THE BIG HOUSE AND THE LADY
"The light of love, the purity of grace;
The mind, the music breathing from her face;
The heart, whose softness harmonised the whole."
Mrs. Conyfer was waiting for Gratian at the gate of the schoolhouse when
he came out.
"We must make haste," she said; "I think it's going to rain."
Gratian looked up at the sky, and sniffed the cold evening air.
"Yes," he said, "I think it is."
"It's not so cold quite as it was when I came down," Mrs. Conyfer went
on--the dwellers at Four Winds often spoke of "coming down," when they
meant going to the village--"that's perhaps because the rain is coming.
I don't want to get my bonnet spoilt--I might have known it was going to
rain when father said the wind was in the west."
"Why does the west wind bring rain?" asked Gratian; "is it because it
comes from the sea?"
"Nay," said his mother, "I don't know. You should know better about such
things than I--you that's always listening to the winds and hearing what
they've got to say."
Gratian looked up, a little surprised.
"What makes you say that, mother?" he asked.
Mrs. Conyfer laughed a little.
"I scarcely know," she said. "We always said of you when you were a baby
that you seemed to hear words in the wind--you were always content to
lie still, no matter how long you were left, if only the wind were
blowing. And it seems to me even now that you're always happiest and
best when there's wind about, though it's maybe only a fancy of mine."
But Gratian looked pleased.
"No, mother," he said, "I don't think it's a fancy. I think myself it's
quite true."
And he pulled off his cap as he spoke and let the wind blow his hair
about, and lifted up his face as if inviting its caresses.
"It's getting up," he said. "But I think we'll get home before the rain
comes."
His mother had not heard the whisper that had reached his ear through
the gust of wind.
"I will help you home, Gratian, both you and your mother, though she
won't know it."
He laughed to himself when he felt the gentle, steady way in which they
were blown along--never had the long walk to the Farm seemed so short to
Mrs. Conyfer.
"Dear me," she said, when they were within a few yards of the gate, "I
couldn't have believed we were home! It makes a difference when the wind
is with us, I suppose."
Gratian pulled her back a moment, as she was going in.
"Mother," he said, "what was it the master wanted to say to you? Won't
you tell me?"
"I must speak first to father," she replied; "it's something which we
must have his leave for first."
Gratian could not ask any more, and nothing more was said to him till
the next morning when he was starting for school. Then his mother came
to the door with him.
"I've a message for the master," she said. "Listen, Gratian. You must
tell him from me that father and I have no objection to his doing as he
likes about what he spoke to me of yesterday. He said he'd like to tell
you about it himself--so I won't tell you any more. Maybe you'll not
care about it when you hear it."
"Ah--I don't think that," said the boy, as he ran off.
He needed no blowing to school that morning. The way seemed short, even
though it was still drizzling--a cold, disagreeable, small rain, which
had succeeded the downpour of the night before. But Gratian cared little
for rain--what true child of the moors could?--he rather liked it than
otherwise, especially when it came drifting over in great sheets, almost
blinding for the moment, and then again dispersed as suddenly, so that
standing on the high ground one could see on the slopes beneath when it
was raining and when it stopped. It gave one a feeling of being "above
the clouds" that Gratian liked. But this morning there was nothing of a
weather panorama of that kind--just sheer, steady, sapping rain, with no
wind to interfere.
"They are tired, I daresay," thought Gratian; "for they must have been
hard at work last night, getting the clouds together for all this rain.
I expect Golden-wings goes off altogether when it's so cold and dreary.
I wonder where she is. I would like to see her home--it must be full of
such beautiful colours and scents."
"And mine--wouldn't you like to see mine?" whistled a sudden cold breath
in his ear. "Yes, I have made you jump. But I'm not going to bring the
snow just yet--I've just come down for a moment, to see how much rain
Green-wings has got together. She mustn't waste it, you see. I can't
have her interfering with my reservoirs for the winter. I hold with a
good old-fashioned winter--a snowy Christmas and plenty of picture
exhibitions for my pet artist, Jack Frost. A good winter's the
healthiest in the end for all concerned."
"Yes, I think so too," said Gratian. He wished to be civil to
White-wings. It was interesting to have some one to talk to as he went
along, and the North-wind in a mild mood seemed an agreeable companion,
less snappish and jerky than her sister of the east.
"That's a sensible boy," said the snow-bringer condescendingly; "you've
something of the old northern spirit about you here on the moorlands
still, I fancy. Ah! if you could see the north--the real north--I don't
fancy you would care much about the sleepy golden lands you were
dreaming of just now."
"I'd like to _see_ them," replied the child; "I don't say I'd like to
live in them always. But the scents and the colours--they must be very
beautiful. I seem to know all about them when Golden-wings kisses me."
"Humph," said the Spirit of the North. Both she and Gray-wings had a
peculiar way of saying "humph" when Gratian praised either of the
gentler sisters--"as for scents I don't say--scent is a stupid sort of
thing. I don't understand anything about it. But _colours_--you're
mistaken, I assure you, if you think the south can beat me in that.
You've got your head full of the idea of snow--interminable ice-fields
and all the rest of it. Why, my good boy, did you never hear of Arctic
sunsets--not to speak of the Northern Lights? I could show you sunsets
and sunrises such as you have never dreamt of--like rainbows painted on
gold. Ah, it is a pity you cannot come with me!"
"And why can't I?" asked Gratian. "I'm not afraid of the cold."
The North-wind gave a whistle of good-natured contempt.
"My dear, you'd have no time to be afraid or not afraid--you'd be dead
before you'd even looked about you. Ah--it's a terrible inconvenience,
those bodies of yours--if you were like us, now! But I mustn't waste my
time talking, only as I was passing I thought I'd say a word or two.
When my sisters are all together there's never any getting in a syllable
edgeways. Good-bye, my child. We'll meet again oftener during the next
few months."
"Good-bye, Godmother White-wings," said Gratian, and a gust of wind
rushing past him with a whistle seemed to answer, "Good-bye."
"I'm very glad to have had a little talk with her," he said to himself;
"she's much nicer than I thought she was, and she makes one feel so
strong and brisk. Dear me--what wonderful places there must be up in the
north where she lives!"
The master called him aside after morning lessons.
"Did your mother send any message to me, Gratian?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," and he repeated what Mrs. Conyfer had said.
The schoolmaster looked pleased.
"I'm glad she and your father have no objection," he said. "I think it
may be a good thing for you in several ways. But I must explain it to
you. You know the Big House as they call it, here? A lady and her son
have come to stay there for a time--relations of the squire's----"
"Yes, sir, I know," interrupted Gratian; "she plays the organ on Sunday
afternoons, and her little boy is ill."
"Not exactly ill, but he had a fall, and he mustn't walk about or stand
much. It's dull for him, as at home he was used to companions. His
mother asked me to send him one of my best boys--a boy who could read
well for one thing--as a playmate. At first I thought of Tony Ferris,
and I spoke of him. But Tony has begged me to choose you instead of
him."
Gratian raised his brown eyes and fixed them on the master's face.
"Does Tony not want to go?" he asked. "I shouldn't like to take it from
him if he wants to go."
"I think he would be happier for you to go," said the master, "and
perhaps you may be more suitable. Besides Tony thinks that he owes you
something. He has told me of the trick he played you, as you know--and
certainly you deserve to be chosen more than he. I am not sure that he
would care much about it; but still it will give him pleasure to think
he has got it for you, and we may let him have this pleasure."
"Yes, sir," said Gratian thoughtfully. And then he added, "it was good
of Tony to ask for it for me."
"Yes, it was," agreed the master.
"Then when am I to go?" asked Gratian.
"This afternoon. I will let you off an hour or so earlier, and you can
stay at the Big House till it is dark. It is no farther home from there
than from here, if you go by the road at the back of it. We shall see
how you get on, and then the lady will tell you about going again."
Gratian still lingered.
"What is it?" said the master. "Do you not think you shall like it?"
"Oh no, sir, oh no," exclaimed the child. "I was only wondering. Are
there pictures at the Big House, do you think, sir?"
"Yes, I think there are some. Are you fond of pictures?"
"I don't know, sir. I've never seen any real ones. But I've often
thought about them, and fancied them in my mind. There are such lots of
things I'd like to see pictures of that I can't see any other way."
"Well, perhaps you will see some at the Big House," said the master with
a smile.
Out in the playground Gratian ran against Tony.
"Has he told you?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes," said Gratian. "I'm to go this afternoon. It was very good of you,
Tony, to want me to go instead of you."
Tony got rather red.
"I don't know that I'd a-cared about it much, Gratian," he said. "It
wasn't that as cost me much. But to tell you the truth, I did want to
get out of telling the master about the trick I'd played you. And I
don't know as I'd have told it, but a mighty queer thing happened--it's
thanks to that I told."
"What was it?" asked Gratian.
"It was at night after I was in bed. I'd put off telling, and I thought
maybe it'd all be forgotten. And that night all of a sudden there came
such a storm of wind that it woke me up--the window had burst open, and
I swear to you, Gratian--I've not told any one else--I saw a figure all
in white, and with white wings, leaning over my bed, as if it had
brought the storm with it. I was so frightened I began to think of all
the bad things I had done, and I hollered out, 'I'll tell master first
thing to-morrow morning, I will.' And with that the wind seemed to go
down as sudden as it came, and I heard a sort of singing, something like
when the organ plays very low in church, and there was a beautiful sweet
scent of flowers through the room; and I suppose I fell asleep again,
for when I woke it was morning, and I could have fancied it was all a
dream, for nobody else had heard the wind in the night."
"We hear it most nights up at our place," said Gratian, "but I'm never
frightened of it."
"You would have been that night--leastways _I_ was. I durstn't go back
from my word, dream or no dream--so now you know, Gratian, how I came to
tell. And I hope you'll enjoy yourself at the Big House."
"I shall thank you for it if I do, all the same, Tony," Gratian replied.
"It's more in your way than mine. I'd feel myself such a great silly
going among gentry folk like that," said Tony, as he scampered off to
his dinner.
About three o'clock that afternoon Gratian found himself at the gates of
the Big House. He had often passed by that way and stood looking in, but
he had never been within the gates, for they were always kept locked;
and there had been a strange, almost sad look of loneliness and
desertedness about the place, even though the gardens had not been
allowed to be untidy or overrun. Now it looked already different; the
padlock and chain were removed, and there were the marks of wheels upon
the gravel. It seemed to Gratian that even if he had not known there
were visitors in the old house he would have guessed it.
He walked slowly up the avenue which led from the gates to the house. He
was not the least afraid or shy, but he was full of interest and
expectation. He wanted to see everything--to miss nothing, and even the
walk up the avenue seemed to him full of wonder and charm. It _had_ a
charm of its own no doubt, for at each side stood pine-trees like rows
of sentinels keeping guard on all comers, tall, stately, and solemn,
only now and then moving their heads with silent dignity, as if in reply
to observations passing among them up there, too high to be heard. The
pines round Gratian's home were not so tall or straight--naturally, for
they had a great deal of buffeting to do in order to live at all, and
this of course did not help them to grow tall or erect. Gratian looked
up in wonder at the great height.
"How I wish I knew what they say to each other up there," he said.
But just then a drop of something cold falling on his face made him
start. It was beginning to rain.
"I wouldn't like to be wet when I first see the lady and the young
gentleman," he thought. "I must be quick."
So off he set at a run, which perhaps did not much hasten matters, for
when he got to the hall door he was so out of breath that he had to
stand still for several minutes before venturing to ring.
The bell, when he did ring it, sounded sharp and hollow, almost like a
bell ringing in an empty house. And when the door was opened, he saw
that the large hall did look bare and empty, and he felt a little
disappointed. But this feeling did not last long. Before he had time to
say anything to the servant, a sweet, bright voice came sounding
clearly.
"Oh, here he is, Fergus," were the words she said, and in another
instant the owner of the voice appeared. It was the lady of the organ.
She came forward smiling, and holding out her hand, but Gratian gazed at
her for a moment without speaking, nor seeming to understand that she
was speaking to him. He had never seen any one like her before. She was
tall and fair, and her face was truly lovely. But what made it so, more
than the delicate features or the pretty soft colours, was its sunny
brightness, which yet from time to time was veiled by a look of pitying
sadness, almost sweeter. And at these times the intense blueness of her
eyes grew paler and fainter, so that they looked almost gray, like the
sea when a cloud comes over the sunny sky above; only as Gratian had
never seen the sea, he could not think this to himself.
What he did say to himself told it quite as well.
"She is like Golden-wings and Green-wings mixed together," was his
thought.
And then having decided this, his mind seemed to grow clearer, the sort
of confused bewilderment he had felt for a moment wafted itself away,
and he distinguished the words she had repeated to him more than once.
"You are the little boy Mr. Cornelius has kindly sent to see my poor
little boy. It is kind too of you to come. I hope you and Fergus will be
great friends."
She thought he was shy when at first he did not answer. But looking at
him again she saw that it was not shyness which was speaking out of his
big brown eyes.
"You are not afraid of me, are you?" she said smiling again.
"Oh no," he replied. "I didn't mean to be rude. I couldn't be frightened
of you. I was only thinking--I never saw anybody so beautiful as you
before," he went on simply, "and it made me think."
The lady flushed a little--a very little.
"I am pleased that you like my face," she said. "I like yours too, and I
am sure Fergus will. Will you come and see him now? He is waiting
eagerly for you."
She held out her hand again, and Gratian this time put his little brown
one into it confidingly. And thus she led him out of the large, cold
hall, down a short passage, rendered light and cheerful by a large
window--here a door stood open, and a glow of warmth seemed to meet them
as they drew near it.