fatherly love and
protection seeming to overshadow him. It might be true enough that
nobody wanted him, that he was of no use to anybody, but perhaps, if he
tried to love and trust God more, to be “strong and of good courage,” to
have faith in Him and wait quietly for His will to be done—perhaps then
God would help him to be of some little use, to win some of the human
love he felt to be lacking in his life, perhaps he might be able to fill
the blank of which at times he was so painfully conscious.
When he went down to dessert with the Squire that evening, he was quite
bright and conversational, and the Squire unbent as the child chatted
away to him, and was betrayed into telling some stories of his own
boyhood, a thing which he had not done for fifteen long years.
Bertie was immensely interested, and wanted them all told over again,
after the fashion of childhood. As he went to bed that night, he
detailed them with great accuracy to Mrs. Pritchard, who nodded her head
several times and uttered oracular speeches to herself afterwards.
Bertie, like many children, awoke early in the morning, and hated lying
in bed awake. The sunshine seemed to tempt him out into the glad world
of spring-time, and he was generally out and about by six o’clock. No
objection was made to his morning rambles, and some of his happiest
hours were spent among the dewy trees and flowers of garden or park.
No adventure had ever befallen him so far during his early walk; but
to-day it was destined to be more eventful than usual.
He was wandering through a secluded shrubbery path, when he suddenly
heard a quick rustle amid the laurels just around the next corner, and
quite expected to see either a gardener at work, or else one of the dogs
hunting amid the bushes. Nothing less than a large animal could have
made so much noise, yet when he turned the corner not a sign of any
living thing was to be seen.
Bertie looked about him rather puzzled. He wondered if he had made a
mistake; but he was quite sure he had heard the noise, and he began to
peer about in curious fashion for the cause of it.
Suddenly his eyes encountered the laughing glance of another pair of
very blue ones. Bertie quite jumped as this happened, and he pushed
aside the wet laurel leaves to obtain a better view of the intruder. For
one moment he had fancied it was Queenie’s face, but he saw directly
that it was a boy who had forced his way into the midst of the laurel
hedge, and had tried to conceal himself there. Yet the boy did not
appear in the least abashed at being caught. The merry, laughing look
upon his face disarmed Bertie at once.
“You will get very wet in there,” he remarked, by way of a beginning.
“I can’t be wetter than I am; I’m about drenched,” was the cheerful
answer.
“Why don’t you come out, then, and get dried?”
“Because I’m a fugitive—in mortal peril of my life!” answered the boy,
his whole face beaming with fun. “You can’t think what a funk I was in
when I heard you coming.”
Bertie was rather puzzled.
“I shan’t hurt you,” he said.
“Nor betray me?”
“No, of course not. I don’t know what you mean.”
Phil laughed merrily.
“Well, then, I’ll come out, and chance the rest. It’s jolly
uncomfortable in there;” and the boy pushed his way out amid fresh
showers of dew, and stood before Bertie all wet and dripping, his curly
hair bright with sparkling drops, his merry eyes brimful of fun.
The little boy stared at him in great surprise.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’ve told you once—a fugitive, a despairing and desperate character—so
beware! And pray who are you, if I may make so bold?”
The child hesitated a moment.
“I’m Bertie,” he said, slowly.
“Bertie what?”
He shook his head.
“That’s all—only Bertie. I live with the Squire now.”
“You do, do you? You’re a little chap anyhow. I wonder who you are?”
“I don’t know myself,” answered Bertie, with great gravity; “and nobody
else knows either. But I know who you are; you must be Queenie’s
brother, you are so like her.”
Phil’s face put on a look of horror.
“Gracious goodness! I am betrayed! What will become of me now?”
Bertie was extremely puzzled; but he had a composed manner that
concealed his bewilderment very well.
“What do you mean, and what are you doing here? I wish you’d tell me.”
Phil loved to talk better than almost anything else in the world, and he
gladly plunged headlong into his tale. Bertie did not understand it all;
but he understood enough to be immensely interested and to give Phil all
the encouragement necessary to make him exceedingly diffuse and
circumstantial. Only towards the close did Bertie’s face grow grave.
“But why don’t you go and tell them you’ve run away? Why does only
Queenie know?”
“Oh, they know I’ve run away, only they don’t know where I am.”
“Why don’t you tell them?”
Phil explained his reason; but Bertie shook his head gravely.
“It looks as if you were afraid,” he said.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of being scolded or punished. Are you afraid?”
Phil’s face flushed.
“Afraid indeed! If you’d seen all the lickings I’ve had at school, you
wouldn’t think I was.”
“Well, it _looks_ as if you were then,” persisted Bertie, who knew his
own mind when it was once made up.
Phil looked a little vexed; though it was not in his nature to be easily
put out.
“That’s all rubbish! I only hide for the fun of it. You don’t suppose
I’d funk anything really?”
“I didn’t think so till just now. I was thinking how brave you were.”
Phil was mollified by the compliment.
“Well, young un, you’re a pretty cool hand, I must say. Pray, what do
you think I’d better do, under the circumstances?”
“I’d go straight off to your father and mother and tell them all about
it,” answered Bertie, gravely. “I don’t think they _could_ be very
angry,—it was so funny, you know, especially about the monkey and his
hat. I should say I didn’t want to go back to school any more at Dr.
Steele’s, and I expect they’ll let you stop at home with Queenie, and
they’ll see you’re not ashamed or afraid. If you hide here, perhaps
somebody will find you, and then everybody will think you were afraid. I
like people to be strong and of a good courage, and speak the truth
always,—”
Bertie stopped suddenly. It seemed to him as if he were repeating words
he had heard somebody say long ago, and the feeling puzzled him and made
him stop short.
Phil was standing quite still now, thinking more than he often did.
Thoughtlessness was his failing, and he was often and often led away by
his high spirits; but he was not in the very least a naturally deceitful
boy. Indeed, he had never for a moment considered that there was any
deceit or cowardice in hiding away from his parents until it pleased him
to show himself.
When, however, Bertie had put the idea into his head, he began to see
that other people might not view his conduct in quite the same light
that he did. It was possible even that there might be some truth in the
little boy’s view of the case.
“Queenie will be awfully sold if I don’t keep to it,” he remarked,
ruefully, for the idea was also very attractive to himself. “She thought
it was the best fun in the world.”
Bertie said nothing. He was beginning to feel rather shy at having been
so ready with his advice to the elder boy—the hero of such an adventure.
At last the silence was broken by Phil, who burst out laughing.
“After all, youngster, I believe you are right. Perhaps it would be
rather mean and shabby to let them have all the bother of trying to hunt
me down when I’m here all the time. Mother would be in a fright,
perhaps, and father might, too—though it isn’t his way. Perhaps I’d best
show myself, and tell the whole tale, as you say. I should not like
anybody to think I hid away because I was afraid or ashamed, for I’m
not.”
And Phil threw back his head and looked for a moment very like his
father; so much so that Bertie admired him very much.
“Well, that’s settled then,” remarked Phil, after a pause. “I only hope
Queenie won’t be in a great way about it. She can be very cross when she
is put out, as I daresay you know. I wonder what time it is. My father
and mother are never down before nine o’clock at earliest.”
“It’s a little past seven,” said Bertie; “I heard the clock strike just
now.”
“Well, I can’t show myself till I can go to father straight. I must loaf
about out of sight somewhere for the next hour or two; but I’m getting
jolly hungry, I know.”
“Come and have some breakfast with me,” said Bertie, hospitably. “Mrs.
Pritchard always gets me mine about half-past seven when I’ve been
out—which is most mornings.”
Phil’s eyes lighted with satisfaction.
“Do you think the Squire would mind?”
“No, I don’t think he would a bit. He’s very kind always.”
“Why, so he is. I think I’ll come. I should like some breakfast
awfully.”
Mrs. Pritchard knew “Master Phil” well by sight; and, though surprised
at his sudden appearance, received him hospitably enough, and added a
dish of fried bacon to Bertie’s simple meal, which was greatly enjoyed
by both boys.
Whilst they sat at breakfast, the Squire happened to look in, as he
sometimes did when Bertie was at his meals. Phil of course had to
explain his presence there, which he did with so much spirit and boyish
fun, that, although the Squire drew his thick eyebrows together and
shook his head, he could not help giving vent to a gruff laugh; and when
the part played by the monkey was told, Bertie could not restrain his
delight, but broke into such a laugh as had not been heard from him
since his arrival.
“And so Bertie persuaded you to give up your plan and speak out, did
he?” quoth the Squire, when Phil had got to the end of his tale.
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil. “I’d never thought it could be wrong before,
or cowardly, or anything like that; I only meant it for fun; but I guess
the little chap is right.”
The Squire’s hand rested for a moment upon Bertie’s shoulder.
“What made you think of all that, my boy?” he asked.
Bertie got very red.
“I didn’t want him to be afraid,” he said; “I liked him, and I wanted
him to tell the truth and not mind being punished.”
The Squire was not a man of many words, and he soon left the boys to
themselves, but Bertie felt by a sort of instinct that he had pleased
the old man by the part he had taken, and that made him feel glad and
happy.
He enjoyed his hour’s talk with Phil, though he hardly spoke a word, for
the schoolboy was a tremendous talker, and delighted to find so
attentive a listener. To be sure, Bertie was only quite a little boy,
but then he had proved that he had some sense and some pluck in him, and
Phil was always ready to believe the best and not the worst of everybody
he came across.
At nine o’clock he jumped up and said he must go, as his parents would
be having breakfast soon. He promised to come back later and tell Bertie
how he had fared, and he went off whistling gaily.
Phil possessed an amount of quiet assurance that stood him in good stead
on occasions such as the present. If he felt any trepidation or anxiety
as to his reception, he did not show it in the least, as he strolled
into the dining-room with his hands in his pockets, and he confronted
his astonished parents with his broadest and sunniest smile.
Lady Arbuthnot uttered a little shriek and fell back in her chair
speechless; Sir Walter looked quickly up from his paper and drew his
brows together darkly.
“And pray what is the meaning of all this, sir?” he asked, with his
severest manner. “What do you mean by this disgraceful conduct?” and he
laid his hand upon an open letter that lay beside his plate. Phil knew
that the hand-writing was that of Dr. Steele.
“I’ve come home,” he answered, with a smile that was almost
irresistible; “I really couldn’t stand it any longer, so I came home;
and now, you know, they won’t have me back. You can’t think how jolly I
feel.”
“Keep your impudence to yourself, Philip,” returned his father, with
another frown. “A nice thing for a son of mine to be expelled from his
school for gross misconduct!”
“I didn’t wait for that; I expelled myself,” answered Phil. “Please may
I have some pigeon pie? I’ve been half starved ever since I left home.
You can’t think what a lot of boys have come to old Steele’s lately,
father; if you knew, I know you would not like to have _your_ son there.
That’s one reason why I decided to go, and, of course, when my mind was
made up, I had to make the most of the occasion; such an opportunity
might not occur again, you know. Mother dear, please let me have some
coffee; nobody in the world can make coffee like you.”
And Phil spoke with such innocent sweetness, and drew up his chair with
such a complete air of being master of the situation, that Sir Walter
suddenly exploded into a laugh.
That laugh told Phil that he had won the day. He always knew—the
rascal—that he held a soft place in his father’s heart, and he had
presumed upon this when he had resolved upon quitting his school with
flying colors.
“You know, father,” he explained, with inimitable gravity, “I really
want a rest before going to Eton. I have overworked my brain, I think,
and I am certain it will be a great thing for me to have a long holiday
before I begin work again. And then, you know, it will be such an
advantage to Queenie to have me at home. She gets sadly spoiled in
term-time, with being the only child at home and having no brothers to
keep her in order. You see, I have taken a very comprehensive view of
the situation, and have thought of every one before myself.”
“I see that you are the coolest and most impudent rascal that ever trod
shoe-leather,” retorted his father, with a sudden laugh. “Now, be off
with you to your own premises; and mind, if I keep you at home, that you
behave yourself. A nice state of things, to be sure! You deserve the
best thrashing you ever had in your life. Now, be off sharp; and I must
go and answer this precious missive as best I can. What a trouble boys
are, to be sure!”
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