THE FOURTH DAY
CHRISTOBEL SIGNS HER NAME
"I am exhausted," said the Boy, reaching out a long arm, and securinghis third piece of hot buttered-toast. "I am ruffled. My usual calmmental poise is overthrown--and on the Sabbath, of all days! Everyfeather I possess has been rubbed up the wrong way." He lay back inthe depths of his chair, stretched out his legs, and looked dejectedlyat Christobel.
Her quiet smile enveloped him. Her look was as a cool touch on a hotforehead.
"Poor Little Boy Blue! I thought something was wrong. I should feel akeener anxiety, were the hot buttered-toast less obviously consoling."
"I'll jolly well never go again," said the Boy, with indignation. "Notme!"
"Before you were born, Boy; when I went to school," said MissCharteris, "we were taught to say 'Not _I_.' And if you were to tellme where you have been, on this Sabbath afternoon, I might be able togive you more intelligent sympathy."
"I've been to a drawing-room meeting," said the Boy, "and I've heard awoman hold forth. For an hour and a quarter, I've sat stuffed up,breathing the atmosphere of other people's go-to-meeting clothes, andheard a good lady go meandering on, while I had no room for my legs."
"I thought you seemed finding them extra long, Boy. Why did you go toa drawing-room meeting?"
"I went," said the Boy, "because the dear old thing in whose house itwas held asked me to go. She used to know my mother. When I was atTrinity she looked me up, often invited me to her charming home, gaveme excellent little dinners, followed by the kindest, nicest, mostnervous little preachments. Don't look amused, dear. I never failedto profit. I respected her for it. She is as good and genuine as theymake 'em; and if _she_ had stood up this afternoon, with her friendlysmile, and dear shaky old voice, and given us an exposition of thetwenty-third Psalm, we should have all come away quite 'good andhappy.' Instead of which--oh, my wig!"
The Boy took an explosive bun, and put it whole into his mouth. "Theonly way to manage them on Sunday," he explained, as soon as speech waspossible, "when sweeping is not the right thing. But let us hopeMollie's papa's 'clerical brethren' won't find it out. There wouldcertainly be less conversation and fewer crumbs, but no fun at all."
"I don't think you need be afraid, Boy dear. Even should such a wayout of the difficulty occur to them, I am inclined to think they wouldprefer the explosion, to the whole bun at a mouthful. It has a ratherstartling effect, you know, until one gets used to seeing it done. Ican't quite imagine an archdeacon doing it, while standing on thehearthrug in conversation with my brother. Now tell me what the goodlady said, which you found so trying."
"Oh, she meandered on," grumbled the Boy. "She told us all we shouldhave been, if we had not been what we were; and all we might be, if wewere not what we are; and all we shall be, when we are not what we are!She implored us to consider, and weigh well, _where_ we should go, if,by a sudden and unexpected dispensation of Providence, we ceased to bewhere we then were. I jolly well knew the answer to _that_; for ifProvidence had suddenly dispensated--which it didn't, for a goodthree-quarters of an hour--I should have been here, _here_, HERE, asfast as my best Sunday boots could carry me!" His brown eyes softened."Ah, think what '_here_' means," he said. "Think! 'Here' means _You_!"
But Miss Charteris did not wish the conversation to become toomeltingly personal.
"What else did she say, Boy?"
He consulted the mulberry leaves, then bounded in his chair. "Ha, Ihave it! I kept this tit-bit for you. She used an astronomicalillustration, I haven't the least idea apropos of what, but she told usexactly how many millions of miles the sun is from the earth; and thenshe smiled upon us blandly, and said: 'Or is it billions?' Think ofthat! She said: '_Or is it billions?_' in exactly the same tone ofvoice as she might have said of the bonnet she had on: 'I bought it, ata sale, for elevenpence three farthings, _or was it a shilling_?'"
"Oh, Boy, you really _are_ naughty! I never connected you withpersonal sarcasm."
"Yes, but that sort of woman shouldn't," complained the Boy. "And withhalf Cambridge sitting listening. 'Millions, or is it billions?' Ohlor!"
"Poor thing!" remarked Miss Charteris. "She could not have known thatshe had in the audience a person who had only just avoided the drawbackto future enterprise, of being Senior Wrangler. Had she realized that,she would have been more careful with her figures."
"Tease away!" said the Boy. "I don't care, now I am safe here. Only Ishan't tell you any more."
"I don't want to hear any more, Boy. I always enjoy appreciations,even of things I do not myself appreciate. But non-appreciations donot appeal to me. If a person has meant to be effective and provedinadequate, or tried to do good and done harm, I would rather not knowit, unless I can help to put matters right. Have some more tea, Boy;and then I want to talk to you myself. I have something rather specialto tell you."
The Boy stood up and brought his cup to the little table. When she hadfilled it, he knelt on one knee beside her, his elbow on the arm of herchair, and drank his tea there.
"I am sorry, dear," he said, presently. "I won't do it again. PerhapsI listened wrong, because I was bored at being there at all. I say,Christobel--it has just occurred to me--did you know my mother?"
The old garden was very still. A hush, as of the Paradise of God,seemed suddenly to fall upon it. As the Boy asked his quiet question,a spirit seemed to hover, between them and the green dome of mulberryleaves above them, smoothing the Boy's tumbled hair, and touching thenoble brow of the woman the Boy loved; a gentle, watching, thankfulspirit--eternally remembering, and tenderly glad to be remembered. Fora few moments the silence was a silence which could not be broken. TheBoy lifted wondering eyes to the moving leaves. Christobel laid herhand upon his, as it gripped her chair. An unseen voice seemed towhisper to the Boy--not in the stern tones of the Church, but as aneager, anxious, question: "Wilt thou--have--this woman--to be thywedded wife?" And silently the Boy replied: "Please God, I will"; and,bending, kissed the hand resting on his.
The spell lifted. Christobel spoke.
"Yes, Boy dear, I knew her. I have often wondered whether I might tellyou. She and my mother were dear friends. I was thirteen when shedied. You were three, poor Little Boy Blue! Two things I speciallyremember about your mother: the peculiar radiance of her face--a lightfrom within, shining out; and the fact that when she was in a room thewhole atmosphere seemed rarefied, beautified, uplifted. I think shelived very near heaven, Boy; and, like Enoch, she walked straight inone day, and came back no more. She 'was not'; for God took her."
Another long holy silence. The mulberry leaves were still. Then theBoy said, softly: "Some day, will you tell me heaps more--details--lotsof little things about her? No one ever has. But I seem almost tobegin to remember her, when you talk of her. Meanwhile, may I show youthis?"
He drew from the inner pocket of his coat, a small well-wornpocket-Bible. Opening it at the fly-leaf, he passed it to MissCharteris.
"It was hers," he said.
She bent over it and read the inscription:
_M. A. Chelsea_
"_Through faith and patience inherit the promises._"
Below, in a delicate writing, traced by a hand that trembled:
_To my Baby Boy from his Mother_
"_I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not._"
She looked at it in silence. How much had this book meant during allthese years, to the "Baby Boy"? Had the book in his pocket, and theprayers hovering about him, something to do with the fact that he wasstill--just Little Boy Blue?
The Boy had taken a fountain pen from his pocket, and was shaking itvigorously over the grass.
Now he passed it to her.
"Write your dear name beneath," he said.
Infinitely touched, she made no comment, raised no question. She tookthe pen, and wrote just "_Christobel_."
* * * * *
"_And the ev
ening and the morning were the fourth day._"
* * * * *
Through the Postern Gate: A Romance in Seven Days Page 4