Little Lord Fauntleroy/Source/VII
VII
On the following Sunday morning, Mr. Mordaunt had a large congregation.
Indeed, he could scarcely remember any Sunday on which the church had
been so crowded. People appeared upon the scene who seldom did him the
honor of coming to hear his sermons.
There were even people from Hazelton, which was the next parish. There
were hearty, sunburned farmers, stout, comfortable, apple-cheeked
wives in their best bonnets and most gorgeous shawls, and half a dozen
children or so to each family. The doctor's wife was there, with her
four daughters. Mrs. Kimsey and Mr. Kimsey, who kept the druggist's
shop, and made pills, and did up powders for everybody within ten
miles, sat in their pew; Mrs. Dibble in hers; Miss Smiff, the village
dressmaker, and her friend Miss Perkins, the milliner, sat in theirs;
the doctor's young man was present, and the druggist's apprentice; in
fact, almost every family on the county side was represented, in one way
or another.
In the course of the preceding week, many wonderful stories had been
told of little Lord Fauntleroy. Mrs. Dibble had been kept so busy
attending to customers who came in to buy a pennyworth of needles or
a ha'porth of tape and to hear what she had to relate, that the little
shop bell over the door had nearly tinkled itself to death over the
coming and going. Mrs. Dibble knew exactly how his small lordship's
rooms had been furnished for him, what expensive toys had been bought,
how there was a beautiful brown pony awaiting him, and a small groom to
attend it, and a little dog-cart, with silver-mounted harness. And she
could tell, too, what all the servants had said when they had caught
glimpses of the child on the night of his arrival; and how every female
below stairs had said it was a shame, so it was, to part the poor pretty
dear from his mother; and had all declared their hearts came into their
mouths when he went alone into the library to see his grandfather, for
"there was no knowing how he'd be treated, and his lordship's temper was
enough to fluster them with old heads on their shoulders, let alone a
child."
"But if you'll believe me, Mrs. Jennifer, mum," Mrs. Dibble had said,
"fear that child does not know--so Mr. Thomas hisself says; an' set an'
smile he did, an' talked to his lordship as if they'd been friends ever
since his first hour. An' the Earl so took aback, Mr. Thomas says, that
he couldn't do nothing but listen and stare from under his eyebrows. An'
it's Mr. Thomas's opinion, Mrs. Bates, mum, that bad as he is, he was
pleased in his secret soul, an' proud, too; for a handsomer little
fellow, or with better manners, though so old-fashioned, Mr. Thomas says
he'd never wish to see."
And then there had come the story of Higgins. The Reverend Mr. Mordaunt
had told it at his own dinner table, and the servants who had heard it
had told it in the kitchen, and from there it had spread like wildfire.
And on market-day, when Higgins had appeared in town, he had been
questioned on every side, and Newick had been questioned too, and in
response had shown to two or three people the note signed "Fauntleroy."
And so the farmers' wives had found plenty to talk of over their tea and
their shopping, and they had done the subject full justice and made the
most of it. And on Sunday they had either walked to church or had
been driven in their gigs by their husbands, who were perhaps a trifle
curious themselves about the new little lord who was to be in time the
owner of the soil.
It was by no means the Earl's habit to attend church, but he chose to
appear on this first Sunday--it was his whim to present himself in the
huge family pew, with Fauntleroy at his side.
There were many loiterers in the churchyard, and many lingerers in the
lane that morning. There were groups at the gates and in the porch, and
there had been much discussion as to whether my lord would really appear
or not. When this discussion was at its height, one good woman suddenly
uttered an exclamation.
"Eh," she said, "that must be the mother, pretty young thing." All who
heard turned and looked at the slender figure in black coming up the
path. The veil was thrown back from her face and they could see how fair
and sweet it was, and how the bright hair curled as softly as a child's
under the little widow's cap.
She was not thinking of the people about; she was thinking of Cedric,
and of his visits to her, and his joy over his new pony, on which he had
actually ridden to her door the day before, sitting very straight
and looking very proud and happy. But soon she could not help being
attracted by the fact that she was being looked at and that her arrival
had created some sort of sensation. She first noticed it because an old
woman in a red cloak made a bobbing courtesy to her, and then another
did the same thing and said, "God bless you, my lady!" and one man
after another took off his hat as she passed. For a moment she did not
understand, and then she realized that it was because she was little
Lord Fauntleroy's mother that they did so, and she flushed rather shyly
and smiled and bowed too, and said, "Thank you," in a gentle voice to
the old woman who had blessed her. To a person who had always lived in
a bustling, crowded American city this simple deference was very novel,
and at first just a little embarrassing; but after all, she could not
help liking and being touched by the friendly warm-heartedness of which
it seemed to speak. She had scarcely passed through the stone porch into
the church before the great event of the day happened. The carriage from
the Castle, with its handsome horses and tall liveried servants, bowled
around the corner and down the green lane.
"Here they come!" went from one looker-on to another.
And then the carriage drew up, and Thomas stepped down and opened the
door, and a little boy, dressed in black velvet, and with a splendid mop
of bright waving hair, jumped out.
Every man, woman, and child looked curiously upon him.
"He's the Captain over again!" said those of the on-lookers who
remembered his father. "He's the Captain's self, to the life!"
He stood there in the sunlight looking up at the Earl, as Thomas helped
that nobleman out, with the most affectionate interest that could be
imagined. The instant he could help, he put out his hand and offered his
shoulder as if he had been seven feet high. It was plain enough to every
one that however it might be with other people, the Earl of Dorincourt
struck no terror into the breast of his grandson.
"Just lean on me," they heard him say. "How glad the people are to see
you, and how well they all seem to know you!"
"Take off your cap, Fauntleroy," said the Earl. "They are bowing to
you."
"To me!" cried Fauntleroy, whipping off his cap in a moment, baring his
bright head to the crowd and turning shining, puzzled eyes on them as he
tried to bow to every one at once.
"God bless your lordship!" said the courtesying, red-cloaked old woman
who had spoken to his mother; "long life to you!"
"Thank you, ma'am," said Fauntleroy. And then they went into the church,
and were looked at there, on their way up the aisle to the square,
red-cushioned and curtained pew. When Fauntleroy was fairly seated,
he made two discoveries which pleased him: the first that, across the
church where he could look at her, his mother sat and smiled at him; the
second, that at one end of the pew, against the wall, knelt two quaint
figures carven in stone, facing each other as they kneeled on either
side of a pillar supporting two stone missals, their pointed hands
folded as if in prayer, their dress very antique and strange. On the
tablet by them was written something of which he could only read the
curious words:
"Here lyeth ye bodye of Gregorye Arthure Fyrst Earle of Dorincourt
Allsoe of Alisone Hildegarde hys wyfe."
"May I whisper?" inquired his lordship, devoured by curiosity.
"What is it?" said his grandfather.
"Who are they?"
"Some of your ancestors," answered the Earl, "who lived a few hundred
years ago."
"Perhaps," said Lord Fauntleroy, regarding them with respect, "perhaps
I got my spelling from them." And then he proceeded to find his place in
the church service. When the music began, he stood up and looked across
at his mother, smiling. He was very fond of music, and his mother and
he often sang together, so he joined in with the rest, his pure, sweet,
high voice rising as clear as the song of a bird. He quite forgot
himself in his pleasure in it. The Earl forgot himself a little too, as
he sat in his curtain-shielded corner of the pew and watched the boy.
Cedric stood with the big psalter open in his hands, singing with all
his childish might, his face a little uplifted, happily; and as he sang,
a long ray of sunshine crept in and, slanting through a golden pane of a
stained glass window, brightened the falling hair about his young head.
His mother, as she looked at him across the church, felt a thrill pass
through her heart, and a prayer rose in it too,--a prayer that the pure,
simple happiness of his childish soul might last, and that the strange,
great fortune which had fallen to him might bring no wrong or evil with
it. There were many soft, anxious thoughts in her tender heart in those
new days.
"Oh, Ceddie!" she had said to him the evening before, as she hung over
him in saying good-night, before he went away; "oh, Ceddie, dear, I wish
for your sake I was very clever and could say a great many wise things!
But only be good, dear, only be brave, only be kind and true always, and
then you will never hurt any one, so long as you live, and you may help
many, and the big world may be better because my little child was born.
And that is best of all, Ceddie,--it is better than everything else,
that the world should be a little better because a man has lived--even
ever so little better, dearest."
And on his return to the Castle, Fauntleroy had repeated her words to
his grandfather.
"And I thought about you when she said that," he ended; "and I told her
that was the way the world was because you had lived, and I was going to
try if I could be like you."
"And what did she say to that?" asked his lordship, a trifle uneasily.
"She said that was right, and we must always look for good in people and
try to be like it."
Perhaps it was this the old man remembered as he glanced through the
divided folds of the red curtain of his pew. Many times he looked over
the people's heads to where his son's wife sat alone, and he saw the
fair face the unforgiven dead had loved, and the eyes which were so like
those of the child at his side; but what his thoughts were, and whether
they were hard and bitter, or softened a little, it would have been hard
to discover.
As they came out of church, many of those who had attended the service
stood waiting to see them pass. As they neared the gate, a man who stood
with his hat in his hand made a step forward and then hesitated. He was
a middle-aged farmer, with a careworn face.
"Well, Higgins," said the Earl.
Fauntleroy turned quickly to look at him.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "is it Mr. Higgins?"
"Yes," answered the Earl dryly; "and I suppose he came to take a look at
his new landlord."
"Yes, my lord," said the man, his sunburned face reddening. "Mr. Newick
told me his young lordship was kind enough to speak for me, and I
thought I'd like to say a word of thanks, if I might be allowed."
Perhaps he felt some wonder when he saw what a little fellow it was who
had innocently done so much for him, and who stood there looking up just
as one of his own less fortunate children might have done--apparently
not realizing his own importance in the least.
"I've a great deal to thank your lordship for," he said; "a great deal.
I----"
"Oh," said Fauntleroy; "I only wrote the letter. It was my grandfather
who did it. But you know how he is about always being good to everybody.
Is Mrs. Higgins well now?"
Higgins looked a trifle taken aback. He also was somewhat startled at
hearing his noble landlord presented in the character of a benevolent
being, full of engaging qualities.
"I--well, yes, your lordship," he stammered, "the missus is better since
the trouble was took off her mind. It was worrying broke her down."
"I'm glad of that," said Fauntleroy. "My grandfather was very sorry
about your children having the scarlet fever, and so was I. He has had
children himself. I'm his son's little boy, you know."
Higgins was on the verge of being panic-stricken. He felt it would be
the safer and more discreet plan not to look at the Earl, as it had been
well known that his fatherly affection for his sons had been such that
he had seen them about twice a year, and that when they had been ill,
he had promptly departed for London, because he would not be bored with
doctors and nurses. It was a little trying, therefore, to his lordship's
nerves to be told, while he looked on, his eyes gleaming from under his
shaggy eyebrows, that he felt an interest in scarlet fever.
"You see, Higgins," broke in the Earl with a fine grim smile, "you
people have been mistaken in me. Lord Fauntleroy understands me. When
you want reliable information on the subject of my character, apply to
him. Get into the carriage, Fauntleroy."
And Fauntleroy jumped in, and the carriage rolled away down the green
lane, and even when it turned the corner into the high road, the Earl
was still grimly smiling.