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 curiousity.
"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.
