Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  “Oh, where did you find that? Give it to me — give it to me!” and the poor soul held out hands that trembled with her voice. “That’s Georgie’s poor mother,” she sobbed, “and I didn’t know there was another left. I thought he’d taken and burnt them every one!”

  And she slipped the photograph inside her bodice, and pressed her lean hands upon it, as though it were the babe itself at her breast once more. Next instant Gwynneth’s arms were about the old woman’s neck, and her fresh lips had touched the wet and shrivelled cheek of Georgie’s grandmother.

  “Ah! but you are good to us,” said Mrs. Musk. “I never would have believed a young lady could be so sweet and kind as you!”

  Not that Gwynneth was in the habit of going among the people; that was a practice which Lady Gleed would not permit in a young lady over whom she exercised any sort of control. Consequently there was some talk in the village at this time, and a little scene at the hall soon after Sir Wilton and his wife arrived for the Easter recess. But Gwynneth argued that in no sense could the Musks be accounted ordinary villagers; and the squire himself took her side very firmly in the matter.

  “I won’t have you rate Musk among the yokels,” said Sir Wilton afterwards. “He is the one substantial man in the place, and a very good friend of mine.”

  “Well, I don’t consider it nice for Gwynneth to be always with that child.”

  “She doesn’t know the child’s history; you have only to hear her talk about him to see that.”

  “I don’t think it nice, all the same,” Lady Gleed repeated.

  “Then take her back to town with you.”

  “No, she is out now, and I can’t be bothered with her this season. She is not like other girls. I’ve a good mind to send her abroad for a year.”

  “You can do as you like about that. It might be a very good thing. Meanwhile I’m not going to have Musk’s feelings hurt; only yesterday, when I went to see him, he was telling me all Gwynneth has done for them during the winter. I’m not going to break with a man like that by suddenly forbidding her to do any more.”

  So it was decided that Gwynneth should go for a year to a relation of Fraulein Hentig’s at Leipzig, for the sake of her music, which the girl had neglected rather disgracefully since leaving school, but of which she was none the less fond, given the proper stimulus. Gwynneth herself acclaimed the plan, and indeed had a voice in it; there was only one reason why she was not entirely glad to go; and her devotion to Georgie was more constant than ever during the few weeks which were left to her.

  Summer was beginning, and the boy was well and strong, with chubby cheeks and sturdy bare legs. Often Gwynneth had him to play in the hall garden — this on Sir Wilton’s own suggestion — but more often she took him for a walk. There were beautiful walks all round Long Stow. There was the windy walk across the heather towards Linkworth; there were cool walks by the tiny river that ran parallel with the village street, bounding the hall meadow and both meadow and garden of the Flint House; there was a fascinating expedition, with spade and pail, to the sand-hills off the road to Lakenhall. Yet it was on none of these excursions that Gwynneth lost Georgie, but while leaving some papers at the saddler’s workshop, in Long Stow itself.

  Fuller would keep her to talk politics, or rather to listen to his own: it was the year of the first Home Rule Bill, and even Mr. Gladstone had never stirred the saddler’s anger, hatred and contempt to such a pitch as they reached in this connection. Gwynneth, on her side, had an insufficient grasp of the measure, but an instinctive veneration for the man; and she was young enough to grow heated in argument, even with the saddler. When at length she turned away, more flushed than victorious, there was no vestige of the child.

  “Georgie! Georgie!”

  Neither was there any answer. Gwynneth turned upon the politician.

  “Didn’t you see him, Mr. Fuller?”

  “Gord love you, miss, I thought you come alone!”

  And the saddler leant across his bench until his spectacles were flush with the open window at which Gwynneth stood.

  “Alone? Georgie Musk was with me; and I’ve lost him through arguing with you.”

  She inquired at the next cottage. Yes, they had seen him pass “with you, miss,” but that was all. There were no cottages further on; the saddler’s was the last on that side and at that end of the village. Opposite was the rectory gate, with the low flint wall running far to the right, overhung at present by the great leaves and heavy blossoms of the chestnuts. And all at once Gwynneth noticed that the chestnut leaves were very dark, the sky overcast, and another shower even then beginning.

  “He will get wet — it may kill him!”

  And the girl ran wildly on along the road; but it was a straight road, and she could see further than Georgie could possibly have travelled. So now there was only the lane running up by the church.

  Gwynneth took it at top speed; an instant brought her abreast of the east end, gaping wide and deep for the east window, yet built like a rock on either side to the height of the eaves. Another step, and Gwynneth was standing still.

  Already her sub-consciousness had remarked the silence of hammer and chisel, which had tinkled in her ears as she brought Georgie up the village, ringing more distinctly at every step, and quite loud when first they had stopped at the saddler’s window. Then it must have ceased altogether. But now Gwynneth heard another sound instead.

  XXII

  A LITTLE CHILD

  Georgie stood beyond the mason’s litter, his firm legs planted in the wet grass, his holland pinafore less brown than his knees. A sailor hat, with the brim turned down, threw the roguish face into shadow; but the flush of successful flight was not extinguished; and the great eyes fixed on Carlton were nowise abashed. Shyness had never been a feature of Georgie’s character.

  “Hallo!” said he.

  Carlton stood like his own walls.

  So this was the child.

  A new instinct was awake in the man’s breast; he had never an instant’s doubt.

  And it struck him dumb.

  “I say,” said Georgie, “are you angry?”

  But he showed no anxiety on the point, merely beaming while the grown man fought for words.

  “Angry? No — no — —”

  And now he was fighting for the power of speech — fighting hot eyes and twitching lips for his own manhood — and for the little impudent face that would fill with fear if he lost. But he won.

  “Of course I’m not angry; but” — for he must know for certain— “what’s your name?”

  “Georgie.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “Georgie Musk.”

  Carlton filled his lungs.

  “And who sent you here, Georgie?”

  “Nobody di’n’t.”

  “Then how have you come?”

  “By my own self, course.”

  “What! all the way from the Flint House? That’s where you live, isn’t it?”

  Carlton put the second question with sudden misgiving. The name was not unique in that country; he might be mistaken after all. And already — in these few moments — he could not bear the idea of being thus mistaken in this sturdy, friendly, independent boy.

  “Yes, that’s where,” said Georgie, nodding.

  “Then what can have brought him here!”

  “Well, you see,” said Georgie, confidentially, “my lady taked me for a walk — —”

  “Your lady?”

  “And I wunned away.”

  “But who do you mean by your lady?”

  “My lady,” said Georgie, turning dense.

  “Your governess?” guessed Carlton.

  “Oh, my governess, my governess!” cried Georgie, roaring with laughter because the word was new to him, but made a splendid expletive: “oh, my governess, gwacious me!”

  “Well, whoever it is,” muttered Carlton, “she oughtn’t to have lost you; and you stay with me until she finds you.”

  “T
hat’s good,” said Georgie, with conviction. “I liker stay wif you.”

  Carlton caught the child up suddenly, and swung him shoulder-high. What a laugh he had! And what a firm boy, so heavy and straight and strong! Carlton sat down in his barrow, taking the little fellow on his knee, yet holding him at arm’s length for self-control.

  “How can you like being with a person you’ve never seen before?” asked Carlton, tremulous again, for all his strength.

  “‘Cos I heard you makin’ somekin,” said Georgie, who was looking about him. “What are you makin’, I say?”

  It was here that, without any particular provocation, Robert Carlton’s resolution suddenly failed him, so that he hugged and kissed the child, in a sudden access of uncontrollable emotion. This, however, was as suddenly suppressed. Georgie had wriggled from his knee; but instead of running away (as the other feared for one breathless moment), he continued looking about him as before, bored a little, but nothing more.

  “What are you buildin’, I say?” he now inquired.

  “A church.”

  “What’s a church?”

  Carlton came straight to his feet.

  “Do you never go to one?” he asked; but his tone was nearly all remorse.

  “No, I never.”

  “Then have you never heard of God?”

  And now the tone was his most determined one.

  “Yes,” said Georgie, subdued but not frightened.

  “You are sure that you have been told about God?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Who has taught you?”

  “My lady and granny — not grand-daddy.”

  “You say your prayers to Him?”

  “Yes, I always.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  Carlton stood with heaving chest. He was spared something at last; his cup was not to overflow after all. And, as he stood, the grass whispered, and the rain came down.

  Again Georgie was caught up, to be set down next instant in the shed; but this time he was really offended.

  “I don’t want to come in,” he whimpered. “I want to build wif your bwicks. They’re much, much bigger’n mine!”

  “But it’s raining, don’t you see? It would never do for Georgie to get wet.”

  “Oh, I wish I would play wif your bwicks!”

  “Why, Georgie, you couldn’t lift them; you’re not strong enough.”

  “But I are, I tell you. I really are!”

  “Here’s one, then,” said Carlton, who kept his misfits in the shed. “You try.”

  Georgie did try. He rolled the stone over, though it was no small one; lift it he could not.

  “You see, it was heavier than you thought.”

  “‘Cos never mind,” coaxed Georgie, in another formula of his own; “you carry it for me!”

  “But it’s raining, and we should both be wet through.”

  “‘Cos never mind!”

  “But I do mind; and, what’s more, everybody else would mind as well.”

  “Then what shall we do?” cried Georgie, from his depths.

  Carlton had no idea. But the boy was weary, and must be amused; that was the first necessity; and he who had never laid himself out to conciliate men must strain every nerve to please this little child. His eyes flew round the shed. And there upon the shelf stood his gargoyles deep in dust.

  “Oh, what a funny old man!” cried Georgie. “Oh, ho, ho!”

  But Carlton, in his ignorance of children, had over-estimated a strong child’s strength; the stone head slipped through the tiny hands, narrowly missing the tiny toes; and when Georgie stooped and rolled it over, it was seen that a terrible accident had really occurred.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” cried an alarming little voice, “Oh, he’s broken his nose, he’s broken it to bits; oh, oh!”

  Carlton made a dive for the other gargoyle; but this was a peculiarly sinister face; and Georgie’s tears only ran the faster.

  “Oh, I don’t like that one. It’s a ho’ble face. I don’t like it.”

  Carlton cast the thing from him, and at the same moment became and looked inspired.

  “Shall I make you a new face, Georgie? A better one than either of the others?”

  “Yes, do, I say! A new face! A new face!”

  And shouts of delight came from the tear-stained one: such was the sound that Gwynneth heard in the lane.

  A very inspiration it proved. All unpractised in their earliest accomplishment, the hard-worked hands had never been so deft before; nor ever stone softer or chisel sharper than the first of each that could be found. They were trembling, those tanned and twisted fingers, but that only seemed to impart a nervous vigour to their touch. When the thing had taken rough shape, and a deep curve or two suggested a whole head of hair; when eyes and nose had come from the same sure delving, and the mouth almost at a touch; then the mouth of Georgie, long open in mere fascination, recovered its primary function, and yelled approval in surprising terms.

  “Oh, my Jove, my Jove!” he roared. “What a lovely, lovely, lovely face! Oh, my Jove, I must show it to my lady!”

  Carlton looked upon a baby face on fire with rapture; and for once no dissimilar light shone upon his own.

  “Will you — give me a kiss for it, Georgie?”

  Without a word the little arms flew round a weatherbeaten neck that bent to meet them, and the glowing cheeks buried themselves, voluntarily, in the beard that had only hurt before; and not one kiss, but countless kisses, were Georgie’s thanks for the lump of sandstone that had grown into a face before his eyes. And such was the scene whereon Gwynneth Gleed arrived.

  At first she drew back, hesitating in the rain, because neither of them saw her, and she could not, could not understand! But her hesitation was short-lived, or, rather, it had to be conquered and it was. So with flaming cheeks — because they would not see her — and dark hair limp from the rain — eyes sparkling, lips parted, teeth peeping — came Gwynneth to the shed at last.

  And the child ran to her, while the man’s eyes followed him hungrily, climbing no higher than Georgie’s height.

  “Oh, look what a lovely, lovely face the workman made me; do look, I say! Is it wery kind of him to make me such a lovely thing?”

  Gwynneth had been dragged to where the new head stood mounted upon a misfit; and Carlton had been obliged to rise. But his eyes had not risen from the child.

  “Is it kind of him, I tell you?” persisted Georgie.

  “Very kind,” said Gwynneth, “indeed.”

  And civility compelled Carlton to look up at last.

  “It was only to pass the time,” he said. “I was obliged to bring him in out of the rain.”

  “It was so good of you,” murmured Gwynneth. “But it was not good of Georgie to run away as soon as my back was turned!”

  Georgie paid no heed to this reproach; he was busy playing with the uncouth head.

  “Oh, don’t say that,” said Carlton, quickly; “I don’t get so many visitors! Are you the little chap’s governess?” he added, yet more quickly, to undo the visible effects of his words.

  “No, I’m — from the hall, you know.”

  He could not but start at this. But now he was guarding his tongue. And, as he reflected, there came back to him the vague memory of a face in church, followed by the sharper picture of a very young girl at the piano in a pleasant room — the last that he had ever been in.

  Gwynneth had recalled the same scene, and could see him as he had been, while she gazed upon him as he was.

  “I remember,” he said, gravely. “So you take an interest in this little chap, Miss Gleed?”

  “Rather more than that,” replied Gwynneth, taken out of herself in an instant, and declaring her innocence by her sudden and unconscious enthusiasm. “I love him dearly,” she said from her heart: and together their eyes returned to the round sailor hat, the brown pinafore and the browner legs which were all that was now to be seen of Georgie the engrossed. />
  “He is indeed a dear little fellow,” said Carlton, smothering his sighs.

  “And so affectionate!” added Gwynneth, thinking of the strange pair together as she had found them.

  “Marvellously independent, too, for his age.”

  “He is not quite four. You would think him older.”

  “Indeed I would . . . And so you are his ‘lady’!”

  “So he insists on calling me.”

  “You seem to be very much to him,” said Robert Carlton, jealously enough at heart, as he looked for once into the fine, kind, enthusiastic eyes of Gwynneth; but they fell embarrassed, and his own were quick enough to wander back to the boy.

  “I have been more or less alone since last autumn,” said Gwynneth. “Georgie has been as much to me as I can possibly have been to him.”

  “But he lives at the Flint House, does he not? I — I gathered he was a grandchild of the Musks.”

  “So he is.”

  “Are they bringing him up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kindly?”

  “Oh, yes — kindly. But — —”

  “Are they fond of him?”

  “Touchingly so; but, of course, they are two old people.”

  “And so you stepped in to lighten and brighten a little child’s life!”

  Gwynneth blushed unseen; for all this time he was looking at Georgie and not at her.