Chapter IV: The Transformation Scene

Whatever form Antonio’s studies were to take, or whatever he was going to do, there is no mistake about one thing, he was energetic, and his whole heart and soul was in his work. Whatsoever one’s hand findeth to do, he should do with all his might.

Boys often write me complaining of being nervous. Why, nervous people are the salt of the earth! They do nearly all the work, and all the inventing, and most of the fighting, while the phlegmatic fellow sits at home with his feet on the fender. Antonio was not of the phlegmatic diathesis.

Next morning, when, at twelve o’clock, Barclay and his cat came to the cliff, he was astonished to find a whole squad of labourers and trades-people busy at work on the old windmill.

At first when Antonio came to Fisherton the good folks thought that if he wasn’t exactly a “warlock,” he was at any rate half-crazed. But a revolution had come; and as Antonio spent his money freely enough, was good to the poor, and never went down the street without making some children happy, if only by means of a few kind words, a handful of nuts, or an apple, he soon became a universal favourite. Moreover, as he did not hide the facts from them that he was a student, and wanted perfect quiet to work out experiments, they looked upon him with greater respect, and many called him Professor Antonio.

Antonio never touched spirits or drink of any kind except coffee; but in the evenings he would come quietly in to the cosy little bar-parlour, grasping the bowl of his wee, short meerschaum, and sit quietly down in a chair not far from the “ingle nook.”

With the exception of a few remarks about the weather and sea or the fishing, very little would be said for some minutes. But after Antonio shook the ashes from his pipe, refilled it again, and drank his two or three modest cups of coffee, these honest fishermen fellows drew their chairs closer around the fire and prepared to listen to a story. And that story was sure to come.

Such adventures, too, he had to tell! He had sailed the wide world over. He had fought on land as well as at sea, but through it all he seemed to have borne a charmed life, for he was never even wounded. It was evident to every one that Antonio was speaking the truth, and nothing else; not even embellishing it. It was evident, too, that he was a brave man, brave even to a fault--and I suppose that means rash; and so if it had not been for that mysterious, uncanny eye of his, all hands would have loved him instead of merely liking him.

Fisherton was not a mean village. The most of the inhabitants were honest fisher-folks, but in it there were good tradesmen, carpenters, builders, all kinds and conditions of workmen. So Antonio, although he would get the simple furniture he needed from a town some ten miles off, determined to employ only village labour.

And this made him a greater favourite than ever.

* * * * *

So here they were on this bright, sunny spring morning at work outside and in.

Antonio was walking about rubbing his hands and evidently enjoying the sight, but giving a word of command or a word of encouragement wherever it was required.

“Ah! here you are, dearie,” he said to our boy, “and here’s old pussy. I’m feeling just real cheery this morning; but look, Barclay boy, how the light breeze ruffles the sea, and how the sunshine dances and glitters on the ripples, just for all the world as if unseen hands were sowing millions and millions of diamonds on it!

“But,” he continued, “where is Davie Drake? Oh, we must see Davie.”

“Yes,” said Barclay, laughing, “I’ll bring him. But he will be from home for a week.”

The boy and Antonio now had a peep inside. There was so much dust, however, that little could be seen.

Men were cleaning down the walls, and, I fear, breaking up the homes of many a lusty spider that had been in possession of the lower gallery for many years, till they had come to look upon the place as their very own.

I may mention that all the machinery had long since been removed from the mill, only the sails had been left outside, or rather the yardarms that used to support these sails.

* * * * *

Antonio went away to the nearest big town shortly after this to purchase furniture and fixings, and Barclay Stuart went with him. Not pussy this time, though.

Well, they stayed for a whole week, and the little man was kindness itself to the boy. Not only did he feed him like a fighting cock--I really don’t know, by the way, how fighting cocks _are_ fed, and I have no desire to know--the “sport,” so called, is brutal and brutalising in the extreme.

Antonio took the boy to concert and theatre, and, I’m quite sure of one thing, half at least of his own happiness consisted in witnessing the rapture and delight of Barclay.

Well, the days were spent in shopping, in the purchase of neat but nice furniture, carpets, oilcloth, curtains, and drapery and napery.

Antonio was as fastidious as a woman.

“I do like,” he explained to Barclay, “to have things nice around me. Couldn’t work or think if they weren’t!”

But there were kitchen or cookery articles to be bought as well, and many other things I need not mention. Anyhow, it was evident enough that Antonio knew what he was about.

Barclay and Antonio occupied adjoining rooms in the hotel where they lived.

“I say,” said Antonio on the first night, and before leaving the lad’s room, “it may seem a queer question from a barnacled old salt like me, but--do you say your prayers?”

“Oh, always,” said the boy seriously.

“Right, dearie, right. And now I’m off.”

* * * * *

At the end of eight days they returned to Fisherton.

Antonio now told Barclay that he must not come near the windmill for five days, but that he, Antonio, would come to see his mother and Phœbe.

So he did the second night.

“Been very busy all day,” he explained to Mrs. Stuart, “or would have come earlier. And this is Phœbe, that I have heard so much about. Come towards me, child.”

Like every other child, Phœbe was somewhat afraid of him at first.

“Don’t be afraid, dearie,” he said; “I’m not pretty, because my face is the colour of a brick, and all that, but I dearly love little boys and girls.”

Mrs. Stuart hastened away to get tea, which she made with her own hands, and the two were left to talk together.

When Mrs. Stuart returned she found her wee daughter on perfectly familiar terms with the little weird man. In fact, she was sitting on one of his knees, prattling away as only children can, and Muffie the cat sat on the other, singing aloud.

I always think there must be something good in people whom cats and children take readily to.

After tea and a long talk Antonio said to Phœbe--

“You have a nice piano there, and I’m sure you can play.”

“Oh yes, I can play lots.”

A child’s frankness is very charming, and one can easily forgive their pride and confidence in their own powers to do this, that, or the other.

Antonio was most indulgent. He seated her at the piano, drew up her sleeves a little way, and while she played air after air, listened as respectfully, and apparently as delighted as if he himself were the performer.

“Bravo! dearie,” he said, as he gently lifted her down from the stool; “you’ll be a capital player soon. Just keep on studying.”

“Can you play a little?” she asked naïvely.

Antonio smiled. “Yes, just a little,” he replied.

She seized his two hands, and jumped up and down, as children have a way of doing.

“Oh do, oh do,” she cried, “like a dear sir.”

“When so beautiful a little lady as you invites me to play, how dare I refuse?” he answered gallantly.

Then he seated himself at the piano, just as Barclay himself and Davie Drake came quietly in and sat down in a far-off corner.

Was that music, or was it magic? That was the question that Mrs. Stuart could not help asking herself as she sat in her chair enchanted, enthralled.

Never in all her little life had Phœbe heard such music. Her face was a study--the earnest glance, the round eyes, the half-parted lips, she looked like beauty bewitched.

Meanwhile the melody and harmony flowed on, sometimes ineffably sweet, and tender as tears, sometimes bold, ringing, defiant, and clear, anon plaintive and low, and dying away at last in cadence that none who had listened to it could ever forget.

There were real tears in Mrs. Stuart’s eyes as she extended her hand to Antonio.

“We can never thank you enough for that,” she said.

Curiously enough there were tears in Antonio’s eyes too. Ay, even in the glass one; for tears, you know, are not secreted by the eyes themselves, but by glands around them.

“What did you play?” said Barclay, coming forward eagerly.

“Nothing,” was the modest reply. “No, nothing. All I have played was mere impromptu.”

“Composed on the spur of the moment?” said Mrs. Stuart.

The little man smiled.

“That,” he replied, “I cannot answer. I sit down, I strike a note or chord, there is an answer from here"--he placed his hand upon his heart; “then I leave the heart and the instrument to do everything. I but listen, though, listening, I sometimes weep.”

“And this is Davie Drake? Lay aft, Davie.”

The big brown-faced, fair-haired lad came towards him, blushing through his brownness--blushing, but smiling.

“How are you, Davie?”

“Middlin’, thanks.”

“And you must come and see me some evening, when Barclay and I are settled in the old windmill.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what are you going to be?”

Davie looked up at him wonderingly; he seemed to think that everybody knew what his profession was booked as.

“Oh, a sailor of course, sir.”

“Well, I thought so, you know; but, Davie, I’m going to get a nice ship of my own, and Barclay’s coming. You had better make up your mind to come too.”

“When, sir?”

“Well, it may be a year, or a year and a half yet. Meanwhile, you know, you can take a cruise or two, just to get up to the ropes and get your sea-legs.”

“And you’re going round the world, sir?”

“I’m going, Davie, where you and Barclay will have a real good time of it.”

That was a most pleasant evening, which they all spent at Barclay’s mother’s cottage; everybody, including the cat, had been happy.

“As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,
The minutes winged their way wi’ pleasure.”

And it wasn’t the last happy evening, either. But when the five days of Barclay’s suspension, let me call it, were at an end, the weird little man came to the cottage to bring him and Phœbe to the old windmill, and pussy came trotting up behind.

* * * * *

Barclay stared with astonishment as he clambered over the stile, and Antonio lifted Phœbe over.

Why, here was a change indeed! No, but rather a complete metamorphosis.

To begin with, the mill outside had been painted white from top to bottom, only the yardarms of the sails were picked out in dark grey. It looked a new, fresh, and beautiful building. On the side next the sea a large French window had been placed on the first floor; this opened out and on to a large balcony, big enough to sit comfortably upon. And this balcony was beautifully adorned with evergreen plants and spring flowers. So cosy, so comfortable did it look, that little Phœbe clapped her hands with delight and cried, “Oh my! how pretty!”

But if Phœbe was delighted with the outside show of the old windmill, she was struck dumb with wonderment when she reached the first floor by a nice iron winding staircase.

The lower floor had been boarded, and being very capacious, was quite ready to receive all the chemical and other instruments that Antonio meant to stock it with. And one end of it was a kitchen, with oil-stove, racks filled with plates, and cupboards as well.

Indeed, only a sailor could have thought of all these things.

Phœbe didn’t say a word for a time after she reached the first-floor apartment. But no one could now have recognised it as a portion of an old windmill. The walls were panelled with charming wood, and hung with prettily painted pictures, which were a credit to the owner’s taste. Brackets and flower-stands were everywhere, and a cosy corner here and there, that one longed to lounge in. Then there were beautiful lamps or fairy lights hid among clusters of flowers, ready to be lit up when gloaming fell grey over the sea.

There seemed to be mirrors everywhere also, and the fireplace and overmantel were works of art. Little tables were here and there, and a carpet that yielded to the feet covered the floor, and the great French windows that opened out to the beautiful balcony, where on summer evenings one might sit with a book, were most artistically draped.

The _tout ensemble_ was altogether effective, even to fascination.

“O sir, is this--is this--” she couldn’t get any further just for a moment or two--

“Is this--fairyland?”

“Whatever you like to call it, dearie,” said Antonio, patting her on the head.

“And--and can you go through that great big beautiful looking-glass?”

Antonio and Barclay both laughed.

“A bull might,” said Barclay, “but I shouldn’t like to try.”

The furniture was chaste, and there was in the room a rich-toned piano, as well as a guitar. And this last was the weird wee man’s favourite instrument.

The two bedrooms were on the floor above, tiny, but cosy, clean, and sweet. Not much larger were they indeed than ships’ cabins, but each had a window that looked out to the sea.

* * * * *

Antonio’s servant or valet had not yet arrived, but he himself was quite equal to the occasion. He not only made tea for the children, producing from a cupboard down below an immense cake, with fruit, but he afterwards, just as gloaming began to fall and shadows were creeping over the sea, just as distant ships lost the whiteness of their sails and turned grey and gloomy, took out his guitar and sang to them so softly and sweetly, that poor little innocent Phœbe was entranced.

“Oh dear!” she cried, “I wish I could play on that great big beautiful fiddle!”

“So you shall, dearie,” was the weird wee man’s reply. “If you toddle down to me now and then when we are settled, I will teach you on a smaller guitar than this.”

But now the children must go home, and Antonio himself will see them safe to their own gate, for look--

“Just above yon sandy bar,
As the day grows fainter and dimmer,
Lonely and lovely a single star
Lights the air with a dusky glimmer.

Into the ocean faint and far
Falls the trail of its golden splendour
And the gleam of that single star
Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender.”