Little Hal Court knew nothing of towns; he had been brought up in the
solitude and beauty of Northern Ireland. The country had given to this
small boy something of its own peculiar charm, a wildness wedded
mysteriously to peace. He could be so still and thoughtful, or so full
of life and movement, he might have borrowed his child's personality
from the waves of the great blue sea.
Nature made a bold nurse--a teacher who whispered to Hal of things
intense, of stories wonderful, bringing him the funds of her vast
wisdom, the fairy tales of a country-side teeming with romance.
"I live with my grandmother," he told his new governess, "because I have
a different kind of mamma to other boys. She isn't the ordinary sort
that stays at home; she--she's a celebrity!" He paused before alighting
upon the correct word, bringing it out with so grave an air that Miss
Ainsworth could hardly repress a smile.
[Illustration: "I HAVE A DIFFERENT KIND OF MAMMA TO OTHER BOYS."]
"Yes," he continued, hugging his knee and gazing through the window at
the turbid waves of the Lough, a lovely inland sea, sending its green
waters brimming to the verge of Castle Stewart's old garden. "She sings,
you know! She sings--well, just like an angel, people say; but the
angels don't have to travel about and leave their little boys at home.
Mother makes heaps of money when she sings a song. They send for her
right across the world, and she travels like a Princess; the people
crowd to see her get into the train. It's always that way if you can
sing. Don't you wish you had a voice like an angel, Miss Ainsworth?"
"Yes, indeed."
A sudden, almost painful, longing rang in the reply, as the dazzling
picture of a world-famed artiste was conjured up by the simple
description of a child.
"I expect," added Miss Ainsworth, "you miss your mother?"
"Why, of course. I wear this picture of her round my neck, and I love
her so much I don't mind when other boys call it girlish; one doesn't
mind being girlish for her!"
A throb as of martyrdom crept into the child's voice--an almost
passionate hunger for the mother-love denied him.
"She said," he continued, "she would be back for the New Year. She can't
get here in time for Christmas, because the boat from Australia won't
bring her fast enough, but she promised to come for certain on New
Year's Eve. I am to write to her in London. I always begin my letters
now, 'Don't forget about the New Year,' because she has so much to
remember. Then she answers back, 'Dear little boy, I'm safe for the New
Year,' or something of that kind. The winter seems very long here, and
one rather wants a mother. In the summer I don't mind her being away so
much."
His wistful eyes saw in fancy the smiling summer-time, which sped on
lightning wings. For him the warm days spelt gladness, giving beautiful
little bays for playgrounds and creeks with wooded shores, while winter
presented unlighted rocks and shoals lashed by one of the strongest
tides in the kingdom. He had grown to love and reverence the castles of
old Kings which faced each other across the tide, and to know intimately
those wonderful islands which dotted the sea. But to Miss Ainsworth,
freshly arrived from a busy city, Castle Stewart in mid-winter held
something of terror with its watery wastes, guarding the little village
of Slaneyford.
She liked hearing her small charge talk of his mother: it brought a
human note into all the dreariness and desolation of this storm-swept
country. Since her arrival she had been forced to associate Slaneyford
with a driving whirlwind of ceaseless rain.
"We sha'n't mind the weather when mother comes," said Hal, cheerfully.
"Everything is different then; she's so jolly, you know. She will bring
me lots of toys in her box, but I don't want them when I've got her to
play with, and her cheek is so much softer to kiss than grandmamma's."
Miss Ainsworth noticed that the thought of his mother's coming
predominated Hal's mind. Everything reminded him of some past action or
saying of hers--what she liked or disliked. When he became silent and
dreamy, his watchful companion knew well that the child-soul wandered to
a mother's knee, through the bright mazes of imagination.
[Illustration: "A SURPRISE FOR THE FAIR LADY OF SONG."]
In restless moments his energies ever centred in arranging some surprise
for the fair lady of song--shells he had collected for her in the summer
were to be hidden under her pillow, and long dried ribbons of white
seaweed found their way to the guest-chamber prepared for Mrs. Court.
Miss Ainsworth herself caught his feverish excitement--the coming of the
famous singer held the charm of novelty.
As yet she had met none of the celebrated people of the world, but
founded her social creed upon the daily lives of the middle classes.
Even little Hal, with the strain of his mother's genius running in his
blood, came as a revelation of something peculiar and mystifying.
"I sha'n't notice Christmas at all," he told Miss Ainsworth, as the
festive season drew near; "I shall just wait for mother and the New Year
and open all my presents then. She will like to be the first to see
them." So the Yuletide drifted by uneventfully, save for a thrill of
expectation heralding the arrival of a beloved traveller--that
child-like counting of days and hours in which the oldest may share,
when the heart pines and the spirit yearns for the touch of an absent
hand.
The days were drawing near to New Year's Eve when Mrs. Court wrote
announcing her safe arrival in London. Hal's grandmother read the letter
aloud, and Miss Ainsworth watched the rapt expression on his face with a
strange intuition of coming sorrow, a fear lest disappointment,
black-winged and ugly, should mar the seraphic beauty of the child's
features. The little mouth, slightly inclined by Nature to droop, smiled
softly as the older woman read, and a flush crept over the boy's cheek,
while his whole attitude denoted breathless excitement. So keen was the
tension that, as the letter closed, Miss Ainsworth felt she could hardly
bear the concluding words:--
"It is just possible, tell Hal, that, after all, I may not get to
Slaneyford for the New Year. Your account of the weather is not
encouraging, and, dearly as I long to be with you, I am bound to be
cautious and not run any risks. I have a slight cold in my throat, and
the thought of the floods round Castle Stewart holds terrors, with their
suggestion of dampness. My doctor advises me to give up all thought of
visiting Ireland while these stormy days of deluge last. Ask my sweet
boy to write to me."
Grandmamma laid the letter down with quite a matter-of-fact air,
remarking, "Cristina was very wise!"
Miss Ainsworth took a sidelong glance at Hal. He had not moved, but his
lip trembled and he stared very hard at the floor.
"I shall be writing to-day," said grandmamma, "so you had better put in
a line, Hal, and she will get it in London to-morrow morning."