“A VERY SAD LITTLE BOY.”
Of course, Hubert’s black eye created an immense sensation, not only
amongst his immediate circle, but throughout the whole establishment,
from old Mr. Busson down to the smallest boy-labourer on the farm.
If the whole constitution of France had been represented in Gaston’s
small person, and if the quarrel with Hubert had assumed properties of
international warfare, racial feeling could not have run higher in the
worthy rustic’s breast.
“A pretty joke indeed!” they declared, “to have that young Frenchy
knocking one of _our_ little gentlemen about.”
And what a fuss Mrs. Busson made over the injured hero; whilst Ruth was
careful to remark within Gaston’s hearing, that it was a great mercy
that Master Hubert’s eye had been not hurt, for folks got sent to prison
and kept there for less than that very often.
Hubert himself made no fuss at all. He was so delighted to possess
anything so entirely un-nurserylike as a black eye, that he obstinately
refused all Mrs. Busson’s offers of raw beef applications for the
purpose of abating the swelling; and when he discovered that the “pomade
divine” with which Fay had promptly anointed his temple, was supposed to
reduce the discolouration of the bruises, he scrubbed it off with more
energy than he had ever bestowed on his face before.
“But Hubert, didn’t it hurt you dreffully?” asked Marygold.
“Nothing to matter,” he said, “but of course you girls don’t under--”
“Oh! no,” began Andrew, teasingly, “it wasn’t the black eye that he
minded, was it, Hubert. It was--”
“You’re not to say it,” shouted Hubert, crimson with rage. Andrew had
jeered him so unmercifully all the morning, for having been slobbered
like a nice little baby-girl, that he was in absolute terror lest Di
should hear of it, for Diana’s teasing was quite as merciless as the
boys’.
“If you say one word,” cried Hubert, swelling with rage, “I’ll ki--”
“Yes, shut up, Andrew,” interposed Jack. “It’s a shame to rag the poor
chap, any more.”
And so, though at intervals during the day, Andrew dropped mysterious
hints anent some still deeper disgrace that had befallen Hubert at
Gaston’s hands, just for the sake of “getting a rise” out of Hubert, the
girls never discovered the nature of poor Gaston’s further delinquency.
“Well, I don’t care,” said Di, standing in the doorway between her own
room and Faith’s, “I always did think Gaston was a horrid little wretch,
and now I’m sure of it. He must have done something horribly bad, for
Jack said he’d never have forgiven him, if he’d been Hubert.”
“I’m afraid he did,” said Phoena, reluctantly, “but I’m quite sure, it
could not have been all Gaston’s fault.”
“Well, it’s quite clear,” said Fay, with the uncompromising finality of
early youth, “Gaston isn’t fit to play with our boys, we’ve tried to
make the best of him, because he was an orphan and all that, but he has
behaved like a little savage, and the less we have to do with him the
better.”
But Marygold, who had been put to bed full an hour ago, and was supposed
by her elders to be sound asleep, hid her face against the pillow and
cried softly. “Oh! dear Father in Heaven,” she prayed, “be kind to poor
Gaston, he is such a _werry_ sad little boy.”
The same thought came to soften Mrs. Busson’s heart,--very little was
needed to do that,--as according to custom, she took a last look at
Gaston, lying in his bed in the little room next her own.
“Poor little dear,” she said, looking down at the small thin face as it
lay with closed eyes on the pillow, and carefully shading her light with
her hand, that its reflection might not disturb him, “It’s a good little
face, that it is, and it isn’t his fault that he was not born a nice
English boy like the rest. It is a pity, to be sure, that he’s got to
grow up into one of those Frenchmen. Well, I’m glad at any rate, that
he’s sleeping so quiet.”
And Mrs. Busson crept away noiselessly to her own room.
Good soul! She little guessed that her softly spoken words had added the
last drop of bitterness to Gaston’s already over-full cup. The lids that
she had fancied were fast shut over Gaston’s eyes were quivering with
wakefulness, and on the ears which she believed to be securely closed in
sleep, every word of her mutterings fell clear and distinct.
From that day forward, there was a marked change in the relations
between Gaston and the other boys. Whenever they invited him to join in
their games and expeditions, he went with them, but more often than not
they forgot all about him, and the girls never reminded them.
“I’m quite sure for all concerned that it’s much better for Gaston to be
left to himself,” Fay ruled; “he adds neither to his own nor to others’
happiness by playing with them.”
“No, Hubert’s face testifies to that,” said Di.
And so even before the injured eye had gone through the various stages
of discolouration, Gaston had drifted so far away from his fellow
knights that, as Andrew said loftily, “there was no need to degrade him
formally as he had had the good sense to retire practically.”
“Nonsense,” cried Phoena, who was in no such hurry to consign Gaston to
the rank of a hopeless miscreant, “so long as none of you can show cause
why he should be turned out, and I suppose none of you can?”
“Oh! rather not!” cried Jack, “poor beggar, why should he be turned
out?”
“Very well, then, so long as we don’t turn him out, he remains a knight
of course, and perhaps some day he will do something grand, that will
surprise us all.”
“It’s very certain to be a _surprise_, whenever it does come,” said Di.
Marygold however stole away to the orchard, making for the deep, dry
ditch, whence Gaston had emerged on the first occasion of their meeting.
It had become once more his favourite refuge, only Marygold always found
him now, with his old lesson books open on his knee, trying hard to
learn those tasks which, at the eleventh hour, he remembered that
“Maman” had told him must be learnt, if he meant to grow up a wise man.
“Gaston,” said Marygold, creeping down to sit beside him in the ditch,
“they’ve all been talking about you in the wood, and they say that you
are a knight still, just the same as ever you were. And Phoena says, she
believes that you will do something ever so grand and brave some day,
that will astonish us all.”
But Gaston shook his head.
“Ah! no, that will never be,” he said, “because, because, there is, I
know not what--but no one here can understand,” he added, helplessly.
“Oh! but they will understand, we shall all understand,” rejoined
Marygold, eagerly, “and you mustn’t look so sad, poor dear Gaston,
because it makes me feel so sad for you too.”
“Ah! you are good for me, Marygold,” he said, and a gleam set all his
face alight, “you are very good.”
“But I pity you so, poor Gaston, because it’s not your fault that you
are a little French boy,” said Marygold. “Oh! Gaston, where are you
going so fast? Don’t run away.”
Gaston had started up as if he had been suddenly stung, and scrambled
over the hedge. Nor did he return for all Marygold’s beseeching.
“No, it is done; I have finished with them,” he muttered. His eyes were
dry, but his spirit had never been so sore, “even she says it now, even
Marygold!”