JACK'S LONELINESS; AND THEODORE'S LOVE FOR HIS STEPBROTHER.
BRIGHTLY the June sunshine shone into the nursery at Afton Hall,
filling the room with its genial warmth; softly the balmy air wafted
through the open windows, bearing with it the scent of roses and
new-mown hay.
Jane sat sewing, every now and then glancing at Jack, who lay, with
the sunbeams turning his fair locks into brightest gold, and lighting
up his pale little face.
"Oh, the beautiful sunshine!" he cried. "How I love it! Listen, Jane;
what is it I hear?"
"Only the voices of the children in the hayfields, Master Jack."
"I wish, oh! how I wish I was with them. I suppose Theo is there;
he said he should ride home on the top of a waggon of hay; do you
think he will?"
"Very likely. The men will look after him. There's not one among the
lot that could bear to see him hurt in any way. He will be their
master one day, you know."
"Will he?"
"Yes. Master Theodore's his father's heir. You can look out of the
window, and as far as you can see, and further, is Mr. Barton's own
property, and will be his son's. Heaven bless the dear boy! There
never was another so handsome, so good!"
"I thought you said he was very naughty this morning, Jane,"
Jack remarked in a puzzled tone.
"Well, maybe he was at the time I spoke, but he's never naughty long.
He has his mother's sweet, forgiving nature."
"Oh, Jane," Jack cried, coaxingly, "do tell me about Theo's mother!
What was she like?"
"Like a beautiful angel, Master Jack. Her hair was as fine as spun
silk, and as golden as your own. Her eyes were large and bright,
in colour a deep blue; and her face, with its kind, gentle look,
always gained her friends."
"Was she very good, Jane?"
"That she was. When she died the whole parish mourned; and as for
Mr. Barton, there was no comforting him. He never saw Master Theodore
for some weeks, until one day I walked into the room where he was,
with the dear little lamb in my arms. Will you please to look at your
son, sir,' I said, all of a tremble, and he went as white as a sheet.
'Take him away!' he cried, but I wouldn't. Then I told him as how my
mistress, some days before she died, said if the baby was a boy
she would like him to be called Theodore, and if a girl, Theodora—
because, Master Jack, those names mean 'The gift of God.' Well, the
master listened, and agreed that the child should be baptised
Theodore, as his wife had wished; but he only glanced once at the
baby, and turned away. As time went on he got accustomed to seeing
the dear lamb about, and I believe now he's very proud of him, as
indeed he ought to be. Mr. Barton has a real kind heart, and he gives
Master Theodore all he could possibly wish."
"He is very kind," Jack agreed. "When he carries me downstairs
he doesn't hurt me at all scarcely."
Jane nodded. She had been talking, hoping to interest her little
companion, and keep his thoughts from the happy party in the
hayfield. Apparently she had succeeded, for Jack looked thoughtful,
but by no means sorrowful.
"Jane, I am so glad you have told me what Theodore's name means,"
he remarked at length. "I must tell mother. Theodore—the gift of God—
I think it's splendid!"
Meanwhile Theodore himself was romping in the hayfield, totally
forgetful of his stepbrother at home. The men worked late, and it was
quite dusk before the merry party broke up.
Theodore hastened home, and, rushing into the house, tore upstairs
as quickly as he could, and into the nursery. But Jane was not there;
and Jack, tired out with the heat of the day, had been put to bed.
Theodore repaired to his stepbrother's room, and peeped cautiously
in.
"Are you asleep, Jack?"
No answer. The room was nearly dark, and the blinds drawn down.
Theodore tip-toed up to the bed, and leaned over the little figure
that lay thereon. Jack was not asleep; on the contrary, he was very
wide awake, but his pillow was wet with tears, and his breath came
in sobbing gasps.
"Oh, I say, Jack, what's the matter?" Theodore inquired, in great
concern. "Shall I call your mother?"
"No, you can't; mother's gone to a dinner-party," with a fresh burst
of tears.
"Then I'll ring for Jane."
"No, don't—don't, Theo. Wait a minute."
Theodore obeyed, and stood patiently by till Jack was able to still
his sobs. Then he took a very grimy-looking handkerchief from the
depths of his trousers pocket, and wiped his stepbrother's eyes.
"Oh, I say, don't cry any more I Are you ill, Jack?"
"No! oh, no!"
"It's your poor back, isn't it, old fellow?"
When Theodore was in a tender humour, he always called Jack
"old fellow."
"No, no; my back's all right. I am very silly. Mother's away, and—and
you were away."
"Yes. I've been in the hayfield nearly all day. It was so jolly,
Jack!"
"I know, I know," with a little gasping sob; "and I—I've been so—so
lonely, and—and miserable."
"Didn't they look after you properly? Where was Jane?"
"Oh, Jane was very kind! Only, I missed you, Theo, and I thought
of you and the other boys playing—"
"But you couldn't have played, you know, and—"
"I know, I know; that was it."
A sudden, comprehensive light broke across Theodore's mind, and he
felt a sharp pang of regret that his stepbrother was not like other
boys. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took one of the little
invalid's hands in his strong, brown fingers, and there was a silence
for a while, broken at length by Jack.
"How good you are to me, Theo. You always understand."
"No, I don't, old fellow."
"Oh, I think you do! Don't think me very selfish, Theo. Do you think
it is wrong to wish to be like you—strong and well?"
"It is hard for you, Jack. I wish—I wish; I know!" with a quick,
excited change of manner.
"What is it, Theo?"
"It's a secret. No, I can't tell you. No, I've only just thought
of it."
Theodore's face was radiant with a bright idea; but he checked
his excitement.
"Don't be lonely any more, Jack. I'm here, and I'll stay with you
as long as you like. Do you feel at all sleepy?"
"I think I do."
"Then try to go asleep."
"Kiss me, Theo."
Theodore complied readily. Jack put his arms around Theodore's neck,
and pressed his hot, feverish lips to the other's cool, firm cheek.
"Won't you sing to me, like mother does, before you go?" Jack
whispered.
"I don't think I can."
"Oh, yes! Sing 'At even, ere the sun was set;—you know that."
And very sweetly, in his clear treble, Theodore sang the hymn
correctly through to the end.
"The last verse again, please, Theo," Jack murmured, sleepily.
"All right, old fellow:—
"Thy touch has still its ancient power;
No word from Thee can fruitless fall:
Hear, in this solemn evening hour,
And in Thy mercy heal us all."
Attracted by the sound of the sweet boyish voice, Jane had come
upstairs. She now entered the room, and Jack having fallen asleep,
she bore Theodore off to supper and bed. But Theodore did not quickly
close his eyes and drift into the land of dreams, as he usually did.
He lay very quiet and still for more than an hour, his brain working
busily; then, knowing he was now safe from a visit from Jane,
he slipped out of bed, and swiftly dressed himself. Next he went
to the window, and after noiselessly pulling up the blind, cautiously
opened it.
The night air was sweet with summer scents, and blew freshly against
Theodore's face, cooling his flushed, sunburnt cheeks. He leaned his
elbows on the sill, and lifted his eyes to the sky, where the moon
was shining brightly. Presently he turned his gaze to the garden,
where the tall madonna lilies reared their stately heads; he could
smell their delicious fragrance, and he fancied they looked like
ghosts in the moonlight.
As his eyes wandered to the grey church tower in the distance,
a sense of loneliness crept over him, such as he had never
experienced before; and he thought of the grave wherein his mother
lay, and wished sorrowfully that she had not died. If she had lived,
she would have loved him, he knew, even as Mrs. Barton loved her
little son. Why had God taken her away from him? Was it really
because she had been too good to live, as Jane had often told him,
unconsciously magnifying the good qualities of her dead mistress?
He did not think that a sufficient reason, for other people were
good, and often lived to be quite old.
"I'm sure John Bawdon is good, every one says so," Theodore mused.
"Father says he's honest and faithful, and one of the best men he
knows, and yet God has let him live all these years. No, that can't
be it. I wish I knew."
Another hour passed, and still the boy waited by the open window.
At length, however, he heard the sound of carriage wheels, and
following out a plan he had made, he hastened downstairs, and into
the room where he knew his stepmother and father would presently
come.
The lamp was lowered, so that, on entering, Mr. and Mrs. Barton did
not notice the child. They stood on the rug by the fireplace, talking
and laughing about the events of the evening. She had thrown off her
wraps, and looked very beautiful in her soft white gown, trimmed with
filmy lace. As Theodore watched her face, flushed and animated
at present, he did not wonder that Jack loved his mother so dearly,
or that his father was so much happier now-a-days. The boy crossed
the room towards them, and each turned on him with an exclamation
of surprise.
"You did not see me when you came in," he explained. "I have been
waiting for you."
"Is anything wrong?" Mrs. Barton asked anxiously, her pretty colour
fading somewhat. "Jack is not ill, is he?"
"Oh, no! He is fast asleep."
She drew a breath of relief, and then, turning to her husband,
remarked, "You must think me unnecessarily anxious about Jack."
"It is quite natural you should be," he answered, with a smile.
Then turning to Theodore, he laid his hand on his shoulder as he
enquired kindly, "Why are you not in bed and asleep, my son?"
"I did go to bed, but when all was quiet I got up again, and looked
out of the window till I heard the carriage coming; then I came
downstairs. Jane thinks I'm in bed now, and oh, wouldn't she scold
if she knew!"
Theodore raised his eyes to his father's face, and meeting a look
of amusement, laughed merrily.
"And may I ask why you thus run the risk of Jane's displeasure?"
Mr. Barton asked.
"I wanted to ask you a favour, father."
"Is it to be a secret between you and me, Theodore, or may she,"
indicating his wife, "stay and hear?"
The boy looked at his stepmother. Her brown eyes were watching him
earnestly, and a little sadly. They reminded him of Jack's, and he
answered quickly, "Oh, she may hear if she likes!"
At this point husband and wife laughed, and Theodore joined heartily.
"Now, then, what is it? Have you tired of Jigger, and want me to get
you a bigger pony?"
"No, father; I couldn't part with Jigger."
"Then what is it, Theodore?"
"I have been in the hayfields nearly all day, with the vicarage
children," the boy began, "and Jack has been at home alone. I did not
think he might be lonely. I did not think about him at all. But he
was lonely; he told me so. I want to give a party in the lower meadow
to-morrow; and, father, don't you think, as it is so close, we might
wheel Jack in his chair as far as the gate, and then you could carry
him very carefully, and put him on a comfortable seat in the hay.
Oh, I'll make him such a cosy nest!"
"Of course I could, my boy, and I will."
"Oh, father, thank you! Jack will be so glad. But you mustn't tell
him. He must go out in his chair, just as usual, and we will wheel
him carefully down the road till we come to the lower meadow; and
then you must come along, as if by chance, you know, and carry him
the rest of the way—won't you?"
"I will, my son."
Mr. Barton looked down at the eager, animated face, so like his own
in features, so unlike in expression, and a glow of fatherly love
filled his heart for his child. Never, he thought, had he seen
Theodore look so handsome, so noble. The little fellow's eyes shone
brightly at the thought of the pleasure in store for his stepbrother;
for his affection for Jack, which had commenced out of protecting
pity, was fast developing into deep, unselfish love.
"A thousand thousand thanks, father! It must be a secret, mind.
You will not tell?" Theodore asked, turning to Mrs. Barton.
She shook her head, smiling; but, to the boy's astonishment, there
were tears in her eyes, and she seemed incapable of speech. Satisfied
and happy, Theodore said "Good night," and went upstairs, taking care
to step softly, that Jane should not hear him.
He was in bed, and almost asleep, when his stepmother passed his door
on her way to her son's room. He knew she always visited Jack the
last thing before going to bed herself, and presently he heard her
returning. To his surprise, instead of passing his room, as usual,
she entered. He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, and wondering
what she wanted. He knew she stood by his bedside, looking down upon
him. Then he heard her sigh, and then a pair of soft lips kissed him
gently, tenderly; and opening his eyes, he saw by the moonlight
a beautiful face looking at him—oh, surely as his own mother, had she
lived, might have looked at her son! That look filled him with
strange, joyful wonderment that was almost pain. He hastily buried
his head under the bedclothes, and, mistaking the meaning of the
action, Mrs. Barton turned sadly and sorrowfully away.