It was during the voyage that Cedric's mother told him that his home was
not to be hers; and when he first understood it, his grief was so
great that Mr. Havisham saw that the Earl had been wise in making the
arrangements that his mother should be quite near him, and see him
often; for it was very plain he could not have borne the separation
otherwise. But his mother managed the little fellow so sweetly and
lovingly, and made him feel that she would be so near him, that, after a
while, he ceased to be oppressed by the fear of any real parting.
“My house is not far from the Castle, Ceddie,” she repeated each time
the subject was referred to--“a very little way from yours, and you can
always run in and see me every day, and you will have so many things
to tell me! and we shall be so happy together! It is a beautiful place.
Your papa has often told me about it. He loved it very much; and you
will love it too.”
“I should love it better if you were there,” his small lordship said,
with a heavy little sigh.
He could not but feel puzzled by so strange a state of affairs, which
could put his “Dearest” in one house and himself in another.
The fact was that Mrs. Errol had thought it better not to tell him why
this plan had been made.
“I should prefer he should not be told,” she said to Mr. Havisham. “He
would not really understand; he would only be shocked and hurt; and
I feel sure that his feeling for the Earl will be a more natural and
affectionate one if he does not know that his grandfather dislikes me so
bitterly. He has never seen hatred or hardness, and it would be a great
blow to him to find out that any one could hate me. He is so loving
himself, and I am so dear to him! It is better for him that he should
not be told until he is much older, and it is far better for the Earl.
It would make a barrier between them, even though Ceddie is such a
child.”
So Cedric only knew that there was some mysterious reason for the
arrangement, some reason which he was not old enough to understand, but
which would be explained when he was older. He was puzzled; but, after
all, it was not the reason he cared about so much; and after many talks
with his mother, in which she comforted him and placed before him the
bright side of the picture, the dark side of it gradually began to fade
out, though now and then Mr. Havisham saw him sitting in some queer
little old-fashioned attitude, watching the sea, with a very grave face,
and more than once he heard an unchildish sigh rise to his lips.
“I don't like it,” he said once as he was having one of his almost
venerable talks with the lawyer. “You don't know how much I don't like
it; but there are a great many troubles in this world, and you have
to bear them. Mary says so, and I've heard Mr. Hobbs say it too. And
Dearest wants me to like to live with my grandpapa, because, you see,
all his children are dead, and that's very mournful. It makes you
sorry for a man, when all his children have died--and one was killed
suddenly.”
One of the things which always delighted the people who made the
acquaintance of his young lordship was the sage little air he wore
at times when he gave himself up to conversation;--combined with his
occasionally elderly remarks and the extreme innocence and seriousness
of his round childish face, it was irresistible. He was such a handsome,
blooming, curly-headed little fellow, that, when he sat down and nursed
his knee with his chubby hands, and conversed with much gravity, he was
a source of great entertainment to his hearers. Gradually Mr. Havisham
had begun to derive a great deal of private pleasure and amusement from
his society.
“And so you are going to try to like the Earl,” he said.
“Yes,” answered his lordship. “He's my relation, and of course you have
to like your relations; and besides, he's been very kind to me. When a
person does so many things for you, and wants you to have everything you
wish for, of course you'd like him if he wasn't your relation; but when
he's your relation and does that, why, you're very fond of him.”
“Do you think,” suggested Mr. Havisham, “that he will be fond of you?”
“Well,” said Cedric, “I think he will, because, you see, I'm his
relation, too, and I'm his boy's little boy besides, and, well, don't
you see--of course he must be fond of me now, or he wouldn't want me to
have everything that I like, and he wouldn't have sent you for me.”
“Oh!” remarked the lawyer, “that's it, is it?”
“Yes,” said Cedric, “that's it. Don't you think that's it, too? Of
course a man would be fond of his grandson.”
The people who had been seasick had no sooner recovered from their
seasickness, and come on deck to recline in their steamer-chairs and
enjoy themselves, than every one seemed to know the romantic story of
little Lord Fauntleroy, and every one took an interest in the little
fellow, who ran about the ship or walked with his mother or the tall,
thin old lawyer, or talked to the sailors. Every one liked him; he
made friends everywhere. He was ever ready to make friends. When the
gentlemen walked up and down the deck, and let him walk with them, he
stepped out with a manly, sturdy little tramp, and answered all their
jokes with much gay enjoyment; when the ladies talked to him, there was
always laughter in the group of which he was the center; when he played
with the children, there was always magnificent fun on hand. Among the
sailors he had the heartiest friends; he heard miraculous stories about
pirates and shipwrecks and desert islands; he learned to splice ropes
and rig toy ships, and gained an amount of information concerning
“tops'ls” and “mains'ls,” quite surprising. His conversation had,
indeed, quite a nautical flavor at times, and on one occasion he raised
a shout of laughter in a group of ladies and gentlemen who were sitting
on deck, wrapped in shawls and overcoats, by saying sweetly, and with a
very engaging expression:
“Shiver my timbers, but it's a cold day!”
It surprised him when they laughed. He had picked up this sea-faring
remark from an “elderly naval man” of the name of Jerry, who told him
stories in which it occurred frequently. To judge from his stories of
his own adventures, Jerry had made some two or three thousand voyages,
and had been invariably shipwrecked on each occasion on an island
densely populated with bloodthirsty cannibals. Judging, also, by these
same exciting adventures, he had been partially roasted and eaten
frequently and had been scalped some fifteen or twenty times.
“That is why he is so bald,” explained Lord Fauntleroy to his mamma.
“After you have been scalped several times the hair never grows again.
Jerry's never grew again after that last time, when the King of the
Parromachaweekins did it with the knife made out of the skull of the
Chief of the Wopslemumpkies. He says it was one of the most serious
times he ever had. He was so frightened that his hair stood right
straight up when the king flourished his knife, and it never would lie
down, and the king wears it that way now, and it looks something like a
hair-brush. I never heard anything like the asperiences Jerry has had! I
should so like to tell Mr. Hobbs about them!”
Sometimes, when the weather was very disagreeable and people were
kept below decks in the saloon, a party of his grown-up friends would
persuade him to tell them some of these “asperiences” of Jerry's, and as
he sat relating them with great delight and fervor, there was certainly
no more popular voyager on any ocean steamer crossing the Atlantic than
little Lord Fauntleroy. He was always innocently and good-naturedly
ready to do his small best to add to the general entertainment, and
there was a charm in the very unconsciousness of his own childish
importance.
“Jerry's stories int'rust them very much,” he said to his mamma. “For my
part--you must excuse me, Dearest--but sometimes I should have thought
they couldn't be all quite true, if they hadn't happened to Jerry
himself; but as they all happened to Jerry--well, it's very strange, you
know, and perhaps sometimes he may forget and be a little mistaken, as
he's been scalped so often. Being scalped a great many times might make
a person forgetful.”
It was eleven days after he had said good-bye to his friend Dick before
he reached Liverpool; and it was on the night of the twelfth day that
the carriage in which he and his mother and Mr. Havisham had driven from
the station stopped before the gates of Court Lodge. They could not
see much of the house in the darkness. Cedric only saw that there was a
drive-way under great arching trees, and after the carriage had rolled
down this drive-way a short distance, he saw an open door and a stream
of bright light coming through it.
Mary had come with them to attend her mistress, and she had reached the
house before them. When Cedric jumped out of the carriage he saw one or
two servants standing in the wide, bright hall, and Mary stood in the
door-way.
Lord Fauntleroy sprang at her with a gay little shout.
“Did you get here, Mary?” he said. “Here's Mary, Dearest,” and he kissed
the maid on her rough red cheek.
“I am glad you are here, Mary,” Mrs. Errol said to her in a low voice.
“It is such a comfort to me to see you. It takes the strangeness away.”
And she held out her little hand, which Mary squeezed encouragingly. She
knew how this first “strangeness” must feel to this little mother who
had left her own land and was about to give up her child.
The English servants looked with curiosity at both the boy and his
mother. They had heard all sorts of rumors about them both; they knew
how angry the old Earl had been, and why Mrs. Errol was to live at the
lodge and her little boy at the castle; they knew all about the great
fortune he was to inherit, and about the savage old grandfather and his
gout and his tempers.
“He'll have no easy time of it, poor little chap,” they had said among
themselves.
But they did not know what sort of a little lord had come among
them; they did not quite understand the character of the next Earl of
Dorincourt.
He pulled off his overcoat quite as if he were used to doing things for
himself, and began to look about him. He looked about the broad hall, at
the pictures and stags' antlers and curious things that ornamented it.
They seemed curious to him because he had never seen such things before
in a private house.
“Dearest,” he said, “this is a very pretty house, isn't it? I am glad
you are going to live here. It's quite a large house.”
It was quite a large house compared to the one in the shabby New York
street, and it was very pretty and cheerful. Mary led them upstairs to
a bright chintz-hung bedroom where a fire was burning, and a large
snow-white Persian cat was sleeping luxuriously on the white fur
hearth-rug.
“It was the house-kaper up at the Castle, ma'am, sint her to yez,”
explained Mary. “It's herself is a kind-hearted lady an' has had
iverything done to prepar' fur yez. I seen her meself a few minnits, an'
she was fond av the Capt'in, ma'am, an' graivs fur him; and she said to
say the big cat slapin' on the rug moight make the room same homeloike
to yez. She knowed Capt'in Errol whin he was a bye--an' a foine handsum'
bye she ses he was, an' a foine young man wid a plisint word fur every
one, great an' shmall. An' ses I to her, ses I: 'He's lift a bye
that's loike him, ma'am, fur a foiner little felly niver sthipped in
shoe-leather.”'
When they were ready, they went downstairs into another big bright room;
its ceiling was low, and the furniture was heavy and beautifully carved,
the chairs were deep and had high massive backs, and there were queer
shelves and cabinets with strange, pretty ornaments on them. There was
a great tiger-skin before the fire, and an arm-chair on each side of it.
The stately white cat had responded to Lord Fauntleroy's stroking and
followed him downstairs, and when he threw himself down upon the rug,
she curled herself up grandly beside him as if she intended to make
friends. Cedric was so pleased that he put his head down by hers, and
lay stroking her, not noticing what his mother and Mr. Havisham were
saying.
They were, indeed, speaking in a rather low tone. Mrs. Errol looked a
little pale and agitated.
“He need not go to-night?” she said. “He will stay with me to-night?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Havisham in the same low tone; “it will not be
necessary for him to go to-night. I myself will go to the Castle as soon
as we have dined, and inform the Earl of our arrival.”
Mrs. Errol glanced down at Cedric. He was lying in a graceful, careless
attitude upon the black-and-yellow skin; the fire shone on his handsome,
flushed little face, and on the tumbled, curly hair spread out on the
rug; the big cat was purring in drowsy content,--she liked the caressing
touch of the kind little hand on her fur.
Mrs. Errol smiled faintly.
“His lordship does not know all that he is taking from me,” she said
rather sadly. Then she looked at the lawyer. “Will you tell him, if you
please,” she said, “that I should rather not have the money?”
“The money!” Mr. Havisham exclaimed. “You can not mean the income he
proposed to settle upon you!”
“Yes,” she answered, quite simply; “I think I should rather not have
it. I am obliged to accept the house, and I thank him for it, because it
makes it possible for me to be near my child; but I have a little money
of my own,--enough to live simply upon,--and I should rather not take
the other. As he dislikes me so much, I should feel a little as if I
were selling Cedric to him. I am giving him up only because I love him
enough to forget myself for his good, and because his father would wish
it to be so.”
Mr. Havisham rubbed his chin.
“This is very strange,” he said. “He will be very angry. He won't
understand it.”
“I think he will understand it after he thinks it over,” she said. “I do
not really need the money, and why should I accept luxuries from the
man who hates me so much that he takes my little boy from me--his son's
child?”
Mr. Havisham looked reflective for a few moments.
“I will deliver your message,” he said afterward.
And then the dinner was brought in and they sat down together, the big
cat taking a seat on a chair near Cedric's and purring majestically
throughout the meal.
When, later in the evening, Mr. Havisham presented himself at the
Castle, he was taken at once to the Earl. He found him sitting by the
fire in a luxurious easy-chair, his foot on a gout-stool. He looked
at the lawyer sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows, but Mr. Havisham
could see that, in spite of his pretense at calmness, he was nervous and
secretly excited.
“Well,” he said; “well, Havisham, come back, have you? What's the news?”
“Lord Fauntleroy and his mother are at Court Lodge,” replied Mr.
Havisham. “They bore the voyage very well and are in excellent health.”
The Earl made a half-impatient sound and moved his hand restlessly.
“Glad to hear it,” he said brusquely. “So far, so good. Make yourself
comfortable. Have a glass of wine and settle down. What else?”
“His lordship remains with his mother to-night. To-morrow I will bring
him to the Castle.”
The Earl's elbow was resting on the arm of his chair; he put his hand up
and shielded his eyes with it.
“Well,” he said; “go on. You know I told you not to write to me about
the matter, and I know nothing whatever about it. What kind of a lad is
he? I don't care about the mother; what sort of a lad is he?”
Mr. Havisham drank a little of the glass of port he had poured out for
himself, and sat holding it in his hand.
“It is rather difficult to judge of the character of a child of seven,”
he said cautiously.
The Earl's prejudices were very intense. He looked up quickly and
uttered a rough word.
“A fool, is he?” he exclaimed. “Or a clumsy cub? His American blood
tells, does it?”
“I do not think it has injured him, my lord,” replied the lawyer in
his dry, deliberate fashion. “I don't know much about children, but I
thought him rather a fine lad.”
His manner of speech was always deliberate and unenthusiastic, but he
made it a trifle more so than usual. He had a shrewd fancy that it
would be better that the Earl should judge for himself, and be quite
unprepared for his first interview with his grandson.
“Healthy and well-grown?” asked my lord.
“Apparently very healthy, and quite well-grown,” replied the lawyer.
“Straight-limbed and well enough to look at?” demanded the Earl.
A very slight smile touched Mr. Havisham's thin lips. There rose up
before his mind's eye the picture he had left at Court Lodge,--the
beautiful, graceful child's body lying upon the tiger-skin in careless
comfort--the bright, tumbled hair spread on the rug--the bright, rosy
boy's face.
“Rather a handsome boy, I think, my lord, as boys go,” he said, “though
I am scarcely a judge, perhaps. But you will find him somewhat different
from most English children, I dare say.”
“I haven't a doubt of that,” snarled the Earl, a twinge of gout seizing
him. “A lot of impudent little beggars, those American children; I've
heard that often enough.”
“It is not exactly impudence in his case,” said Mr. Havisham. “I can
scarcely describe what the difference is. He has lived more with older
people than with children, and the difference seems to be a mixture of
maturity and childishness.”
“American impudence!” protested the Earl. “I've heard of it before. They
call it precocity and freedom. Beastly, impudent bad manners; that's
what it is!”
Mr. Havisham drank some more port. He seldom argued with his lordly
patron,--never when his lordly patron's noble leg was inflamed by gout.
At such times it was always better to leave him alone. So there was a
silence of a few moments. It was Mr. Havisham who broke it.
“I have a message to deliver from Mrs. Errol,” he remarked.
“I don't want any of her messages!” growled his lordship; “the less I
hear of her the better.”
“This is a rather important one,” explained the lawyer. “She prefers not
to accept the income you proposed to settle on her.”
The Earl started visibly.
“What's that?” he cried out. “What's that?”
Mr. Havisham repeated his words.
“She says it is not necessary, and that as the relations between you are
not friendly----”
“Not friendly!” ejaculated my lord savagely; “I should say they were not
friendly! I hate to think of her! A mercenary, sharp-voiced American! I
don't wish to see her.”
“My lord,” said Mr. Havisham, “you can scarcely call her mercenary. She
has asked for nothing. She does not accept the money you offer her.”
“All done for effect!” snapped his noble lordship. “She wants to wheedle
me into seeing her. She thinks I shall admire her spirit. I don't admire
it! It's only American independence! I won't have her living like a
beggar at my park gates. As she's the boy's mother, she has a position
to keep up, and she shall keep it up. She shall have the money, whether
she likes it or not!”
“She won't spend it,” said Mr. Havisham.
“I don't care whether she spends it or not!” blustered my lord. “She
shall have it sent to her. She sha'n't tell people that she has to live
like a pauper because I have done nothing for her! She wants to give the
boy a bad opinion of me! I suppose she has poisoned his mind against me
already!”
“No,” said Mr. Havisham. “I have another message, which will prove to
you that she has not done that.”
“I don't want to hear it!” panted the Earl, out of breath with anger and
excitement and gout.
But Mr. Havisham delivered it.
“She asks you not to let Lord Fauntleroy hear anything which would
lead him to understand that you separate him from her because of your
prejudice against her. He is very fond of her, and she is convinced that
it would cause a barrier to exist between you. She says he would not
comprehend it, and it might make him fear you in some measure, or at
least cause him to feel less affection for you. She has told him that
he is too young to understand the reason, but shall hear it when he is
older. She wishes that there should be no shadow on your first meeting.”
The Earl sank back into his chair. His deep-set fierce old eyes gleamed
under his beetling brows.
“Come, now!” he said, still breathlessly. “Come, now! You don't mean the
mother hasn't told him?”
“Not one word, my lord,” replied the lawyer coolly. “That I can
assure you. The child is prepared to believe you the most amiable and
affectionate of grandparents. Nothing--absolutely nothing has been said
to him to give him the slightest doubt of your perfection. And as
I carried out your commands in every detail, while in New York, he
certainly regards you as a wonder of generosity.”
“He does, eh?” said the Earl.
“I give you my word of honor,” said Mr. Havisham, “that Lord
Fauntleroy's impressions of you will depend entirely upon yourself. And
if you will pardon the liberty I take in making the suggestion, I think
you will succeed better with him if you take the precaution not to speak
slightingly of his mother.”
“Pooh, pooh!” said the Earl. “The youngster is only seven years old!”
“He has spent those seven years at his mother's side,” returned Mr.
Havisham; “and she has all his affection.”
V
It was late in the afternoon when the carriage containing little Lord
Fauntleroy and Mr. Havisham drove up the long avenue which led to the
castle. The Earl had given orders that his grandson should arrive in
time to dine with him; and for some reason best known to himself, he had
also ordered that the child should be sent alone into the room in which
he intended to receive him. As the carriage rolled up the avenue, Lord
Fauntleroy sat leaning comfortably against the luxurious cushions, and
regarded the prospect with great interest. He was, in fact, interested
in everything he saw. He had been interested in the carriage, with
its large, splendid horses and their glittering harness; he had been
interested in the tall coachman and footman, with their resplendent
livery; and he had been especially interested in the coronet on the
panels, and had struck up an acquaintance with the footman for the
purpose of inquiring what it meant.
When the carriage reached the great gates of the park, he looked out of
the window to get a good view of the huge stone lions ornamenting the
entrance. The gates were opened by a motherly, rosy-looking woman, who
came out of a pretty, ivy-covered lodge. Two children ran out of the
door of the house and stood looking with round, wide-open eyes at the
little boy in the carriage, who looked at them also. Their mother stood
courtesying and smiling, and the children, on receiving a sign from her,
made bobbing little courtesies too.
“Does she know me?” asked Lord Fauntleroy. “I think she must think she
knows me.” And he took off his black velvet cap to her and smiled.
“How do you do?” he said brightly. “Good-afternoon!”
The woman seemed pleased, he thought. The smile broadened on her rosy
face and a kind look came into her blue eyes.
“God bless your lordship!” she said. “God bless your pretty face! Good
luck and happiness to your lordship! Welcome to you!”
Lord Fauntleroy waved his cap and nodded to her again as the carriage
rolled by her.
“I like that woman,” he said. “She looks as if she liked boys. I should
like to come here and play with her children. I wonder if she has enough
to make up a company?”
Mr. Havisham did not tell him that he would scarcely be allowed to make
playmates of the gate-keeper's children. The lawyer thought there was
time enough for giving him that information.
The carriage rolled on and on between the great, beautiful trees which
grew on each side of the avenue and stretched their broad, swaying
branches in an arch across it. Cedric had never seen such trees,--they
were so grand and stately, and their branches grew so low down on their
huge trunks. He did not then know that Dorincourt Castle was one of the
most beautiful in all England; that its park was one of the broadest and
finest, and its trees and avenue almost without rivals. But he did know
that it was all very beautiful. He liked the big, broad-branched trees,
with the late afternoon sunlight striking golden lances through them. He
liked the perfect stillness which rested on everything. He felt a great,
strange pleasure in the beauty of which he caught glimpses under and
between the sweeping boughs--the great, beautiful spaces of the park,
with still other trees standing sometimes stately and alone, and
sometimes in groups. Now and then they passed places where tall ferns
grew in masses, and again and again the ground was azure with the
bluebells swaying in the soft breeze. Several times he started up with
a laugh of delight as a rabbit leaped up from under the greenery and
scudded away with a twinkle of short white tail behind it. Once a covey
of partridges rose with a sudden whir and flew away, and then he shouted
and clapped his hands.
“It's a beautiful place, isn't it?” he said to Mr. Havisham. “I never
saw such a beautiful place. It's prettier even than Central Park.”
He was rather puzzled by the length of time they were on their way.
“How far is it,” he said, at length, “from the gate to the front door?”
“It is between three and four miles,” answered the lawyer.
“That's a long way for a person to live from his gate,” remarked his
lordship.
Every few minutes he saw something new to wonder at and admire. When he
caught sight of the deer, some couched in the grass, some standing with
their pretty antlered heads turned with a half-startled air toward the
avenue as the carriage wheels disturbed them, he was enchanted.
“Has there been a circus?” he cried; “or do they live here always? Whose
are they?”
“They live here,” Mr. Havisham told him. “They belong to the Earl, your
grandfather.”
It was not long after this that they saw the castle. It rose up before
them stately and beautiful and gray, the last rays of the sun casting
dazzling lights on its many windows. It had turrets and battlements and
towers; a great deal of ivy grew upon its walls; all the broad, open
space about it was laid out in terraces and lawns and beds of brilliant
flowers.
“It's the most beautiful place I ever saw!” said Cedric, his round face
flushing with pleasure. “It reminds any one of a king's palace. I saw a
picture of one once in a fairy-book.”
He saw the great entrance-door thrown open and many servants standing in
two lines looking at him. He wondered why they were standing there, and
admired their liveries very much. He did not know that they were there
to do honor to the little boy to whom all this splendor would one
day belong,--the beautiful castle like the fairy king's palace, the
magnificent park, the grand old trees, the dells full of ferns and
bluebells where the hares and rabbits played, the dappled, large-eyed
deer couching in the deep grass. It was only a couple of weeks since he
had sat with Mr. Hobbs among the potatoes and canned peaches, with his
legs dangling from the high stool; it would not have been possible for
him to realize that he had very much to do with all this grandeur. At
the head of the line of servants there stood an elderly woman in a rich,
plain black silk gown; she had gray hair and wore a cap. As he entered
the hall she stood nearer than the rest, and the child thought from the
look in her eyes that she was going to speak to him. Mr. Havisham, who
held his hand, paused a moment.
“This is Lord Fauntleroy, Mrs. Mellon,” he said. “Lord Fauntleroy, this
is Mrs. Mellon, who is the housekeeper.”
Cedric gave her his hand, his eyes lighting up.
“Was it you who sent the cat?” he said. “I'm much obliged to you,
ma'am.”
Mrs. Mellon's handsome old face looked as pleased as the face of the
lodge-keeper's wife had done.
“I should know his lordship anywhere,” she said to Mr. Havisham. “He has
the Captain's face and way. It's a great day, this, sir.”
Cedric wondered why it was a great day. He looked at Mrs. Mellon
curiously. It seemed to him for a moment as if there were tears in her
eyes, and yet it was evident she was not unhappy. She smiled down on
him.
“The cat left two beautiful kittens here,” she said; “they shall be sent
up to your lordship's nursery.”
Mr. Havisham said a few words to her in a low voice.
“In the library, sir,” Mrs. Mellon replied. “His lordship is to be taken
there alone.”
A few minutes later, the very tall footman in livery, who had escorted
Cedric to the library door, opened it and announced: “Lord Fauntleroy,
my lord,” in quite a majestic tone. If he was only a footman, he felt it
was rather a grand occasion when the heir came home to his own land and
possessions, and was ushered into the presence of the old Earl, whose
place and title he was to take.
Cedric crossed the threshold into the room. It was a very large and
splendid room, with massive carven furniture in it, and shelves upon
shelves of books; the furniture was so dark, and the draperies so heavy,
the diamond-paned windows were so deep, and it seemed such a distance
from one end of it to the other, that, since the sun had gone down, the
effect of it all was rather gloomy. For a moment Cedric thought there
was nobody in the room, but soon he saw that by the fire burning on the
wide hearth there was a large easy-chair and that in that chair some one
was sitting--some one who did not at first turn to look at him.
But he had attracted attention in one quarter at least. On the floor,
by the arm-chair, lay a dog, a huge tawny mastiff, with body and limbs
almost as big as a lion's; and this great creature rose majestically and
slowly, and marched toward the little fellow with a heavy step.
Then the person in the chair spoke. “Dougal,” he called, “come back,
sir.”
But there was no more fear in little Lord Fauntleroy's heart than there
was unkindness--he had been a brave little fellow all his life. He put
his hand on the big dog's collar in the most natural way in the world,
and they strayed forward together, Dougal sniffing as he went.
And then the Earl looked up. What Cedric saw was a large old man with
shaggy white hair and eyebrows, and a nose like an eagle's beak between
his deep, fierce eyes. What the Earl saw was a graceful, childish figure
in a black velvet suit, with a lace collar, and with love-locks waving
about the handsome, manly little face, whose eyes met his with a look of
innocent good-fellowship. If the Castle was like the palace in a fairy
story, it must be owned that little Lord Fauntleroy was himself rather
like a small copy of the fairy prince, though he was not at all aware
of the fact, and perhaps was rather a sturdy young model of a fairy.
But there was a sudden glow of triumph and exultation in the fiery old
Earl's heart as he saw what a strong, beautiful boy this grandson was,
and how unhesitatingly he looked up as he stood with his hand on the big
dog's neck. It pleased the grim old nobleman that the child should show
no shyness or fear, either of the dog or of himself.
Cedric looked at him just as he had looked at the woman at the lodge and
at the housekeeper, and came quite close to him.
“Are you the Earl?” he said. “I'm your grandson, you know, that Mr.
Havisham brought. I'm Lord Fauntleroy.”
He held out his hand because he thought it must be the polite and proper
thing to do even with earls. “I hope you are very well,” he continued,
with the utmost friendliness. “I'm very glad to see you.”
The Earl shook hands with him, with a curious gleam in his eyes; just at
first, he was so astonished that he scarcely knew what to say. He stared
at the picturesque little apparition from under his shaggy brows, and
took it all in from head to foot.
“Glad to see me, are you?” he said.
“Yes,” answered Lord Fauntleroy, “very.”
There was a chair near him, and he sat down on it; it was a high-backed,
rather tall chair, and his feet did not touch the floor when he had
settled himself in it, but he seemed to be quite comfortable as he sat
there, and regarded his august relative intently but modestly.
“I've kept wondering what you would look like,” he remarked. “I used to
lie in my berth in the ship and wonder if you would be anything like my
father.”
“Am I?” asked the Earl.
“Well,” Cedric replied, “I was very young when he died, and I may not
remember exactly how he looked, but I don't think you are like him.”
“You are disappointed, I suppose?” suggested his grandfather.
“Oh, no,” responded Cedric politely. “Of course you would like any one
to look like your father; but of course you would enjoy the way your
grandfather looked, even if he wasn't like your father. You know how it
is yourself about admiring your relations.”
The Earl leaned back in his chair and stared. He could not be said to
know how it was about admiring his relations. He had employed most of
his noble leisure in quarreling violently with them, in turning them out
of his house, and applying abusive epithets to them; and they all hated
him cordially.
“Any boy would love his grandfather,” continued Lord Fauntleroy,
“especially one that had been as kind to him as you have been.”
Another queer gleam came into the old nobleman's eyes.
“Oh!” he said, “I have been kind to you, have I?”
“Yes,” answered Lord Fauntleroy brightly; “I'm ever so much obliged to
you about Bridget, and the apple-woman, and Dick.”
“Bridget!” exclaimed the Earl. “Dick! The apple-woman!”
“Yes!” explained Cedric; “the ones you gave me all that money for--the
money you told Mr. Havisham to give me if I wanted it.”
“Ha!” ejaculated his lordship. “That's it, is it? The money you were
to spend as you liked. What did you buy with it? I should like to hear
something about that.”
He drew his shaggy eyebrows together and looked at the child sharply. He
was secretly curious to know in what way the lad had indulged himself.
“Oh!” said Lord Fauntleroy, “perhaps you didn't know about Dick and the
apple-woman and Bridget. I forgot you lived such a long way off from
them. They were particular friends of mine. And you see Michael had the
fever----”
“Who's Michael?” asked the Earl.
“Michael is Bridget's husband, and they were in great trouble. When a
man is sick and can't work and has twelve children, you know how it is.
And Michael has always been a sober man. And Bridget used to come to our
house and cry. And the evening Mr. Havisham was there, she was in the
kitchen crying, because they had almost nothing to eat and couldn't pay
the rent; and I went in to see her, and Mr. Havisham sent for me and he
said you had given him some money for me. And I ran as fast as I could
into the kitchen and gave it to Bridget; and that made it all right; and
Bridget could scarcely believe her eyes. That's why I'm so obliged to
you.”
“Oh!” said the Earl in his deep voice, “that was one of the things you
did for yourself, was it? What else?”
Dougal had been sitting by the tall chair; the great dog had taken its
place there when Cedric sat down. Several times it had turned and looked
up at the boy as if interested in the conversation. Dougal was a
solemn dog, who seemed to feel altogether too big to take life's
responsibilities lightly. The old Earl, who knew the dog well, had
watched it with secret interest. Dougal was not a dog whose habit it was
to make acquaintances rashly, and the Earl wondered somewhat to see how
quietly the brute sat under the touch of the childish hand. And, just
at this moment, the big dog gave little Lord Fauntleroy one more look
of dignified scrutiny, and deliberately laid its huge, lion-like head on
the boy's black-velvet knee.
The small hand went on stroking this new friend as Cedric answered:
“Well, there was Dick,” he said. “You'd like Dick, he's so square.”
This was an Americanism the Earl was not prepared for.
“What does that mean?” he inquired.
Lord Fauntleroy paused a moment to reflect. He was not very sure himself
what it meant. He had taken it for granted as meaning something very
creditable because Dick had been fond of using it.
“I think it means that he wouldn't cheat any one,” he exclaimed; “or
hit a boy who was under his size, and that he blacks people's boots
very well and makes them shine as much as he can. He's a perfessional
bootblack.”
“And he's one of your acquaintances, is he?” said the Earl.
“He is an old friend of mine,” replied his grandson. “Not quite as old
as Mr. Hobbs, but quite old. He gave me a present just before the ship
sailed.”
He put his hand into his pocket and drew forth a neatly folded red
object and opened it with an air of affectionate pride. It was the red
silk handkerchief with the large purple horse-shoes and heads on it.
“He gave me this,” said his young lordship. “I shall keep it always. You
can wear it round your neck or keep it in your pocket. He bought it with
the first money he earned after I bought Jake out and gave him the new
brushes. It's a keepsake. I put some poetry in Mr. Hobbs's watch. It
was, 'When this you see, remember me.' When this I see, I shall always
remember Dick.”
The sensations of the Right Honorable the Earl of Dorincourt could
scarcely be described. He was not an old nobleman who was very easily
bewildered, because he had seen a great deal of the world; but here was
something he found so novel that it almost took his lordly breath away,
and caused him some singular emotions. He had never cared for children;
he had been so occupied with his own pleasures that he had never had
time to care for them. His own sons had not interested him when they
were very young--though sometimes he remembered having thought Cedric's
father a handsome and strong little fellow. He had been so selfish
himself that he had missed the pleasure of seeing unselfishness in
others, and he had not known how tender and faithful and affectionate a
kind-hearted little child can be, and how innocent and unconscious are
its simple, generous impulses. A boy had always seemed to him a most
objectionable little animal, selfish and greedy and boisterous when not
under strict restraint; his own two eldest sons had given their tutors
constant trouble and annoyance, and of the younger one he fancied he had
heard few complaints because the boy was of no particular importance. It
had never once occurred to him that he should like his grandson; he had
sent for the little Cedric because his pride impelled him to do so. If
the boy was to take his place in the future, he did not wish his name
to be made ridiculous by descending to an uneducated boor. He had been
convinced the boy would be a clownish fellow if he were brought up in
America. He had no feeling of affection for the lad; his only hope was
that he should find him decently well-featured, and with a respectable
share of sense; he had been so disappointed in his other sons, and had
been made so furious by Captain Errol's American marriage, that he had
never once thought that anything creditable could come of it. When the
footman had announced Lord Fauntleroy, he had almost dreaded to look at
the boy lest he should find him all that he had feared. It was because
of this feeling that he had ordered that the child should be sent to
him alone. His pride could not endure that others should see his
disappointment if he was to be disappointed. His proud, stubborn old
heart therefore had leaped within him when the boy came forward with his
graceful, easy carriage, his fearless hand on the big dog's neck. Even
in the moments when he had hoped the most, the Earl had never hoped that
his grandson would look like that. It seemed almost too good to be true
that this should be the boy he had dreaded to see--the child of the
woman he so disliked--this little fellow with so much beauty and such
a brave, childish grace! The Earl's stern composure was quite shaken by
this startling surprise.
And then their talk began; and he was still more curiously moved, and
more and more puzzled. In the first place, he was so used to seeing
people rather afraid and embarrassed before him, that he had expected
nothing else but that his grandson would be timid or shy. But Cedric was
no more afraid of the Earl than he had been of Dougal. He was not bold;
he was only innocently friendly, and he was not conscious that there
could be any reason why he should be awkward or afraid. The Earl could
not help seeing that the little boy took him for a friend and treated
him as one, without having any doubt of him at all. It was quite plain
as the little fellow sat there in his tall chair and talked in his
friendly way that it had never occurred to him that this large,
fierce-looking old man could be anything but kind to him, and rather
pleased to see him there. And it was plain, too, that, in his childish
way, he wished to please and interest his grandfather. Cross, and
hard-hearted, and worldly as the old Earl was, he could not help feeling
a secret and novel pleasure in this very confidence. After all, it was
not disagreeable to meet some one who did not distrust him or shrink
from him, or seem to detect the ugly part of his nature; some one who
looked at him with clear, unsuspecting eyes,--if it was only a little
boy in a black velvet suit.
So the old man leaned back in his chair, and led his young companion
on to telling him still more of himself, and with that odd gleam in his
eyes watched the little fellow as he talked. Lord Fauntleroy was quite
willing to answer all his questions and chatted on in his genial little
way quite composedly. He told him all about Dick and Jake, and the
apple-woman, and Mr. Hobbs; he described the Republican Rally in all
the glory of its banners and transparencies, torches and rockets. In
the course of the conversation, he reached the Fourth of July and
the Revolution, and was just becoming enthusiastic, when he suddenly
recollected something and stopped very abruptly.
“What is the matter?” demanded his grandfather. “Why don't you go on?”
Lord Fauntleroy moved rather uneasily in his chair. It was evident to
the Earl that he was embarrassed by the thought which had just occurred
to him.
“I was just thinking that perhaps you mightn't like it,” he replied.
“Perhaps some one belonging to you might have been there. I forgot you
were an Englishman.”
“You can go on,” said my lord. “No one belonging to me was there. You
forgot you were an Englishman, too.”
“Oh! no,” said Cedric quickly. “I'm an American!”
“You are an Englishman,” said the Earl grimly. “Your father was an
Englishman.”
It amused him a little to say this, but it did not amuse Cedric. The lad
had never thought of such a development as this. He felt himself grow
quite hot up to the roots of his hair.
“I was born in America,” he protested. “You have to be an American if
you are born in America. I beg your pardon,” with serious politeness
and delicacy, “for contradicting you. Mr. Hobbs told me, if there were
another war, you know, I should have to--to be an American.”
The Earl gave a grim half laugh--it was short and grim, but it was a
laugh.
“You would, would you?” he said.
He hated America and Americans, but it amused him to see how serious and
interested this small patriot was. He thought that so good an American
might make a rather good Englishman when he was a man.
They had not time to go very deep into the Revolution again--and
indeed Lord Fauntleroy felt some delicacy about returning to the
subject--before dinner was announced.
Cedric left his chair and went to his noble kinsman. He looked down at
his gouty foot.
“Would you like me to help you?” he said politely. “You could lean on
me, you know. Once when Mr. Hobbs hurt his foot with a potato-barrel
rolling on it, he used to lean on me.”
The big footman almost periled his reputation and his situation by
smiling. He was an aristocratic footman who had always lived in the best
of noble families, and he had never smiled; indeed, he would have felt
himself a disgraced and vulgar footman if he had allowed himself to be
led by any circumstance whatever into such an indiscretion as a smile.
But he had a very narrow escape. He only just saved himself by staring
straight over the Earl's head at a very ugly picture.
The Earl looked his valiant young relative over from head to foot.
“Do you think you could do it?” he asked gruffly.
“I THINK I could,” said Cedric. “I'm strong. I'm seven, you know. You
could lean on your stick on one side, and on me on the other. Dick says
I've a good deal of muscle for a boy that's only seven.”
He shut his hand and moved it upward to his shoulder, so that the Earl
might see the muscle Dick had kindly approved of, and his face was so
grave and earnest that the footman found it necessary to look very hard
indeed at the ugly picture.
“Well,” said the Earl, “you may try.”
Cedric gave him his stick and began to assist him to rise. Usually, the
footman did this, and was violently sworn at when his lordship had an
extra twinge of gout. The Earl was not a very polite person as a rule,
and many a time the huge footmen about him quaked inside their imposing
liveries.
But this evening he did not swear, though his gouty foot gave him more
twinges than one. He chose to try an experiment. He got up slowly
and put his hand on the small shoulder presented to him with so much
courage. Little Lord Fauntleroy made a careful step forward, looking
down at the gouty foot.
“Just lean on me,” he said, with encouraging good cheer. “I'll walk very
slowly.”
If the Earl had been supported by the footman he would have rested less
on his stick and more on his assistant's arm. And yet it was part of his
experiment to let his grandson feel his burden as no light weight.
It was quite a heavy weight indeed, and after a few steps his young
lordship's face grew quite hot, and his heart beat rather fast, but he
braced himself sturdily, remembering his muscle and Dick's approval of
it.
“Don't be afraid of leaning on me,” he panted. “I'm all right--if--if it
isn't a very long way.”
It was not really very far to the dining-room, but it seemed rather a
long way to Cedric, before they reached the chair at the head of the
table. The hand on his shoulder seemed to grow heavier at every step,
and his face grew redder and hotter, and his breath shorter, but he
never thought of giving up; he stiffened his childish muscles, held his
head erect, and encouraged the Earl as he limped along.
“Does your foot hurt you very much when you stand on it?” he asked. “Did
you ever put it in hot water and mustard? Mr. Hobbs used to put his in
hot water. Arnica is a very nice thing, they tell me.”
The big dog stalked slowly beside them, and the big footman followed;
several times he looked very queer as he watched the little figure
making the very most of all its strength, and bearing its burden with
such good-will. The Earl, too, looked rather queer, once, as he glanced
sidewise down at the flushed little face. When they entered the room
where they were to dine, Cedric saw it was a very large and imposing
one, and that the footman who stood behind the chair at the head of the
table stared very hard as they came in.
But they reached the chair at last. The hand was removed from his
shoulder, and the Earl was fairly seated.
Cedric took out Dick's handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
“It's a warm night, isn't it?” he said. “Perhaps you need a fire
because--because of your foot, but it seems just a little warm to me.”
His delicate consideration for his noble relative's feelings was such
that he did not wish to seem to intimate that any of his surroundings
were unnecessary.
“You have been doing some rather hard work,” said the Earl.
“Oh, no!” said Lord Fauntleroy, “it wasn't exactly hard, but I got a
little warm. A person will get warm in summer time.”
And he rubbed his damp curls rather vigorously with the gorgeous
handkerchief. His own chair was placed at the other end of the table,
opposite his grandfather's. It was a chair with arms, and intended for
a much larger individual than himself; indeed, everything he had seen so
far,--the great rooms, with their high ceilings, the massive furniture,
the big footman, the big dog, the Earl himself,--were all of proportions
calculated to make this little lad feel that he was very small, indeed.
But that did not trouble him; he had never thought himself very large
or important, and he was quite willing to accommodate himself even to
circumstances which rather overpowered him.
Perhaps he had never looked so little a fellow as when seated now in
his great chair, at the end of the table. Notwithstanding his solitary
existence, the Earl chose to live in some state. He was fond of his
dinner, and he dined in a formal style. Cedric looked at him across
a glitter of splendid glass and plate, which to his unaccustomed eyes
seemed quite dazzling. A stranger looking on might well have smiled at
the picture,--the great stately room, the big liveried servants, the
bright lights, the glittering silver and glass, the fierce-looking old
nobleman at the head of the table and the very small boy at the foot.
Dinner was usually a very serious matter with the Earl--and it was a
very serious matter with the cook, if his lordship was not pleased or
had an indifferent appetite. To-day, however, his appetite seemed a
trifle better than usual, perhaps because he had something to think of
beside the flavor of the entrees and the management of the gravies. His
grandson gave him something to think of. He kept looking at him across
the table. He did not say very much himself, but he managed to make the
boy talk. He had never imagined that he could be entertained by hearing
a child talk, but Lord Fauntleroy at once puzzled and amused him, and
he kept remembering how he had let the childish shoulder feel his weight
just for the sake of trying how far the boy's courage and endurance
would go, and it pleased him to know that his grandson had not quailed
and had not seemed to think even for a moment of giving up what he had
undertaken to do.
“You don't wear your coronet all the time?” remarked Lord Fauntleroy
respectfully.
“No,” replied the Earl, with his grim smile; “it is not becoming to me.”
“Mr. Hobbs said you always wore it,” said Cedric; “but after he thought
it over, he said he supposed you must sometimes take it off to put your
hat on.”
“Yes,” said the Earl, “I take it off occasionally.”
And one of the footmen suddenly turned aside and gave a singular little
cough behind his hand.
Cedric finished his dinner first, and then he leaned back in his chair
and took a survey of the room.
“You must be very proud of your house,” he said, “it's such a beautiful
house. I never saw anything so beautiful; but, of course, as I'm only
seven, I haven't seen much.”
“And you think I must be proud of it, do you?” said the Earl.
“I should think any one would be proud of it,” replied Lord Fauntleroy.
“I should be proud of it if it were my house. Everything about it is
beautiful. And the park, and those trees,--how beautiful they are, and
how the leaves rustle!”
Then he paused an instant and looked across the table rather wistfully.
“It's a very big house for just two people to live in, isn't it?” he
said.
“It is quite large enough for two,” answered the Earl. “Do you find it
too large?”
His little lordship hesitated a moment.
“I was only thinking,” he said, “that if two people lived in it who were
not very good companions, they might feel lonely sometimes.”
“Do you think I shall make a good companion?” inquired the Earl.
“Yes,” replied Cedric, “I think you will. Mr. Hobbs and I were great
friends. He was the best friend I had except Dearest.”
The Earl made a quick movement of his bushy eyebrows.
“Who is Dearest?”
“She is my mother,” said Lord Fauntleroy, in a rather low, quiet little
voice.
Perhaps he was a trifle tired, as his bed-time was nearing, and perhaps
after the excitement of the last few days it was natural he should be
tired, so perhaps, too, the feeling of weariness brought to him a vague
sense of loneliness in the remembrance that to-night he was not to sleep
at home, watched over by the loving eyes of that “best friend” of his.
They had always been “best friends,” this boy and his young mother. He
could not help thinking of her, and the more he thought of her the less
was he inclined to talk, and by the time the dinner was at an end the
Earl saw that there was a faint shadow on his face. But Cedric bore
himself with excellent courage, and when they went back to the library,
though the tall footman walked on one side of his master, the Earl's
hand rested on his grandson's shoulder, though not so heavily as before.
When the footman left them alone, Cedric sat down upon the hearth-rug
near Dougal. For a few minutes he stroked the dog's ears in silence and
looked at the fire.
The Earl watched him. The boy's eyes looked wistful and thoughtful, and
once or twice he gave a little sigh. The Earl sat still, and kept his
eyes fixed on his grandson.
“Fauntleroy,” he said at last, “what are you thinking of?”
Fauntleroy looked up with a manful effort at a smile.
“I was thinking about Dearest,” he said; “and--and I think I'd better
get up and walk up and down the room.”
He rose up, and put his hands in his small pockets, and began to walk to
and fro. His eyes were very bright, and his lips were pressed together,
but he kept his head up and walked firmly. Dougal moved lazily and
looked at him, and then stood up. He walked over to the child, and began
to follow him uneasily. Fauntleroy drew one hand from his pocket and
laid it on the dog's head.
“He's a very nice dog,” he said. “He's my friend. He knows how I feel.”
“How do you feel?” asked the Earl.
It disturbed him to see the struggle the little fellow was having with
his first feeling of homesickness, but it pleased him to see that he
was making so brave an effort to bear it well. He liked this childish
courage.
“Come here,” he said.
Fauntleroy went to him.
“I never was away from my own house before,” said the boy, with a
troubled look in his brown eyes. “It makes a person feel a strange
feeling when he has to stay all night in another person's castle instead
of in his own house. But Dearest is not very far away from me. She told
me to remember that--and--and I'm seven--and I can look at the picture
she gave me.”
He put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a small violet
velvet-covered case.
“This is it,” he said. “You see, you press this spring and it opens, and
she is in there!”
He had come close to the Earl's chair, and, as he drew forth the little
case, he leaned against the arm of it, and against the old man's arm,
too, as confidingly as if children had always leaned there.
“There she is,” he said, as the case opened; and he looked up with a
smile.
The Earl knitted his brows; he did not wish to see the picture, but he
looked at it in spite of himself; and there looked up at him from it
such a pretty young face--a face so like the child's at his side--that
it quite startled him.
“I suppose you think you are very fond of her,” he said.
“Yes,” answered Lord Fauntleroy, in a gentle tone, and with simple
directness; “I do think so, and I think it's true. You see, Mr. Hobbs
was my friend, and Dick and Bridget and Mary and Michael, they were my
friends, too; but Dearest--well, she is my CLOSE friend, and we always
tell each other everything. My father left her to me to take care of,
and when I am a man I am going to work and earn money for her.”
“What do you think of doing?” inquired his grandfather.
His young lordship slipped down upon the hearth-rug, and sat there with
the picture still in his hand. He seemed to be reflecting seriously,
before he answered.
“I did think perhaps I might go into business with Mr. Hobbs,” he said;
“but I should LIKE to be a President.”
“We'll send you to the House of Lords instead,” said his grandfather.
“Well,” remarked Lord Fauntleroy, “if I COULDN'T be a President, and if
that is a good business, I shouldn't mind. The grocery business is dull
sometimes.”
Perhaps he was weighing the matter in his mind, for he sat very quiet
after this, and looked at the fire for some time.
The Earl did not speak again. He leaned back in his chair and watched
him. A great many strange new thoughts passed through the old nobleman's
mind. Dougal had stretched himself out and gone to sleep with his head
on his huge paws. There was a long silence.
In about half an hour's time Mr. Havisham was ushered in. The great room
was very still when he entered. The Earl was still leaning back in his
chair. He moved as Mr. Havisham approached, and held up his hand in a
gesture of warning--it seemed as if he had scarcely intended to make the
gesture--as if it were almost involuntary. Dougal was still asleep, and
close beside the great dog, sleeping also, with his curly head upon his
arm, lay little Lord Fauntleroy.