Chapter III: The Girl’s Mission to the Boy

She was his star. BYRON.

Gloria, singing as she went, and skipping like a kid from point to point, over the breach in the sea wall, and dancing through the old grass meadows and turnip fields—hurried on towards her home.

Suddenly her song ceased, and she stood still.

She saw her uncle walking alone with slow and melancholy steps, and his head bowed down upon his breast.

She would have spoken to him, but he waved his hand for her to go on to the house.

She looked at him wishfully, hesitatingly; but he only smiled sadly on her and repeated his gesture with more emphasis.

Then she obeyed him and reluctantly went on.

“That was like meeting a ghost,” she said; and she sang no more that day.

She entered the house and met Sophia on her way through the hall with a pail of hot water in her hand and a look of indignation on her face.

“What’s the matter, ’Phia? Has anything happened? I met uncle outside the park wall and he looked awful! awful!” said the child.

“Well he mought,” replied the woman, wrathfully. “There’s been the biggest row you ebber seed in yer life, and you not here to ’vent of it.”

“Was it auntie and uncle?” inquired the child, in a tone of awe.

“Hi, who else? Yes, honey, it was master and mist’ess and de debbil! And you not here to carcumwent Satin!”

“Oh, dear me, I’m so sorry. How did it all happen, ’Phia?”

“Hi! How I know, chile? I wa’n’t dere. It happen in de long sittin’ room, in course, where dey most in gen’al sits. Fust fing we cullud people knowed was de bell rung wiolent, an’ I run up an’ foun’ mist’ess in fits an’ marster tryin’ to fetch her to. We toted her up stairs ’tween us an’ put her to bed. But soon’s ebber she could speak she sent marster out o’ de room. How does it allers happen, honey? De debbil! Dere’ll be murder done here some ob dese days—always the debbil, an’ dis time he had it all his own ’fernal way, ’cause you wa’n’t here to carcumwent him.”

“Oh, I am so sorry. Poor uncle! poor auntie!” sighed the child, with a look of age and care coming over her bright young face.

“I’m mad; I ain’t a bit sorry; I’m mad. If dem two fools was chillun, dey’d just get good hoopins for quarrelin’ so; an’ bein’ grown-up ’dults, dey desarves hoopin’ ten times as much as chillun, ’cause dey’s big ’nuff to know better! I gwine up now to put her feet in hot water. I’d like to put him and her bofe in hot water up to deir necks, an’ keep ’em dere till they promise to ’have deirselves better!” exclaimed ’Phia, as she took up the pail and went up stairs.

Gloria looked after her. She felt as if she ought to have rebuked the woman for her manner of speaking; but then she did not wish to raise another domestic storm, and she knew that ’Phia had a temper that blazed up at a word, as stubble flames up at a spark. Indeed, if the child had been required to write ’Phia’s name, she would naturally have written it Fire, and thought that she was right.

She hung her hat and sack on the hall rack, and then went softly up to her aunt’s room to sit with her and be ready to run on any errand that was required.

She sat patiently with her auntie all the afternoon, reading a volume of Peter Parley’s story-books.

In the evening she left her, quietly sleeping, and went down stairs to make tea for her uncle.

It was a rather silent meal. De Crespigney was absorbed in thought, and never spoke to the child unless she asked him some question, and then he answered absently, though in the gentlest tone.

After tea she left him sitting in his old leathern arm-chair by the small wood fire that the chill air rendered necessary even in June, and she went up to her own room and crept into bed.

The next morning Madame de Crespigney appeared at the breakfast table as if nothing had happened. These stormy days are followed by calm mornings in the moral as well as in the physical atmosphere.

Gloria knew from experience that after such a tempestuous misunderstanding as they had had on the previous day, her uncle and aunt would have to be left alone to come to a reconciliation. She was also glad of such a good excuse to go out.

So, directly after breakfast, she went up to her bedroom, opened her glass-doored bookcase, and, after taking down and putting up volume after volume, she selected two which she thought would be most beneficial and acceptable to her new friend—these were the charming school books: Peter Parley’s First Book of Geography and Peter Parley’s First Book of History, then just coming into use, both profusely illustrated with maps and pictures.

She put on her little rough-and-ready gray sack and her felt hat—for it was still chilly on the seaside in early June—took the two books under her arm and left the house.

Singing as she tripped along, she hurried blithely down to the breach in the wall, where she found the fisher-boy busily engaged in smoothing that passage by laying the fallen stones a little leveller.

“Oh, good-morning, David Lindsay! Will you take me over in your row-boat to see your grandmother this morning?” she asked as she came up.

“Oh, yes, indeed I will, and glad to do it!” replied the lad, lifting his torn hat from his black curls and holding out his hand to help her across the broken wall.

She sat down on the boat to recover her breath, while he said:

“I stayed here last night until ten o’clock, working to finish my nets, and so get time to take you over to-day. And then I came at daybreak this morning, and have been here ever since, so I have earned a holiday.”

“Oh, how good of you to take so much trouble for me; but how could you see to do your work, after the sun went down?”

“The stars came out. It was one of the brightest starlight nights I ever saw! Besides, netting, you know, is such mere finger-work, that I could almost do it with my eyes shut. Are you ready to go?”

“Presently. Sit down here by me, I want to show you something.”

The boy seated himself beside her.

“Here,” she said, producing the First Book in Geography, and opening upon a page of engravings in sections representing the five races of man.

“Oh-h-h!” exclaimed the boy in delight, as he took the volume from her hands and gazed with devouring eyes upon the fascinating page.

He had never seen a picture of an Indian, an Ethiopian, a Mongolian, or a Malay in all his life, and now he gazed in a breathless rapture upon these.

Pictures were almost unknown to him—the pictures in his grandmother’s old family Bible and the half-a-dozen little illustrations above the fables in Webster’s Spelling Book, being all that he had ever seen.

“Oh-h-h, you can’t think how much I do thank you for lending me this splendid book!” he exclaimed, with fervent gratitude.

“Oh, indeed, I am ever so much obliged to you for being so pleased with it! It makes me feel so happy, you know! But turn over the next page. Oh, there are ever so many more nice pictures in it!”

“Are there?” he asked, and immediately turned the page to discover more and more treasures—Esquimaux and white bears of the Arctic circle; elk, moose, and reindeer, and red Indians of the northern lakes and forests; seals, beavers, Canadians, New England farms, churches, school-houses, New York seaports, shipping, and warehouses; Western prairies, forests and rivers; Southern bays, isles, and cotton plantations.

“Oh! oh! oh!”

What a treasury of happiness to the poor boy, hungering and thirsting for knowledge, who had scarcely ever seen three books or a dozen pictures in his life before, and who had scarcely any conception of any world beyond the horizon of his natural vision!

And as yet he had seen only a few index pictures of North America.

South America and all the Western Hemisphere was to follow in that delightful book.

“Oh, you never can know how much I thank you for this beautiful book!” he exclaimed, with enthusiasm.

“Why, don’t I tell you I am ever so much obliged to you for liking it so well!” said Gloria, her own blue eyes dancing with the delight of delighting.

Over and over he turned the bewitching pages, finding more and more pleasure as he went on even to the end of the book—the picture of the Cape of Good Hope, with Cape Colony.

He had taken some time to look through the volume, pausing long over each picture. So when he closed it, he arose and said:

“I could sit all day and night and look at this book, and forget to eat or sleep, I do believe; but I reckon it is time for us to go now.”

“No, sit down again. I have got something else to show you,” she answered.

He obediently reseated himself, and she put in his hand “The First Book of History,” profusely illustrated with pictures of battles and conventions and portraits of military heroes and statesmen.

“Oh-h-h!” again exclaimed the boy, as he opened at a portrait of George Washington on one side, and the signing of the Declaration of Independence on the other.

He turned over page after page, finding fresh food for intellect and imagination in every one, while the little girl watched him with her blue eyes sparkling in sympathetic pleasure.

“Oh, how rich I shall feel, with these two books to read every night! I shall never go to bed at dusk when granny does because I am lonesome. I shall never be lonesome now,” he said.

“I am so glad, and so very much obliged to you for being so happy over them, David Lindsay,” she repeated, with more emphasis.

There is no knowing how long the two children might have lingered, sitting side by side on the old boat—he poring with rapture over the book, she watching his enjoyment with ecstasy; but the hour of noon came and passed, and the healthy young appetite of the boy would not allow him to “forget to eat.”

“Oh, how late it is!” he exclaimed, reluctantly closing the book just at the picture of General Washington receiving the sword of Lord Cornwallis after the battle of Yorktown. “Come, we had better go now.”

“Well, yes, I suppose we had. You can read the books every night, can’t you, David Lindsay?”

“Yes, indeed. And when you are up at the house enjoying yourself with all your friends, you may think of me reading your books.”

“Oh! they are your books, David Lindsay,” she hastened to exclaim.

“I daren’t take them from you only as a loan; but, oh! I can never thank you enough for that. Come carefully over all this rubbish. Let me take your hand. There, now, step into the boat and sit down while I untie her. Don’t be afraid. She will not turn over.”

The child suffered him to put her into the rough little old shell that lay rocking on the sea.

He quickly unmoored the boat, got into it, seated himself, and rowed towards the little sandhill that seemed a mere mote on the water.

David rowed vigorously, and the little skiff shot over the sea, and rapidly approached the island.

First she saw the sandy little hillock; next, that there was a tiny house on it, with trees on the farther side; then, as the boat reached the shore and grounded, she saw that the house was a small cottage with a gable roof and one chimney; with one door and window on the ground floor, and one tiny, square window above in the gable. There were no shutters to the windows, but they were shaded from within by flowered wall-paper blinds. The little house was whitewashed with lime, and the door was painted with red ochre, a coarse coloring matter got from the soil on the main. A little garden around the house, with a “made soil,” was fenced in with a whitewashed picket fence. Lilies, Canterbury-bells, hollyhocks, pinks, larkspurs, and other sweet, old-fashioned flowers grew in the front yard. A red rose-bush and a white rose-bush were trained, one on each side of the door. A white dog, of a nondescript race, was asleep on the step, and a black kitten was curled up snugly on his back. These proverbial “natural enemies” had never been anything but loving friends.

At the approach of David the dog sprang up, wide awake, overturning the kitten, who put up her back, gaped, and stretched herself, while Jack ran forward and leaped upon his master, who did not order him “down, sir!” but patted his head and returned caress for caress.

The red door opened then, and a smiling old woman appeared—Mrs. Lindsay, David’s grandmother.

She was a small, plump, fair-faced, blue-eyed dame, with the white hair of sixty years parted plainly over her forehead, and banded back under a clean linen cap. She wore a striped blue and white cotton gown, of her own spinning and weaving, and a white handkerchief folded over her bosom, and a white apron tied before her gown.

She came forward, smiling pleasantly as she held out her hand to the child, while she spoke to David.

“Is this the little lady you have brought to visit me? I am very pleased to see thee, my dear.”

“Oh, thank you, ma’am! It was so nice of you to let me come! And I like David Lindsay. He is all the playmate I have got. But he’s splendid!” said the child, with enthusiasm.

The old woman smiled on her, patted the tiny hand she held in her own, and then led her into the house.

It was a good sized room, with clean, whitewashed walls, the one window shaded with a home-made blind of flowered wall-paper; the floor of wide planks, perfectly bare, yet scrubbed to a creamy whiteness; in one corner a neat bed, with a patchwork quilt and snowy pillows; in another corner a loom, with a piece of cloth in process of weaving; in a third, a large spinning-wheel; in the fourth, a corner cupboard, with glass doors in the upper part, through which might be seen the clean, coarse, blue-edged crockery ware, and the bright pewter dishes of the little _ménage_.

In the middle of the floor stood a table covered with a coarse but snow-white cloth, and adorned with blue-edge cups and saucers and plates, while on the clean, red ochre-painted hearth stood a tea-pot and several covered plates and dishes, before the clear fire in the small open fireplace.

“Come, lass, let me take off ’ee coat,” said the kind little woman, beginning to unbutton and untie until she had relieved the child of her hat and sack.

“Now, sit ’ee down, lass, while I put dinner on the table,” she continued, depositing her small visitor on a low chip-bottomed chair, near the windowsill, on which stood a box of mignonette, that filled the homely room with fragrance.

“’Ee’s late, Dave. I thought ’ee’d be here wi’ the lass an hour ago, and had all ready for ’ee,” said the old woman, as she began to place dinner on the table.

“We were reading of a book what the little lady loaned me,” replied the boy, as he carefully placed the two volumes on each side the Bible, which stood upon a chest of drawers at the end of the room, between the bed and the corner cupboard.

“It was my fault. I stopped David Lindsay to show him the books,” put in the child.

“It wasn’t ’ee fault, then. It was ’ee goodness, little lass. And it’s na great matter. The dinner is no sich that it can be spoiled,” said Dame Lindsay, as she placed the last dish on the table, and then led her small guest to a seat.

Poor as these cotters were in all things else, they were not poor in regard to food.

The sea supplied them with fish for immediate use, and for salting away against winter; the two pigs that they bought and raised at a trifling cost every year, provided them with pork and bacon; the small poultry-yard with fowls and eggs; the patch of garden with vegetables and fruit; the little Alderney cow with milk and butter.

The few other provisions they needed were easily procurable at the nearest country store on the main, in exchange for the excellent cotton hose and mittens knit by the industrious and skillful hands of the old dame.

Other trifling expenses of the little household were met by the money earned by David on the fishing landing of the promontory.

The dainty midday meat set before the little lady guest was not at all an every-day affair, but was got up expressly for her. It was very attractive—nice fragrant tea, with rich cream and white sugar; nice light, home-made bread, with sweet, fresh butter; fried bluefish, just out of the sea; poached eggs on toast; boiled spring chicken; mashed potatoes, green peas, lettuce, radishes, and, finally, cherry pie, strawberries and cream, and a plenty of new milk.

Little Glo’ ate—well, like a healthy child, with an excellent appetite, and no one near to curb it.

“It is the nicest dinner I ever had in all the days of my life, and—I have been at big dinner parties, too, before I came to the promontory!” she declared, with equal frankness and emphasis, as she arose from the table.

At least, it was the most enjoyable.

The old dame smiled on her, and David felt so pleased and proud!

Ay! the Earl of Leicester entertaining Queen Elizabeth at Kenilworth Castle could not have felt more elevated in spirits by her majesty’s august approbation than was the fisher-boy by the pleasure of his little lady guest.

“Mayhap ’ee’ll come again to see us, little lady,” said the old dame.

“Oh, indeed, indeed, indeed I will! Just as often as you’ll please to let me come! Oh, it is so nice here! I’ll be sure to come just as often as ever you will let me come!” exclaimed the child, heartily.

“That will be as often as ’ee likes,” said the old dame.

Then, assisted by David, she hastily cleared away the table, taking the dishes into the “lean-to” behind the cottage, there to remain until she could wash them up after the departure of the visitor.

Then she set herself to entertain the little lady.

She showed her all the few curiosities of the cottage—some strange South Sea shells that had been brought home by a sailor ancestor ages before, and which now decorated the low wooden chimney shelf; then the rusty old gun that had been carried by her own grandfather in the Revolutionary War; then some stuffed birds, some skeletons of strange fish, and some odd-looking pebbles from the beach.

Next she exhibited some of the small treasures of her chest of drawers—a curious patchwork quilt that had won the prize in a certain agricultural and industrial fair held at St. Inigoes many years before.

“And did you sew all these little pieces of colored calico and white cotton together with your own fingers?” inquired the child, with interest.

“Yes, dearie, I did.”

“Oh, how curious and how pretty! How I would like to do that! We have got ever and ever so many calico and cotton pieces in the scrap-bags at home! If I bring some over here, when I come again, will you show me how to cut the pieces into leaves, and flowers, and things, and sew them together like this?”

“Yes, little lass, I will teach ’ee with good will; for I do think it a merit to save up the scraps and turn them to good account, though they do tell me that now-a-days quilts are made by masonry, and sell cheaper than we could make ’em by hand. ’Ee sees, dearie, I use to make ’em to sell; but now I can’t get anybody to give me enough to pay for my work on ’em. So now I knit socks and mittens.”

“They make them by machinery, too,” said the child.

“Yes, and I shouldn’t wonder and they didn’t come to hatch chickens by masonry some of these days! Well a day! No masonry stockings can eekill my knitted stockings, and that the storekeeper knows, and allus takes ’em from me and pays me well in tea and sugar, and whatever I may want. As to the quilt-piecing, lass, I’ll teach ’ee with good will. ’Ee’s a plenty of leisure, I’ll warrant, and ’ee’s well spend it that way in saving the scraps and turning ’em to account as in another,” concluded the canny old dame, as she folded her prize quilt, replaced it, and closed the drawer.

“Oh, I think it is such pretty and curious work, and it is so—economical!” said the little child-woman. “I shall be so glad to learn!”

“She likes to learn everything she sees going on,” added David, who, with his hands in his pockets, stood a smiling spectator of the scene.

“That’s right. Larn all ’ee can, little lass. Now come wi’ me, and I’ll show ’ee the young ducks that were hatched yesterday.”

“Oh!” cried the child, jumping up in glee. “I never saw young ducks in all my life! What a nice place this is!”

“What! Don’t they show ’ee the young things up by, at the house?” inquired the dame.

“No, ma’am; they never thought of it, I reckon; no more did I,” answered the child, as she followed her conductress out into the poultry-yard.

She saw the young ducklings that were just out; then she saw the little chickens that were a week old, and seemed to know as much about life as she herself did. Then she was taken through the garden, and she saw the strawberry bed and the one cherry tree, with its bright red fruit hiding in its green leaves, and the crooked apple tree that bore the green sweetings which would soon be ripe, and the currant bushes along the walk, with the small beds of peas and cabbage and corn between them, and then the bee hive and the two white pigs, and Winny, the little black and white cow, in her shed.

Then they went in.

“Oh! what a nice place this is! The nicest place I ever saw!” said the child.

“’Ee must come often to see it, if ’ee likes it so well,” said the dame, who felt flattered by the child’s sincere admiration; “’ee must come often, but now it is getting late i’ the afternoon, and I must send ’ee home to ’ee friends, lest harm come to ’ee through this visit.”

David, who had kept close to the pair all the day, now left them to get the boat ready.

The old dame carefully put on the child’s hat and sack, and then threw a shawl over her own head, and led the little one down to the water’s edge, where David stood in the boat, waiting.

The child threw her arms around the old woman’s neck, and kissed her heartily, many times, thanking her warmly for the “happy, happy day” she had had.

The dame responded cordially.

David then handed the little girl into the boat, unmoored, and rowed rapidly for the promontory landing, which they reached in a few minutes.

The sun was just setting.

“Oh, David Lindsay, I have had such a splendid time! Oh! I am so glad I found you!” exclaimed little Glo’, as he helped her out of the boat.

“Oh, so am I! Ever so glad! And I think we ought to thank the Lord!” he added, solemnly.

“Oh! I will, when I say my prayers to-night. Are you going to study your books this evening, David Lindsay?”

“Yes, indeed. What are you going to do?”

“Oh, I—I think I will look out some more books for you, and then I will hunt out some pretty bright pieces of calico from the scrap-bag, to learn to make patchwork quilts, and have them ready against the next time I go to see your grandmother.”

“When will you come again? To-morrow?” anxiously inquired the boy, as he leaned on his oar.

“Oh, no, not to-morrow; not to see your grandmother, to put her to so much trouble, you know; but I will come down here to the landing to see you, David Lindsay.”

“Oh, yes, please do.”

“Well, good-bye, David Lindsay.”

“Good-bye.”

“God bless you, David Lindsay!”

“And you, too.”

“I won’t forget to thank Him when I say my prayers to-night.”

“No more will I.”

“Well, good-bye again, David Lindsay.”

“Good-bye.” He did not want to call her Miss de la Vera, much less Miss Gloria; he could not call her little Glo’. He felt, without in the least understanding his feelings, that the first style would be too cold and stiff, and the last perhaps too familiar, so he called her “you,” putting all respect in his low and modulated tone. There was much of nature’s gentleman in this poor little lad in the ragged straw hat.

He waited, hat in hand, until she had turned and tripped lightly over the broken sea-wall and passed out of sight.

Then he covered his head, sat down in his boat, took the oar and reluctantly shoved off from the shore, while she ran home, singing and dancing as she went.

She ran into the house and went directly to seek Sophia.

“Have they been worried about me, ’Phia?” she inquired.

“No, honey; dey’s been too much took up wid ’spoundin’ an’ ’splainin’ ’bout yes’day’s fuss to fink ’bout you. Leastways, mist’ess was; dough marster did ’quire arter you when dey sat down to dinner an’ you wa’n’t dere. Says he:

“‘Whey’s de chile?’

“Says she:

“‘Oh, never mind de chile; she’s running round de place somew’ere, an’ ’Phia can give her her dinner when she comes in. Tell me what you meant by——’ somefin’ or oder, Lord knows what, honey; but at it dey went, ’spoundin’ and ’splainin’. But where is you been all de live-long day, little Glo’?” demanded the woman.

“Oh, ’Phia! I have had such a happy, happy day!” replied the child.

And then she told the cook all about her visit, adding:

“And granny Lindsay begged me to come ever so often!”

“Yes, honey; mighty good ob de ole woman. I knows her, honey, and has buyed mittens ob her—woolen mittens, which she knitted, honey. But you mustn’t go too often, honey. One fing, you mustn’t be too intimit wid people ob dat low order ob deciety. Not as I am sayin’ but dey may be jes’ as good as we is, in de sight ob de Lord, if dey ’haves deirselves; but still, ’ciety is to be despected. An’ another fing, honey, is, dey can’t deford it; dey can’t, indeed; dey can’t deford to ’tain a little lady on fry chickens an’ sich, werry often.”

Now, the first clause of this speech, concerning caste, slipped through the child’s ears without making the slightest impression, but the second clause, about the expense of her visit to the fisherman’s cottage, fixed her attention.

“Oh, yes, I thought of that; so I told David Lindsay I could not go to-morrow. ’Phia, you are right,” she said, as she ran up stairs. She did not go to the sitting-room to interrupt the _tête-à-tête_ of her aunt and uncle, but up to the attic to hunt for bright pieces in the scrap-bag, singing and dancing as she went.

When she met her relatives at tea that night they did not even think of asking her where she had been. They seemed to take it for granted that she had come in soon after dinner, and had been properly attended by ’Phia.

So the child’s holiday escaped their notice.

The next morning, Gloria, true to her promise, went down to the landing, where she found David sitting in the old boat, mending nets.

His face broke into a smile as he took off his hat and stood up to receive her.

“Good-morning, David Lindsay. Did you study your book last night?” she inquired, with childish frankness.

“Oh, yes, indeed! And I have brought the geography here with me to take a glimpse of it now and then; but it is such a temptation to slight my work, that I shall have to leave it home after this,” replied the lad, still standing, hat in hand.

“Oh, no, don’t you do that, David Lindsay! Please don’t! See, now, sit down and take up your netting and go on with it, and I will sit by and read the lessons out, and ask the questions at the bottom of the page, so you can tell if you know them.”

“Oh, yes, I shall like that; for then I can do my work and learn my lesson at the same time. How good you are to me. What makes you so good to me?”

“Why,” she said, opening her blue eyes wide and looking at him with surprise, “don’t you know? You are my playmate, and we are going to play school?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Now give me the book, David Lindsay, and sit down and go on with your netting. Now, how far had you got?” she inquired, when they were seated opposite each other in the old stranded boat.

“Up to ‘What is a cape?’”

“Oh, yes, I can find the place. Now pay attention, David Lindsay,” she said, as she took up the book, opened it, assumed a grave, school-ma’am air, and asked:

“‘What is a cape?’”

“‘A cape is a point of land pretending into the sea,’” answered the pupil.

“‘Ex-tending into the sea,’ David Lindsay,” corrected the little teacher.

“‘EX-tending into the sea,’” emphatically amended the pupil.

“That is right. Now, then, ‘What is a promontory?’”

“‘A promontory is a high point of land pre——’”

“No!”

“EX——”

“Yes.”

“EX-tending into the sea!”

“That is right, David Lindsay. You will soon learn geography.”

She went on with the lesson, slowly drilling it into the head of the boy, who, with his divided attention, was a fair illustration of “the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties.”

But before his little teacher left him that day, he had managed to master the principal divisions of land and water, and better than all, he had been inspired with the love and desire of knowledge.

This was the little lady’s mission to the fisher lad, who, a few years later, in the desperation of her unparalleled extremity, she was to ask to be her husband.