Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "John, what are you talking of, all by yourself?"]
THE HERMIT'S CAVE
or
Theodore and Jack.
By
ELEANORA H. STOOKE,
Author of "Polly's Father," "A Little Town Mouse,"
"Rose Cottage," etc.
Illustrated by Richard Tod.
LONDON:
GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;
AND EDINBURGH.
PRINTED AND BOUND BY
GALL AND INGLIS,
NEWINGTON PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING WORKS,
EDINBURGH.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THEODORE HEARS OF HIS STEPBROTHER
II. THEODORE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HIS STEPMOTHER AND HER LITTLE
SON
III. THEODORE'S GREAT-AUNTS
IV. THE GREATEST MAN THAT EVER LIVED
V. JACK'S LONELINESS; AND THEODORE'S LOVE FOR HIS STEPBROTHER
VI. IN THE HAYFIELD
VII. THEODORE AND HIS STEPMOTHER
VIII. THEODORE'S DISOBEDIENCE, AND THE RESULT
IX. LITTLE JACK AT DEATH'S DOOR
X. GOOD NEWS
XI. THE ARRIVAL AT BLACKBURN FARM
XII. A MORNING'S EXPERIENCE
XIII. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
XIV. THEODORE HAS HIS OWN WAY
XV. ON THE MOORS
XVI. A TERRIBLE PLIGHT
XVII. THEODORE'S DISAPPEARANCE
XVIII. IN THE CARAVAN
XIX. EXPLANATIONS AND FORGIVENESS
XX. HOME AGAIN
List of Illustrations.
"John, what are you talking of, all by yourself?"
The picnic in the hayfield.
The farmer advised him to walk quietly.
They had sometimes to go on their hands and knees.
THE HERMIT'S CAVE.
CHAPTER I.
THEODORE HEARS OF HIS STEPBROTHER.
IT was a mild day towards the end of February; and though so early in
the year, spring flowers were in full bloom in the sheltered gardens
which surrounded Afton Hall.
Bright yellow crocuses, like regiments of plucky little soldiers
in amber uniform, with here and there clumps of mauve or white,
bordered the flower-beds; whilst daffodils reared their stately
golden heads in the gentle breeze, and snowdrops peeped modestly
from amongst their gorgeously-apparelled neighbours.
The patch of ground in front of the side of the house that faced the
west was particularly productive, being sheltered from the east wind;
and as old John Bawdon, the gardener, carefully turned over the brown
earth with his spade on this promising spring morning, he made a
mental picture of the garden as he hoped to see it in the summer.
"'Tis beautiful soil," he muttered; "just the right sort for them
young carnation plants. They'll make a fine show by-and-by!"
"John!" cried a young, imperious voice. "John! what are you talking
about, all to yourself?"
The gardener turned his brown, weather-beaten countenance towards the
speaker, a boy of about seven years old, whose handsome face was
ruddy and glowing with perfect health.
"I was saying how fine the carnations will look in the summer, please
God."
"Why do you say 'please God'?" asked the child, laughing. "You know,
John, you always do say it, and it does sound so funny."
"Well, Master Theodore," was the reply, in rather injured tones,
"I suppose it is as God pleases, anyway. I may dig, and plant, and
prune, and tend the garden with all my strength, but it's all no good
if God doesn't help. That's my experience, sir, and I've lived nigh
upon seventy years, and more than fifty of those years I've been
working in these here gardens. You don't find many of my sort
now-a-days," he added with conscious pride. "More than half a century
I've served your family, Master Theodore, as I've told you many
times. I mind when your grandfather, who's dead and gone, was a lad;
we were boys together. I mind when your father was born, and I mind
the night you came into the world. Yes, I recollect some changes."
The old man struck his spade into the ground, and leaning on the
handle of it, looked very tenderly at the boy. The child was clad
in a loose, sailor's suit, and he stood in a negligent,
care-for-nothing attitude, his hands in his trousers pockets.
"I know you're awfully old, John,—" he was beginning, when the old
man interrupted him.
"Not so old but that there's a deal of work left in me yet.
I'm strong and hearty still. But living in one family so many years,
naturally one sees changes—great changes. You know, Master Theodore,
how this bit of ground was your mother's favourite spot; she used to
call it her winter garden, because there were mostly flowers here
in dead winter. See that yellow jessamine against the wall, and that
clump o' anemones! They were here in your mother's time. And the blue
violets! How your mother did love violets, to be sure! I made a
beautiful wreath of them to put on her coffin, and it was buried
with her. It seemed fitting like that she should be covered
in flowers, she who was so bright and beautiful, when they threw the
cruel earth in upon her."
The old man drew his sleeve hastily across his eyes, then caught up
his spade, and set to work again with renewed vigour. Presently a
smile crossed his face, and he continued:—
"I called the earth cruel, but it ain't—it's kind! Don't it give us
the flowers? Don't it take the ugly little brown bulb, and keep it
warm, and nurse it, till the beautiful blossom is ready to come? Why,
Master Theodore, the earth won't be able to keep your mother on the
resurrection day, no more than it can keep the flowers from blooming
when the spring's here. No one knows better than a gardener what the
resurrection means, as I told the vicar."
John Bawdon stopped abruptly, seeing the child was perplexed. There
was a troubled look on the handsome little face; a rebellious gleam
in the clear, grey eyes; and the old man watched him furtively for a
few minutes.
"John," Theodore said presently, "do you know I am going to have a
new mother?"
"I have heard talk of something of the kind," was the cautious reply.
"You know," the child went on, lowering his voice, as though the
subject was one not to be discussed openly, "my father is married
again, and to-morrow they are coming home. Jane says he has forgotten
my mother, and she says he will care less than ever for me now."
"Jane is a meddling, tattling woman, and ought to know better than
to think such things, much less say 'em!" cried John Bawdon angrily.
"She don't know anything about it, Master Theodore; you mustn't take
notice of what she says."
"This strange woman cannot be my mother, can she, John?"
"No, sir, she cannot, that's certain. But if she's a kind, good lady,
she may make things all the happier for you. Your own dear mother's
body lies in the churchyard waiting for the resurrection day, and her
pure spirit is with her Lord. Oh, my mistress!"
A tear fell from the old man's eyes into the brown earth, and the boy
sighed.
"I'm a fool," John Bawdon muttered to himself; "but I can't bear
to think of a stranger in her place, though it was seven years ago
she died."
"Don't you let anyone put you against your father's wife," he
continued aloud. "I daresay she'll be a nice lady; and anyway,
I don't suppose she'll make much difference to you, Master Theodore."
"No," the child promptly agreed; "but I shan't call her 'mother,'"
and his lips took a firmer curve, and his eyes flashed.
John Bawdon made no reply, but every now and again he turned from his
work to look at the slim little figure wandering in and out among the
flower-beds. Theodore Barton, in spite of possessing every comfort
and luxury that money could procure, was a sadly neglected child.
His mother had died at his birth, and his father, filled with grief
at the loss he had sustained, had always been apparently indifferent
to his son. So far, seven years Theodore had lived at Afton Hall,
cared for by his nurse, Jane, subject only to the occasional
interference of two maiden aunts of his father, who lived at a pretty
villa not far distant. Now Mr. Barton had married again; to-morrow
he was to bring home his bride. It was to be a very quiet
home-coming: no rejoicings in the village; no grand doings at the
Hall.
"John! John!" cried Theodore presently, "look at this clump
of anemones!"
"Aye, aye, sir; all in bloom, ain't they?"
"Yes. They are lovely. I shall have some for the nursery," and he
proceeded to gather a great bunch. "How quickly they have come up
after the snow!"
"The snow protects the flowers, Master Theodore."
"Does it? How strange!"
"People talk of snow being cold, but it ain't; it's warm—warm as a
blanket. God sends it to protect the tender, delicate plants.
The Lord's a rare good gardener, He is—on a grand scale."
"Only think, what a funny idea!" said Theodore, with a merry laugh.
"All the world's the Lord's garden. He tends and cares for the trees,
and the grass, and everything. You mind the lilies o' the field,
Master Theodore, how He said they were finer than King Solomon in all
his glory. You look at them crocuses now. Ain't they glorious? Bright
as gold, and as smooth as satin. There's colour for you!"
But the child was not listening. He had darted off to meet his nurse,
who was coming to seek him. She was a tall, plain woman of forty,
neatly dressed in black. Jane Mugford was devoted to her little
master, having been with him ever since his birth; and before that
time she had been maid to the late Mrs. Barton.
Old John Bawdon nodded to her in friendly fashion; and she returned
his greeting in cordial tones.
"Good afternoon, John. How well the garden looks, to be sure.
I suppose you're tidying up a bit against the home-coming to-morrow?"
"Aye, aye, Jane. That's it."
"What changes time brings, doesn't it? It seems not so long ago—"
The woman paused abruptly with a glance at the child, but apparently,
not interested in the conversation, he was watching a worm that was
crawling across the pathway.
"Have you told him?" asked John, nodding his head towards the boy.
"Told him what?"
"That the new mistress has a little son of her own?"
"Not I, indeed. His father hasn't thought it worth while to mention
the subject to him, and why should I? They are coming home to-morrow,
as you know, and intend bringing her child with them. He has been
staying with his mother's friends. Oh! we shall have fine changes
at Afton Hall! But I'll see that Master Theodore's nose isn't put out
of joint! The precious lamb!"
"Now, Jane, don't you try to set Master Theodore against the new
mistress, there's a good soul. It may all turn out for the best;
maybe it's the Lord's doing."
"Set him against the new mistress!" cried Jane, indignantly. "As if
I'd dream of doing such a thing! Well, John Bawdon, you must have a
mean opinion of me, indeed!"
"No, I haven't, Jane. But I know how you love the little master, and
how you loved his mother; and I think maybe it seems hard to see
another in her place. Well, well, I can't say I haven't felt like
that too. You're afraid Master Theodore will be worse off than ever
now, I suppose?"
The woman nodded, and answered angrily with flashing eyes: "His
father don't care for him as he ought, though he is his heir, and
such a fine, handsome, little lad. And now, with this strange woman
and her child here, he'll care less!"
"No, no! The children will be friends, you'll see; they're near of an
age, I hear. It may be the best thing for Master Theodore, his father
marrying again."
"Well, John, you always try to look on the bright side of everything;
I'll say that much in your favour," Jane remarked, a pleasant smile
chasing the gloom from her face.
"It's the Christian way to look at things, at any rate," the old man
responded, gravely.
"So it is; you're right, so it is. Hope is a Christian virtue,
they say. Come, Master Theodore, come, my dear, it's near
dinner-time, and you must come in."
The child bounded to her side. She took him by the hand, and stood
looking down into his upturned face, as she asked—"Master Theodore,
how would you like to have a brother?"
"A brother!" echoed the child, in surprise.
"Yes. She—Mrs. Barton—your father's new wife, has a little boy about
your age."
"Will he come here?" Theodore asked quickly.
"Yes, certainly he will."
"But this is not his home!"
"No, my dear, of course it's not. It's your home, Master Theodore,
and no one shall interfere with you, I promise that. There,"
soothingly, "don't get cross. You're Jane's own dear, good boy,
her little master, her—"
"Master Theodore," interposed John anxiously, "don't you think
you would like a boy to play with? I know you would. Of course
Mrs. Barton will bring her little son here; and I expect she'll want
you to show him about the place, and be kind to him. He'll be
lonesome at first, and a bit shy—"
"Boys are not shy," Theodore said decisively.
"Some are; this one is sure to be among strangers."
"Do you think he will be bigger than me?" asked the child, drawing
his slender, graceful form to its full height.
"I don't know, sir."
"I wonder if he will want to fight," musingly.
"Fight!" cried Jane, in horrified accents. "I should think not,
indeed! What can you mean, Master Theodore?"
"Tom Blake says boys always fight to see which is the master. I shall
not touch the—the strange woman's little boy if he is smaller
than me—that would be cowardly. But if he is about my size,"
with flashing eyes and clenched teeth, "I shall thrash him."
Having delivered this speech, Theodore drew his hand away from Jane's
clasp, and ran off toward the house. His nurse followed hastily,
whilst old John Bawdon gazed after them with troubled eyes.