"Please, I would rather send my letter quite alone in an envelope by
itself."
"Very well."
The boy walked slowly to the door. The pathetic droop of his shoulders
spoke more eloquently than words, telling of a spirit crushed by hope
deferred, of a little heart breaking under a childish tunic of blue
serge.
"The day after to-morrow will be New Year's Eve," he thought; "and
she--she is afraid of the weather, because of her voice!"
Perhaps he had always been unconsciously jealous of that wonderful gift
which took her away from him, though to the child's pure nature all
hurtful emotions came as aliens, tarrying but for a moment on forbidden
ground.
He crept to the far corner of the school-room, and, hiding the tiresome
tears that made writing difficult, scribbled hastily in his new
drawing-book.
"She shall have the first sheet as a letter," he said, tearing it out,
and re-reading the words, clearly written in a bold, childish hand.
"Perhaps she will come after all, when she gets this."
Miss Ainsworth saw with relief Hal looked happier as the post-boy
trudged with a bag of correspondence down the soaking drive.
The following morning there was a certain watchfulness about Hal. He
could settle down to nothing, and appeared to be constantly listening;
every bell sent him running to the hall door.
At last his energy met with reward, for he was the first to bring in a
telegram addressed to his grandmother. He waited by her knee with
glistening eyes, his pulses throbbing painfully as she read the flimsy
paper: "Shall be with you to-morrow; crossing to-night.--Cristina."
It seemed to the boy that his heart stopped beating and would never go
on again as he heard the wonderful intelligence. He struggled for breath
as he gasped out the good news to Miss Ainsworth, who had just appeared
to take him for a walk.
"She will be here for New Year's Eve! She rests in Dublin, you know, and
gets to us late in the afternoon," he cried, his face like a sunbeam.
"She changed her mind when she got our letters; I expect she saw we
wanted her very, very badly."
The hours flew quickly with so much gladness in store, and Hal was quite
ready to go to bed early, that to-morrow might come the
sooner--to-morrow, the day of days, long waited for, through weary
months of watching. Miss Ainsworth came to the boy's bedside fearing he
would never sleep--with his brain in such a whirl of feverish
expectation.
She found him open-eyed and flushed. Immediately he began speaking of
his mother.
"To-morrow night she will come in, shading the candle with her hand," he
said. "She will wear a lovely dress she calls a tea-gown, all soft and
lacey, and she doesn't mind how much I crumple it." He smiled at the
thought and hugged his pillows.
"I wonder why she suddenly changed her mind?" murmured Miss Ainsworth.
Hal sat bolt upright, his eyes very alert.
"It was all through my letter," he answered, triumphantly.
[Illustration: "'IT WAS ALL THROUGH MY LETTER,' HE ANSWERED."]
"What did you say?" Miss Ainsworth felt very curious as she put the
question; she had never before dealt with a child of uncommon character.
"I begged her to come," he replied, his tone vibrating with the energy
of a youthful passion. "I said I would like her to lose her voice on the
way and never find it again; then she would stay with me always, like
other mothers, who live at home with their children. I put: 'Never mind
about the old voice, dearest; it's always a bother, taking you away,'
and lots of things like that, just to show her how much I cared. Oh! and
I dropped some tears on the letter, so it all went crinkly."
An expression of intense longing lit his face as he paused, clutching
Miss Ainsworth's sleeve. "Do you think she will lose her voice on the
journey?" he gasped, hopefully. "It would be lovely if she did!"
Miss Ainsworth listened horrified; righteous indignation surged within
her well-meaning breast as she pictured the mother, torn by natural
affection, driven to risk her glorious gift of song for the whim of an
exacting child.
"Oh!" cried Miss Ainsworth, shaking him off angrily, "I had no idea you
were such a wicked little boy. I thought you really loved your mother,
and now I see you don't at all; you are thoroughly selfish and horrid.
Your letter must have hurt her very deeply. Of course, she values her
voice above everything. God gave it to her as a wonderful inheritance, a
divine talent, and you--you _hope_ she will lose it, never to find it
again! I don't want to talk to you any more, but if ill befalls your
mother it will be a judgment on you! Naturally she ought not to travel
against the advice of her doctor, but she is sacrificing her health for
the sake of granting an unkind and inconsiderate request!"
With these scathing words of rebuke Miss Ainsworth snatched up the
candle and strode from the room, shutting the door firmly behind her
without saying "good-night."
Hal remained very still. All in a moment the room had become peopled
with dark fancies and ugly forms. Dread stole like a human presence to
the disconsolate little soul. Hal shivered and, shrinking down, hid his
head in the sheets. The lecture, with its awful truths, returned like a
heavy blow, causing physical pain to the sensitive temperament of the
highly-strung boy. He had meant no harm by the ignorant words, whose
child-like pathos touched the deepest chord in the heart of the famous
singer. Not for the world would she have had one syllable of Hal's
letter altered by the tutoring hand of a shocked Miss Ainsworth, while
tears and smiles together answered the appeal of that quaint, unstudied
expression of the boy's mind.
But Hal knew nothing of this as the darkness gathered round him. He
heard only the condemning phrases: "You are thoroughly selfish and
horrid! I thought you really loved your mother! If ill befalls her it
will be a judgment upon you!" He set his lips and pressed his knuckles
firmly to his eyes. What was this dreadful thing he had done--all
unconsciously--to the mother for whom he would willingly have given his
life? She was on the sea now, against her doctor's advice, and the wind
was beating on his window-pane and moaning round the house. He felt he
could hardly bear the thought, and the sound of the pitiless rain
tortured him.
Of course, Miss Ainsworth was right; he had been inconsiderate and
unkind. If mother lost her voice God would be very angry, because Miss
Ainsworth said it was a "divine talent." Whatever happened, the precious
voice must be preserved, even if it took the one he loved away from him
to the end of the chapter. As he mused a sudden thought came, bringing
with it one bright ray of hope through the terrifying gloom.
Away across the mile-wide tideway, in the small town of Ferryport, a
certain Miss Cairn, an old, wrinkled spinster, kept a wondrous
sweet-shop, renowned for its good wares. When last Hal paid her a visit
one calm autumn day she had shown him a large glass jar of cough-drops,
bidding him remember when the winter came that for loss of voice, or
sore throat, she knew no equal in all the wide world. Miss Cairn
confided to him she had once assisted in a chemist's shop, and knew the
dark secrets of medicine. These drops were her own manufacture, and held
the magic of deep knowledge acquired in the past.
Her words came back now with a force and power which made the great
flood surging between him and the desired goal as nothing compared with
the thought of saving mother's voice! The very difficulties in the way
made the staunch little heart resolve to let no human power stay him
from the task ahead.
What matter that the ferry could not traverse the foaming waters? Old
Micky (known as Mad Micky, for risking his life in the wildest weather)
crossed every morning in his worn boat with the regularity of a postman!
The inhabitants on either side were glad enough to make use of his
fearless enterprise, for to be cut off from communication often proved
highly inconvenient. So they paid him to carry their wares, and traded
with each other, while they shrugged their shoulders at the danger
entailed.
"Poor craythur!" they would say; "shure, and he's bound to go under some
day, but there's none at home to mourn him, and he's set his mind on a
watery grave!"
To Hal that night Mad Micky appeared as the one bright spot on the dark
horizon of his childish sorrow.
If only he had Miss Cairn's cough-drops safely at Castle Stewart when
Mrs. Court arrived, all anxiety could be at an end. The lost voice must
needs return under the influence of such wonderful round, coloured
lozenges, with purple or pink stripes for choice. He fancied mother
would like the pink stripes best, because they were prettier.
Lulled by the glad notion of repairing his sinful past, little Hal let
his heavy, tear-stained eyes close, and dreamt of a beauteous lady in a
tea-gown, of Mad Micky, and sweets in a huge glass jar away across the
tide.