Chapter II: Part 2

"Then I'll get Mary to come and have tea with me," and Master Byron hurried down the stairs and through his neighbor's gate. He returned shortly, bringing Mary with him; and the children were in the midst of their meal, when the street door was thrown hastily open and Mrs. Byron stepped into the room. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes flashing with excitement.

"What is it, mother?" demanded George, rising, alarmed by her visible agitation.

Mrs. Byron placed both hands upon his shoulders, and looking down into his eyes, said hurriedly,--

"Your great-uncle, Lord Byron, is dead; and you, George, are now Lord Byron of Rochdale, master of Newstead Abbey, and chief of the Erneis."

The boy looked bewildered, and resting one hand upon the table for support, he bent earnestly toward his mother.

"_I am Lord Byron?_"

"You are! you are! Mrs. McCurdie has just come from Newstead, and she told me that uncle died nearly a month ago. There has been some mistake, else we should have heard of it before. I never knew the old gentleman, for he and poor Jack were not the best of friends, but I cannot think that he would have had us left in ignorance of his death. Doubtless the letters and papers will come very soon, and then, my lord, you can go to England and take possession of your castle."

"It--is--very--strange," murmured the boy. Always he had known that some day he would probably come into his uncle's title and estates, but he had somehow expected the momentous event to delay its happening until he should become a man. That honor and riches should at this time come to him, little George Byron, of Broad Street, Aberdeen, was an overwhelming surprise. True to his nature, whenever deeply moved by joy or sorrow, he grew silent, trying to settle in his own mind whether he was the same boy who had thrown clay balls in the woods that day.

Mrs. Byron rapidly explained some of the changes to come, and George listened as though stunned by the glories of his prospects.

May Gray, his devoted old nurse, slipped out and imparted the news of her dear boy's succession to all whom she met.

Presently neighbors and friends came flocking in to hear the story. The drawing-room became quickly crowded with guests, and they made so much of George, shaking his hand, patting his head, bowing to him, and offering compliments he did not understand, that the boy began to think being a lord was rather tiresome business.

When they departed, George closed the door upon the last one with a loud sigh of relief, and went in search of Mary, with whom he had not spoken since his mother had arrived with her astounding message.

The little girl sat demurely on a low stool, and as George approached her, she rose and backed timidly away.

The boy looked at her curiously.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I--I must go home," she whispered, making for the door.

"No, you mustn't! Your mother said you were to wait until your father called for you. It's terribly early yet."

"But I must go," insisted the child, with her hand upon the knob.

"Mary!"

George's tone was suddenly masterful. "Are you mad at me?"

"No, oh, no," she replied, shaking her head vigorously.

"Well, something makes you seem very queer. If you're not mad, tell me why you're starting home!"

Mary looked at him steadily for a moment, then her brown eyes filled with tears, her chin began to quiver, and she sobbed out,--

"I can't play with you any more, George, because your mother said you were--_a lord_, and--_awful rich_!"

Down went her face into the circle of her chubby arm.

"Mary, don't cry, please don't cry!" entreated George with a suspicious break in his own voice. "I like you the very same, the very same, and I'm just as I was, Mary. Truly I am."

Perceiving with distress that the little maid's plump shoulders still shook with grief, George regarded her uncertainly for a moment, then hurried across to Mrs. Byron, who sat busily writing at her desk.

"Mother," he inquired anxiously, "do you see any difference in me since I have been made a lord?"

"No," replied she, laughing, without looking up, "certainly not."

"There! I told you!" he exclaimed triumphantly, returning to the side of his sorrowful guest. "You will believe mother, won't you?"

A nod of the head against the pinafore sleeve rewarded him. Then from the depths of the elbow came in a choking voice,--

"But, George, you are going away!"

"Yes," he returned sadly, "I am going away."

A fresh outburst of weeping greeted his admission, and at his wits' end for means to comfort the little woman, he declared,--

"When I leave, Mary, I'll give Aladdin to you."

"Oh, George, _Aladdin_!"

Up came the tear-stained face, dimpling with joy and surprise.

"Yes, Aladdin. And whenever you ride him, it will be just as nice as playing with me, won't it now?"

"Oh, yes," she assented graciously.

"And, Mary," went on the boy earnestly, the while something tugged hard at his heart and threatened too to strangle him, "let's promise that all our lives you'll like me better than anybody else in the world, and I'll like you better than anybody else in the world."

"Let's!" she agreed; and George took her brown little hand in his, and pressed it to his lips, in such fashion as he had read that the gallant Gordons greeted the ladies of their clan.

The following day came a letter with an impressive yellow seal, confirming the fact of George's lordship.

Then followed a sale of all the furniture and draperies which the Byrons had used in the Broad Street flat; and one morning in July, the family left Aberdeen for England.

They were not to go to the castle at once to live, for the Earl of Carlisle, George's new guardian, had decreed that he should attend one of the great English schools for boys, joining his mother only at vacation times. Mrs. Byron did not desire to spend the months of George's absence alone in the great establishment, so she had taken a house near the school, where, except for occasional visits to the new domain, they would reside while George's education was being further advanced. But now they were going for a glimpse of their future home, and after to-day, Aberdeen would know them no more.

May Gray accompanied the Byrons to England, sturdily refusing to be left behind.

Mary Duff attended them to the coach, and the children's parting was a tearful one on both sides. But after many embraces, and the boy's promise to send her a letter every week, Mary allowed George to mount to the seat beside his mother; and as the conveyance rolled slowly away, she waved both chubby hands in response to George's steadily fluttering handkerchief, until the coach, Blue Dog, was lost to view.

After a night spent at the Nottingham inn, the Byrons hired a carriage and drove out to Newstead.

When they came to the Abbey woods, and the woman at the toll-bar held out her hand to receive their coins, Mrs. Byron, playfully feigning to be a stranger in order to hear what the toll-keeper would say, asked lightly,--

"To whom does this place belong?"

"The owner, Lord Byron, has been some weeks dead."

"And who is the next heir?" ventured Mrs. Byron.

Innocently the woman replied,--

"They say it is a little boy who lives at Aberdeen."

"And this is he, bless him!" ejaculated May Gray, unable to keep the secret; and at her words, the astonished toll-woman bowed nearly to the ground, hysterically commanding the baby who clung to her skirts to salute his young lord.

The Byrons drove through the Abbey woods, which proved to be an arm of the very Sherwood forest where long ago had dwelt Robin Hood and his merry men. Past the lake, with its fish, pleasure boats, and the toy ships which the old lord had delighted to sail to the end of his days; through the park, stocked with deer for the chase, and up to the Abbey they came.

The boy caught his breath at sight of the grand old structure which had been the glory and retreat of hundreds of monks in the Middle Ages, and which later King Henry the Eighth had presented to a certain Lord Byron, who had fashioned one of its wings into a princely dwelling. The visitors drove around the ancient pile, feasting their eyes upon its Anglo-Gothic beauties; then they descended from the carriage and entered the building. Guided by one of the servants in charge of the premises, they visited the dim cloisters, where scores of hooded monastics had daily walked; the chapel, the cells, the castle dungeons, the vast hall where the first Lord Byron had entertained three hundred guests at Christmas dinner; the late lord's drawing-room, the art gallery, and the mighty kitchen.

Everywhere the news had spread that the boyish guest was none other than the rightful lord of Newstead; and wherever George Byron appeared, men uncovered deferentially, and women and children offered sweeping curtsies. Mrs. Byron smiled at these with proud acknowledgment, and May Gray chuckled without ceasing throughout the progress, but George's face was uncommonly grave.

When his feet became too weary to allow of further touring, the party sat down before an open-air luncheon, spread for them on a table in the shade of a great elm.

Mrs. Byron, noting George's sombre silence, asked curiously,--

"Of what are you thinking, my lord?"

"Of Mary," he returned soberly.

"Of Mary," she exclaimed in surprise; "doesn't the sight of all this grandeur atone for her loss?"

"No," he returned, "nothing can take the place of Mary."

"Then I'll tell you what we'll do," rejoined his mother quickly; "if you promise to study well at school, and bring in good reports, we will come back to Newstead at holiday time, and invite Mary to spend Christmas with us here."

"Oh, mother, do you mean it?"

"Certainly, I mean it."

"Hurrah, hurrah, for Newstead and Christmas and Mary!"

One day in the city of London there was published a strangely beautiful poem. Upon the first page was printed the title, "Childe Harold," and just beneath it appeared the name of the author: George Gordon Byron.

When the scholars and students and fashionable folk read the little book, they were spellbound by the beauty of the story and the verse. Immediately they said to one another,--

"We must know him, this poet who can write such enchanting lines;" and forthwith they thronged to his house to learn what sort of a person he might be.

They found a man, young, genial, elegant in appearance and cordial in manner. A few noticed that he limped slightly when he walked; others that his features were strikingly handsome; and all agreed that any one so thoughtful and talented should be sought out and welcomed to every one of their homes.

Thereupon, invitations began to pour in upon the poet, every post bringing letters from persons of rank, families of quiet life, statesmen, professors, and even people from the provinces, urging George Byron to visit them and enjoy the hospitality they had to offer. The citizens of London opened their doors to him with one accord, vying with one another for the privilege of receiving him under their roofs.

The young lord was astonished at the warmth of their enthusiasm, and to this day is remembered his saying,--

"I awoke one morning and found myself famous."

"TOM PEAR-TREE'S PORTRAIT"

[GAINSBOROUGH]

Tommy Gainsborough did a very dreadful thing. If he had not possessed such a trick in the use of pen and pencil, this never would have happened. But, you see, he spent most of his school hours in drawing pictures on the fly-leaves of his books, which pleased the other boys so greatly that he filled their books also with sketches of people, trees, and houses; while they, in return, worked out his problems in fractions and wrote his spelling lessons for him. His copy-book he was content to keep himself, for he chanced to be the best penman at the Sudbury Grammar School, and his pages were always elegantly inscribed.

As the months went by, and his lesson papers were daily found to be correct, the teacher's reports of Master Gainsborough's progress proved highly gratifying to the boy's parents. But while Jack supplied his answers in arithmetic, and Joe prompted him with names and dates at history time, Tommy Gainsborough's ignorance of these subjects was deplorable, and his conduct towards parents and teachers was deceiving indeed.

As spring came on he grew restless under the confinement of walls and rules, and longed for the dewy fields and fragrant lanes. If only he might spend the days outside, he thought, instead of sitting mewed up in this dreary schoolroom, what splendid woodland pictures he could draw. Twice he asked the schoolmaster to excuse him, but Mr. Burroughs curtly refused, since it would be unfair to dismiss one pupil to roam the meadows and keep the others at their tasks. Tommy next tried his father, but that gentleman replied with all seriousness,--

"My son, you have worked so well this term that I wish you to keep a perfect record until the end of the year. When vacation comes you will be free to spend every day out of doors, but your education is too important to be slighted for pleasure."

Tommy was much disappointed at this decision, and, I am sorry to say, closed the door quite ungently as he started for school.

The day was an enchanting one, and as the boy trudged along the unpaved streets that ran between rows of quaint and ancient houses, a feeling of hot rebellion took possession of him.

"Father does as he likes," he muttered, "and I think I ought to do the same way once in a while. What is the sense in listening to old Burroughs drone all day about nouns and divisors?"

The fresh spring breeze, with its scents of green things growing, was so tantalizing that he paused before the schoolhouse door and thoughtfully wrinkled his brow. Presently his face grew defiant, and he dashed into the schoolroom with the look of a man who had made up his mind to do as he pleased.

Finding himself to be the first arrival, he hurried to his desk. Deftly tearing from his copy-book a slip of paper resembling those upon which Mr. Gainsborough wrote Tommy's occasional excuses, the boy dipped his pen and quickly wrote the words,--

"Give Tom a holiday."

Now if he had used his own style of penmanship the ruse would have been readily understood by the schoolmaster; but he boldly imitated his father's finely pointed lettering to a nicety, and at the end jotted down the initials, "_J. G._," with two short lines drawn under them, just as his father would have signed the note.

Carefully drying his pen, he closed his desk and left the building before any one else arrived. He waited around the corner until almost time for school to begin, then rushed into the schoolroom, now filled with noisy pupils, marched straight up to the master's desk, and presented his forged excuse.

Mr. Burroughs read the slip with some surprise.

"Of course, Tom," he said, "if your father wishes you to have a holiday, I shall not refuse permission; but I understood that he wished you to remain steadily at school until vacation time."

"May I go?" queried the boy hastily, not caring to discuss the question.

Mr. Burroughs bowed, but laid the slip of paper in his desk. Tommy, not lingering for further debate, sped from the room; and when he reached the place in the next street, where, under Dame Curran's rosebush, he had hidden his sketch-book, he threw his cap high in air from sheer joy of springtime and freedom.

Out from the town he hurried, and soon was tramping through the forest that furnished the banks of the winding river Stour. All day long he revelled in the glory of the woods, and hour after hour he worked with his pencil, striving to put into his book the charming bits of landscape that greeted his eye on every side. One sketch comprised a bend in the river, with grassy meads beyond; another, an old vine-covered bridge, now fallen into disuse; a third merely pictured a broken tree lying across the sunlit path.

Occasionally he experienced a sharp twinge somewhere when he remembered that all this pleasure was stolen. "But then," he argued, "what difference does it make? Old Burroughs didn't know, and father will never find it out!"

He stifled these pricking thoughts as fast as they arose, not permitting them seriously to disturb his holiday. He whistled, he sang, he lay on his back and looked up at the sky through the chinks in the tender foliage. Sometimes he closed his eyes and listened, and the mysterious woodland sounds, mingled with the purling of the river, yielded him boundless enjoyment. When, however, the shadows of the trees fell at a certain angle, Tommy closed his sketch-book with a sigh and went swiftly homeward.

"I must get there at the usual time," he meditated, "else they'll ask me where I've been."

As he came in sight of the "Black Horse," the public inn of bygone times, where armored knights had claimed food and shelter, but which was now the comfortable residence of John Gainsborough, Tommy began to whistle airily.

Approaching nearer, he discovered that his father had come with pipe and chair to the front stoop, and was sitting with his face turned down the street, as though watching for somebody.

Tommy began to whistle louder, and as he turned in at the gate, his countenance was beaming with innocence.

He bounded up the steps with the intention of getting into the house as quickly as possible, but as his hand touched the latch a stentorian voice said,--

"Thomas!"

The boy stopped short, his eyes round with surprise, his lips still puckered for the whistling that had been so abruptly quelled.

"I called for you at school to-day."

"_Called for me at school to-day_," echoed Tommy, reddening in dismay.

"I did. I found that I must drive out to Squire Bagley's place, and I decided to take you along. It seems that you had already given Mr. Burroughs an excuse from me."

Tommy's fingers began to pick at his jacket, and he racked his brains for a story that would fit the occasion.

"Well, father, I thought--"

"Silence, if you please! I am terribly shocked to find that my son would deliberately write and act a lie. Such conduct deserves the severest punishment. Will you take your whipping before tea or after?"

"After," said Tommy promptly; and accepting this as a dismissal he vanished into the house.

The evening meal was not a joyous one for the culprit, owing to his foretaste of what was coming later. His brothers and sisters evidently knew nothing of his escapade, and chattered among themselves as usual; but his mother's eyes rested upon him from time to time with sorrow in their depths. Once a sob came into Tommy's throat, but he fiercely choked it back, scorning to weep even under such harrowing circumstances.

As the family rose from the table, Mr. Gainsborough, pointing to the stairway, said sternly,--

"To your own room, Thomas!"

Very slowly the boy obeyed, and when the upper door had closed upon him, Mrs. Gainsborough laid a detaining hand upon her husband's arm.

"Wait for a moment, John, and look at the child's work."

Mrs. Gainsborough, who was herself an accomplished painter of flowers, opened Tommy's sketch-book, and laid before her husband's eyes the record of the day's outlawry.

A whispered consultation followed, then Mr. Gainsborough ascended the stair with a heavy, portentous tread.

Tommy, sitting miserably on the side of his bed, heard the measured tramp, tramp along the corridor; and folding his arms he set his teeth grimly and waited for the worst.

Mr. Gainsborough entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"Thomas," he began in a relentless tone, "you have disgraced yourself and your family by your behavior to-day, but I have decided not to give you a whipping."

Tommy leaped from the bed with an exclamation of puzzled relief.

"Instead, my son, I shall take away all your pencils and drawing materials for a month, and shall see that you do not have access to any at school."

"Oh, father," howled Tommy despairingly, "I'd rather take the whipping--even two of 'em, if you'll give me back my things! Please whip me, father, as you said you would, and let me have my sketch-book!"

"At the end of a month, and not one day sooner."

Mr. Gainsborough kept his word, and throughout the following weeks Tommy's fingers fairly tingled for the touch of his beloved instruments. Pencils and paper were so costly at that time that it was useless for him to save his pennies in the hope of buying them for himself; and during the weary days of waiting, Tommy decided positively that his pen should never again perform dishonest tricks, plunging him into such trouble.

One midsummer morning, weeks after Tommy's pencils had been restored to him, Mrs. Gainsborough appeared at the corner of the garden, where the boy was busily digging worms for fish bait.

"Tommy," she inquired in a vexed tone, "have you been gathering my yellow pears?"

"No," returned he, pushing his hat back and looking up at the distressed lady.

Now Tommy was guilty of so many mischievous doings that when anything went wrong about the place he was always suspected of being in the plot somewhere, though sometimes he was truly innocent, as happened to be the case just now.

"No," he repeated, "I haven't touched a single one of the yellow pears. Honor bright!"

"Then some one else has," declared Mrs. Gainsborough. "For three days, since they have been ripening so beautifully, I have tried to find enough to fill a fancy basket for the dean; and although each evening I have seen ten or twelve that would be perfect in another day, I have gone the following morning to gather them, and have found only hard and green ones hanging. The other children know nothing about it, so I suppose some one has stolen the pears. It is too provoking!"

Mrs. Gainsborough turned away, and her son went on with his digging, giving no further thought to the missing fruit.

The next morning he awoke very early, so early that the great red sun was just peeping over the hill. He turned drowsily on his pillow and was preparing to launch into another delicious nap, when it occurred to him that sunrise was a capital time for the drawing of shadows.

Instantly he scrambled out of bed, and five minutes later was on his way through the orchard with his sketch-book under his arm.

Dew lay thickly upon the grass and leaves, and even the ruddy fruit hanging overhead sparkled brightly as the first rays of the sun shone upon its clinging drops.

"Now for the shadows," thought Tommy, glancing about the orchard. "I think I'll draw that clump of currant bushes, if I can get a good position."

He walked up and down several times, trying to find a place where his view would be unobstructed. This was no easy matter amid so many trees, but at length he found that by sitting inside the entrance of an old rustic summer-house he could command his model exactly.

A few feet at his left, and close beside the stone wall dividing the orchard from the public road, grew his mother's pear-tree, laden with ripe, rich fruit.

Tommy had opened his book, and with half-closed eyes and uplifted pencil was measuring the height of the currant bushes, when, to his surprise, a head suddenly appeared above the wall, at the very spot shaded by the pear-tree.

The stranger cast a quick, cautious glance about the premises, showing that his errand was no friendly one, then threw back his head and gazed greedily at the luscious pears that grew above him. As he stood thus, with the morning light falling brightly across his visage, Tommy saw that his features were strongly marked and prominent, his face seamed by deep and vicious lines.

The boy, accustomed to study the form and appearance of things, quickly comprehended the stranger's long nose, low brow, pointed chin, and hollow cheeks.

The man looked furtively about for the second time and sprang to the top of the wall. Quite unconscious that a spectator was eagerly watching from the covered structure near by, the intruder ascended boldly into the pear-tree and proceeded to fill his pockets and hat with the juicy fruit.

Never a sound came from the summer-house, but before the rogue had completed his stolen harvest, Tommy's cunning pencil had drawn the robber's portrait, with the narrowed eyes, leering lips, unkempt hair, and rakish hat, exactly as they had impressed him at the moment when the vagabond stood gazing aloft at the fruit overhead. Tommy finished the sketch with a few hasty strokes, then closed his book and burst suddenly from the summer-house, shouting "Wow, wow!" at the top of his voice.

Down leaped the man to the earth, and scaling the wall at a bound, he fled, dropping many of the pears as he ran.

Tommy's unearthly shrieks had roused the household, and he hurriedly explained to his mother the cause of her daily vanishing pears, displaying his sketch as proof of his argument.

An hour later Mr. Gainsborough opened Tommy's book before the squire, pointed to the drawing upon the last page, and related the story of the boy's early morning experience.

The squire immediately recognized the picture as of a ne'er-do-weel who had been loitering about Sudbury for some time, and who had more than once been convicted of petty thieving.

"I'll send for him," declared the magistrate; and that very afternoon the offender was brought in.

Mr. Gainsborough accused him of invading his orchard and attempting to carry away his fruit; but the culprit stoutly denied all knowledge of the episode.

Quietly the squire opened Tommy's book, and held it before the defendant's astonished gaze.

He uttered a baffled whine, then, with a laugh that was like a snarl, he admitted his guilt of the morning, and also confessed to having robbed the pear-tree upon three previous occasions.

"My man," announced the squire sternly, "I shall let you go free this time upon your promise of good behavior, but if you ever repeat the offence I'll give you a sentence of confinement on bread and water. There is plenty of honest employment to be had in Sudbury, and I advise you to go to work and live as a decent citizen."

The man shambled out, and from that day forth was seen no more about the village.

Mr. Gainsborough, concluding from the day's developments that he could justly afford to encourage this play-work of Tommy's, which was beginning to take on a shade of importance, bought a large new sketch-book and presented it to the boy.

Tommy turned five somersaults to express the warmth of his gratitude; but before despatching the old book to its future home on the closet shelf, he opened it and, with his bravest flourishes, wrote beneath the sketch on the final page,--

"Tom Pear-tree's Portrait."

When years had gone by and Thomas Gainsborough had arrived at manhood, he astonished all England by his remarkable paintings. His pictures of woods and lanes, fields and shining water, captivated the country folk by presenting so perfectly the scenes before their doors; and the city dwellers were awakened by his colors to the charms of the wide, sweet country they had forgotten.

These landscape studies set Thomas Gainsborough high in the world of art, but when at length he turned his cunning brush to the task of painting portraits, his fame was heralded from city to province. He began by making likenesses of his wife and daughters, and when these were exhibited at the Royal Academy, people exclaimed at the skill and dignity of the work. Even King George III., who chanced to visit the gallery on one of these occasions, paused before Gainsborough's canvas, and clasped his hands in admiration.

"Summon this painter to the palace," commanded he, "and let him paint his sovereign and his queen."

This order from the king made Gainsborough's portraits the fashion at court, and straightway all the ladies of rank and beauty came to him, entreating him to paint their pictures.

His fortune and reputation, by these well-earned favors, rose far beyond anything he had expected, and if ever a man was truly happy in his life and work, that man was Thomas Gainsborough.

He was so generous, so good-humored, so lovable in his old-time frankness, that people who sought his acquaintance because he was a famous artist quickly forgot his amazing skill in the pleasure of his ever-boyish company.

It was supposed that he had reached the climax of his art when he exhibited a picture of the Duchess of Devonshire, for this set Great Britain agog with praise and wonder; but Thomas Gainsborough was destined to climb yet one step higher in the ladder of public esteem, and the work that crowned his success and brought the world to his feet was a childish portrait entitled "Blue Boy." This was hung on the wall of the Royal Academy, and when the spectators came surging through the gallery, chattering amiably of this canvas and that, they halted speechless before the boy with the thoughtful eyes, the fresh brown skin, and the pale-blue dress. The lad was so young, so sweet, so lifelike in his quiet pose, that not a word was uttered by the critics standing by. One by one they slipped away, aware that Thomas Gainsborough had not attained the goal of his greatness by pictures of kings, queens, court beauties, and mighty soldiers, but by the youthful, innocent portrait entitled simply "Blue Boy."

GEORG'S CHAMPION

[HÄNDEL]

"No, no, Hans, you are too loud, and Frieda goes too fast! Just listen to Otto's trumpet and watch my cane, all of you, and then you'll be right."

The tone was an emphatic one, and the speaker pounded sharply on the floor with his walking stick.

He was a small boy, whose flaxen hair hung straight and thick on either side of his face. He was panting with excitement, his eyes were sparkling, his lips were set.

Before him, on the floor, sat six boys and girls in a semi-circle, attending earnestly to his commands. One boy possessed a toy horn; two others, mouth organs; a fourth, a chubby girl, had dropped a tin fife in sheer fright; and the fifth and sixth clung to drum and dinner-bell respectively.

"This time," went on the conductor sternly, "I want you to begin when I bring my cane _down_. Now watch! One, two, three, four,--_one_!"

As the big baton descended with the leader's vehement "_one_," a deafening uproar burst from the obedient orchestra.

"Keep on, keep on! You're going it now! _Slower_, Frieda! One, two, three, four!"

The director swung his cane vigorously, shouting his orders above the strains of the lusty symphony. A few measures were bravely rendered, when the conductor suddenly threw down his stick with a look of extreme exasperation.

"Peter," he said quietly, in the tone of a teacher sorely tried but patient, "please don't _jingle_ the bell. Take the clapper in your hand, and tap it when I say 'one' and 'three.' Like this!" and seizing the bell, he illustrated his meaning, compelling the fat offender to perform the feat to his satisfaction before going on with the rehearsal. When the bell-ringer had been sufficiently drilled, the director once again took up his baton and ordered a fresh beginning.

They were playing in good earnest, for this imperious conductor desired something far above the discordant blasts that are usually obtained from musical toys. Weeks before he had assigned to each playmate a certain instrument, teaching him in private to draw real melody from it; and to-day he had assembled the six performers in his bedroom, introducing them to the delight of joining together in a familiar musical theme.

To be sure, the toys were shrill and piping, the players often faulty and careless, but after an hour's persistent and perspiring labor on the part of all concerned, the Duke's Military March rang through the house in creditable time and tune.

While the music continued with true martial spirit, the door opened softly, and a plump, fair girl of sixteen peeped into the room. Perceiving the occupation of the children, she smiled brightly and slipped away. A moment later another form appeared upon the threshold, that of an elderly, dignified man. His hair was white, his eyes were protected by huge gold spectacles, his shoulders were slightly bent; but a close observer would have readily detected a resemblance between the handsome old gentleman and the leader of the orchestra. One bore the markings of age, the other the dimples of childhood; but they plainly displayed a kindred will, energy, and intelligence, although one was seventy and the other but seven.

Mr. Händel was the town surgeon of Halle, appointed by the Duke of Sächse, and the flaxen-haired boy was the idolized child of his declining years.

At first sight of the juvenile orchestra the visitor smiled as indulgently as had the girl before him, entering the chamber unobserved, and seating himself in a distant corner where he could watch the highly interesting performance. But he turned quickly grave when his eye fell upon the small director, who was bending anxiously forward, his whole being absorbed in the sounds that issued from the toys at signal of his cane. The flush that burned the leader's cheek, the intensity of his glance, and the strained alertness of his lithe young body, seemed a forbidding vision to the old gentleman, for his face clouded and he shook his head in increasing disapproval.

Presently the concert ended, the children scrambled noisily to their feet, and the conductor leaned upon his cane, regarding them with the serene composure of a man who has wrought successfully and is modestly proud of the fact.

"We must go home, Georg," said Peter, exchanging his bell for his cap.

"I'm going to run, 'cause I'm so dretful hungry," announced Frieda, disappearing in quest of curds and seed cakes.

"You may all go now," consented the director affably, "but," raising a commanding finger, "we will practise again at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, and whoever is one minute late won't be invited to my party in the afternoon."

"Oh, Georg," wailed Frieda, recalled from the corridor by this edict, "must I come at seven, whether I've had any breakfast or not?"

The leader bowed.

"Whether you have had any breakfast or not," he rejoined firmly.

The children trooped down the stairs, leaving their chief to gather up the toys and place them carefully upon the table.

He was about to leave the room when, for the first time, he discovered that he was not alone.

"Father!" he exclaimed, bounding gladly to the old man's side, and laying one hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "Did you hear us play? Didn't we do well? If only we had a fiddle we could make much better music. Oh, father, it is such fun--why--what's the matter, father? I sharpened your pens and aired your dressing-gown."

The boy's hilarious comments ceased as he became aware of his father's darkened expression, and he hastened to allay the doubts that he supposed to be the cause of this unlooked-for displeasure.

"I know, Georg, that you sharpened the pens, and I believe you when you tell me that you aired the dressing-gown, but I shall give you a new duty to-day. See that you perform it promptly!"

Georg listened in wonder, for never before had his father addressed him with such hardness of manner, and instinctively the boy drew a pace backward.

"A new--duty?" he stammered.

"I want you to take those musical toys and throw them into the pond, or give them to some one who never comes into this house."

Georg was dumfounded.

"Throw them away--my trumpet, my fife, my--"

Breathless with consternation the boy rushed to the table and gathered his treasures protectingly in his arms.

"These--I must--keep," he asserted chokingly, eying his father from the breastworks of drum and bell.

For answer Mr. Händel pointed to the door, and Georg, reading naught but doom in that significant gesture, dropped his toys with a crash and clasped his father's arm beseechingly.

"Father, don't make me throw them in the pond! Tell me why it is wrong for me to have them; please, father, tell me!"

The old gentleman's face expressed both resolution and kindness.

"Listen, Georg. When I gave you those toys at Christmas time, I expected you to amuse yourself with them as other children do, in turn with balls, kites, and sleds. But this you have failed to do, and every play-hour since that time you have given to these musical toys. Now, Georg, I mean to give you a thorough education, so that when you are a man you may become a jurist, capable of following a respectable career and earning a snug fortune. Ever since you were born I have planned and saved for this purpose, and I cannot have my arrangements upset by these silly mouth organs. Tut, tut!" as the boy endeavored to speak, "no words, my son, over this matter! If I allow you to keep these things and play with them, day in and day out, as you have been doing, you will grow into a _musician_, and then where will my jurist be? No, no, it is not to be thought of. When I came in to-day, you were so deep in the Duke's March that you did not know that I was near. No, boy, you cannot have them any longer. I would have taken them away before, had I realized that you were so set upon them."

"Please, father--" whispered Georg, quaking, but persistent.

"You must either throw them away or give them away to-day. You shall have an hour to decide which you wish to do, and at the end of it, I shall expect the matter to be settled for all time. Also, Georg, I wish you to see no more of four of those children who were here to-day. Frieda and Peter seemed dull enough, but the others were too musical by far to be fit companions for you. You may tell them that I forbid them the house from to-day."

At this stroke of fate, Georg threw himself at full length on the floor, sobbing tempestuously. His father departed without further parley, and the boy was left alone to battle with his disappointment.

As the hour drew to a close, he mastered his emotion as well as he was able, washed from his face the traces of weeping, and hurried out to call a meeting of his orchestra by the pond-side.

He would not confess to his mates that he was grieved with the message he had for them, but delivered it with an air of mannish bravado.

"I shan't have an orchestra any more, and I have brought you all of my instruments. I'll give you each the one you've been using, so you can play hereafter. You needn't come to-morrow to rehearse, for I can't lead any longer."

"No orchestra! You won't lead!" chorused the musicians blankly, as they received the cherished toys into their hands.

"Never again," affirmed Georg loftily, but he must needs set his teeth hard upon his lower lip, lest its trembling should betray his stinging regret.

"You see," he explained with the easy patronage of a captain who has led his troops to victory, but who is about to be promoted out of their midst, "it is not as though I were to be a musician when I grow up. It is all well enough for you fellows to play on these things every day, but I really ought not to waste my time with them, for," importantly, "when I am a man, I am going to be a jurist."

"A _what_?" demanded his hearers in one breath, much impressed by the high-sounding title.

"A jurist," Georg repeated, folding his arms, much gratified at the effect his announcement had produced.

"What does a--a jurist do?" inquired Frieda, feminine curiosity conquering her awe.

"Oh," replied Georg easily, "a jurist, Frieda, writes down in a book everything that people ought to do, and when they don't do just as he has written, he cuts off their heads."

"Ach!"

"Their heads?"

"You will learn to cut them off?"

Georg bowed.

"Now you understand why I must give up the orchestra. If you decide to keep on without me, perhaps, sometime--"

He was turning away with a kingly wave of the hand, his last sentence unfinished, when a question from Peter recalled him to the second and most distressing part of his mission.

"You'll have your party to-morrow afternoon? We needn't play on things, you know."

The blood mounted to Georg's forehead, and his fingers twitched uncomfortably; but he managed to speak so boldly that his listeners were quite unaware of his struggle.

"I am glad you mentioned the party, Peter, for I had nearly forgotten it. No, I won't have any party, and I must tell you--at least, father says--that--that Hans and Otto and Gretchen and Leopold must not come to my house any more. Of course," he added hastily, seeking to drown the gasps of his troopers, "it isn't that you're not good enough and nice enough for me to play with, but father says that you four are very musical, and you might make me musical too; but Frieda and Peter can come, for they are dull."

"I hate your old tunes and notes, anyway," protested Peter, much injured; but Frieda cut him short with the excited proposal,--

"Let's have your party for Peter and me and you, to-morrow!"

"_Have_ your party! _Have_ your party!" sneered Otto; and Hans informed Georg in biting tones that he wouldn't forget this when his birthday came next month.

Here Georg visibly weakened, for he remembered that Hans was expecting either a violin or a flute upon that occasion, and he nearly lost his studied indifference with the recollection. He was obliged to face about, to hide the sudden teardrops that glistened on his cheeks; and, marching proudly toward his father's pasture, with head high in air, and back steadily kept toward his forsaken band, he called out,--

"I'm not mad at you, but you can be mad at me if you like. I won't have a party to-morrow for Frieda and Peter, 'cause I like Hans and Otto better than I do them, 'cause they know how to keep time when I beat."

He had reached the pasture with the last word of parting, and flinging himself over the bars, he fled across the green as though twenty scouts of the enemy were close upon his heels. The mask that he had worn to conceal his heartburning had fallen, and he was crying bitterly as he ran.

Old Kappelstahr, Georg's special pet since the days when she was a sportive calf, stood mildly chewing her cud near the inner fence. As her master dashed among the kine in evident agitation, the heifer turned to look after him, apparently surprised that he had passed her by without a word of greeting.

Georg, glancing backward, happened to catch that look of gentle interest. He halted irresolutely, then, rushing to her side and throwing his arms about her neck, the dejected jurist sobbed out his woe upon her warm brown shoulder.

During the succeeding days and weeks, Georg felt as lonely as a shipwrecked mariner cast upon a deserted island of the sea. Instinctively, when lessons were done, he reached out for amusement to the musical toys that were his no longer. Sometimes he heard sounds arising from the pond-side, where his forbidden orchestra rehearsed under Otto's direction. That he might neither make music nor mingle with those who did, filled him with blank dismay; and hour by hour he wandered about the house and garden, unable to attach himself to other interests or games. His father required him to make an industrious use of his school hours, even adding to the regular course certain studies that he deemed useful to one preparing for a serious profession.

The old gentleman was sorry indeed when he saw how the absence of the musical toys and companions affected Georg, and he even sought to modify the discipline by presenting to the boy a complete set of carpenter's tools.

Georg thanked him for the gift, but what was the old gentleman's surprise, a week later, upon seeing the chest in his son's room, still unopened, with every tool in place, and across the wooden lid a series of black and white keys painted, in imitation of a harpsichord.

Mr. Händel frowned, but made no reference to the matter before Georg.

Mrs. Händel believed that her husband was right at all times, and would not have reversed his decision regarding the musical affair, if she could; but her sister Anna, the plump fair girl who had peeped in upon the last rehearsal of the orchestra in Georg's room, sympathized warmly with the boy, and sought to console him in every way possible.

Anna was barely sixteen, herself scarcely more than a child, blue-eyed, yellow-haired, and a member of the Händel household. Her sweet temper and merry heart had long before won Georg's devotion, and in his present trial no one was admitted to his confidence but this youthful aunt.

Never a word of disrespect or rebellion did Anna utter against Mr. Händel, for she believed implicitly in a child's obedience to his parents; but, being of a musical temperament herself, she entered into the boy's trouble as though she, too, were under the ban. In a certain sense she was, there being no musical instrument in the house, and often she felt stirred by the same impulse that wrought so constantly upon her nephew.

"Never mind, Georg," she would say, "let Hans and Frieda have the mouth organ and the drum. Just you attend to your school, and when your father sees that you mean to study hard and carry out his wishes, he will give them back to you."

But weeks dragged wearily by, and, despite Georg's diligence at school, Mr. Händel did not relent. Frieda and Peter came occasionally, but they had never been Georg's chosen comrades, and he joined their games mechanically, plainly relieved when they took their departure. He longed unceasingly for Otto, who was clever with the trumpet, and for Hans, who was now the possessor of a violin.

He became restless and dissatisfied, and his mother despaired of a child who went about with such a sober face.

He never gave voice to the discontent that surged in his breast, for parental authority was strict in the Händel household, and he would have been sharply punished for outspoken protest. But he did not recover from his disappointment, as his father had so reasonably expected; a slight paleness crept over his plump cheeks, his lively spirit was tinged with melancholy, and from his compressed lips was seldom heard his former ringing laugh.

Every one in the house noticed the change, but all except Anna thought the mood would presently pass away if properly ignored, and no mention was made in his hearing of the subject that lay nearest his heart. The girl, however, realized that Georg was seriously unhappy, and right heartily did she try to divert him from his consuming desire.

One November afternoon, as Georg sat studying before the sitting-room fire with his mother, who had fallen asleep over her knitting, his attention was attracted by a pebble being thrown against the window. Raising his eyes, he beheld his aunt beckoning to him from the garden. Down went the book and out went the boy.

"What is it, Aunt Anna?"

For answer, the girl caught him about the neck and whirled him madly up and down the gravelled path.

"It's a secret, Georg, the best and biggest secret in the whole world. Nobody is to know it but you and me, and it is so lovely that I can't keep from spinning like a top!"

"Wait! Stop! Let loose!" and the boy broke from her clasp, half-strangled by the joyful energy of her arm. "What is the secret? Hurry and tell!"

The girl stood smiling and speechless, unable to find words to frame her tidings. Then glancing about to assure herself that no one was near, she bent quickly and whispered,--

"You remember, Georg, that poor Granny Wegler died last week. Well, her daughter, Mrs. Friesland, who came from Munich to take care of her, called here to-day to tell me--what do you suppose?"

"I don't know."

"She said that she had found a note written by Granny, saying that when she died, she wanted to leave her _clavichord_ to me. Just think of it, Georg, I am to have that dear, beautiful little clavichord that stood in Granny's parlor, and you and I can play on it whenever we please!"

Georg's face went from red to white and back to red again with this stupendous news. Afraid that a shout would serve to recall him to house and book, he sought to express his delight by rolling over and over in the crackling brown grass and pulling up the dead blades by handfuls.

Suddenly, however, he ceased his tumbling about, and sat up, his hair filled with bits of leaves and grass.

"Ought I to play on it, Aunt Anna? Will father care?"

Georg's voice shook with apprehension, but the girl hastened to reassure him.

"When your father made you give away the toys, he never said a word about clavichords. It can't be wrong to play on it when you never have been forbidden."

Anna's idea of obedience was very strict, and in the present case she was wholly sincere, never doubting for an instant that they were about to proceed in the straight path of duty.

"Oh, no," murmured the boy, much relieved, "he didn't mention clavichords, I'm sure."

"Now this is to be a secret of yours and mine, and while the others are gone to the Kirmess to-morrow, I shall have the darling brought over and carried up to the garret."

"Ho, ho! Hurrah for our secret! Hurrah! hurrah!"

When, next day, Georg saw the clavichord borne to the shadowy chamber under the eaves and set up in all its thrilling reality against the warm brick chimney, he pressed both hands over his mouth in the fear that his cries of exultation might reach his father's ears in town.

When the carriers were gone, he approached the instrument timidly, and only after Anna had played several tunes, could he be induced to touch its yellowed keys. But when he had once overcome the awe that filled him at sight of his heart's desire, he clung to it as a thing of life, passing every hour thereafter that he could snatch from his school studies, in the company of this glorious toy. In the beginning, Anna taught him the few rudiments of musical art that lay within her ken, but before many weeks had passed, the pupil turned teacher, so far outstripping his aunt that he was able to give her many helpful suggestions.

That Georg speedily recovered his vaulting spirits, every one remarked; but none guessed the reason. The good surgeon supposed that the boy's regret for his lost playthings and companions was forgotten, and he smiled to see his son as noisy and mischief-loving as before the September episode.

The conspirators were for a time in terror of discovery, but the tones of the clavichord were so thin and muffled that their tinkling would never disturb a drowsy garret mouse, much less penetrate the oaken floors to the chambers under foot. No one but Georg's mother ever visited the attic region, and during this important season, she chanced to be afflicted with acute rheumatic pain that prevented her climbing the steep stair leading to the treasure-house.

The winter was a long one and cold, but Anna and Georg, in their high retreat, were as happy and comfortable as meadow-larks. Trunks, chests, old clothing, and discarded furniture abounded there; bunches of dried herbs were strung to the cross-beams, and cobwebs draped the outlying nooks; but the great chimney emitted a cosy warmth, and the clavichord provided unceasing entertainment.

As time went by, Anna's interest waned considerably, owing to the succeeding preparations of Christmas gifts, March birthday festivities, and spring finery; but when months had rolled away and summer suns were once more ripening the fruit and coloring the flowers, Georg was as intently absorbed in the clavichord as on the day of its first appearance.