Kitabı oku: «A Christmas Child: A Sketch of a Boy-Life», sayfa 10
CHAPTER XI
"IT'S ONLY I, MOTHER."
"How well my own heart knew
That voice so clear and true."
The summer in the wolds, so long looked forward to, was over. It had been very happy, in spite of the rain having given the visitors at the Skensdale farm-house rather more of his company than they had bargained for, and it left many happy memories behind it.
And the coming home again was happy too. The days were beginning to "draw in" as people say, and "home," with its coal-fires – which, though not so picturesque, are ever so much warmer than wood ones, I assure you – its well-closing doors and shutters, its nice carpets and curtains, was after all a better place for chilly days and evenings than even the most interesting of farm-houses. And Ted had his school-work to think of too; he was anxious to take a very good place at the next examinations, for he was getting on for twelve, and "some day" he knew that he would have to go out into the world as it were, on his own account – to go away, that is to say, to a big boarding-school, as Percy had done before him.
He did work well, and he was rewarded, and this Christmas was a very happy one. There was plenty of skating, and Ted got on famously. Indeed, he learnt to be so clever at it, that Cissy used to feel quite proud, when people admired him for it, to think that he was her brother, though Ted himself took it quite simply. Skating was to him the greatest pleasure he knew. To feel oneself skimming along by one's own will, and yet with a power beyond oneself, was delightful past words.
"I do think," thought Ted to himself, one clear bright frosty day, when the sky was as blue, almost, as in summer, "I do think it's as nice as flying."
And then looking up, as he skimmed along, at the beautiful sky which winter or summer he loved so much, there came over him that same strange sweet wonder– the questioning he could not have put into words, as to whether the Heaven he often thought of in his dreamy childish way, was really up there, and what it was like, and what they did there. It must be happy and bright – happier and brighter even than down here, because there, in some way that Ted knew that neither he nor the wisest of mankind could explain, one would be nearer God. But yet it was difficult to understand how it could be much brighter and happier than this happy life down below. There was no good trying to understand, Ted decided. God understood, and that was enough. And as He had made us so happy here, He might be trusted to know what was best for us there. Only – yes, that was the greatest puzzle of all, far more puzzling than anything else —everybody was not happy here – alas! no, Ted knew enough to know that – many, many were not happy; many, many were not good, and had never even had a chance of becoming so. Ah, that was a puzzle!
"When I'm a man," thought Ted – and it was a thought that came to him often – "I'll try to do something for those poor boys in London."
For nothing had made more impression on Ted, during his stay in London, than the sight of the so-called "City Arabs," and all he had heard about them. He had even written a story on the subject, taking for his hero a certain "Tom," whose adventures and misadventures were most thrilling; ending, for Ted liked stories that ended well, with his happy adoption into a kind-hearted family, such as it is to be wished there were more of to be found in real life! I should have liked to tell you this story, and some day perhaps I shall do so, but not, I fear, in this little book, for there are even a great many things about Ted himself which I shall not have room for.
There were other pleasures besides skating this Christmas time. Among these there was a very delightful entertainment given by some of Ted's father's and mother's friends to a very large party, both old and young. It was a regular Christmas gathering – so large that the great big old-fashioned ball-room at the "Red Lion" was engaged for the purpose.
Dear me, what a great many scenes this old ball-room had witnessed! Election contests without end, during three-quarters of a century and more; balls of the old-world type, when the gentlemen had powdered wigs and ribbon-tied "queues;" which, no doubt, you irreverent little people of the nineteenth century would call "pig-tails;" and my Lady Grizzle from the hall once actually stuck in the doorway, so ponderous was her head-gear, though by dint of good management her hoop and furbelows had been got through. And farther back still, in the Roundhead days, when – so ran the legend – a party of rollicking cavaliers, and a company commanded by one Captain Holdfast Armstrong, passed two succeeding nights in the Red Lion's ball-room, neither – so cleverly did the cautious landlord manage – having the least idea of the other's near neighbourhood.
But never had the old ball-room seen happier faces or heard merrier laughter than at this Christmas party; and among the happy faces none was brighter than our Ted's. He really did enjoy himself, though one of the youngest of the guests, for Cissy had been pronounced too young, but had reconciled herself to going to bed at her usual hour, by Ted's promise to tell her all about it the next day. And besides his boy friends – Percy, of course, who was home for the holidays, and Rex, and several others – Ted had another companion this evening whom he was very fond of. This was a little girl about his own age, named Gertrude, the daughter of a friend of his father's. I have not told you about her before, because, I suppose, I have had so many things to tell, that I have felt rather puzzled how to put them all in nicely, especially as they are all simple, everyday things, with nothing the least wonderful or remarkable about them. Gertrude was a very dear little girl; she almost seemed to Ted like another kind of sister. He had Mabel, and Christine her sister, as big ones, and Cissy as his own particular little one, and Gertrude seemed to come in as a sort of companion sister, between the big ones and the little one. Ted was very rich in friends, you see, friends of all kinds. He used often to count them up and say so to himself.
Well, this evening of the big Christmas party was, as I said, one of the happiest he had ever known. All his friends were there – all looking as happy as happy could be.
"When I'm a man," thought Ted to himself, "I'd like to give parties like this every Christmas," and as he looked round the room his eyes gleamed with pleasure. Gertrude was standing beside him – they were going to be partners in a country-dance, which was a favourite of Ted's. Just then his mother came up to where they were standing.
"Ted, my boy," she said, "I am going home now. It is very late for you already – half-past twelve. The others, however, are staying later, but I think it is quite time for you and me to be going, don't you?"
Ted's face clouded – a most unusual thing to happen.
"Gertrude isn't going yet," he said, "and Rex and his brothers; they're staying later. O mother, must I come now?"
His mother hesitated. She was always reluctant to disappoint the children if it could be helped, yet, on the other hand, she was even more anxious not to spoil them. But the sight of Ted's eager face carried the day.
"Ah well," she said, smiling, "I suppose I must be indulgent for once and go home without you. So good-night, Ted – you will come with the others – I hope it won't be very late."
As she turned away, it struck her that Ted's face did not look altogether delighted.
"Poor Ted," she said to herself, "he doesn't like to see me go away alone." But hoping he would enjoy himself, and that he would not be too tired "to-morrow morning," she went home without any misgiving, and she was not sorry to go. She found the Christmas holidays and all they entailed more fatiguing than did the children, for whom all these pleasant things "grew" without preparation.
It was a rather dark night – so thought Ted's mother to herself as she glanced out of her window for a moment before drawing the curtains close and going to bed – all the house was shut up, and all those who had stayed at home fast asleep by this time, and it had been arranged that the others should let themselves in with a latch-key. Ted's mother felt, therefore, rather surprised and a little startled when she heard a bell ring; at first she could hardly believe that she was not mistaken, and to be quite sure she opened the window and called out "Is there any one there?" There was half a moment's silence, then some one came out a little from under the porch, where he had been standing since ringing the bell, and a well-known voice replied – how clearly and brightly its young tones rose up through the frosty air —
"It is only I, mother. I thought I'd rather come home after all."
"You, Ted," she replied; – "you, and alone?"
"Yes, mother. I thought somehow you'd like better to have me, so I just ran home."
"And weren't you frightened, Ted?" she said a little anxiously, but with a glad feeling at her heart; "weren't you afraid to come through the lonely streets, and the road, more lonely still, outside the town? For it is very dark, and everything shut up – weren't you afraid?"
"Oh no, mother – not a bit," he replied, "only just when I had left all the houses I did walk a little faster, I think. But I'm so glad I came, if you're pleased, mother."
And when his mother had opened the door and let him in and given him a good-night kiss even more loving than usual, Ted went to bed and to sleep with a light happy heart, and his mother, as she too fell asleep, thanked God for her boy.
I must now, I think, children, ask you to pass over with me nearly a whole year of Ted's life. These holidays ended, came, by slow degrees that year, the always welcome spring; then sunny summer again, a bright and happy summer this, though spent at my little friends' own home instead of at the Skensdale farm-house; then autumn with its shortening days and lengthening evenings, gradually shortening and lengthening into winter again; till at last Christmas itself, like the familiar figure of an old friend, whom, just turning the corner of the road where we live, we descry coming to visit us, was to be seen not so far off.
Many things had happened during this year, which, though all such simple things, I should like to tell you of but for the old restrictions of time and space. And indeed I have to thank you for having listened to me so long, for I blame myself a little for not having told you more plainly at the beginning that it was not a regular "story" I had to tell you in the "carrots" coloured book this year, but just some parts, simple and real, of a child-life that I love to think of. And I would have liked to leave it here – for some reasons that is to say – or I would have liked to tell how Ted grew up into such a man as his boyhood promised – honest-hearted, loving, and unselfish, and as happy as a true Christmas child could not but be. But, dears, I cannot tell you this, for it was not to be so. Yet I am so anxious that the little book I have tried to write in such a way that his happy life and nature should be loved by other children – I am so anxious that the ending of this little book should not seem to you a sad one, at Christmas-time too of all times, that I find it a little difficult to say what has to be said. For in the truest sense the close of my book is not sad. I will just tell it simply as it really was, trusting that you will know I love you all too well to wish to throw any cloud over your bright faces and thoughts.
Well, as I said, this year had brought many little events, some troubles of course, and much good, to our Ted. He had grown a good deal taller, and thinner too, and he never, even as a tiny toddler, could have been called fat! But he was well and strong, and had made good progress at school and good progress too in other ways. He was getting on famously at cricket and football, and was a first-rate croquet-player, for croquet was then in fashion. And the museum had not been neglected; it had really grown into a very respectable and interesting museum, so that not only Ted's own people and near friends were pleased to see it, but even his parents' friends, and sometimes others, again, who happened to be visiting them, would ask the little collector to admit them. I really think it would be a good thing if more boys took to having museums; it would be a good thing for them, for nothing can be more amusing and interesting too, and a very good thing for their friends, especially in bad weather or in holiday-time, when now and then the hours hang heavily on these young people's hands, and one is inclined to wish that some fancy work for boys could be invented. Ted's museum had grown very much, and was always a great resource for him and for Cissy too, for, to tell the truth, her tastes were rather boyish.
His library had grown too. I cannot tell you how many nice books he had, and still less could I tell you how he treasured them. When, through much service, some of them grew weak in the back, he would, though reluctantly, consent to have them re-bound; and he had a pretty, and to my mind a touching, way of showing his affection for these old friends, which I never heard of in any other child. Before a book of his went to be bound he would carefully – tenderly I might almost say – cut off the old cover and lay it aside; and among the many sweet traces left by our boy – but I did not mean to say that, only as it came naturally of itself I will leave it – few went more to his mother's heart than to find in one of his drawers the packet carefully tied up of his dear books' old coats.
Nothing gave Ted so much pleasure as a present of a book. This Christmas he had set his heart on one, and Christmas was really coming so near that he had begun to think of presents, and to write out, as was his habit, a list of all the people in the house, putting opposite the name of each the present he had reason to think would be most acceptable. The list ended in a modest-looking "self," and opposite "self" was written "a book." But all the other presents would have to be thought over and consulted about with mother – all except hers of course, which in its turn would have to be discussed with his father or Mabel perhaps – ever so many times, before it came to the actual buying.
One Sunday – it was about three weeks to Christmas by this time – the head master of Ted's school, who was also a clergyman, mentioned after the usual service that he wished to have a special thanksgiving service this year for the good health that had been enjoyed by the boys this "half." It had been almost exceptionally good, he said; and he himself, for one, and he was sure every one connected with the school would feel the same, was very thankful for it.
Ted's mother and Mabel, who were both, as it happened, at the school chapel service that afternoon, glanced at their boy when this announcement was made. They knew well that, despite his merry heart, Ted was sensitive to things that do not affect all children, and they were not surprised to see his cheeks grow a little paler. There was something in the thought of this solemn Thanksgiving, in which he was to take part, that gave him a little of the same feeling as he had had long ago in the grand old church, when he looked up to the lofty roof, shrouded in a mystery of dim light his childish eyes could not pierce, and the sudden carillon broke out as if sung by the angels in heaven.
And a little chill struck to his mother's heart; she knew the service was a good and fitting acknowledgment of God's care, and yet a strange feeling went through her, for which she blamed herself, almost like that of the poor Irishwomen, who, when any one remarks on the beauty and healthiness of their children, hasten to cross themselves and to murmur softly "In a good hour be it spoken." For human nature, above all mother nature, is the same all the world over!
But on their way home she and Mabel talked it over, and decided that it was better to say nothing about it to Ted.
"It would only deepen the impression and make him nervous," said Mabel wisely.
A day or two later – a damp, rainy day it had been, there were a good many such about this time – Ted's mother, entering the drawing-room in the evening, heard some one softly singing to himself, gently touching the piano at the same time. It was already dusk, and she went in very quietly. The little musician did not hear her, and she sat down in silence for a moment to listen, for it was Ted, and the song in his sweet, clear tones – tones with a strange touch of sadness in them like the church bells, was "Home, sweet home."
It brought the tears to her eyes.
"Ted," she said at last.
"O mother," he said, "I didn't know you were there."
"But you don't mind me," she said.
Ted hesitated.
"I don't know how it is, mother," he said, frankly. "It isn't as if I could sing, you know. But I can't even try to do it when anybody's there. Is it silly, mother?"
"It's very natural," she said, kindly. "But if it gives me pleasure to hear you?"
"Yes," he said, gently.
"And when you're a man I hope and think you may have a nice voice."
"Yes," he said again, rather absently.
Something in his tone struck his mother; it sounded tired.
"You're quite well, Ted, aren't you?" she said.
"Oh yes, mother – just a very little tired. It's been such a rainy day; it isn't like Christmas coming so soon, is it? There's no snow and no skating."
"No, dear."
"There was no snow the Christmas I was born, was there, mother?"
"No, dear," said his mother again.
Ted gave a little sigh.
"You're going to Rex's to-night; it is his party, isn't it?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, "but I don't seem to care much to go."
"But you're quite well, I think," said his mother cheerfully. "It would be unkind not to go when they are all expecting you."
"Yes," said Ted. "It would be."
So he went off to get ready; and his mother felt pleased, thinking the dull weather had, for a wonder, affected his spirits, and that the merry evening with his friends would do him good.
CHAPTER XII
THE WHITE CROSS
"It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
The lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fade and die that night
It was the plant and flower of light;
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be."
"Early Ripe." – Ben Jonson.
It seemed as if she had been right. Ted came home with bright eyes and glowing cheeks, and said they had had an "awfully" merry evening. And his mother went to bed with an easy mind.
But the next morning she felt less happy again, for Ted was evidently not well. He was not very ill, but just not very well, and he hung about in an uninterested, unsettled way, quite unlike his usual busy briskness.
"He excites himself too much when he goes out, I think," said his father; "we really shall have to leave off ever letting him go out in the evening unless we are there ourselves;" and he looked a little anxiously at Ted as he spoke, though the boy had not heard what he said.
But again this slight anxiety passed by. Then came a change in the weather, and a sudden frost set in. Ted seemed to revive at once, and when he heard that there was to be a whole holiday for skating, no one was more eager about it than he. And, a little against her own feelings, his mother let him go.
"You must be careful, Ted," she said; "you are not yet looking as well as usual. And the ice cannot be very firm. Indeed, I almost doubt its bearing at all. A bath in icy water would not do you any good just now."
But Ted promised to be careful, and his mother knew she could trust him. Besides, several big boys were to be there, who would, she knew, look after him. So Ted went, and came home saying it had been as usual "awfully jolly;" but he did look tired, and owned himself rather so, even though well enough to go out again in the evening with the others, and to be one of the merriest at what the children called "a penny reading" together, at which each in turn of the little party of friends read or repeated or acted some story or piece of poetry for the amusement of the others. And once again, but this was the last time she could do so, Ted's mother felt able to throw off the slight vague anxiety which had kept coming and going for the last few days about her little boy, and to go to sleep with an easy mind.
But the next morning, to his own and her disappointment, he woke "tired" again. Only tired – he complained of nothing else, but he said he wished he need not go to school. And that was so unlike Ted.
"Need I go, mother?" he asked gently.
She looked at him doubtfully.
"It seems such a pity, dear – so near the examinations too. And sometimes, you know, when you haven't felt quite well in the morning you have come back quite right again."
"Very well," said Ted, and he went off cheerfully enough.
But when he came back he was not all right as his mother had hoped; the "tiredness" was greater, and he seemed to have caught cold, and the next morning, after a restless night, there was no longer any doubt that Ted was ill. Our dear little Ted – how quickly illness does its work – above all with children! Almost before one has realised its presence the rosy cheeks are pale and the bright eyes dimmed; the sturdy legs grow weak and trembling, and the merry chatter ceases. Ah dear! what a sad, strange hush comes over a house where "one of the children" is ill.
The hush and the sadness came but gradually. Still, for a day or two, they hoped it was nothing very serious. On this first afternoon of Ted's really owning himself ill, two girl friends of Mabel's came, as had been arranged, to see the famous museum, usually such a pleasure to its owner to exhibit. But already how different all seemed!
"Mother, dear," he said, as if half reproaching himself for selfishness, "it sometimes almost seems a bother to have to show my museum;" but as it was considered better not to let him yield to the depression coming over him, he bravely roused himself and went through the little exhibition with his usual gentle courtesy. But this was the last effort of the kind possible for him.
Sunday and Monday found him weaker, and the doctor's kind face grew graver. Still he was not very ill; only it began to seem as if he had not strength to resist what had not, at first, threatened seriously. And one day he made his mother's heart seem, for an instant, to stop beating, when, looking up wistfully, he said to her,
"Mother, I don't think I shall ever get better."
And the sad days and sadder nights went slowly on. Now and then there seemed a little sparkle of hope. Once Ted began to talk about meeting his dear Percy at the station, when he came home for the holidays, which made those about him hope he was feeling stronger; then, at another time, he said what a pity it would be not to be well by Christmas and by his birthday, and he smiled when his father told him, as was the case, that the doctor quite hoped he would be well by then; and one day when the post brought him his great wish – a beautiful book of travels – his face lighted up with pleasure, and, though not able to read it, the welcome present lay on his bed where he could see it and smile to himself to think it was there. There were happy times through his illness, weak and wearied though he grew, and now and then he seemed so bright that it was difficult, for a little, not to think him much better. But the illness which Ted had is a very deceitful one – it invisibly saps away the strength even when the worst sharp suffering is over – and slowly, slowly it came to be seen that his own feeling had been true; our Ted was not to get better.
One day a travelling merchant brought to the door a case of pretty Parian ornaments. White and pure they shone in the winter sunshine, and some one had the thought that "one of these might please Ted." So they were brought up for him to choose from. Poor Cissy! she would fain have carried them in; but alas! for fear of infection, she could not be allowed to see her brother, which made of these last days a double sorrow to her, though she did not know how ill he was. Ted touched the pretty things with his little thin hand.
"They are very pretty," he said. "I like this one best, please, mother."
"This one" was a snow-white cross, and his mother's heart ached with a strange thrill as she saw his choice; but she smiled as she placed it beside him, where it stood, ever in his sight, till his blue eyes could see it no more.
There came a morning on which the winter sun rose with a wonderful glory; gold and orange light seemed to fill the sky, as if in prelude to some splendid pageant. It was Sunday morning. Ted lay asleep, as if carved in marble, his little white face rested on the pillow, and as his mother turned from the marvellous beauty outside to the small figure that seemed to her, just then, the one thing in earth or sky, she whispered to herself what she felt to be the truth.
"It is his last Sunday with us. Before another my Ted will have entered that city where there is no need of the sun, of which God Himself is the light. My happy Ted! but oh, how shall we live without him?"
She was right. Ted did not live to see Christmas or his birthday. Sweetly and peacefully, trusting God in death as he had trusted Him in life, the little fellow fearlessly entered the dark valley – the valley of the shadow of death only, for who can doubt that to such as Ted what seems death is but the entrance to fuller life?
So, children, I will not say that this was the end of the simple life I have told you of – and in yet another way Ted lives – in the hearts of all that loved him his sweet memory can never die. And if I have been able to make any among you feel that you too love him, I cannot tell you how glad I shall be.
They laid him in a pretty corner of the little cemetery from which can be seen the old church Ted loved so well, and the beautiful chase, where he so often walked. And even in those midwinter days his little friend Gertrude found flowers for his grave. It was all she could do to show her love for him, she said, crying bitterly, for she might not see him to bid him good-bye, and her heart was very sore.
So it was with Christmas roses that the grave of our Christmas child was decked.
