LEARNING TO WAIT
"If all the beauty in the earth
And skies and hearts of men
Were gently gathered at its birth,
And loved and born again."
MATTHEW BROWNE
But the godmothers seemed to have forgotten him. He went sadly to
bed--and the tears came to his eyes when he remembered how that very
evening he had thought of himself as "happier than he had ever been in
his life." He fell asleep however as one does at nine years old,
whatever troubles one has, and slept soundly for some hours. Then he was
awakened by his door opening and some one coming in. It was his father.
"Gratian, wake up. Your mother is very ill I'm afraid. Some one must go
for the doctor--old Jonas is the nearest. I can't leave her--she seems
nearly unconscious. Dress yourself as quick as you can, and tell Jonas
to bring Dr. Spense as soon as possible."
Gratian was up and dressed almost at once. He felt giddy and miserable,
and yet with a strange feeling over him that he had known it all before.
He dared not try to think clearly--he dared not face the terrible fear
at the bottom of his heart. It was his first experience of real trouble.
As he hurried off he met Madge at the door; she too had been wakened up.
A sudden thought struck him.
"Madge," he said, "if I'm not back quickly, tell father not to be
frightened. I think I'll go all the way for the doctor myself. It'll
save time not to go waking old Jonas, and I know he couldn't go as fast
as I can."
Madge looked admiringly and yet half-anxiously at the boy. He seemed
such a little fellow to go all that way alone in the dark winter night.
"I daresay you're right," she said, "and yet I'm half-afraid. Hadn't you
better ask master first?"
Gratian shook his head.
"No, no. It will be all right. Don't trouble him about me unless he
asks," and off he ran.
He went as quickly as he could find his way--it was not a _very_ dark
night--till he was fairly out on the moorland path. Then he stood still.
"White-wings, Green-wings--whichever of you hears me, come and help me.
Dear Green-wings, you said you always would comfort me."
"So she would, surely," said a voice, firmer and colder than hers, but
kindly too, "but at this moment it's more strength than comfort that you
want. Hold out your arms, my boy, there--clasp me tight, don't start at
my cold breath. That's right. Why, I can fly with you as if you were a
snow-flake!"
And again Gratian felt the strange, whirling, rushing sensation, again
he closed his eyes as if he were falling asleep, and knew no more till
he found himself standing in the village street, a few doors from the
doctor's house, and felt, rather than heard, a clear cold whisper of
"Farewell, Gratian, for the present."
And the next morning the neighbours spoke of the sudden northern blast
that had come rushing down from the moors in the night, and wondered it
had not brought the snow with it, little thinking it had brought a
little boy instead!
Dr. Spense was soon awakened, and long as the time always seems to an
anxious watcher by a sick-bed, Farmer Conyfer could scarcely believe his
ears when he heard the rattle of the dogcart wheels up the steep road,
or his eyes when the doctor, followed by Gratian, came up the staircase.
"My boy, but you have done bravely!" said the father in amazement.
"Doctor, I can't understand how he can have been so quick!"
The doctor turned kindly to Gratian.
"Go down, my good child, and warm yourself. I saw the sparkle of a nice
fire in the kitchen--it is a bitter night. I will keep my promise to
you; as I go away I'll look in."
For Gratian, though not able to tell much of his mother's illness, had
begged the doctor to promise to tell him the truth as to what he thought
of her.
"I'd rather know, sir, I would indeed, even if it's very bad," he had
said tremblingly.
And as he sat by the kitchen fire waiting, it seemed to him that never
till now had he in the least understood how he loved his mother.
It was a queer, boisterous night surely. For down the chimney,
well-built and well-seasoned as it was, there came a sudden swirl of
wind. But strangely enough it did not make the fire smoke. And Gratian,
anxious though he was, smiled as a pretty green light seemed suddenly to
dance among the flames. And he was neither surprised nor startled when a
soft voice whispered in his ear:
"I am here, my darling. I _would_ come for one moment, though
White-wings has been trying to blow me away. Keep up your heart--and
don't lose hope."
And just then the doctor came in.
"My boy," he said, as he stood warming his hands at the blaze, "I will
tell you the truth. I am afraid your poor mother is going to be ill for
a good while. She has not taken care of herself. But I have good hopes
that she will recover. And you may do a good deal. I see you are
sensible, and handy, I am sure. You must be instead of a daughter to her
for a while--it will be hard on your father, and you may be of great
help."
Gratian thanked him, with the tears, which would not now be kept back,
in his eyes. And promising to come again that same day, for it was now
past midnight, the doctor went away.
Some days passed--the fever was high at first, and poor Mrs. Conyfer
suffered much. But almost sooner than the doctor had ventured to hope,
she began to get a little better. Within a week she was out of danger.
And then came Fergus's mother again. She had already come to ask for
news of her little friend's mother, and in the first great anxiety she
said nothing of the plans that had been made. But now she asked to see
the farmer, and talked with him some time downstairs while Gratian
watched by his mother.
"I am so thankful to be better--so very thankful to be better before you
go, Gratian," said the poor woman.
"Oh yes, dear mother, we cannot be thankful enough," the boy replied. "I
will never forget that night--the night you were so very ill," he said
with a shiver at the thought of it.
"I shall not be able to write much to you, my child," she said. "The
doctor says my hands and joints will be stiff for a good while, but that
I must try not to fret, and to keep an easy mind. I will try--but it
won't be easy for me that's always been so stirring. And I shall miss
you at first, of course. But if you're well and happy--and it would have
been sad and dull for you here with me so different."
Just then the farmer's voice came sounding up the stairs.
"Gratian," it said, "come down here."
The boy obeyed. But first he stooped and kissed the pale face on the
pillow.
"Dear mother," he said.
His father was standing by the kitchen fire when he went in, and the
lady was seated in one of the big old arm-chairs. She looked at him with
fresh love and interest in her sweet blue eyes.
"Dear Gratian," she said, "Fergus is fretting for you sadly. Your father
has been telling me what a clever sick-nurse you are. And indeed I was
sure of it from your way with Fergus. I am so very, very glad your dear
mother is better."
"She will miss him a good deal at first, I'm afraid," said the farmer,
"but I must do my best. It's about your going, my boy--the lady has
already put it off some days for your sake. It's very good of you,
ma'am--_very_ good. I'll get him ready as well as I can. You'll excuse
it if his things are not just in such shipshape order as his mother
would have had them."
"Of course, of course," she replied. "Then the day after to-morrow. I
_daren't_ wait longer--the doctor says Fergus must not risk more cold as
yet."
Gratian had listened in silence. But now he turned, first to his father
and then to the lady, and spoke.
"Father, dear lady," he began, "don't be vexed with me--oh don't. But I
can't go now. I've thought about it all these days--I'm--I'm
_dreadfully_ sorry," and here his voice faltered. "I wanted to learn and
to understand. But it wouldn't be right. I know it wouldn't. Mother
would not get well so quick without me, perhaps she'd never get well at
all. And no learning or seeing things would do me really good if I knew
I wasn't doing right. Father--tell me that you think I'm right."
The lady and the farmer looked at each other; there were tears in the
lady's eyes.
"Is he right?" asked Gratian's father.
She bent her head.
"I'm afraid he is," she said, "but it is only fair to let him quite
understand. It isn't merely putting it off for a while, Gratian," she
went on; "I am afraid it may be for altogether. We are not likely to
come back to this part of the country again, and my husband, though
kind, is a little peculiar. He has a nephew whom he will send for as a
companion to Fergus if you don't come. We should like you better, but it
is our duty to do something for Jack, and Fergus needs a companion, so
it seems only natural to take him instead of sending him away to
school."
"Of course," said the farmer, looking at his son.
"Yes, I understand," said Gratian. "But it doesn't make any difference.
If I never learnt anything more--of learning, I mean--if I never left
Four Winds or saw any of the beautiful places and things in the world,
it _shouldn't_ make any difference. I couldn't ever be happy or--or--do
anything really good or great," he went on, blushing a little, "if I
began by doing wrong--could I?"
"He is right," said his father and Fergus's mother together.
And so it was settled.
The person the most difficult to satisfy that he _was_ right was--no,
not Fergus--sorry as he was he loved his own mother too much not to
agree--poor Mrs. Conyfer herself, for whom the sacrifice was to be made.
Gratian had to talk to her for ever so long, to assure her that it was
for his own sake as well--that he would have been too miserable about
her to have got any good from his new opportunities. And in the end she
gave in, and allowed herself to enjoy the comfort of her little boy's
care and companionship during her long weary time of slow recovery.
Fergus and his mother did not leave a day too soon. With early January
the winter spirits, chained hitherto, broke forth in fury. Never had
such falls of snow been known even in that wild region, and many a night
Gratian, lying awake, unable to sleep through the rattle and racket,
felt a strange excitement at the thought that all this was the work of
his mysterious protectors.
"White-wings and Gray-wings seem really going mad," he thought once or
twice. But the sound of laughter, mingling with the whistling and
roaring and shrieking in the chimney, reassured him.
"No fear, no fear," he seemed to hear; "we must let our spirits out
sometimes. But you'd better not go to school for a day or two, small
Gratian, all the same."
And several "days or two" that winter it was impossible for him to go to
school, or for any one to come to the Farm, so heavy and dark even at
mid-day were the storm-clouds, so deep lay the treacherous snow-drifts.
Not even the doctor could reach them. But fortunately Mrs. Conyfer was
by this time much better. All she now required was care and rest.
"Oh, mother dear, how glad I am that I did not leave you!" Gratian would
often say. "How dull and dreary and long the days would have seemed! You
couldn't even have got letters from me."
And the lessons he learnt in that winter of patient waiting, of quiet
watching and self-forgetfulness, bore their fruit.
And his four friends did not forget him. There came now and then a soft
breath from the two gentle sisters whose voices were hushed to all
others for a time, and more than once in some mysterious way Gratian
felt himself summoned out to the lonely moorland by the two whose
carnival time it was.
And standing out there with the great sweep of open country all around
him, with his hair tossed by White-wings's giant touch, or his cheeks
tingling with a sharp blast from mischievous Gray-wings, Gratian laughed
with pleasure and daring enjoyment.
"I am your child too--Spirits of the North and East. You can't frighten
me. I defy you."
And the two laughed and shouted with wild glee at their foster-child's
great spirit.
"He does us credit," they cried, though old Jonas passing by heard
nothing but a shriek of fresh fury up above, and shouted to Gratian to
hasten within shelter.
But winter never lasts for ever. Spring came again--slow and
reluctant--and it was long before Gray-wings consented to take her
yearly nap and let her sister of the west soothe and comfort the
storm-tossed country. And then, as day by day Gratian made his way to
school, he watched with awakened and ever-awaking eyes the exquisite
eternal beauty of the summer's gradual approach, till at last
Golden-wings clasped him in her arms one morning and told him her joy at
being able to return.
"For I love this country, though no one will believe it," she said. "The
scent of the gorse and the heather is delicious and refreshing after the
strong spice perfumes of my own home;" and many a story she told the
child, and many a song she sang to him through the long summer
days--which he loved to spend in his old way, out among the heather with
Jonas and Watch and the browsing sheep.
For the holidays had begun. His mother was well, quite well, by now,
and Gratian was free to do as he chose.
He was out on the moors one day--a lovely cloudless day, that would have
been sultry anywhere else--when old Jonas startled him by saying
suddenly:
"Did you know, Master Gratian, that the gentry's come back to the Big
House?"
Gratian sat straight up in his astonishment.
"No, Jonas. How did you hear it?"
"Down in the village, quite sudden-like. It was all got ready for them
last week, but there's been none of us down there much lately."
Gratian felt too excited to lie still and dream any more.
[Illustration: It was Fergus, little lame Fergus, mounted on a tiny
rough-coated pony, coming towards him!]
"I'll ask mother if I may go and see," he said jumping up. And off he
ran. But an unexpected sight met him at a stone's throw from the Farm.
It was Fergus, little lame Fergus, mounted on a tiny rough-coated pony,
coming towards him! And the joy of the meeting who could describe?
"We tried to keep it a secret till it was quite sure," said the boy.
"There was some difficulty about it, but it is all settled now. Father
has taken the Big House from our cousin, and we are to live at it half
the year. We are all there--my sisters--and my big brother comes
sometimes--and mother of course. All except Jack. Jack has gone to sea.
He was very nice, but he hated lessons--he only wanted to go to sea. So
we want you now, Gratian--my own Gratian. I have a tutor, and you are to
learn with me all the summer and to go away with us in the winter now
your mother is well, so that you will find out what you want to be. It
is for me we have come here. I must always be lame, Gratian. The doctors
can't cure me," and the bright voice faltered. "But I shall get strong
all the same if I live here in this beautiful air. And I shall be very
happy, for I can learn to play on the organ--and that makes up for all."
And all came about as Fergus said.
The summer and the autumn that followed, Gratian studied with his
friend's tutor. And the winter after, greatly to his mother's joy, he
went away as had been planned before. But not for ever of course. No
great length of time passed without his returning to his birthplace.
"I should die," he said sometimes, "if I could not from time to time
stand at the old porch and feel the breath of the four winds about me."
This is only the story of the very opening of the life of a boy who
lived to make his mark among men. How he did so, how he found his voice,
it is not for me to tell. But he had early learnt to choose the right,
and so we know he prospered.
Besides--was he not the godchild of the Four Winds of Heaven?
THE END.
Mr. A. C. SWINBURNE, in _The Nineteenth Century_, writes:--
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