"Ah – I don't think that," said the boy, as he ran off.
He needed no blowing to school that morning. The way seemed short, even though it was still drizzling – a cold, disagreeable, small rain, which had succeeded the downpour of the night before. But Gratian cared little for rain – what true child of the moors could? – he rather liked it than otherwise, especially when it came drifting over in great sheets, almost blinding for the moment, and then again dispersed as suddenly, so that standing on the high ground one could see on the slopes beneath when it was raining and when it stopped. It gave one a feeling of being "above the clouds" that Gratian liked. But this morning there was nothing of a weather panorama of that kind – just sheer, steady, sapping rain, with no wind to interfere.
"They are tired, I daresay," thought Gratian; "for they must have been hard at work last night, getting the clouds together for all this rain. I expect Golden-wings goes off altogether when it's so cold and dreary. I wonder where she is. I would like to see her home – it must be full of such beautiful colours and scents."
"And mine – wouldn't you like to see mine?" whistled a sudden cold breath in his ear. "Yes, I have made you jump. But I'm not going to bring the snow just yet – I've just come down for a moment, to see how much rain Green-wings has got together. She mustn't waste it, you see. I can't have her interfering with my reservoirs for the winter. I hold with a good old-fashioned winter – a snowy Christmas and plenty of picture exhibitions for my pet artist, Jack Frost. A good winter's the healthiest in the end for all concerned."
"Yes, I think so too," said Gratian. He wished to be civil to White-wings. It was interesting to have some one to talk to as he went along, and the North-wind in a mild mood seemed an agreeable companion, less snappish and jerky than her sister of the east.
"That's a sensible boy," said the snow-bringer condescendingly; "you've something of the old northern spirit about you here on the moorlands still, I fancy. Ah! if you could see the north – the real north – I don't fancy you would care much about the sleepy golden lands you were dreaming of just now."
"I'd like to see them," replied the child; "I don't say I'd like to live in them always. But the scents and the colours – they must be very beautiful. I seem to know all about them when Golden-wings kisses me."
"Humph," said the Spirit of the North. Both she and Gray-wings had a peculiar way of saying "humph" when Gratian praised either of the gentler sisters – "as for scents I don't say – scent is a stupid sort of thing. I don't understand anything about it. But colours– you're mistaken, I assure you, if you think the south can beat me in that. You've got your head full of the idea of snow – interminable ice-fields and all the rest of it. Why, my good boy, did you never hear of Arctic sunsets – not to speak of the Northern Lights? I could show you sunsets and sunrises such as you have never dreamt of – like rainbows painted on gold. Ah, it is a pity you cannot come with me!"
"And why can't I?" asked Gratian. "I'm not afraid of the cold."
The North-wind gave a whistle of good-natured contempt.
"My dear, you'd have no time to be afraid or not afraid – you'd be dead before you'd even looked about you. Ah – it's a terrible inconvenience, those bodies of yours – if you were like us, now! But I mustn't waste my time talking, only as I was passing I thought I'd say a word or two. When my sisters are all together there's never any getting in a syllable edgeways. Good-bye, my child. We'll meet again oftener during the next few months."
"Good-bye, Godmother White-wings," said Gratian, and a gust of wind rushing past him with a whistle seemed to answer, "Good-bye."
"I'm very glad to have had a little talk with her," he said to himself; "she's much nicer than I thought she was, and she makes one feel so strong and brisk. Dear me – what wonderful places there must be up in the north where she lives!"
The master called him aside after morning lessons.
"Did your mother send any message to me, Gratian?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," and he repeated what Mrs. Conyfer had said.
The schoolmaster looked pleased.
"I'm glad she and your father have no objection," he said. "I think it may be a good thing for you in several ways. But I must explain it to you. You know the Big House as they call it, here? A lady and her son have come to stay there for a time – relations of the squire's – "
"Yes, sir, I know," interrupted Gratian; "she plays the organ on Sunday afternoons, and her little boy is ill."
"Not exactly ill, but he had a fall, and he mustn't walk about or stand much. It's dull for him, as at home he was used to companions. His mother asked me to send him one of my best boys – a boy who could read well for one thing – as a playmate. At first I thought of Tony Ferris, and I spoke of him. But Tony has begged me to choose you instead of him."
Gratian raised his brown eyes and fixed them on the master's face.
"Does Tony not want to go?" he asked. "I shouldn't like to take it from him if he wants to go."
"I think he would be happier for you to go," said the master, "and perhaps you may be more suitable. Besides Tony thinks that he owes you something. He has told me of the trick he played you, as you know – and certainly you deserve to be chosen more than he. I am not sure that he would care much about it; but still it will give him pleasure to think he has got it for you, and we may let him have this pleasure."
"Yes, sir," said Gratian thoughtfully. And then he added, "it was good of Tony to ask for it for me."
"Yes, it was," agreed the master.
"Then when am I to go?" asked Gratian.
"This afternoon. I will let you off an hour or so earlier, and you can stay at the Big House till it is dark. It is no farther home from there than from here, if you go by the road at the back of it. We shall see how you get on, and then the lady will tell you about going again."
Gratian still lingered.
"What is it?" said the master. "Do you not think you shall like it?"
"Oh no, sir, oh no," exclaimed the child. "I was only wondering. Are there pictures at the Big House, do you think, sir?"
"Yes, I think there are some. Are you fond of pictures?"
"I don't know, sir. I've never seen any real ones. But I've often thought about them, and fancied them in my mind. There are such lots of things I'd like to see pictures of that I can't see any other way."
"Well, perhaps you will see some at the Big House," said the master with a smile.
Out in the playground Gratian ran against Tony.
"Has he told you?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes," said Gratian. "I'm to go this afternoon. It was very good of you, Tony, to want me to go instead of you."
Tony got rather red.
"I don't know that I'd a-cared about it much, Gratian," he said. "It wasn't that as cost me much. But to tell you the truth, I did want to get out of telling the master about the trick I'd played you. And I don't know as I'd have told it, but a mighty queer thing happened – it's thanks to that I told."
"What was it?" asked Gratian.
"It was at night after I was in bed. I'd put off telling, and I thought maybe it'd all be forgotten. And that night all of a sudden there came such a storm of wind that it woke me up – the window had burst open, and I swear to you, Gratian – I've not told any one else – I saw a figure all in white, and with white wings, leaning over my bed, as if it had brought the storm with it. I was so frightened I began to think of all the bad things I had done, and I hollered out, 'I'll tell master first thing to-morrow morning, I will.' And with that the wind seemed to go down as sudden as it came, and I heard a sort of singing, something like when the organ plays very low in church, and there was a beautiful sweet scent of flowers through the room; and I suppose I fell asleep again, for when I woke it was morning, and I could have fancied it was all a dream, for nobody else had heard the wind in the night."
"We hear it most nights up at our place," said Gratian, "but I'm never frightened of it."
"You would have been that night – leastways I was. I durstn't go back from my word, dream or no dream – so now you know, Gratian, how I came to tell. And I hope you'll enjoy yourself at the Big House."
"I shall thank you for it if I do, all the same, Tony," Gratian replied.
"It's more in your way than mine. I'd feel myself such a great silly going among gentry folk like that," said Tony, as he scampered off to his dinner.
About three o'clock that afternoon Gratian found himself at the gates of the Big House. He had often passed by that way and stood looking in, but he had never been within the gates, for they were always kept locked; and there had been a strange, almost sad look of loneliness and desertedness about the place, even though the gardens had not been allowed to be untidy or overrun. Now it looked already different; the padlock and chain were removed, and there were the marks of wheels upon the gravel. It seemed to Gratian that even if he had not known there were visitors in the old house he would have guessed it.
He walked slowly up the avenue which led from the gates to the house. He was not the least afraid or shy, but he was full of interest and expectation. He wanted to see everything – to miss nothing, and even the walk up the avenue seemed to him full of wonder and charm. It had a charm of its own no doubt, for at each side stood pine-trees like rows of sentinels keeping guard on all comers, tall, stately, and solemn, only now and then moving their heads with silent dignity, as if in reply to observations passing among them up there, too high to be heard. The pines round Gratian's home were not so tall or straight – naturally, for they had a great deal of buffeting to do in order to live at all, and this of course did not help them to grow tall or erect. Gratian looked up in wonder at the great height.
"How I wish I knew what they say to each other up there," he said.
But just then a drop of something cold falling on his face made him start. It was beginning to rain.
"I wouldn't like to be wet when I first see the lady and the young gentleman," he thought. "I must be quick."
So off he set at a run, which perhaps did not much hasten matters, for when he got to the hall door he was so out of breath that he had to stand still for several minutes before venturing to ring.
The bell, when he did ring it, sounded sharp and hollow, almost like a bell ringing in an empty house. And when the door was opened, he saw that the large hall did look bare and empty, and he felt a little disappointed. But this feeling did not last long. Before he had time to say anything to the servant, a sweet, bright voice came sounding clearly.
"Oh, here he is, Fergus," were the words she said, and in another instant the owner of the voice appeared. It was the lady of the organ. She came forward smiling, and holding out her hand, but Gratian gazed at her for a moment without speaking, nor seeming to understand that she was speaking to him. He had never seen any one like her before. She was tall and fair, and her face was truly lovely. But what made it so, more than the delicate features or the pretty soft colours, was its sunny brightness, which yet from time to time was veiled by a look of pitying sadness, almost sweeter. And at these times the intense blueness of her eyes grew paler and fainter, so that they looked almost gray, like the sea when a cloud comes over the sunny sky above; only as Gratian had never seen the sea, he could not think this to himself.
What he did say to himself told it quite as well.
"She is like Golden-wings and Green-wings mixed together," was his thought.
And then having decided this, his mind seemed to grow clearer, the sort of confused bewilderment he had felt for a moment wafted itself away, and he distinguished the words she had repeated to him more than once.
"You are the little boy Mr. Cornelius has kindly sent to see my poor little boy. It is kind too of you to come. I hope you and Fergus will be great friends."
She thought he was shy when at first he did not answer. But looking at him again she saw that it was not shyness which was speaking out of his big brown eyes.
"You are not afraid of me, are you?" she said smiling again.
"Oh no," he replied. "I didn't mean to be rude. I couldn't be frightened of you. I was only thinking – I never saw anybody so beautiful as you before," he went on simply, "and it made me think."
The lady flushed a little – a very little.
"I am pleased that you like my face," she said. "I like yours too, and I am sure Fergus will. Will you come and see him now? He is waiting eagerly for you."
She held out her hand again, and Gratian this time put his little brown one into it confidingly. And thus she led him out of the large, cold hall, down a short passage, rendered light and cheerful by a large window – here a door stood open, and a glow of warmth seemed to meet them as they drew near it.
CHAPTER VIII
LITTLE FERGUS
"Old portraits round in order set,Carved heavy tables, chairs, buffetOf dark mahogany."Mrs. SoutheyFor there was a bright fire burning in the room, which sent red rays flickering and dancing in all directions, lighting up the faded tints of the ancient curtains and covers, and bringing rich crimson shades out of the shining, old dark mahogany furniture. There were flowers too; a bouquet of autumn leaves – bronze and copper and olive – with two or three fragile "last roses" in the middle, on which Gratian's eyes rested with pleasure for a moment, on their way to the small figure – the most interesting object of all.
He was lying on a little sofa, placed so as to be within reach of the fire's warmth, and yet near enough to the window for him to see out into the garden, to watch the life of the birds and the plants, the clouds and the breezes. The autumn afternoon looked later and darker now to Gratian as he glanced at it from within than when he was himself a part of it out-of-doors, and his eyes returned with pleasure to the nearer warmth and colour, though after the first momentary glimpse of the boy on the sofa a sort of shyness had made him look away.
For the child was extremely pale and thin – he looked much more ill than Gratian had been prepared for, and this gave him a feeling of timidity that nothing else could have caused. But the lady soon put him at his ease.
"Fergus, dear," she said, "here is the little friend you have been hoping for. Come over here near us, my dear boy" – for she had sat down on a low chair beside the couch, evidently her usual place – "and I will help you to get over the first few steps of making friends. To begin with," she said smiling, "do you know we don't know your name? That seems absurd, doesn't it? And you don't know ours."
"Yes – I know his," said Gratian, smiling too, and with a little gesture towards the invalid, so gentle and half-timid that no one could have called it rude; "you have just said it – Fergus. I never heard that name before."
"It is a Scotch name," said the lady. "One can almost fancy oneself in Scotland here. And tell us your name."
"Gratian," he replied, "Gratian Conyfer."
"What a nice name," said Fergus, speaking for the first time, "and what a queer one! I can say the same to you as you said to me, Gratian – I never heard that name before."
"How did you come by it?" asked Fergus's mother.
"I think it was because mother is called Grace, and there were several baby brothers that died, that were called for father," he replied.
"And how old are you?" asked Fergus, raising himself a little on his elbow. "I'm eight and a half. I'm not so very small for my age when I stand up – am I, mother?"
"No, dear," she answered with a little shadow over her bright face. "And you, Gratian?"
"I am nine," he said; "but they say at school I don't look so much. Tony is twelve, but he is much, much bigger."
"Tony – who is Tony?" asked Fergus; "is he your brother?"
"Oh no, I have no brothers. He's the head boy at the school."
"Yes," said Fergus's mother, "I remember about him. He was the boy Mr. Cornelius first thought of sending."
"And why didn't he come?" asked Fergus.
Gratian looked up at the lady.
"Did the master tell you?" he asked. The lady smiled, and nodded her head.
"Yes," she said, "I know the story. You may tell it to Fergus, Gratian; he would like to hear it. Now I am going away, for I have letters to write. In half an hour or so you shall have your tea. Would you like it here or in the library, Fergus?"
"Oh, in the library," he said eagerly. "I haven't been there for two days, mother. And then Gratian can see the pictures – you told me he liked pictures? – and best of all, you can play the organ to us, little mother."
"Then you feel better to-day, my boy?" she said, stooping to kiss the white forehead as she was leaving the room. "Some days I can't get him to like to move about at all," she added to Gratian.
"Yes, I do feel better," he said. "I don't mind it hurting me when I don't feel that horrible way as if I didn't care for anything. Have you ever been ill, Gratian? Do you know how it feels?"
Gratian considered.
"I once had a sore throat," he said, "but I didn't mind very much. It was winter, and I had a fire in my room, and I liked to see the flames going dancing up the chimney."
"Yes," said Fergus, "I know how you mean. I'm sure we must have the same thinkings about things, Gratian. Do you like music too, as much as pictures? Mother says people who like pictures very much, often like music too, and – and – there's something else that those kind of people like too, but I forget what."
"Flowers," suggested Gratian; "flowers and trees, perhaps."
"No," said Fergus, looking a little puzzled, "these would count in with pictures, don't you think? I'll ask mother – she said it so nicely. Don't you like when anybody says a thing so that it seems to fit in with other things?"
"Yes," said Gratian, "I think I do. But I think things to myself, mostly – I've not got anybody much to talk to, except sometimes Jonas. He's got very nice thoughts, only he'd never say them except to Watch and me."
"Who's Watch?" asked Fergus eagerly. "Is he a dog?"
"He's our sheep-dog, and Jonas is the shepherd," replied Gratian. "They're sometimes alone with the sheep for days and days – out on the moors. It's so strange – I've been with them sometimes – it's like another world – to see the moors all round, ever so far, like the sea, I suppose – only I've never seen the sea – and not a creature anywhere, except some wild birds sometimes."
"Stop," said Fergus, closing his eyes; "yes, I can see it now. Go on, Gratian – is the sky gray, or blue with little white clouds?"
"Gray just now," said the boy, "and there's no wind that you can feel blowing. But it's coming – you know it's coming – now and then Watch pricks up his ears, for he can tell it much farther off than we can, and old Jonas pats him a little. Jonas has an old blue round cap – a shepherd's cap – and his face is browny-red, but his hair is nearly white, and his eyes are very blue. Can you see him, Fergus? And the sheep keep on browsing – they make a little scrumping noise when you are quite, quite close to them. And just before the wind really comes a great bird gives a cry – up, very high up – and it swoops down for a moment and then goes up again, till it looks just a little black speck against the sky. And all the time you know the wind is coming. Can you see it all, Fergus?"
"All," said the boy; "it's beautiful. You must tell me pictures often, Gratian, till I can go out again. I never had any one who could make them come so, except mother's music – they come with that. Haven't you noticed that they come with music?"
"I don't know," said Gratian. "I've never seen any real pictures – painted ones in big gold frames."
"There are some here," said Fergus; "not very many, but some. I like a few of them – perhaps you will too. But I like the pictures that come and go in one's fancy best. That's the kind that mother's music brings me."
"Yes," said Gratian, his eyes sparkling, "I understand."
"I was sure you would," said Fergus, with a tiny touch of patronising in his tone, which Gratian was too entirely single-minded to see, or rather perhaps to object to if he did see it. "I knew the minute I saw you, you'd suit me. I'm very glad that other fellow didn't come instead of you. But, by the bye, you haven't told me about that – mother said you'd tell me."
Gratian related the story of his satchel of stones. Fergus was boy enough to laugh a little, though he called it a mean trick; but when Gratian told of having found his books again, he looked puzzled.
"How could you find them?" he asked. "It was nearly dark, didn't you say?"
"I don't quite know," replied Gratian, and he spoke the truth. It was always difficult for him to distinguish between real and fancy, dreaming and waking, in all concerning his four friends, and in some curious way this difficulty increased so much if he ever thought of talking about them, that he felt he was not meant to do so. "I have fancies sometimes – like dreams, perhaps – that I can't explain. And they help me often – when I am in any trouble they help me."
"I don't see how fancies can help you to find things that are lost," said Fergus, who, except in his own particular way, was more practical than Gratian, "unless you mean that you dream things, and your dreams come true."
"It's a little like that," Gratian replied. "I think I had a sort of dream about coming here. I did so want to come – most of all since I heard the lady play in church."
"Yes," said Fergus, "isn't mother's playing beautiful? I've not heard her play in church for ever so long, but I'm so glad there's an organ here. She plays to me every day. I like music best of everything in the world – don't you?"
To which Gratian gave his old answer – "I don't know yet."
Then they began talking of more commonplace things. Each told the other of his daily life and all his childish interests. Fergus was greatly struck by the account of Gratian's home – the old house with the queer name.
"How I should like to see it," he said, "and to feel the wind blow."
"The winds," corrected Gratian, "the four winds."
"The four winds," repeated Fergus. "North, south, east, and west. They don't blow all together, do they?"
"I think they do sometimes. Yes, I know they do – at night I'm sure I've heard them all four together, like tones in music."
Fergus looked delighted.
"Ah, you have to come back to music, you see," he said. "There's nothing tells everything and explains everything as well as music."
"You must have thought about it a great deal," said Gratian admiringly. "I've only just begun to think about things, and I think it's very puzzling, though I'm older than you. I don't know if music would explain things to me."
"Perhaps not as much as to me," said Fergus. "You see it's been my best thing – ever since I was five years old I've been lying like this. At home the others are very kind, but they can't quite understand," he added, shaking his head a little sadly; "they can all run about and jump and play. And when children can do all that, they don't need to think much. Still it is very dull without them – that is why I begged mother to try to get me somebody to play with. But I think you're better than that, Gratian. I think you understand more – how is it? You've never been ill or had to lie still."
"No," said the boy, "but I've had no brothers and sisters to play with me. And perhaps it's with being born at Four Winds – mother says so herself."
"I daresay it is," said Fergus gravely.
"Won't you get better soon?" asked Gratian, looking at Fergus with profound sympathy. For, gentle as he was, the idea of having to lie still, not being able to run about on the moors and feel his dear winds on his face, having even to call to others to help him before he could get to the window and look out on the sunshine – it seemed perhaps more dreadful to Gratian than it would have done to an ordinary, healthy child like Tony Ferris. "Won't you too be able to walk and run about – even if it's only a little?"
