DRAWN TWO WAYS
"When Love wants this, and Pain wants that,
And all our hearts want Tit for Tat."
MATTHEW BROWNE
Gratian almost danced along the moor path on his way home that evening;
he felt so happy. Never had he loved Fergus and his mother so much--he
could not now understand how he had ever lived without them, and like a
child he did not think of how he ever _could_ do so. He let the future
take care of itself.
It was cold of course. He rather fancied that White-wings was not far
off, and once or twice he stood still to listen. It was some little time
now since he had heard anything of his friends. But at first nothing met
his ear, and he ran on.
Suddenly a breath--a waft rather of soft air blew over his face. It was
not White-wings, and most certainly not Gray-wings. Gratian looked up
in surprise--he could hardly expect the soft western sister on such a
cold night.
"Yes, it is I," she said; "you can hardly believe it, can you? I am only
passing by--no one else will know I have been here. I don't generally
come when you are in such merry spirits--I don't feel that you need me
then. But as I was not so very far off, I thought I'd give you a kiss on
my way. So you told them the sea-gull's story--I am glad they liked it."
"Yes," said Gratian, "they did, indeed. But, Green-wings, I'm glad
you've come, for I wanted to ask you, if they ask me if I made it all up
myself, what can I say? I'm so afraid of telling what isn't true; but
you know I couldn't explain about you and the others. I couldn't if I
tried."
"You are not meant to do so," replied she quickly. "What have you said
when Fergus has asked you about other stories?"
"I have said I couldn't explain how I knew them--that sometimes they
were a sort of dream. I didn't want to say I had made them all myself,
though I have _partly_ made them--you know I have, Green-wings."
"Certainly--it was not I for instance, who told you the very remarkable
fact of natural history that you related at the end of the story?" said
Green-wings with her soft laugh. "You may quite take the credit of that.
But I won't laugh at you, dear. It is true that they are your stories,
and yet a sort of dream. No one but you could hear them--no one would
say that the whispers of the wind talking language to you, are anything
but the reflection of your own pretty fancies. It will be all right--you
will see. But I must go," and she gave a little sigh.
"Green-wings, darling, you seem a little sad to-night," said Gratian.
"Why is it? Is it that the winter has come?"
"I am never very merry, as you know. But I am a little sadder than usual
to-night. I foresee--I foresee sorrows"--and her voice breathed out the
words with such an exquisite plaintiveness that they sounded like the
dying away notes of a dirge. "But keep up your heart, my darling, and
trust us all--all four. We only wish your good, though we may show it in
different ways. And wherever I am I can always be with you to comfort
you, if it be but for a moment. No distance can separate us from our
child."
"And I am most _your_ child, am I not, dear Green-wings?" asked Gratian.
"I knew you the first, and I think I love you the most."
"My darling, good-night," whispered Green-wings, and with a soft flutter
she was gone.
There was no mother waiting at the open door for Gratian's return that
evening.
"It is too cold for standing outside now," he said to himself as he went
in, adding aloud, "Here I am, mother. Did you think I was late?"
Mrs. Conyfer was sitting by the fire. Her knitting lay on her knee, but
her hands were idle. She looked up as Gratian came in.
"I am glad you have come, dear," she said; but her voice sounded tired,
and when he was close to her he saw that her face seemed tired also.
[Illustration: "Are you not well, mother?" he said gently.]
"Are you not well, mother?" he said gently.
Mrs. Conyfer looked a little surprised but pleased too. It was new to
her either to think of how she was or to be asked about it. For though
her husband was kind and good, he was plain and even a little rough, as
are the moorland people in general. Gratian had never been rough, but he
had not had the habit of much noticing those about him. Since he had
been so often with Fergus and the lady he had learnt to be more
observant of others, especially of his mother, and more tender in his
manner.
"Are you not well, mother dear?" he repeated.
"I'm only a bit tired, my boy," she said. "I'm getting old, I suppose,
and I've worked pretty hard in my way--not to say as if I'd been a poor
man's wife of course, but a farmer's wife has a deal on her mind."
"And you do everything so well, mother," said Gratian admiringly. "I'm
getting old enough now to see how different things are here from what
they are in many houses. Fergus does so like to hear about the dairy and
the cocks and hens, and about the girdle cakes and all the nice things
you make."
"He's really a nice little gentleman!" said Mrs. Conyfer, well pleased,
"I _am_ glad to hear he's getting so much better. I'm sure his mother
deserves he should--such a sweet lady as she is."
For now and then on a Sunday the two boys' mothers had spoken to each
other.
"Yes, he's _much_ better," said Gratian. "To-day he walked six times up
and down the terrace with only my arm."
"They weren't afraid to let him out, and it so cold to-day?" said Mrs.
Conyfer.
"It wasn't so very cold--you usedn't to mind the cold, mother," said the
boy.
"Maybe not so much as now," she replied. "I think I'm getting rheumatic
like my father and mother before me, for I can't move about so quick,
and then one feels the cold more."
"What makes people have rheumatics?" asked Gratian.
"Folk don't have it so much hereabout," his mother answered; "but I
don't belong to the moor country, you know. My home was some way from
this, down in the valley, where it's milder but much damper--and damp is
worst of anything for rheumatism. Dear me, I remember my old grandmother
a perfect sight with it--all doubled up--you wondered how she got about.
But she was a marvel of patience, and so cheery too. I only hope I shall
be like her in that, if I live so long, for it's a sore trial to an
active nature to become so nearly helpless."
"Had she nobody to be kind to her when she got so ill?" asked Gratian.
"Oh yes; her children were all good to her, so far as they could be. But
they were all married and about in the world, and busy with their own
families. She was a good deal alone, poor old grandmother."
"Mother," said Gratian quickly. "If you ever got to be like that, I
would never marry or go about in the world. I'd stay at home to be a
comfort to you. I'd run all your messages and do everything I could for
you. Mother, I wish you'd let me be more use to you now already, even
though you're not so ill."
Mrs. Conyfer smiled, but there was more pleasure than amusement in her
smile.
"I do think being at the Big House has done you good, Gratian. You never
used to notice or think of things so much before you went there," she
said. "And you're getting very handy, there's no doubt. I hope I shall
never be so laid aside, but I'm sure you'd do your best, my dear. Now I
think I shall go to bed, and you must be off too. Father's out still--he
and Jonas have so much to see to these cold nights, seeing that all the
creatures are warm and sheltered. There's snow not far off, they were
saying. The wind's in the north."
Gratian's dreams were very grotesque that night. He dreamt that his
mother was turned into a sea-gull, all except her face, which remained
the same. And she could neither walk nor fly, she was so lame and
stiff, or else it was that her wings were cut--he was not sure which.
Then he heard Green-wings's voice saying, "She only wants a sight of the
sea to make her well. Gratian, you should take her to the sea; call the
cocks and hens to help you;" and with that he thought he opened his eyes
and found himself on the terrace where he had been walking with Fergus,
and there was a beautiful little carriage drawn by about a dozen cocks
and hens; but when he would have got in, Fergus seemed to push him back,
saying, "Not yet, not yet, your mother first," and Fergus kept looking
for Mrs. Conyfer as if he did not know that she was the poor sea-gull,
standing there looking very funny with the little red knitted shawl on
that Gratian's mother wore when it was a chilly morning. And just then
there came flying down from above, Gratian's four friends. Nobody seemed
to see them but himself, and the cocks and hens began making such a
noise that he felt quite confused.
"Oh, do take poor mother," he called out--for there was no use trying to
make any one else understand--"Green-wings and all of you, do take poor
mother."
"Not without you, Gratian," replied Gray-wings's sharp voice. "It's your
place to look after your mother," and as she spoke she stooped towards
him and he felt her cold breath, and with the start it gave him he
awoke.
The door of his room had blown open, and the window was rattling, and
the clothes had slipped off on one side. No wonder he had dreamt he was
cold. He covered himself up again and went to sleep.
Mrs. Conyfer was up as usual the next morning. She said she was better,
but she limped a little as she walked, and Gratian did not like to see
it, though she assured him it did not hurt her.
"I shall take a rest on Sunday," she said, "and then you may tend me a
bit, Gratian. He's as handy as a girl," she added, turning to the farmer
with a smile. And Mr. Conyfer patted his son's head.
"That's right," he said; "always be good to your mother."
"Winter is really coming," thought Gratian, as he ran to school, and he
glanced up at the sky wondering if snow were at last on the way.
It held off however for some little time yet.
It was on the third day after this that Gratian on his way home was
rather surprised to meet Mr. Cornelius returning as if from the Farm.
The school-children knew that the master had been somewhere, for he had
left the school in charge of one or two of the head boys and his sister,
who lived with him and taught the girls sewing.
He smiled and nodded at Gratian, but did not speak, and the boy could
not help wondering if he had been at Four Winds, and why. And as soon as
he got home he ran eagerly in to ask.
"Has the master been here, mother? What did he come for?" he called out.
His father and mother were both together in the kitchen, talking rather
earnestly.
His father looked at him as he answered--
"Yes, Gratian," he said, "Mr. Cornelius has been here. He had something
important to talk to us about. After you have had your tea and done your
lessons we will tell you."
"I haven't any lessons, father," he replied. "We had time to do them
this afternoon when the master was out."
So as soon as tea was over he was told what it was.
"Your friends at the Big House," began the farmer, "are leaving soon.
They daren't stay once it gets really cold. You'll be sorry to lose
them, my boy?"
Gratian felt a lump rise in his throat, but he tried to answer
cheerfully.
"Yes, father. They've been so good to me. I knew they'd have to go some
time, but I tried not to think of it. The lady has taught me so many
things I never knew before. I'll try not to forget them."
"She has been very good to you, and she wants to be still more. That's
what Cornelius came about. I don't want to make you vain, Gratian, but
she thinks, and Cornelius thinks--and they should know--that there's the
making of something out of the common in you--that, if you are taught
and trained the right way, you may come to be something a good bit
higher than a plain moorland farmer."
Gratian listened with wide-opened eyes.
"I know," he said breathlessly, "I've felt it sometimes. I don't rightly
know what. I'd like to learn--I'd like to----oh, father, I can't say
what I mean. It's as if there were so many thoughts in me that I can't
say," and the child leaned his head on his mother's shoulder and burst
into tears.
The farmer and his wife looked at each other. They were simple
unlettered folk, but for all that there was something in them that
"understood."
"My boy, my little Gratian," said the mother, in tones that she but
seldom used; "don't cry, my dear. Listen to father."
And in a moment or two the child raised his still tearful eyes, and the
farmer went on.
"It's just that," he said. "It's just because you can't rightly say,
that we want you to learn. No one can tell as yet what your talent may
be, or if perhaps it is not, so to speak, but an everyday one after all.
If so, no harm will be done; for you will be in wise hands, and you will
come home again to Four Winds and follow in your father's and
grandfather's steps. But your friends think you should have a better
chance of learning and seeing for yourself than I can give you here. And
the lady has written to her husband, and he's quite willing, and so
it's, so to speak, all settled. You are to go with them when they leave
here, Gratian, and for a year or so you are to have lessons at home with
the little boy, who isn't yet strong enough to go to school. And by the
end of that time it'll be easier to see what you are best fitted for.
You'll have teaching of all kinds--music and drawing, and all sorts of
book-learning. It's a handsome offer, there's no denying."
And the tears quite disappeared from Gratian's bright eyes, and his
whole face glowed with hope and satisfaction.
"I'll do my best, father. I can promise you that. You shall have no call
to be ashamed of me. It's very good of you and mother to let me go. But
I shall come home again before very long--I shan't be long without
seeing you?"
"Oh yes--you shall come home after a while of course. Anyway for a
visit, and to see how it will be best to do. We're not going to give you
away altogether, you may be sure," said the farmer with a little attempt
at a joke.
But the mother did not speak. She kissed the boy as she rarely kissed
him, and whispered "God bless you, my dear," when she bade him
good-night.
"I wonder if it's all come of our giving him such an outlandish name!"
said Mrs. Conyfer with a rather melancholy smile.
And Gratian fell asleep with his mind in a whirl.
"I should like to talk about it to my godmothers," was almost his last
thought. "I wonder if I shall still see them sometimes when I am far
from Four Winds."
And the next morning when he woke, he lay looking round his little room
and thinking how much he liked it, and how happy he had been in it. He
was beginning to realise that no good is all good, no light without
shadow.
But there seemed no shadow or drawback of any kind the next day when he
went to the Big House to talk it all over with the lady and Fergus.
Fergus was too delighted for words.
"It is like a story in a book, isn't it, Gratian?" he said. "And if you
turn out a great man, then the world will thank mother and me for having
found you."
Gratian blushed a little.
"I don't know about being a _great_ man," he said, "but I want to find
out really what it is I can do best, and then it will be my own fault if
I don't do _something_ good."
"Yes, my boy--that is exactly what I want you to feel," said Fergus's
mother.
But Gratian was anxious to know what his four friends had to say about
it.
"I don't think it's very kind of none of you to come to speak to me,"
he said aloud on his way home. "I know you're not far off--all of you.
I'm sure I heard Gray-wings scolding outside last night."
A sound of faint laughter up above him seemed to answer.
"Oh there you are, Gray-wings, I thought as much," he said, buttoning up
his jacket, for it was very cold. But he had hardly spoken before he
heard, nearer than the laughter had been, a soft sigh.
"I never forget you--remember, Gratian, whenever you want me--whenever
in sor--row."
"That's Green-wings," he said to himself. "But why should she talk of
sorrow when I'm so happy--happier than ever in my life, I think. She
_is_ of rather too melancholy a nature."
He ran on--the door was latched--he hurried into the kitchen. There was
no one there.
"Where can mother be?" he thought. He heard steps moving upstairs and
turned to go there. Halfway up he met Madge, the servant, coming down.
Her face looked anxious and distressed through all its rosiness.
"Oh the poor missis," she said. "She's had to go to bed. The pains in
her ankles and knees got so bad--I'm afeared she's going to be really
very ill."
Gratian ran past her into his mother's room.
"Don't be frightened," Mrs. Conyfer said at once. "It's only that my
rheumatism is very bad to-day. I'll be better in the morning, dear. I
must be well with you going away so soon."
And when the farmer came in she met him with the same cheerful tone,
though it was evident she was suffering severely.
But Gratian sat by her bedside all the evening, doing all he could. He
was grave and silent, for the thought was deep in his heart--
"I can't go away--I can't and I mustn't if mother is going to be really
ill. Poor mother! I'm sure my godmothers wouldn't think I should."