Part 71 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXVII

A cup was at my lips: it pa.s.s'd As pa.s.ses the wild desert blast!

I woke--around me was a gloom And silence of the tomb; But in that awful solitude That little spirit by me stood-- But oh, how changed!

--Thoughts in Past Years

Under Richard's kind let-alone system, Leonard was slowly recovering tone. First he took to ruling lines in the c.o.c.ksmoor account-books, then he helped in their audit; and with occupation came the sense of the power of voluntary exertion. He went and came freely, and began to take long rambles in the loneliest parts of the heath and plantations, while Richard left him scrupulously to his own devices, and rejoiced to see them more defined and vigorous every day. The next stop was to a.s.sist in the night-school where Richard had hitherto toiled single-handed among very rough subjects. The technical training and experience derived from Leonard's work under the schoolmaster at Portland were invaluable; and though taking the lead was the last thing he would have thought of, he no sooner entered the school than attention and authority were there, and Richard found that what had to him been a vain and patient struggle was becoming both effective and agreeable. Interest in his work was making Leonard cheerful and alert, though still grave, and shrinking from notice--avoiding the town by daylight, and only coming to Dr. May's in the dark evenings.

On the last Sunday in Advent, Richard was engaged to preach at his original curacy, and that the days before and after it should likewise be spent away from home was insisted on after the manner of the friends of hard-working clergy. He had the less dislike to going that he could leave his school-work to Leonard, who was to be housed at his father's, and there was soon perceived to have become a much more ordinary member of society than on his first arrival.

One evening, there was a loud peal at the door-bell, and the maid--one of Ethel's experiments of training--came in.

'Please, sir, a gentleman has brought a c.o.c.katoo and a letter and a little boy from the archdeacon.'

'Archdeacon!' cried Dr. May, catching sight of the handwriting on the letter and starting up. 'Archdeacon Norman--'

'One of Norman's stray missionaries and a Maori newly caught; oh, what fun!' cried Daisy, in ecstasy.

At that moment, through the still open door, walking as if he had lived there all his life, there entered the prettiest little boy that ever was seen--a little knickerbocker boy, with floating rich dark ringlets, like a miniature cavalier coming forth from a picture, with a white c.o.c.katoo on his wrist. Not in the least confused, he went straight towards Dr. May and said, 'Good-morning, grandpapa.'

'Ha! And who may you be, my elfin prince?' said the Doctor.

'I'm d.i.c.kie--Richard Rivers May--I'm not an elfin prince,' said the boy, with a moment's hurt feeling. 'Papa sent me.' By that time the boy was fast in his grandfather's embrace, and was only enough released to give him s.p.a.ce to answer the eager question, 'Papa--papa here?'

'Oh no; I came with Mr. Seaford.'

The Doctor hastily turned d.i.c.kie over to the two aunts, and hastened forth to the stranger, whose name he well knew as a colonist's son, a favourite and devoted clerical pupil of Norman's.

'Aunt Ethel,' said little Richard, with instant recognition; 'mamma said you would be like her, but I don't think you will.'

'Nor I, d.i.c.kie, but we'll try. And who's that!'

'Yes, what am I to be like?' asked Gertrude.

'You're not Aunt Daisy--Aunt Daisy is a little girl.'

Gertrude made him the lowest of curtseys; for not to be taken for a little girl was the compliment she esteemed above all others. d.i.c.kie's next speech was, 'And is that Uncle Aubrey?'

'No, that's Leonard.'

d.i.c.kie shook hands with him very prettily; but then returning upon Ethel, observed, 'I thought it was Uncle Aubrey, because soldiers always cut their hair so close.'

The other guest was so thoroughly a colonist, and had so little idea of anything but primitive hospitality, that he had had no notion of writing beforehand to announce his coming, and accident had delayed the letters by which Norman and Meta had announced their decision of sending home their eldest boy under his care.

'Papa had no time to teach me alone,' said d.i.c.kie, who seemed to have been taken into the family councils; 'and mamma is always busy, and I wasn't getting any good with some of the boys that come to school to papa.'

'Indeed, Mr. d.i.c.kie!' said the Doctor, full of suppressed laughter.

'It is quite true,' said Mr. Seaford; 'there are some boys that the archdeacon feels bound to educate, but who are not desirable companions for his son.'