Little Lord Fauntleroy

by Burnett, Frances Hodgson;

  “Dearest will be so glad!” he kept saying. “She will be so much obliged to you for being so kind to me! She knows I always liked ponies so much, but we never thought I should have one. There was a little boy on Fifth Avenue who had one, and he used to ride out every morning and we used to take a walk past his house to see him.”

  He leaned back against the cushions and regarded the Earl with rapt interest for a few minutes and in entire silence.

  “I think you must be the best person in the world,” he burst forth at last. “You are always doing good, aren’t you?—and thinking about other people. Dearest says that is the best kind of goodness; not to think about yourself, but to think about other people. That is just the way you are, isn’t it?”

  His lordship was so dumbfounded to find himself presented in such agreeable colors that he did not know exactly what to say. He felt that he needed time for reflection. To see each of his ugly, selfish motives changed into a good and generous one by the simplicity of a child was a singular experience.

  Fauntleroy went on, still regarding him with admiring eyes—those great, clear, innocent eyes!

  “You make so many people happy,” he said. “There’s Michael and Bridget and their twelve children, and the apple-woman and Dick and Mr. Hobbs, and Mr. Higgins and Mrs. Higgins and their children, and Mr. Mordaunt—because of course he was glad—and Dearest and me, about the pony and all the other things. Do you know, I’ve counted it up on my fingers and in my mind, and it’s twenty-seven people you’ve been kind to. That’s a good many—twenty-seven!”

  “And I was the person who was kind to them, was I?” said the Earl.

  “Why, yes, you know,” answered Fauntleroy. “You made them all happy. Do you know,” with some delicate hesitation, “that people are sometimes mistaken about earls when they don’t know them. Mr. Hobbs was. I am going to write to him and tell him about it.”

  “What was Mr. Hobbs’s opinion of earls?” asked his lordship.

  “Well, you see, the difficulty was,” replied his young companion, “that he didn’t know any, and he’d only read about them in books. He thought—you mustn’t mind it—that they were gory tyrants; and he said he wouldn’t have them hanging around his store. But if he’d known you, I’m sure he would have felt quite different. I shall tell him about you.”

  “What shall you tell him?”

  “I shall tell him,” said Fauntleroy, glowing with enthusiasm, “that you are the kindest man I ever heard of. And you are always thinking of other people, and making them happy, and—and I hope when I grow up I shall be just like you.”

  “Just like me!” repeated his lordship, looking at the little kindling face. And a dull red crept up under his withered skin, and he suddenly turned his eyes away and looked out of the carriage window at the great beech trees, with the sun shining on their glossy, red-brown leaves.

  “Just like you,” said Fauntleroy, adding modestly: “If I can. Perhaps I’m not good enough, but I’m going to try.”

  The carriage rolled on down the stately avenue under the beautiful, broad-branched trees, through the spaces of green shade and lanes of golden sunlight. Fauntleroy saw again the lovely places where the ferns grew high and the bluebells swayed in the breeze; he saw the deer, standing or lying in the deep grass, turn their large, startled eyes as the carriage passed, and caught glimpses of the brown rabbits as they scurried away. He heard the whir of the partridges and the calls and songs of the birds, and it all seemed even more beautiful to him than before. All his heart was filled with pleasure and happiness in the beauty that was on every side. But the old Earl saw and heard very different things, though he was apparently looking out too. He saw a long life, in which there had been neither generous deeds nor kind thoughts; he saw years in which a man who had been young and strong and rich and powerful had used his youth and strength and wealth and power only to please himself and kill time as the days and years succeeded each other; he saw this man, when the time had been killed and old age had come, solitary and without real friends in the midst of all his splendid wealth; he saw people who disliked or feared him, and people who would flatter and cringe to him, but no one who really cared whether he lived or died, unless they had something to gain or lose by it. He looked out on the broad acres which belonged to him, and he knew what Fauntleroy did not—how far they extended, what wealth they represented and how many people had homes on their soil. And he knew too—another thing Fauntleroy did not—that in all those homes, humble or well to do, there was probably not one person, however much he envied the wealth and stately name and power, and however willing he would have been to possess them, who would for an instant have thought of calling the noble owner “good,” or wishing, as this simple-souled little boy had, to be like him.

  And it was not exactly pleasant to reflect upon, even for a cynical, worldly old man, who had been sufficient unto himself for seventy years and who had never deigned to care what opinion the world held of him so long as it did not interfere with his comfort or entertainment. And the fact was, indeed, that he had never before condescended to reflect upon it at all, and he only did so now because a child had believed him better than he was and by wishing to follow in his illustrious footsteps and imitate his example, had suggested to him the curious question whether he was exactly the person to take as a model.

  Fauntleroy thought the Earl’s foot must be hurting him, his brows knitted themselves together so, as he looked out at the park; and thinking this, the considerate little fellow tried not to disturb him, and enjoyed the trees and the ferns and the deer in silence. But at last the carriage, having passed the gates and bowled through the green lanes for a short distance, stopped. They had reached Court Lodge; and Fauntleroy was out upon the ground almost before the big footman had time to open the carriage door.

  The Earl wakened from his reverie with a start.

  “What!” he said. “Are we here?”

  “Yes,” said Fauntleroy. “Let me give you your stick. Just lean on me when you get out.”

  “I am not going to get out,” replied his lordship brusquely.

  “Not—not to see Dearest?” exclaimed Fauntleroy with astonished face.

  “‘Dearest’ will excuse me,” said the Earl dryly. “Go to her and tell her that not even a new pony would keep you away.”

  “She will be disappointed,” said Fauntleroy. “She will want to see you very much.”

  “I am afraid not,” was the answer. “The carriage will call for you as we come back. Tell Jeffries to drive on, Thomas.”

  Thomas closed the carriage door: and, after a puzzled look, Fauntleroy ran up the drive. The Earl had the opportunity—as Mr. Havisham once had—of seeing a pair of handsome, strong little legs flash over the ground with astonishing rapidity. Evidently their owner had no intention of losing any time. The carriage rolled slowly away, but his lordship did not at once lean back; he still looked out. Through a space in the trees he could see the house door; it was wide open. The little figure dashed up the steps; another figure—a little figure too, slender and young, in its black gown—ran to meet it. It seemed as if they flew together, as Fauntleroy leaped into his mother’s arms, hanging about her neck and covering her sweet young face with kisses.

  7. At Church

  ON the following Sunday morning Mr. Mordaunt had a large congregation. Indeed he could scarcely remember any Sunday on which the church had been so crowded. People appeared upon the scene who seldom did him the honor of coming to hear his sermons. There were even people from Hazelton, which was the next parish. There were hearty, sunburned farmers; stout, comfortable, apple-cheeked wives in their best bonnets and most gorgeous shawls, and half a dozen children or so to each family. The doctor’s wife was there, with her four daughters. Mrs. Kimsey and Mr. Kimsey, who kept the druggist’s shop, and made pills, and did up powders for everybody within ten miles, sat in their pew; Mrs. Dibble in hers; Miss Smiff, the village dressmaker, and her friend Miss Perkins, the milliner, sat in t
heirs; the doctor’s young man was present, and the druggist’s apprentice; in fact, almost every family in the countryside was represented, in one way or another.

  In the course of the preceding week, many wonderful stories had been told of little Lord Fauntleroy. Mrs. Dibble had been kept so busy attending to customers who came in to buy a pennyworth of needles or a ha’p’orth of tape and to hear what she had to relate, that the little shop-bell over the door had nearly twinkled itself to death over the coming and going. Mrs. Dibble knew exactly how his small lordship’s rooms had been furnished for him, what expensive toys had been bought, how there was a beautiful brown pony awaiting him and a small groom to attend it, and a little dog-cart, with silver-mounted harness. And she could tell, too, what all the servants had said when they had caught glimpses of the child on the night of his arrival; and how every female below stairs had said it was a shame, so it was, to part the poor pretty dear from his mother; and had all declared their hearts came into their mouths when he went alone into the library to see his grandfather, for there was no knowing how he’d be treated, and his lordship’s temper was enough to fluster them with old heads on their shoulders, let alone a child.

  “But if you’ll believe me, Mrs. Jennifer, mum,” Mrs. Dibble had said, “fear that child does not know—so Mr. Thomas hisself says; an’ set an’ smile he did, an’ talked to his lordship as if they’d been friends ever since his first hour. An’ the Earl so took aback, Mr. Thomas says, that he couldn’t do nothing but listen and stare from under his eyebrows. An’ it’s Mr. Thomas’s opinion, Mrs. Bates, mum, that bad as he is, he was pleased in his secret soul, an’ proud too; for a handsomer little fellow, or with better manners, though so old-fashioned, Mr. Thomas says, he’d never wish to see.”

  And then there had come the story of Higgins. The Reverend Mr. Mordaunt had told it at his own dinner table, and the servants who had heard it had told it in the kitchen, and from there it had spread like wildfire.

  And on market-day, when Higgins had appeared in town, he had been questioned on every side, and Newick had been questioned too, and in response had shown to two or three people the note signed “Fauntleroy.”

  And so the farmers’ wives had found plenty to talk of over their tea and their shopping, and they had done the subject full justice and made the most of it. And on Sunday they had either walked to church or had been driven in their gigs by their husbands, who were perhaps a trifle curious themselves about the new little lord who was to be in time the owner of the soil.

  It was by no means the Earl’s habit to attend church, but he chose to appear on this first Sunday—it was his whim to present himself in the huge family pew, with Fauntleroy at his side.

  There were many loiterers in the churchyard and many lingerers in the lane that morning. There were groups at the gates and in the porch, and there had been much discussion as to whether my lord would really appear or not. When this discussion was at its height, one good woman suddenly uttered an exclamation.

  “Eh,” she said, “that must be the mother, pretty young thing.”

  All who heard turned and looked at the slender figure in black coming up the path. The veil was thrown back from her face and they could see how fair and sweet it was, and how the bright hair curled as softly as a child’s under the little widow’s cap.

  She was not thinking of the people about; she was thinking of Cedric, and of his visits to her, and his joy over his new pony, on which he had actually ridden to her door the day before, sitting very straight and looking very proud and happy. But soon she could not help being attracted by the fact that she was being looked at and that her arrival had created some sort of sensation. She first noticed it because an old woman in a red cloak made a bobbing curtsy to her, and then another did the same thing and said, “God bless you, my lady!” and one man after another took off his hat as she passed. For a moment she did not understand, and then she realized that it was because she was little Lord Fauntleroy’s mother that they did so, and she flushed rather shyly, and smiled and bowed too, and said, “Thank you,” in a gentle voice to the old woman who had blessed her. To a person who had always lived in a bustling, crowded American city this simple deference was very novel, and at first just a little embarrassing; but after all, she could not help liking and being touched by the friendly warmheartedness of which it seemed to speak. She had scarcely passed through the stone porch into the church before the great event of the day happened. The carriage from the Castle with its handsome horses and tall, liveried servants, bowled around the corner and down the green lane.

  “Here they come!” went from one looker-on to another.

  And then the carriage drew up, and Thomas stepped down and opened the door, and a little boy, dressed in black velvet, and with a splendid mop of bright waving hair jumped out.

  Every man, woman and child looked curiously upon him.

  “He’s the Captain over again!” said those of the onlookers who remembered his father. “He’s the Captain’s self to the life!”

  He stood there in the sunlight looking up at the Earl, as Thomas helped that nobleman out, with the most affectionate interest that could be imagined. The instant he could help, he put out his hand and offered his shoulder as if he had been seven feet high. It was plain enough to everyone that however it might be with other people, the Earl of Dorincourt struck no terror into the breast of his grandson.

  “Just lean on me,” they heard him say. “How glad the people are to see you, and how well they all seem to know you!”

  “Take off your cap, Fauntleroy,” said the Earl. “They are bowing to you.”

  “To me!” cried Fauntleroy, whipping off his cap in a moment, baring his bright head to the crowd and turning shining, puzzled eyes on them as he tried to bow to everyone at once.

  “God bless your lordship!” said the curtsying, red-cloaked old woman who had spoken to his mother; “long life to you!”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Fauntleroy. And then they went into the church, and were looked at there, on their way up the aisle to the square red-cushioned and curtained pew. When Fauntleroy was fairly seated he made two discoveries which pleased him: the first that, across the church, where he could look at her, his mother sat and smiled at him; the second, that at one end of the pew against the wall knelt two quaint figures, carven in stone, facing each other as they kneeled on either side of a pillar supporting two stone missals, their pointed hands folded as if in prayer, their dress very antique and strange. On the tablet by them was written something of which he could only read the curious words:

  Here lyeth ye bodye of Gregorye Arthure Fyrst Earle of Dorincourt allsoe of Alisone Hildegarde hys wyfe.

  “May I whisper?” inquired his lordship, devoured by curiosity.

  “What is it?” said his grandfather.

  “Who are they?”

  “Some of your ancestors,” answered the Earl, “who lived a few hundred years ago.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lord Fauntleroy, regarding them with respect, “perhaps I got my spelling from them.” And then he proceeded to find his place in the church service. When the music began he stood up and looked across at his mother, smiling. He was very fond of music, and his mother and he often sang together, so he joined in with the rest, his pure, sweet, high voice rising as clear as the song of a bird. He quite forgot himself in his pleasure in it. The Earl forgot himself a little too, as he sat in his curtain-shielded corner of the pew and watched the boy. Cedric stood with the big psalter open in his hands, singing with all his childish might, his face a little uplifted, happily; and as he sang a long ray of sunshine crept in and slanting through a golden pane of a stained-glass window brightened the falling hair about his young head. His mother, as she looked at him across the church, felt a thrill pass through her heart, and a prayer rose in it too; a prayer that the pure, simple happiness of his childish soul might last, and that the strange, great fortune which had fallen to him might bring no wrong or evil with it. There were
many soft anxious thoughts in her tender heart in those new days.

  “Oh, Ceddie,” she had said to him the evening before, as she hung over him in saying goodnight before he went away, “oh, Ceddie dear, I wish for your sake I was very clever and could say a great many wise things! But only be good, dear, only be brave, only be kind and true always, and then you will never hurt anyone so long as you live, and you may help many, and the big world may be better because my little child was born. And that is best of all, Ceddie—it is better than everything else, that the world should be a little better because a man has lived—even ever so little better, dearest.”

  And on his return to the Castle Fauntleroy had repeated her words to his grandfather.

  “And I thought about you when she said that,” he ended; “and I told her that was the way the world was because you had lived, and I was going to try if I could be like you.”

  “And what did she say to that?” asked his lordship a trifle uneasily.

  “She said that was right, and we must always look for good in people and try to be like it.”

  Perhaps it was this the old man remembered as he glanced through the divided folds of the red curtain of his pew. Many times he looked over the people’s heads to where his son’s wife sat alone, and he saw the fair face the unforgiven dead had loved, and the eyes which were so like those of the child at his side; but what his thoughts were, and whether they were hard and bitter, or softened a little, it would have been hard to discover.

  As they came out of the church, many of those who had attended the service stood waiting to see them pass. As they neared the gate a man who stood with his hat in his hand made a step forward and then hesitated. He was a middle-aged farmer, with a careworn face.