We must now leave Pennie at Nearminster for a while and return to
Easney, where things had been quite put out of their usual order by the
arrival of the measles. The whole house was upset and nothing either in
nursery or school-room went on as usual, for everything had to give way
to the invalids.
There was always someone ill. First Dickie, who took it "very hard,"
Nurse said. Then just as she was getting better the baby sickened, and
before anxiety was over about her, Ambrose began to complain and shortly
took to his bed. Only Nancy and David showed no signs of it, and to
their great annoyance had to continue their lessons as usual, and share
in none of the privileges of being ill.
They were particularly jealous of Ambrose, who seemed to have all manner
of treats just now--mother reading aloud to him the sort of books he
liked best, cook making jellies for him, and Nurse constantly to be met
on the stairs carrying something very nice on a tray. Nancy and David
not only felt themselves to be of no importance at all, but if they made
the least noise in the house they were at once sharply rebuked. They
began to think it was their turn to be petted and coaxed, and have
everyone waiting on them; but to their own disappointment and the relief
of the household their turn never came, and they remained in the most
perfect health.
Perhaps Ambrose, in spite of all his privileges, did not feel himself
much to be envied. It was nice, of course, to have mother reading
_Ivanhoe_ aloud, and to be surrounded by attention, and for everyone to
be so particularly kind, but there were other things that were not nice.
It was not nice to have such bad headaches, or to lie broad awake at
night and feel so hot, and try in vain to find a cool place in bed. And
it was not nice to have such funny dreams, half awake and half asleep,
in which he was always fighting or struggling with something much
stronger than himself.
Through all these conflicts he had a confused sense that if he overcame
his enemy his father would trust him again, for since the adventure of
the crock the vicar's words had always been on Ambrose's mind. He had
been continually on the look-out for some great occasion in which he
might prove that he was trustworthy, and now that he was feverish and
ill this idea haunted him in all sorts of strange shapes. Sometimes it
was a tall black knight in mailed armour, with whom he must fight
single-handed; sometimes a great winged creature covered with scales;
sometimes a swift thing like a lizard which he tried to catch and could
not, and which wearied him by darting under rocks and through crevices
where he could not follow.
But whatever shape they took, in one respect Ambrose's dreams were
always alike--he was never successful. Always striving, and pursuing,
and fighting, and never victorious, it was no wonder that he was worn
out and quite exhausted when morning came. As he got better, and the
fever left him, the dreams left him too, but the idea that had run
through them was still there, and he thought about it a great deal.
What could he do to make his father trust him? He pondered over this
question in his own mind without talking of it to anyone. If Pennie had
been there he could have told her about it, but he knew Nancy would only
laugh, so he kept it to himself and it got stronger every day. This was
partly because he had so much more time than usual on his hands, before
he was considered quite well enough to go into the school-room and
employ himself with the others. He was allowed, however, to sit up and
to read as many story-books as he liked. They were full of stirring
adventure and hairbreadth escape. It was quite a common everyday thing
in them for a boy to save a person's life and risk his own. Why could
not something of the same nature happen at Easney?
Certainly it was a very quiet place, with no wild animals or dangerous
mountains, but still there might be a chance even at Easney of doing
something remarkable. Dickie might tumble into a pond and he might save
her life--only there was no water deep enough to drown her, and if there
were he could not swim. Or the house might catch fire. That would do
better. It would be in the night, and Ambrose would be the only one
awake, and would have to rouse his father, who slept at the other end of
the house. He would wrap himself in a blanket, force his way through
smothering smoke and scorching flames, cross over burning planks with
bare feet, climb up a blazing flight of stairs just tottering before
they fell with a crash, and finally stand undismayed at his father's
side. Then he could say quietly, "Father, the house is on fire, but do
not be alarmed;" and his father would soon put everything right. After
which he would turn to Ambrose and say, "My son, you have saved our
lives by your courage and presence of mind. Henceforth I know that I
can trust you."
How easy and natural all this seemed in fancy!
It was late in October when the doctor paid his last visit to the
Vicarage and declared everyone to be quite well again, but he advised
change of air for Dickie, who did not get very strong. Shortly
afterwards, therefore, it was settled that she and the baby should go
away for a month with Mr and Mrs Hawthorne. This would leave only
Ambrose, Nancy, and David at home with Miss Grey, and the nursery would
be empty, which seemed a very strange state of things. But there was
something else settled which was stranger still to Ambrose, and he
hardly knew if he liked or dreaded it. He was to go every morning to
learn Latin with Dr Budge.
Although it was strange, it was not a new idea, only it had been talked
of so long that he had come to feel it would never really happen. He
knew how vexed his father was that he could not give more regular time
and attention to teaching him Latin. When he knocked at the study door
with his books under his arm, it often happened that the vicar would be
full of other business, and say, "I can't have you this morning,
Ambrose, we must do double another day." But when the next time came it
was often the same thing over again, so that Ambrose's Latin did not get
on much.
Lately his father had said more often than ever, "I really will try to
arrange with Dr Budge," and now it had actually been done.
Now Dr Budge was an old book-worm, supposed to be engaged in writing
some mighty and learned work, who lived in a cottage on the Nearminster
road. The children knew it and its owner very well, for it was not more
than half a mile from the rectory, and they passed it whenever they
drove into Nearminster. Its casement window was generally open, so that
they could see him bending over his papers with his greenish wig pushed
back from his forehead, and his large nose almost touching the top of
his pen. The doctor was a tall, portly person with a red face, and had
the air of being deeply occupied with some inward subject, so that he
could spare no attention to outward things.
When he came to see their father, to whom he paid long visits, the
children never expected him to notice them, or even to know them apart
from each other, though he must have seen them so often. If the doctor
ventured on a name it was always the wrong one, and lately he seemed to
think it best to call them all "David," which saved trouble and which no
one thought of correcting.
And now he was to be Ambrose's master. There was something rather awful
in it, though at the same time there was a good deal to be proud of in
having a master all to one's self. Ambrose wondered what Pennie would
think of it, and wished she were at home that he might hear her opinion.
"Of course he'll call you `David,'" said Nancy, "and I should think he'd
often forget you're in the room at all. Wouldn't that be fun?"
"Father's going to take me to see him to-morrow," said Ambrose.
"Perhaps if he says very plainly `This is my son _Ambrose_,' Dr Budge
will remember."
"Not a bit likely," said Nancy. "He met me in the garden the last time
he was here, and said, `How are you, David?' Now you know I'm not a bit
like David. I don't believe he sees us at all when he looks at us."
"I think," said Ambrose, "that when people are very wise and know a
great deal, that perhaps they always get like that."
"Then I like silly people best," said Nancy; but I don't believe that's
true. Father's as wise as he can be, and he always knows people apart,
and calls them by their right names.
On their way to the doctor's house the next day the vicar told Ambrose
that it was a great honour and advantage to have such a master as Dr
Budge.
"I hope you will always remember," he said, "that he is a great scholar
and a very wise man, and that it is extremely kind of him to be willing
to teach a little boy like you. It is out of friendship for me that he
does it, and I think I can trust you to do your best, and at any rate
not to give him more trouble than you need."
The word "trust" caught Ambrose's attention, and while his father went
on talking he began to make all sorts of resolutions in his own mind.
In this way he might show him what he could do, and regain his good
opinion. He saw himself working so hard, and learning so fast, that Dr
Budge would be struck with amazement. Nothing would be too difficult,
no lesson too long. By the time they reached the doctor's gate Ambrose
was master of the Latin tongue, and receiving praise and admiration from
all his relations.
But now he had to come back to reality and to face his new master, who
was a very solid fact, and he walked in by his father's side rather
soberly. Everything was quite new and strange, for he had never been
inside the cottage before.
They were shown straight into the study where the doctor sat at work.
It was a long low room with a window at each end, one of which looked
into the road and one into the little garden. The walls were lined with
shelves, but there was not nearly enough room in them for the books,
which had overflowed everywhere, on the table, on the chairs, on the
window-seat, and on the floor, where they stood in great piles on each
side of the doctor. He seemed to be quite built in with books as he sat
at his writing, and rose from among them with difficulty to greet his
visitors, stumbling as he advanced to shake hands.
Ambrose noticed with awe that he looked bigger indoors, and that his
head almost touched the low ceiling when he stood upright.
"This is Ambrose," said the vicar, "your future pupil."
Ambrose held out his hand, but the doctor took no notice of it. He put
one large finger under the boy's chin and turned his face upwards.
"Shall we make a scholar of you?" he asked in a deep voice.
Ambrose blinked helplessly up into the broad face so high above him, as
much dazzled and confused as though he had been trying to stare at the
sun.
His father laughed. "You will find him very ignorant, I fear," he said;
"but I think he will be industrious."
"We shall see, we shall see," said the doctor, and his small eyes
twinkled kindly. "By the way," he said, suddenly turning from Ambrose
and lifting a great volume from the pile on the floor, "here is the
passage I spoke of the other day."
They both bent over the book with such earnest attention that Ambrose
knew they would say nothing more about him for some time. Much
relieved, he edged himself on to the corner of a chair that was not
quite covered with books and papers, and looked round him.
Many curious things caught his eye, huddled together without any order
on the mantel-piece, and among the books on the window-seat--fossils and
odd-looking shells, cobwebby bottles, in which floated strange objects
without shape or make. Splendid things for a museum, thought Ambrose,
as his eyes roved among them, but how dusty and untidy, and no labels.
How careful he and David had been to keep their museum neat and well
arranged! The poor museum! Since the unlucky venture with the crock
there had not been one single curiosity added to it. Disgrace seemed to
hang over it, and it was seldom spoken of among the children at all.
Dr Budge's curiosities brought all this back to Ambrose's mind, and he
quite longed to dust and label them for him. He might be a very learned
man, but he certainly was not an orderly one.
Coming to this conclusion, he turned his eyes to the window and
discovered something there which interested him still more, for in a
wicker cage above the doctor's head there was a lively little jackdaw.
He was a smart active bird with glossy plumage, and looked strangely out
of place amongst the quiet old brown books and dusty objects in the
room. Ambrose gazed at him with satisfaction. He had a jackdaw at
home, and when he saw this one he felt at once that he and his future
master would have one thing in common if they both liked jackdaws. The
bird's presence made him feel less shy and strange, so that Dr Budge
was no longer quite such an awful person, and when he said good-bye he
was able to look up at him of his own accord.
After this the day soon came when father, mother, Dickie, baby, and
nurse were all driven off to the station with their boxes, and parcels,
and bundles of shawls. Added to these, all sorts of toys were handed in
at the last moment, which could not be packed, and which Dickie refused
to leave behind. She had been allowed to have her own way more than
ever since her illness, and now when she wanted to take all sorts of
unreasonable things no one liked to oppose her. The black kitten was to
go also, she had settled, but it was nowhere to be found when the party
was starting, David having wisely shut it up in the museum. Andrew
drove off quickly to catch the train, and the last to be seen of Dickie
was a kicking struggling form in Nurse's arms, and a face heated with
anger.
The house seemed strangely dull and empty when they were really gone,
but perhaps Ambrose felt it least, for he had his new lessons to fill
his thoughts, and his mind was firmly fixed on making wonderful progress
before his father came back.
After one or two lessons, however, this did not seem such a very easy
thing to do, for he soon began to find out how very little he knew, and
to have a dim idea that there was an enormous quantity to learn.
What a wonderful lot Dr Budge must know, and he seemed to be always
learning more! When he was not actually occupied with Ambrose's lessons
he was so entirely taken up with his own writing that Nancy's remark was
perhaps true--he had forgotten his pupil altogether!
And yet, when Ambrose said the lesson he had prepared, or ventured to
ask some question about the exercise he was doing, Dr Budge's mind came
back at once from its own pursuits. He gave the most earnest attention
to Ambrose's little difficulties, and did not rest till he was sure that
they were cleared away; then he took up his squeaking quill-pen again,
gave a push to his wig, and scribbled away harder than ever.
During these hours of study the jackdaw's presence was a relief both to
Ambrose and his master, though in a different way. As he sat opposite
the cage, with one elbow on the table and his head resting on his hand,
Ambrose would raise his eyes from his grammar to the wicker cage with a
feeling of sympathy. He and Jack were both shut up in cages, only that
Jack had no Latin to learn.
But the doctor went further than this. Sometimes he came to a
stand-still in his writing, murmured to himself, frowned, walked heavily
up and down the room, but found no way out of the difficulty. Then, as
a last resource, he would open the door of Jack's cage and invite him to
perch on his finger. Jack would step jauntily down, raising all the
grey feathers on his head till it was twice its usual size. Absently,
but with great tenderness, the doctor would scratch it with one large
forefinger; then, suddenly, the word or sentence he sought returning to
his mind, he would bundle Jack into his cage, snatch up his pen, and
begin to write furiously. Jack never failed to repay him by a vicious
dig at his hand, which was sometimes successful, but this the doctor
never seemed to notice.
"Though," thought Ambrose as he watched all this in silence, "it must
hurt him, because I know how hard jackdaws peck."
He would have liked a little conversation on the subject with his
master, for he felt that though he did not know much Latin, he could
hold his own about jackdaws. There had been many at the Vicarage, which
had all come to unexpected or dreadful ends, and Ambrose was thoroughly
acquainted with their ways and habits.
But he was still far too much in awe of Dr Budge to venture on any
subject apart from his lessons, and he contented himself with watching
him and his bird with the closest interest.
They were an odd pair of friends. One so trim and neat, with such
slender legs and such a glossy black toilette; the other so crumpled and
shabby, with no regard for appearances at all, and his clothes never
properly brushed. As he held himself upright on the doctor's finger,
the jackdaw had the air of considering himself far the superior being.
Things went on in this way for about a fortnight, and Ambrose felt quite
as strange and far-away from Dr Budge as the day he had begun his
lessons, when something happened which changed his ideas very much.
One morning, arriving at his usual hour with his books under his arm,
and his exercise carefully written out, he was surprised to find the
study empty. The doctor's chair was pushed back from the table as
though he had risen hastily, and his pen was lying across his paper,
where it had made a great blot of ink.
Lifting his eyes to the cage in the window, Ambrose saw that that was
empty also; the little door was open, and there was no smart, active
figure within. What did it all mean? While he was wondering, the
doctor came slowly into the room with a troubled frown on his brow.
He greeted Ambrose, and sat down in his usual seat, but there was
evidently something amiss with him, although he was as attentive as ever
to his pupil's needs. Ambrose noticed, however, that when he had done
saying his lessons, and had an exercise to write by himself, Dr Budge
could not settle down as usual to his own work. After a short time he
began to sigh and fidget, and then took his usual heavy walk up and down
the room, stopping from force of habit at the jackdaw's cage, and half
raising his hand as though to invite him to come out. When he had seen
this several times, Ambrose longed to ask, "Is the jackdaw lost?" for he
now began to feel sure this was the case. It was quite natural, he
thought; jackdaws always did get lost, and he knew what a trouble it was
sometimes to get them back. If the doctor would only talk about it he
might be able to help him, but he had not the courage to open the
subject himself.
So he went on with his lessons in silence, but by the time the hour came
for him to go away, he had said the words over so often to himself that
they seemed to come out without any effort of his own.
"Please, sir, have you lost the jackdaw?"
The doctor looked across the table. There was Ambrose's eager little
face all aglow with sympathy and interest.
"I'm afraid so," he answered. "And what I fear is, that he has flown
out of the window into the road. There is no trace of him in the
garden."
"Was his wing cut?" inquired Ambrose, drawing nearer and looking up at
the empty cage.
The doctor shook his head.
"Then, you see," said Ambrose gravely and instructively, "it'll be much
more difficult to find him. He can fly ever so far, and even if he
wanted to get back he might lose his way. Jackdaws always ought to have
their wings cut."
"Ought they?" said the doctor humbly. He and his pupil seemed to have
changed places. It was now Ambrose who took the lead, for he felt
himself on firm ground.
"We lost two that hadn't got their wings cut," he continued, "so now we
always cut their wings."
The doctor listened with the greatest respect, and seemed to weigh the
matter in his mind. Then he said rather uncertainly:
"But how about the cats?"
Ambrose admitted that danger, but was still sure of his first point. It
was best to cut a jackdaw's wing.
"I wonder," he said, looking at the other window, "if you're quite sure
he's not in the garden. P'r'aps he's up in some tree."
The doctor shook his head.
"The garden has been thoroughly searched," he said. "There are very few
trees there."
"Might I look?" asked Ambrose eagerly. Dr Budge meekly led the way
into his little garden. Certainly there was not much room in it for the
jackdaw to hide, and it only needed a glance to see that he was not
there. The only possible place was in a large old medlar-tree which
stood in the middle of the grass plot, with a wooden bench and table
under it. It was nearly bare of leaves now, and a few sparrows were
hopping about in its branches. Ambrose turned his eyes to the roof of a
barn which ran along one side of the garden.
"P'r'aps he's flown over into the farm-yard," he said.
"I sent there early this morning," replied the doctor dejectedly, "and
no one had seen the bird."
Big and learned as he was, he looked so cast, down that Ambrose forgot
that he had ever been afraid of him, and only desired to give him
comfort and help.
"Does he know the garden well?" he asked.
Dr Budge nodded. "His cage has often hung in the medlar-tree in the
summer," he said, "when I've been sitting out here."
"Let's hang it there now," said Ambrose, "and p'r'aps if he gets hungry
he'll come back to where he's been fed."
The doctor seemed a little cheered by this suggestion, and with
Ambrose's help the cage was soon fixed in a good position in the
medlar-tree, where the jackdaw could not fail to see it if he came back.
All his favourite delicacies in the shape of food were then placed in
it, and by this time it was long past Ambrose's usual hour for going
home.
As they said good-bye, Dr Budge's eyes rested on him with a new
expression. Ambrose felt sure he would never mistake him for David
again, and would have confidence in his opinion for the future, at any
rate about jackdaws. All the way home his mind was busy with plans for
getting back the lost bird.