THEODORE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HIS STEPMOTHER AND HER LITTLE SON.
THE following afternoon the inmates of Afton Hall were in a great
state of excitement. The servants, headed by Mrs. Hussey,
the housekeeper, were ranged in a line in the entrance hall, awaiting
the arrival of the travellers.
Suddenly there was a slight commotion heard, and Jane darted
downstairs, her face pale with consternation.
"Has any one seen Master Theodore?" she gasped, looking eagerly
from one to another of the astonished faces. "I can't find him
anywhere. Half an hour ago he was in the nursery, and now he's gone!"
The servants exchanged meaning looks. No one had seen the child.
Jane rushed out, calling him loudly; but though she searched every
nook of the grounds, and every corner of the stables and outhouses,
she could discover no sign of him.
Meanwhile, in an old lumber-room at the very top of the house,
Theodore lay carefully concealed under a heap of disused bedding.
He felt warm and uncomfortable, for it was a decidedly mild day,
to be so covered up.
By straining his ears, he could faintly hear distant sounds. He was
very unhappy, very lonely, and his heart was filled with evil
feelings against the strange woman, as he mentally dubbed his
father's wife. He was sure she would treat him unkindly; he had heard
many stories of cruel, unjust stepmothers; and he had made up his
mind to hate this one and her child. Poor little boy! He had never
known any love except old John Bawdon's, and Jane's idolising,
ill-advised affection, which was calculated to spoil him. Jane was so
fond of her little master, so jealous for him, that she had all
unintentionally succeeded in sowing the seeds of hostility towards
his stepmother in his impressionable heart. She resented the idea
of another child in the house.
"Mrs. Barton's son shall not interfere with Master Theodore," she had
told Mrs. Hussey the night before in Theodore's bearing; "I shall see
to that. No doubt the master will make much of him, as it's her
child; but Master Theodore is the heir, and the Hall is his rightful
home, while that other will only be here on sufferance."
Theodore recalled the words as he lay listening, and though he did
not thoroughly understand their meaning, he felt somehow injured and
resentful. Suddenly he heard the sound of carriage wheels, then a
tumult of voices, and presently a long silence, broken after what
seemed an interminable time by approaching footsteps.
The child held his breath in suspense. The footsteps drew nearer, and
then the door opened, and he heard the voices of Jane and
Mrs. Hussey.
"He may be hiding here," Jane remarked, "but I don't think it's
likely. Master Theodore, are you anywhere about?"
"Perhaps he's under this heap," Mrs. Hussey replied, and hastily
turning over the bedding, she discovered Theodore.
"Oh, you naughty, naughty boy!" Jane cried, as, pouncing upon him,
she dragged him to his feet. "Your father's come, and his wife, and
the child. Master's that angry with you for not being there to greet
him! I hardly dared tell him we couldn't find you! You must come down
at once."
"What is the strange woman like?" Theodore demanded. "And how big
is the little boy?"
"Come and see for yourself, Master Theodore," Mrs. Hussey said
kindly. "They are having tea in the west parlour. You may as well get
the meeting over at once."
Theodore suffered himself to be led downstairs unresistingly,
but outside the door his heart failed him, and he drew back.
"Oh, I cannot! I cannot!" he gasped, shrinking against his nurse.
Jane looked alarmed, fearing a scene. She hastily stooped down and
kissed him, then knocked at the door, and opening it, pushed him in.
"Master Theodore, sir," she announced, and quickly withdrew.
The west parlour was one of the pleasantest rooms in the house.
To-day a bright fire burned in the grate, whilst the air was sweet
with the scent of spring flowers, that had been gathered and arranged
in large, old-fashioned china bowls on the table and mantlepiece.
Old John Bawdon had plucked his choicest blooms in honour of his
master and his wife.
Theodore saw his father standing at the window, a tall, rather
severe-looking man. He turned at his son's entrance, and addressed
him somewhat sharply: "Where have you been, Theodore?"
"In the lumber-room, father."
The child was one who never quibbled or prevaricated, being innately
truthful.
"What were you doing there? I should not have thought there was much
attraction in a lumber-room."
Theodore raised his eyes to his father's face, and hesitated,
but only for a moment.
"I was hiding," he said slowly.
"I suppose you were shy," Mr. Barton remarked, his grave face
relaxing into a smile, as he shook hands with his son, and then
continued, "Now, I want to introduce you to my wife. Mary, this is
Theodore. Theodore, here is a lady who is very anxious to know you;
and if you are good—"
"Oh! I am sure he is good," interrupted a voice, somewhat hurriedly,
and a figure that had been seated in an easy chair by the fire rose
with a kind of nervous haste, and came forward. Theodore looked at
the stranger from head to foot, steadily. He saw a slight, graceful
figure, a pair of soft brown eyes, and a gentle face crowned with
dusky hair.
Mrs. Barton took the boy's limp hand, and smiled kindly at him.
He thought she meant to kiss him, as, indeed, she had intended,
but he drew hastily back, and met her friendly glance with one
of proud defiance.
"I hope we shall be friends," she said. "You will try to like me,
will you not, my dear?"
Theodore made no answer; he seemed perfectly tongue-tied. Mrs. Barton
cast an imploring look at her husband not to interfere; and with a
slightly impatient gesture he turned away, and looked out of the
window.
Meanwhile Theodore's eyes had wandered to the sofa, whereon lay a boy
of about his own age,—a boy with a mass of short golden curls, soft
brown eyes, and a thin, pale face. The brown eyes were watching
Theodore with great interest, and now they smiled at him, whilst a
slender hand was extended in greeting. Theodore gazed in surprise,
for the strange boy looked ill and delicate; so altogether different
from what he had pictured him.
"Come and speak to my little son," Mrs. Barton said.
"His name is Jack, and he has been looking forward to see you for a
long time."
"How do you do?" Jack asked politely. "Your name is Theodore,
isn't it? Won't you please come nearer, and shake hands with me?"
Theodore obeyed mechanically, wondering why Jack should recline
on the sofa. He looked with surprise at the small hand that clasped
his own brown fingers.
"Why does he lie there?" he asked abruptly, addressing his stepmother
for the first time. He was puzzled at the look of pain that crossed
her face at his simple question; but Jack made answer readily and
cheerfully:
"Didn't you know? Hasn't any one told you? Why, I'm lame!"
Theodore looked as he felt, inexpressibly shocked.
"It's my back," Jack went on to explain. "When I was a small boy
I fell downstairs, and I've never been well since."
He spoke as though he was a grown-up person, in a matter-of-fact
tone. "I shall never be strong like you as long as I live."
Theodore was greatly impressed. He fixed his serious grey eyes
on Jack's face, and thought deeply.
"Does your back hurt?" he enquired at length.
"Dreadfully sometimes; it makes me cross and naughty, and then I'm so
sorry afterwards. I tell the dear Lord Jesus about it, and oh! how I
wish He was on earth now! I would get mother to go to Him, and ask
Him to cure me. As it is, I'll have to wait till I die to get well."
"Well, one thing is certain," Theodore remarked with conviction
in his tones, "you can't fight."
"Fight!" Jack exclaimed, in accents of surprise, whilst his mother
looked somewhat startled, and Mr. Barton turned from the window and
surveyed his son in amazement.
"Yes, fight," Theodore continued. "I meant to fight you, you know.
Boys always fight; but I couldn't hit a fellow who's lame—it wouldn't
be fair play."
"Theodore!" interposed his father angrily. "You talk like a perfect
little savage!"
The child coloured hotly, and hung his head at the rebuke.
Mrs. Barton laid her hand kindly on his shoulder, as she said
somewhat wistfully, "I hope you and Jack will be friends, Theodore.
You are so strong, my dear, that I shall feel you are quite
a protector for him."
Theodore looked up brightly and smiled. "Yes," he answered, "I'm very
strong. I can run faster than much bigger boys, and I can climb
trees, and ride Jigger—that's my pony, you know—bare-backed. If you
like," with an air of condescension, "I will look after your little
boy for you. The village boys are very rough."
"Jack will hardly come much in contact with the village boys,
I should say," Mr. Barton interposed dryly.
"You see, Theodore," Jack explained, "I never go out except in my
chair. I can't walk."
"Can't walk!" Theodore exclaimed in horrified accents. "Can't walk!
oh, how dreadful!"
As Theodore spoke, Jack thought it was very dreadful too.
He turned his face aside, but not in time to hide the tears in his
eyes.
"You had better send Theodore away," Mr. Barton said to his wife.
"I am afraid he is upsetting Jack."
"I did not say anything to make him cry!" Theodore exclaimed
indignantly, turning his fearless eyes on his father's face.
"No, no," Mrs. Barton said soothingly. "But Jack is tired with the
journey, so I think I will put him to bed."
"Yes," said Jack, looking round, and smiling through his tears. "I am
tired. Do come and see me when I am in bed, Theodore." And Theodore
promised.
"Well, and what do you think of Mrs. Barton?" asked Jane, as Theodore
joined her in the nursery.
"I don't know," the child answered gravely.
He seated himself on the window-sill, and looked out dreamily.
In the distance he could see the tower of the parish church, and his
thoughts wandered to his dead mother, whose body lay buried in the
peaceful churchyard yonder.
"Jane, what was my mother like—my own mother?" he asked presently.
"Why, my dear, you know. You've got her likeness in your bedroom."
"Yes, but you tell me. Had she brown eyes, Jane?"
"Law, no, sir! Her eyes were as blue as the heavens, and her hair was
bright gold. You favour your father in looks, Master Theodore. Your
blessed mother was as fair as a lily, and with a colour in her cheeks
like a blush rose."
"I wish she had not died," the child said musingly.
"The Lord knows best, my dear."
"Does He? Did He send the strange woman, do you think, Jane?"
"Why—why, yes, I suppose so."
"And the little boy? Did you know he was lame? He cannot walk. Is it
not sad? Why did God let him fall downstairs and hurt himself, Jane?"
"I don't know, sir. But God knows, you may depend."
"It seems hard on Jack—his name is Jack. I am to go and see him when
he is in bed. He asked me."
There was a short silence, broken at length by Theodore.
"The house will seem different now they are come. And I think father
looks different already,—somehow I think he looks gladder."
Jane made no reply. Presently Theodore went to the door and listened.
He knew a room had been prepared, not far from his own, for his
stepbrother, and he wondered if he was yet in bed. He ventured out
into the passage, and crept cautiously along it. Before a half-closed
door he paused, and peeped in. Jack was in bed, his mother standing
by his side, whilst in a low, sweet voice she sang to him:
"At even, ere the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;
Oh! in what diverse pains they met!
Oh! with what joy they went away!"
She sang the hymn through to the last verse; and when it was finished
she looked around, and saw the little figure in the doorway,
watching.
"Come and say good night to Jack," she said, smiling, and thus
encouraged Theodore advanced to the bedside.
"I must not let you talk to-night, because Jack is over-tired, and I
want him to go to sleep quickly."
Jack raised himself in bed, and lifted his wan little face for
Theodore to kiss. Theodore complied somewhat awkwardly, and with a
muttered "good night" turned away. He watched Mrs. Barton as she
tenderly embraced her son; and listened to her whispered: "God bless
you, my darling." Then she joined him outside the door.
"Are you coming, Mary?" Theodore heard his father's voice call.
"Yes, in one minute," his wife responded.
She took Theodore's little brown hand and pressed it kindly.
"Good night, my dear," she whispered; then she stooped and
impulsively imprinted a kiss on his forehead: "God bless you, too,
Theodore."