THE EARL ALARMED.
The truth was that Mrs. Errol had found a great many sad things in the
course of her work among the poor of the little village that appeared so
picturesque when it was seen from the moor-sides. Everything was not as
picturesque when seen near by, as it looked from a distance. She had
found idleness and poverty and ignorance where there should have been
comfort and industry. And she had discovered, after a while, that
Erlesboro was considered to be the worst village in that part of the
country.
As to Earl's Court, it was a disgrace, with its dilapidated houses and
miserable, careless, sickly people. When first Mrs. Errol went to the
place, it made her shudder. And a bold thought came into her wise little
mother-heart. Gradually she had begun to see, as had others, that it had
been her boy's good fortune to please the Earl very much, and that he
would scarcely be likely to be denied anything for which he expressed a
desire.
"The Earl would give him anything," she said to Mr. Mordaunt. "He would
indulge his every whim. Why should not that indulgence be used for the
good of others? It is for me to see that this shall come to pass."
She knew she could trust the kind, childish heart; so she told the
little fellow the story of Earl's Court, feeling sure that he would
speak of it to his grandfather, and hoping that some good results would
follow.
And strange as it appeared to every one, good results did follow. The
fact was that the strongest power to influence the Earl was his
grandson's perfect confidence in him--the fact that Cedric always
believed that his grandfather was going to do what was right and
generous. He could not quite make up his mind to let him discover that
he had no inclination to be generous at all, and so after some
reflection, he sent for Newick, and had quite a long interview with him
on the subject of the Court, and it was decided that the wretched hovels
should be pulled down and new houses should be built.
"It is Lord Fauntleroy who insists on it," he said dryly; "he thinks it
will improve the property. You can tell the tenants that it's his idea."
Of course, both the country people and the town people heard of the
proposed improvement. At first, many of them would not believe it; but
when a small army of workmen arrived and commenced pulling down the
crazy, squalid cottages, people began to understand that little Lord
Fauntleroy had done them a good turn again, and that through his
innocent interference the scandal of Earl's Court had at last been
removed.
When the cottages were being built, the lad and his grandfather used to
ride over to Earl's Court together to look at them, and Fauntleroy was
full of interest. He would dismount from his pony and go and make
acquaintance with the workmen, asking them questions about building and
bricklaying and telling them things about America.
When he left them, the workmen used to talk him over among themselves,
and laugh at his odd, innocent speeches; but they liked him, and liked
to see him stand among them, talking away, with his hands in his
pockets, his hat pushed back on his curls, and his small face full of
eagerness. And they would go home and tell their wives about him, and
the women would tell each other, and so it came about that almost every
one talked of, or knew some story of, little Lord Fauntleroy; and
gradually almost every one knew that the "wicked Earl" had found
something he cared for at last--something which had touched and even
warmed his hard, bitter old heart.
But no one knew quite how much it had been warmed, and how day by day
the old man found himself caring more and more for the child, who was
the only creature that had ever trusted him.
He never spoke to any one else of his feeling for Cedric; when he spoke
of him to others it was always with the same grim smile. But Fauntleroy
soon knew that his grandfather loved him and always liked him to be
near--near to his chair if they were in the library, opposite to him at
table, or by his side when he rode or drove or took his evening walk on
the broad terrace.
"Do you remember," Cedric said once looking up from his book as he lay
on the rug, "do you remember what I said to you that first night about
our being good companions? I don't think any people could be better
friends than we are, do you?"
"We are pretty good companions, I should say," replied his lordship.
"Come here."
Fauntleroy scrambled up and went to him.
"Is there anything you want," the Earl asked; "anything you have not?"
The little fellow's brown eyes fixed themselves on his grandfather with
a rather wistful look.
"Only one thing," he answered.
"What is that?" inquired the Earl.
Fauntleroy was silent a second. He had not thought matters over to
himself so long for nothing.
"What is it?" my lord repeated.
Fauntleroy answered.
"It is Dearest," he said.
The old Earl winced a little.
"But you see her almost every day," he said. "Is not that enough?"
"I used to see her all the time," said Fauntleroy. "She used to kiss me
when I went to sleep at night, and in the morning she was always there,
and we could tell each other things without waiting."
The old eyes and the young ones looked into each other through a moment
of silence. Then the Earl knitted his brows.
"Do you _never_ forget about your mother?" he said.
"No," answered Fauntleroy, "never; and she never forgets about me. I
shouldn't forget about _you_, you know, if I didn't live with you. I
should think about you all the more."
"Upon my word," said the Earl, after looking at him a moment longer, "I
believe you would!"
The jealous pang that came when the boy spoke so of his mother seemed
even stronger than it had been before--it was stronger because of this
old man's increasing affection for the boy.
But it was not long before he had other pangs, so much harder to face
that he almost forgot, for the time, he had ever hated his son's wife at
all. And in a strange and startling way it happened. One evening, just
before the Earl's Court cottages were completed, there was a grand
dinner party at Dorincourt. There had not been such a party at the
Castle for a long time. A few days before it took place, Sir Harry
Lorridaile and Lady Lorridaile, who was the Earl's only sister, actually
came for a visit--a thing which caused the greatest excitement in the
village and set Mrs. Dibble's shop-bell tinkling madly again, because it
was well known that Lady Lorridaile had only been to Dorincourt once
since her marriage, thirty-five years before. She was a handsome old
lady with white curls and dimpled, peachy cheeks, and she was as good as
gold, but she had never approved of her brother any more than did the
rest of the world, and having a strong will of her own and not being at
all afraid to speak her mind frankly, she had, after several lively
quarrels with his lordship, seen very little of him since her young
days.
Not only the poor people and farmers heard about little Lord Fauntleroy;
others knew of him. He was talked about so much and there were so many
stories of him--of his beauty, his sweet temper, his popularity, and his
growing influence over the Earl his grandfather--that rumours of him
reached the gentry at their country places and he was heard of in more
than one county of England.
And so by degrees Lady Lorridaile, too, heard of the child; she heard
about Higgins, and the lame boy, and the cottages at Earl's Court, and a
score of other things,--and she began to wish to see the little fellow.
And just as she was wondering how it might be brought about, to her
utter astonishment, she received a letter from her brother inviting her
to come with her husband to Dorincourt.
"It seems incredible!" she exclaimed. "I have heard it said that the
child has worked miracles, and I begin to believe it. They say my
brother adores the boy and can scarcely endure to have him out of sight.
And he is so proud of him! Actually, I believe he wants to show him to
us." And she accepted the invitation at once.
When she reached Dorincourt Castle with Sir Harry, it was late in the
afternoon, and she went to her room at once before seeing her brother.
Having dressed for dinner she entered the drawing-room. The Earl was
there standing near the fire and looking very tall and imposing; and at
his side stood a little boy in black velvet, and a large Vandyke collar
of rich lace--a little fellow whose round bright face was so handsome,
and who turned upon her such beautiful, candid brown eyes, that she
almost uttered an exclamation of pleasure and surprise at the sight.
As she shook hands with the Earl, she called him by the name she had not
used since her girl-hood.
"What, Molyneux," she said, "is this the child?"
"Yes, Constantia," answered the Earl, "this is the boy. Fauntleroy, this
is your grand-aunt, Lady Lorridaile."
"How do you do, grand-aunt?" said Fauntleroy.
Lady Lorridaile put her hand on his shoulder, and after looking down
into his upraised face a few seconds, kissed him warmly.
"I am your Aunt Constantia," she said, "and I loved your poor papa, and
you are very like him."
"It makes me glad when I am told I am like him," answered Fauntleroy,
"because it seems as if every one liked him,--just like Dearest,
eszackly,--Aunt Constantia," (adding the two words after a second's
pause).
Lady Lorridaile was delighted. She bent and kissed him again, and from
that moment they were warm friends.
"Well, Molyneux," she said aside to the Earl afterwards, "it could not
possibly be better than this!"
"I think not," answered his lordship dryly. "He is a fine little fellow.
We are great friends. He believes me to be the most charming and
sweet-tempered of philanthropists. I will confess to you,
Constantia,--as you would find it out if I did not,--that I am in some
slight danger of becoming rather an old fool about him."
"What does his mother think of you?" asked Lady Lorridaile, with her
usual straightforwardness.
"I have not asked her," answered the Earl, slightly scowling.
"Well," said Lady Lorridaile, "I will be frank with you at the outset,
Molyneux, and tell you I don't approve of your course, and that it is my
intention to call on Mrs. Errol as soon as possible; so if you wish to
quarrel with me, you had better mention it at once. What I hear of the
young creature makes me quite sure that her child owes her everything.
We were told even at Lorridaile Park that your poorer tenants adore her
already."
"They adore _him_," said the Earl, nodding towards Fauntleroy. "As to
Mrs. Errol, you'll find her a pretty little woman. I'm rather in debt to
her for giving some of her beauty to the boy, and you can go to see her
if you like. All I ask is that she will remain at Court Lodge and that
you will not ask me to go and see her," and he scowled a little again.
"But he doesn't hate her as much as he used to, that is plain enough to
me," her ladyship said to Sir Harry afterwards. "And he is a changed man
in a measure, and, incredible as it may seem, Harry, it is my opinion
that he is being made into a human being, through nothing more or less
than his affection for that innocent, affectionate little fellow."
The very next day she went to call upon Mrs. Errol. When she returned,
she said to her brother:
"Molyneux, she is the loveliest little woman I ever saw! She has a voice
like a silver bell, and you may thank her for making the boy what he is.
She has given him more than her beauty, and you make a great mistake in
not persuading her to come and take charge of you. I shall invite her to
Lorridaile."
"She'll not leave the boy," replied the Earl.
"I must have the boy too," said Lady Lorridaile, laughing.
But she knew Fauntleroy would not be given up to her, and each day she
saw more clearly how closely those two had grown to each other, and how
all the proud, grim old man's ambition and hope and love centred
themselves in the child, and how the warm, innocent nature returned his
affection with most perfect trust and good faith.
She knew, too, that the prime reason for the great dinner party was the
Earl's secret desire to show the world his grandson and heir. Perhaps
there was not one person who accepted the invitation without feeling
some curiosity about little Lord Fauntleroy, and wondering if he would
be on view.
And when the time came he was on view.
"The lad has good manners," said the Earl. "He will be in no one's way.
He can actually answer when he's spoken to, and be silent when he is
not."
But he was not allowed to be silent very long. Every one had something
to say to him. The fact was they wished to make him talk. The ladies
petted him and asked him questions, and the men asked him questions too,
and joked with him, as the men on the steamer had done when he crossed
the Atlantic.
But though he was talked to so much, as the Earl had said, he was in no
one's way. He could be quiet and listen when others talked, and so no
one found him tiresome.
Mr. Havisham had been expected to arrive in the afternoon, but, strange
to say, he was late. Such a thing had really never been known to happen
before during all the years in which he had been a visitor at Dorincourt
Castle. He was so late that the guests were on the point of rising to go
in to dinner when he arrived. When he approached his host, the Earl
regarded him with amazement. He looked as if he had been hurried or
agitated; his dry, keen old face was actually pale.
"I was detained," he said, in a low voice to the Earl, "by--an
extraordinary event."
It was as unlike the methodic old lawyer to be agitated by anything as
it was to be late, but it was evident that he had been disturbed. At
dinner he ate scarcely anything, and two or three times, when he was
spoken to, he started as if his thoughts were far away. At dessert, when
Fauntleroy came in, he looked at him more than once, nervously and
uneasily. Fauntleroy noted the look and wondered at it. He and Mr.
Havisham were on friendly terms, and they usually exchanged smiles.
The lawyer seemed to have forgotten to smile that evening.
He did not exactly know how the long, superb dinner ended. He sat
through it as if he were in a dream, and several times he saw the Earl
glance at him in surprise.
But it was over at last, and the gentlemen joined the ladies in the
drawing-room. They found Fauntleroy sitting on a sofa with Miss Vivian
Herbert,--the great beauty of the last London season; they had been
looking at some pictures, and he was thanking his companion, as the door
opened.
"I'm ever so much obliged to you for being so kind to me!" he was
saying; "I never was at a party before, and I've enjoyed myself so
much!"
He had enjoyed himself so much that his eyelids began to droop. He was
quite sure he was not going to sleep, but there was a large, yellow
satin cushion behind him and his head sank against it, and after a while
his eyelids drooped for the last time.
* * * * *
No sooner had the last guest left the room, than Mr. Havisham turned
from his place by the fire, and stepped nearer the sofa, where he stood
looking down at the sleeping occupant.
"Well, Havisham," said the Earl's harsh voice behind him. "What is it?
It is evident something has happened. What was the extraordinary event,
if I may ask?"
Mr. Havisham turned from the sofa, still rubbing his chin.
"It was bad news," he answered, "distressing news, my lord--the worst of
news. I am sorry to be the bearer of it."
The Earl had been uneasy for some time during the evening, as he glanced
at Mr. Havisham, and when he was uneasy he was always ill-tempered.
"Why do you look so at the boy!" he exclaimed irritably. "You have been
looking at him all the evening as if--. What has your news to do with
Lord Fauntleroy?"
"My lord," said Mr. Havisham, "I will waste no words. My news has
everything to do with Lord Fauntleroy. And if we are to believe it--it
is not Lord Fauntleroy who lies sleeping before us, but only the son of
Captain Errol. And the present Lord Fauntleroy is the son of your son
Bevis, and is at this moment in a lodging-house in London."
The Earl clutched the arms of his chair with both his hands until the
veins stood out upon them; the veins stood out on his forehead too; his
fierce old face was almost livid.
"What do you mean!" he cried out. "You are mad! Whose lie is this?"
"If it is a lie," answered Mr. Havisham, "it is painfully like the
truth. A woman came to my chambers this morning. She said your son Bevis
married her six years ago in London. She showed me her marriage
certificate. They quarrelled a year after the marriage, and he paid her
to keep away from him. She has a son five years old. She is an American
of the lower classes,--an ignorant person,--and until lately she did not
fully understand what her son could claim. She consulted a lawyer, and
found out that the boy was really Lord Fauntleroy and the heir to the
earldom of Dorincourt; and she, of course, insists on his claims being
acknowledged."
The handsome, grim old face was ghastly. A bitter smile fixed itself
upon it.
"I should refuse to believe a word of it," he said, "if it were not such
a low, scoundrelly piece of business that it becomes quite possible in
connection with the name of my son Bevis. It is quite like Bevis. He was
always a disgrace to us. The woman is an ignorant, vulgar person, you
say?"
"I am obliged to admit that she can scarcely spell her own name,"
answered the lawyer. "She cares for nothing but the money. She is very
handsome in a coarse way, but----"
The fastidious old lawyer ceased speaking and gave a sort of shudder.
The veins on the old Earl's forehead stood out like purple cords.
Something else stood out upon it too--cold drops of moisture. He took
out his handkerchief and swept them away. His smile grew even more
bitter.
"And I," he said, "I objected to--to the other woman, the mother of this
child" (pointing to the sleeping form on the sofa); "I refused to
recognize her. And yet she could spell her own name. I suppose this is
retribution."
Suddenly he sprang up from his chair and began to walk up and down the
room. Fierce and terrible words poured forth from his lips. His rage and
hatred and cruel disappointment shook him as a storm shakes a tree.
"I might have known it," he said. "They were a disgrace to me from their
first hour! I hated them both; and they hated me! Bevis was the worse of
the two. I will not believe this yet though! I will contend against it
to the last. But it is like Bevis--it is like him!"
And then he raged again and asked questions about the woman, about her
proofs, and pacing the room, turned first white and then purple in his
repressed fury.
When at last he had learned all that was to be told, and knew the worst,
Mr. Havisham looked at him with a feeling of anxiety. He looked broken
and haggard and changed. His rages had always been bad for him, but this
one had been worse than the rest because there had been something more
than rage in it.
He came slowly back to the sofa, at last, and stood near it.
"If any one had told me I could be fond of a child," he said, his harsh
voice low and unsteady, "I should not have believed them. I always
detested children--my own more than the rest. I am fond of this one; he
is fond of me" (with a bitter smile). "I am not popular; I never was.
But he is fond of me. He never was afraid of me--he always trusted me.
He would have filled my place better than I have filled it. I know that.
He would have been an honour to the name."
He bent down and stood a minute or so looking at the happy, sleeping
face. He put up his hand, pushed the bright hair back from the forehead,
and then turned away and rang the bell.
When the footman appeared, he pointed to the sofa.
"Take"--he said, and then his voice changed a little--"take Lord
Fauntleroy to his room."