THE POOR COTTAGES.
The fact was, his lordship the Earl of Dorincourt thought in those days
of many things of which he had never thought before, and all his
thoughts were in one way or another connected with his grandson. His
pride was the strongest part of his nature, and the boy gratified it at
every point. Through this pride he began to find a new interest in life.
He began to take pleasure in showing his heir to the world. The world
had known of his disappointment in his sons; so there was an agreeable
touch of triumph in exhibiting this new Lord Fauntleroy, who could
disappoint no one. He made plans for his future. Sometimes in this new
interest he forgot his gout, and after a while his doctor was surprised
to find this noble patient's health growing better than he had expected
it ever would be again. Perhaps the Earl grew better because the time
did not pass so slowly for him, and he had something to think of besides
his pains and infirmities.
One fine morning, people were amazed to see little Lord Fauntleroy
riding his pony with another companion than Wilkins. This new companion
rode a tall, powerful gray horse, and was no other than the Earl
himself.
And in their rides together through the green lanes and pretty country
roads, the two riders became more intimate than ever. And gradually the
old man heard a great deal about "Dearest" and her life. As Fauntleroy
trotted by the big horse he chatted gaily. There could not well have
been a brighter little comrade, his nature was so happy. The Earl often
was silent, listening and watching the joyous, glowing face. Sometimes
he would tell his young companion to set the pony off at a gallop, and
when the little fellow dashed off, sitting so straight and fearless, he
would watch the boy with a gleam of pride and pleasure in his eyes; and
Fauntleroy, when, after such a dash, he came back waving his cap with a
laughing shout, always felt that he and his grandfather were very good
friends indeed.
One thing that the Earl discovered was that his son's wife did not lead
an idle life. It was not long before he learned that the poor people
knew her very well indeed. When there was sickness or sorrow or poverty
in any house, the little brougham often stood before the door.
It had not displeased the Earl to find that the mother of his heir had a
beautiful young face and looked as much like a lady as if she had been a
duchess, and in one way it did not displease him to know that she was
popular and beloved by the poor. And yet he was often conscious of a
hard, jealous pang when he saw how she filled her child's heart and how
the boy clung to her as his best beloved. The old man would have desired
to stand first himself and have no rival.
He felt it to be almost incredible that he, who had never really loved
any one in his life, should find himself growing so fond of this little
fellow,--as without doubt he was. At first he had only been pleased and
proud of Cedric's beauty and bravery, but there was something more than
pride in his feeling now. He laughed a grim, dry laugh all to himself
sometimes, when he thought how he liked to have the boy near him, how he
liked to hear his voice, and how in secret he really wished to be liked
and thought well of by his small grandson.
It was only about a week after that ride when, after a visit to his
mother, Fauntleroy came into the library with a troubled, thoughtful
face. He sat down in that high-backed chair in which he had sat on the
evening of his arrival, and for a while he looked at the embers on the
hearth. The Earl watched him in silence, wondering what was coming. It
was evident that Cedric had something on his mind. At last he looked up
"Does Newick know all about the people?" he asked.
"It is his business to know about them," said his lordship. "Been
neglecting it--has he?"
Contradictory as it may seem, there was nothing which entertained and
edified him more than the little fellow's interest in his tenantry.
"There is a place," said Fauntleroy, looking up at him with wide-open,
horror-stricken eyes--"Dearest has seen it; it is at the other end of
the village. The houses are close together, and almost falling down; you
can scarcely breathe: and the people are so poor, and everything is
dreadful! The rain comes in at the roof! Dearest went to see a poor
woman who lived there. The tears ran down her cheeks when she told me
about it!"
The tears had come into his own eyes, but he smiled through them.
"I told her you didn't know, and I would tell you," he said. He jumped
down and came and leaned against the Earl's chair. "You can make it all
right," he said, "just as you made it all right for Higgins. You always
make it all right for everybody. I told her you would, and that Newick
must have forgotten to tell you."
The Earl looked down at the hand on his knee. Newick had not forgotten
to tell him; in fact, Newick had spoken to him more than once of the
desperate condition of the end of the village known as Earl's Court. Mr.
Mordaunt had painted it all to him in the strongest words he could use,
and his lordship had used violent language in response; and, when his
gout had been at the worst, he had said that the sooner the people of
Earl's Court died and were buried by the parish the better it would
be--and there was an end of the matter. And yet, as he looked at the
small hand on his knee, and from the small hand to the honest, earnest,
frank-eyed face, he was actually ashamed both of Earl's Court and of
himself.
"What!" he said; "you want to make a builder of model cottages of me, do
you?" And he positively put his own hand upon the childish one and
stroked it.
"Those must be pulled down," said Fauntleroy, with great eagerness.
"Dearest says so. Let us--let us go and have them pulled down to-morrow.
The people will be so glad when they see you! They'll know you have come
to help them!" And his eyes shone like stars in his glowing face.
The Earl rose from his chair and put his hand on the child's shoulder.
"Let us go out and take our walk on the terrace," he said, with a short
laugh; "and we can talk it over."
And though he laughed two or three times again, as they walked to and
fro on the broad stone terrace, where they walked together almost every
fine evening, he seemed to be thinking of something which did not
displease him, and still he kept his hand on his small companion's
shoulder.