The boys had some fresh plan for the next day, and when Alfred went up
to bed they were all whispering eagerly; but as soon as their brother
entered the room they pretended to be asleep.
Alfred said nothing till he was undressed and about to get into his bed,
and then he only wished them good night.
There was no reply, and the boy felt hurt; but just then he recollected
something which made him clap his right hand first to his cheek and then
to his forehead, as if he fully expected to find both places still wet
and warm. They felt still as if his mother's lips had but just left
them.
From that moment Alfred lay quite still in the darkness, feeling very
happy and contented, till all at once a long-drawn restful sigh escaped
his lips, and he was just dropping off to sleep when he awoke again and
lay listening, for his three brothers, believing that he had gone off to
sleep, began talking again in an eager whisper, but what about he could
not tell, till all at once Red said something about "otters."
They were going to have a grand otter hunt up the little Wantage stream
with the dogs; and for a few moments a feeling of bitter disappointment
came over the boy, for he had looked forward to the day when that hunt
would take place.
He felt better when he recalled the Queen's words as he wished her good
night. They were:
"I am so glad, Fred, my boy. You have made me feel very happy."
"Father Swythe must have told her what I said," thought Alfred, and in
another minute he was asleep.
The next morning after breakfast the boy did not feel half so brave, and
he was thinking of how he could get away to the monk's quiet cell-like
room without his brothers seeing him; but he was spared from all trouble
in that way, for the monk came up to him smiling.
"I'm going to speak to your brothers, Fred," he said. "I told the Queen
that you had promised to try very hard, and she said she was very glad,
but she would be so much happier if your brothers came too; so I am
going to ask them to come. Do you know where they are?"
"Out in the broad courtyard," said Alfred quickly; but Father Swythe
shook his head.
"No," he said; "I came across just now, and they were not there."
At that moment the distant barking of a dog was heard; followed by a
yelping chorus which made the boy run to the window and look out, to
catch sight of three figures and some half-dozen dogs disappearing over
the hill slope.
"I think they have gone after the otters with the dogs," said Alfred
sadly.
"Oh, I see," said the monk; "and you feel dull because you are not with
them?"
Alfred was too honest to deny it.
"Never mind, boy," said the little monk cheerily; "come to my room, and
we'll finish making the ink, and then you can learn to read the letters
as I make them, while I write out a poem for the Queen; and then I'll
get out the red and blue and yellow, and the thin leaves of gold, and
we'll try and make a beautiful big letter like those in the Queen's
book, and finish it off with some gold."
"But you can't do that?" cried Alfred, interested at once.
"Perhaps not so well as in the Queen's beautiful book; but come and
see."
The boy eagerly took hold of the monk's hand, and they were soon seated
at the little table in Swythe's room, with the light shining full upon
the slate slab, the pebble grinder, and the black patch.
"You said that was ink yesterday," said the boy, as Swythe gave the
pebble a few turns round, and then looked to see if the ink was of the
right thickness, which it was not, so a feather was dipped in a
water-jug, and a few drops allowed to fall upon the black patch.
"There," said Swythe, "a good writer makes all his own ink. Now you
grind that up till it is well mixed. Gently," cried Swythe; "that ink
is too precious to be spread all over the slab. Grind it round and
round. That's the way! That will do!"
As he spoke, Swythe took a thin-bladed knife and a good-sized,
nicely-cleaned fresh-water mussel-shell, and let the boy carefully
scrape up all the ink from the slab and place it in the shell.
"That's well done!" he said. "Now we'll write a line of letters."
"Yes," cried the boy; "let me write them."
"I wish you could, Fred, my boy," said the monk, smiling; "but you must
first learn."
"That's what I want to do," cried the boy eagerly. "But how am I to
learn?"
"By watching me. Now see."
Swythe rose from the table and opened a box, out of which he took a
crisp clean piece of nearly transparent sheepskin and a couple of quill
pens, sat down again, and then from another box he drew out a piece of
lead and a flat ruler--not a lead-pencil such as is now used, but a
little pointed piece of ordinary lead--with which he deftly made a few
straight lines across the parchment, and then very carefully drew a
beautiful capital A, which he finished off with scrolls and turns and
tiny vine-leaves with a running stalk and half-a-dozen tendrils.
"But you have put no grapes," cried Alfred.
"Give me time," said Swythe good-humouredly, and directly after he
faintly sketched in a bunch of grapes, broad at the top and growing
narrower till it ended in one grape alone.
"Oh, I wish I could do that!" cried Alfred eagerly. "But I could never
do it so well!"
"I'm going to persevere till I make you do it better," said Swythe.
"Now we'll leave that for a bit and begin a Latin lesson."
Alfred sighed and looked longingly at the faint initial letter.
But his interest was taken up directly, for Swythe took up one of his
quill pens, examined it, and then, after giving the ink a stir, dipped
in his pen and tried it.
The next minute, while the boy sat resting his chin upon his hands, it
seemed as if beautifully-formed tiny letters kept on growing out of the
pen, running off at the point, and standing one after another in a row,
almost exactly the same size, till four words stood out clearly upon the
cream-coloured parchment.
As he formed the letters with his clever white fingers, Swythe repeated
the name of each, pausing a little to give finish and effect as well as
sound to the words he formed, till he had, after beginning some little
distance in, made so many words upon one of the faintly-drawn lines and
reaching right across the parchment.
"It's wonderful!" cried Alfred. "I could never do that!"
"It is not wonderful, and you soon will be able to do it," said Swythe;
"but let's say all those words over again letter by letter, and then the
words."
"They are Latin?" asked the boy.
"Yes," said Swythe, "and you are going to learn them so as to know them
next time you see them."
Alfred shook his head, but he managed to repeat the Latin words
straightforward, and after a while pick them out when asked. Then the
monk proceeded to get out his colours so as to ornament the big initial
letter of what Alfred had learned in Latin as well as in English was
"The History of the Good King Almon."
Then came the most interesting part of the lesson, for, after Swythe had
placed his colours ready--red, yellow, and blue--all in powders ground
up so fine that it was necessary to shut out the breeze which came in at
the window, Alfred learned how the monk made his brushes, by taking a
tuft of badger's hair and tying up one end carefully with a very fine
thread of flax.
"Now watch me," said the old man, and Alfred looked closely while Swythe
took a duck's quill out of a bunch, cut off the hollow part, and then
lightly cut off the end where it had grown from the duck's wing. Then
the tuft of badger's hair was held by its tied end and passed through
the monk's lips so as to bring the hairs together to a point, which was
carefully pushed into the most open part of the quill and screwed round
till the whole of the tuft was inside. Then a thrust with a thin piece
of wood sent the hairs right through, all but the tied-up ends; and
Swythe held his work up in triumph--a complete little paint-brush.
"How clever!" cried the boy eagerly; "but how did you get that badger's
hair?"
"Saved," said Swythe, "when the dogs killed that badger last year."
"And the ducks' quills?"
"I picked them up when the ducks were plucked by the scullion."
"You did not tell me how you made that black paint."
"By holding a piece of slate over the burning wick of the lamp till
there was plenty of soot to be scraped off and mixed up with gum water
made from plum-tree gum, the same as I am going to use to mix up these
colours, you see."
As he spoke Swythe took a clean mussel-shell and placed in it a tiny
portion of scarlet powder.
"That's a pretty colour!" said the boy. "What is it?"
"The colour made by burning some quicksilver and brimstone together in a
very hot fire till it is red, and afterwards I grind it up into fine
dust. Now," he said, "I'm going to mix this up with gum; and then we'll
paint all the back of the parchment behind the big letter red."
Alfred watched the monk's clever touches with the point of his little
brush till there was a great square patch upon which the letter seemed
to stand.
"Beautiful!" cried Alfred. "Now it's done!"
"Oh, no," said Swythe; "that's the beginning! Now we'll paint the
scroll."
"Why do you say _we_" said the boy. "It is you."
"It's we, because you are helping me," said the monk. "Very soon you
will be doing letters like this, and then I shall help you."
Alfred sighed.
"Are you going to paint that scroll red too?"
"No: purple," was the reply, and Swythe took up another little packet,
which he opened slowly.
"Why, that's blue," cried Alfred.
"Wait a moment!" said Swythe, taking up another clean mussel-shell, into
which he put a tiny patch of the bright blue dust. "Now you shall see
it turn purple."
Taking up the brush, whose hairs were thickly covered with red paint, he
poured a few drops of gum water into the shell amongst the blue powder,
mixed all together with the red brush, and to the boy's great delight a
beautiful purple was the result.
Then the leaves that had been sketched in had to be done, and while the
boy wondered another shell was taken, the brush carefully washed, and a
little of the blue dust was mixed with some yellow, when there was a
brilliant green, which the monk made brighter or darker by adding more
yellow or more blue.
The big ornamental letter was now becoming very bright and gay, Alfred
looking upon it as finished; but Swythe went on.
"It's very wonderful!" said the boy. "You seem as if you can make any
colours out of red, yellow, and blue."
"So will you soon!" said Swythe, smiling, and still painting away, till
at the end of a couple of hours, which seemed to have passed away like
magic, the monk began to carefully clean his brush with water.
"That's done now!" cried Alfred, with a sigh of as much sorrow as
pleasure, for he felt it to be a pity that the task was finished. "But
do you know, Father Swythe," he continued, as he held his head on one
side and looked critically at the staring white letter with its
beautiful ornamentation, "I think if I could paint and painted that
letter I shouldn't have left it all white like that."
"What would you have done, then?"
"I should have painted it deep yellow like a buttercup--a good sunny
yellow, to look like gold."
"Well done!" cried the monk. "Why, that's exactly what it is going to
be. It isn't finished, but I'm not going to paint it yellow. I'm going
to paint it red first."
"I don't think I shall like that," said the boy, shaking his head.
"Wait and see!" said the monk, and once more mixing up a little red with
gum he carefully painted the white letter scarlet, and held it up.
"There!" cried the boy triumphantly; "it looks now almost like the back
patch, and you've spoiled it all."
"Umph!" grunted the monk, re-opening the window and laying his work in
the sun to dry. "Wait a bit."
"Yes, I'll wait," said the boy, watching the shiny wet paint turn more
and more dull; "but I don't like it."
Swythe washed his brush carefully again, and as soon as the paint was
dry went carefully over the letter part with gum, so delicately that the
red colour was not disturbed nor the background smeared.
"Yes," said the boy, still watching; "that looks a little better,
because it looks shiny, but it was better white. Do paint it yellow
now."
"I told you I'm going to make it yellow," said Swythe, laying his work
well out in the sunshine to get thoroughly dry.
Then, taking it from the window-sill and shutting out the breeze again,
Swythe placed his work ready and took out, from a snug corner, a tiny
book made by sewing together about half-a-dozen leaves of parchment, and
upon opening this very carefully Alfred saw within a piece of brilliant
shining gold.
"Oh, how beautiful!" cried Alfred, making a dart at it with his hand.
But, as if he expected this, Swythe put out his own hand and caught his
pupil's just in time, creating such a breeze, though, that the very thin
gold leaf rose up at the corner and fell over, doubling nearly in half.
"There, you see how fine it is!" cried Swythe.
"I'm very sorry--I did not know," said the boy sadly; and then he looked
on in wonder, for the monk bent down, gave a gentle puff with his
breath, and the gold was blown up, to fall back into its place.
"Why, I thought it would be quite hard and heavy," said Alfred.
"And it's twenty times as thin as the parchment!" said Swythe. "Now
then, suppose we make the letter of gold."
Alfred did not speak, but watched with breathless interest while the
monk took his knife and carefully cut a long strip off one edge of the
gold leaf, and then, dividing it in four, took it up bit by bit on the
blade, and laid the pieces along the letter, cutting off edges and
scraps that were not wanted, and covering up bare places so carefully
and with such great pains that at last there was not a trace left of the
gummed letter, a rough, rugged gold one being left in its place.
"There!" cried Swythe, when he had covered the last speck, and all was
gold leaf; but Alfred shook his head.
"It looks very beautiful," he said; "but I don't like it. The edges are
all rugged and rough."
"So they are!" replied Swythe, and, taking now a clean dry brush, he
began to smoothe and dab and press gently till there was not a trace
left of where the scraps of gold joined or lay one over the other, all
becoming strong and perfect excepting the edges, where the gold lay
loose, till, quite satisfied with his work, the monk passed his brush
briskly over the letter, carrying off every scrap of gold outside the
gummed letter, and leaving this clean, smooth, and glistening.
"Oh, Father Swythe," cried Alfred, clapping his hands, "you are clever!
It's beautiful!"
"You like it, then, my boy?" said the old man gravely. "You shall soon
be able to do that with your light fingers."
The boy looked down at his hands and then took up the pen the monk had
laid down, dipped it in the ink, and tried to make a letter.
"Well done," said Swythe, smiling; "that is something like O. Now make
another, and try if you can make it worse than the last."
The boy looked up at him sharply.
"You are laughing at me!" he said.
"Well, if I am, it is only to make you try and do better. Go on again!"
The boy hesitated before looking hard at the letter he had tried to
imitate, and then tried once more.
"Ever so much better!" cried the monk. "Come to me every day, and try
like that, and in a very short time you will be able to read and write."