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Little Lord Fauntleroy

by Frances Hodgson Burnett · English · Gutenberg #479 · 333,846 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Little Lord Fauntleroy

Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett


        
Release date: January 16, 2006 [eBook #479]
                Most recently updated: September 20, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/479

Credits: Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY ***




LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY


By Frances Hodgson Burnett




I

Cedric himself knew nothing whatever about it. It had never been even
mentioned to him. He knew that his papa had been an Englishman, because
his mamma had told him so; but then his papa had died when he was so
little a boy that he could not remember very much about him, except that
he was big, and had blue eyes and a long mustache, and that it was a
splendid thing to be carried around the room on his shoulder. Since his
papa's death, Cedric had found out that it was best not to talk to his
mamma about him. When his father was ill, Cedric had been sent away, and
when he had returned, everything was over; and his mother, who had
been very ill, too, was only just beginning to sit in her chair by the
window. She was pale and thin, and all the dimples had gone from her
pretty face, and her eyes looked large and mournful, and she was dressed
in black.

“Dearest,” said Cedric (his papa had called her that always, and so the
little boy had learned to say it),--“dearest, is my papa better?”

He felt her arms tremble, and so he turned his curly head and looked in
her face. There was something in it that made him feel that he was going
to cry.

“Dearest,” he said, “is he well?”

Then suddenly his loving little heart told him that he'd better put both
his arms around her neck and kiss her again and again, and keep his
soft cheek close to hers; and he did so, and she laid her face on his
shoulder and cried bitterly, holding him as if she could never let him
go again.

“Yes, he is well,” she sobbed; “he is quite, quite well, but we--we have
no one left but each other. No one at all.”

Then, little as he was, he understood that his big, handsome young papa
would not come back any more; that he was dead, as he had heard of other
people being, although he could not comprehend exactly what strange
thing had brought all this sadness about. It was because his mamma
always cried when he spoke of his papa that he secretly made up his mind
it was better not to speak of him very often to her, and he found out,
too, that it was better not to let her sit still and look into the fire
or out of the window without moving or talking. He and his mamma knew
very few people, and lived what might have been thought very lonely
lives, although Cedric did not know it was lonely until he grew older
and heard why it was they had no visitors. Then he was told that his
mamma was an orphan, and quite alone in the world when his papa had
married her. She was very pretty, and had been living as companion to a
rich old lady who was not kind to her, and one day Captain Cedric Errol,
who was calling at the house, saw her run up the stairs with tears on
her eyelashes; and she looked so sweet and innocent and sorrowful that
the Captain could not forget her. And after many strange things had
happened, they knew each other well and loved each other dearly, and
were married, although their marriage brought them the ill-will of
several persons. The one who was most angry of all, however, was
the Captain's father, who lived in England, and was a very rich and
important old nobleman, with a very bad temper and a very violent
dislike to America and Americans. He had two sons older than Captain
Cedric; and it was the law that the elder of these sons should inherit
the family title and estates, which were very rich and splendid; if the
eldest son died, the next one would be heir; so, though he was a member
of such a great family, there was little chance that Captain Cedric
would be very rich himself.

But it so happened that Nature had given to the youngest son gifts which
she had not bestowed upon his elder brothers. He had a beautiful face
and a fine, strong, graceful figure; he had a bright smile and a sweet,
gay voice; he was brave and generous, and had the kindest heart in the
world, and seemed to have the power to make every one love him. And it
was not so with his elder brothers; neither of them was handsome,
or very kind, or clever. When they were boys at Eton, they were not
popular; when they were at college, they cared nothing for study, and
wasted both time and money, and made few real friends. The old Earl,
their father, was constantly disappointed and humiliated by them; his
heir was no honor to his noble name, and did not promise to end in being
anything but a selfish, wasteful, insignificant man, with no manly or
noble qualities. It was very bitter, the old Earl thought, that the son
who was only third, and would have only a very small fortune, should be
the one who had all the gifts, and all the charms, and all the strength
and beauty. Sometimes he almost hated the handsome young man because he
seemed to have the good things which should have gone with the stately
title and the magnificent estates; and yet, in the depths of his proud,
stubborn old heart, he could not help caring very much for his youngest
son. It was in one of his fits of petulance that he sent him off to
travel in America; he thought he would send him away for a while, so
that he should not be made angry by constantly contrasting him with his
brothers, who were at that time giving him a great deal of trouble by
their wild ways.

But, after about six months, he began to feel lonely, and longed in
secret to see his son again, so he wrote to Captain Cedric and ordered
him home. The letter he wrote crossed on its way a letter the Captain
had just written to his father, telling of his love for the pretty
American girl, and of his intended marriage; and when the Earl received
that letter he was furiously angry. Bad as his temper was, he had
never given way to it in his life as he gave way to it when he read the
Captain's letter. His valet, who was in the room when it came, thought
his lordship would have a fit of apoplexy, he was so wild with anger.
For an hour he raged like a tiger, and then he sat down and wrote to his
son, and ordered him never to come near his old home, nor to write to
his father or brothers again. He told him he might live as he pleased,
and die where he pleased, that he should be cut off from his family
forever, and that he need never expect help from his father as long as
he lived.

The Captain was very sad when he read the letter; he was very fond of
England, and he dearly loved the beautiful home where he had been born;
he had even loved his ill-tempered old father, and had sympathized with
him in his disappointments; but he knew he need expect no kindness from
him in the future. At first he scarcely knew what to do; he had not been
brought up to work, and had no business experience, but he had courage
and plenty of determination. So he sold his commission in the English
army, and after some trouble found a situation in New York, and married.
The change from his old life in England was very great, but he was young
and happy, and he hoped that hard work would do great things for him in
the future. He had a small house on a quiet street, and his little boy
was born there, and everything was so gay and cheerful, in a simple way,
that he was never sorry for a moment that he had married the rich old
lady's pretty companion just because she was so sweet and he loved her
and she loved him. She was very sweet, indeed, and her little boy was
like both her and his father. Though he was born in so quiet and cheap a
little home, it seemed as if there never had been a more fortunate baby.
In the first place, he was always well, and so he never gave any one
trouble; in the second place, he had so sweet a temper and ways so
charming that he was a pleasure to every one; and in the third place,
he was so beautiful to look at that he was quite a picture. Instead of
being a bald-headed baby, he started in life with a quantity of soft,
fine, gold-colored hair, which curled up at the ends, and went into
loose rings by the time he was six months old; he had big brown eyes and
long eyelashes and a darling little face; he had so strong a back and
such splendid sturdy legs, that at nine months he learned suddenly to
walk; his manners were so good, for a baby, that it was delightful to
make his acquaintance. He seemed to feel that every one was his friend,
and when any one spoke to him, when he was in his carriage in the
street, he would give the stranger one sweet, serious look with the
brown eyes, and then follow it with a lovely, friendly smile; and the
consequence was, that there was not a person in the neighborhood of the
quiet street where he lived--even to the groceryman at the corner, who
was considered the crossest creature alive--who was not pleased to see
him and speak to him. And every month of his life he grew handsomer and
more interesting.

When he was old enough to walk out with his nurse, dragging a small
wagon and wearing a short white kilt skirt, and a big white hat set back
on his curly yellow hair, he was so handsome and strong and rosy that he
attracted every one's attention, and his nurse would come home and tell
his mamma stories of the ladies who had stopped their carriages to look
at and speak to him, and of how pleased they were when he talked to them
in his cheerful little way, as if he had known them always. His greatest
charm was this cheerful, fearless, quaint little way of making friends
with people. I think it arose from his having a very confiding nature,
and a kind little heart that sympathized with every one, and wished to
make every one as comfortable as he liked to be himself. It made him
very quick to understand the feelings of those about him. Perhaps this
had grown on him, too, because he had lived so much with his father and
mother, who were always loving and considerate and tender and well-bred.
He had never heard an unkind or uncourteous word spoken at home; he had
always been loved and caressed and treated tenderly, and so his childish
soul was full of kindness and innocent warm feeling. He had always heard
his mamma called by pretty, loving names, and so he used them himself
when he spoke to her; he had always seen that his papa watched over her
and took great care of her, and so he learned, too, to be careful of
her.

So when he knew his papa would come back no more, and saw how very
sad his mamma was, there gradually came into his kind little heart the
thought that he must do what he could to make her happy. He was not much
more than a baby, but that thought was in his mind whenever he climbed
upon her knee and kissed her and put his curly head on her neck, and
when he brought his toys and picture-books to show her, and when he
curled up quietly by her side as she used to lie on the sofa. He was not
old enough to know of anything else to do, so he did what he could, and
was more of a comfort to her than he could have understood.

“Oh, Mary!” he heard her say once to her old servant; “I am sure he
is trying to help me in his innocent way--I know he is. He looks at me
sometimes with a loving, wondering little look, as if he were sorry for
me, and then he will come and pet me or show me something. He is such a
little man, I really think he knows.”

As he grew older, he had a great many quaint little ways which amused
and interested people greatly. He was so much of a companion for his
mother that she scarcely cared for any other. They used to walk together
and talk together and play together. When he was quite a little fellow,
he learned to read; and after that he used to lie on the hearth-rug, in
the evening, and read aloud--sometimes stories, and sometimes big books
such as older people read, and sometimes even the newspaper; and often
at such times Mary, in the kitchen, would hear Mrs. Errol laughing with
delight at the quaint things he said.

“And, indade,” said Mary to the groceryman, “nobody cud help laughin' at
the quare little ways of him--and his ould-fashioned sayin's! Didn't
he come into my kitchen the noight the new Prisident was nominated and
shtand afore the fire, lookin' loike a pictur', wid his hands in his
shmall pockets, an' his innocent bit of a face as sayrious as a jedge?
An' sez he to me: 'Mary,' sez he, 'I'm very much int'rusted in the
'lection,' sez he. 'I'm a 'publican, an' so is Dearest. Are you a
'publican, Mary?' 'Sorra a bit,' sez I; 'I'm the bist o' dimmycrats!'
An' he looks up at me wid a look that ud go to yer heart, an' sez he:
'Mary,' sez he, 'the country will go to ruin.' An' nivver a day since
thin has he let go by widout argyin' wid me to change me polytics.”

Mary was very fond of him, and very proud of him, too. She had been with
his mother ever since he was born; and, after his father's death, had
been cook and housemaid and nurse and everything else. She was proud of
his graceful, strong little body and his pretty manners, and especially
proud of the bright curly hair which waved over his forehead and fell in
charming love-locks on his shoulders. She was willing to work early and
late to help his mamma make his small suits and keep them in order.

“'Ristycratic, is it?” she would say. “Faith, an' I'd loike to see the
choild on Fifth Avey-NOO as looks loike him an' shteps out as handsome
as himself. An' ivvery man, woman, and choild lookin' afther him in his
bit of a black velvet skirt made out of the misthress's ould gownd; an'
his little head up, an' his curly hair flyin' an' shinin'. It's loike a
young lord he looks.”

Cedric did not know that he looked like a young lord; he did not
know what a lord was. His greatest friend was the groceryman at the
corner--the cross groceryman, who was never cross to him. His name was
Mr. Hobbs, and Cedric admired and respected him very much. He thought
him a very rich and powerful person, he had so many things in his
store,--prunes and figs and oranges and biscuits,--and he had a
horse and wagon. Cedric was fond of the milkman and the baker and the
apple-woman, but he liked Mr. Hobbs best of all, and was on terms of
such intimacy with him that he went to see him every day, and often sat
with him quite a long time, discussing the topics of the hour. It was
quite surprising how many things they found to talk about--the Fourth
of July, for instance. When they began to talk about the Fourth of July
there really seemed no end to it. Mr. Hobbs had a very bad opinion of
“the British,” and he told the whole story of the Revolution, relating
very wonderful and patriotic stories about the villainy of the enemy and
the bravery of the Revolutionary heroes, and he even generously repeated
part of the Declaration of Independence.

Cedric was so excited that his eyes shone and his cheeks were red and
his curls were all rubbed and tumbled into a yellow mop. He could hardly
wait to eat his dinner after he went home, he was so anxious to tell
his mamma. It was, perhaps, Mr. Hobbs who gave him his first interest
in politics. Mr. Hobbs was fond of reading the newspapers, and so Cedric
heard a great deal about what was going on in Washington; and Mr. Hobbs
would tell him whether the President was doing his duty or not. And
once, when there was an election, he found it all quite grand, and
probably but for Mr. Hobbs and Cedric the country might have been
wrecked.

Mr. Hobbs took him to see a great torchlight procession, and many of the
men who carried torches remembered afterward a stout man who stood near
a lamp-post and held on his shoulder a handsome little shouting boy, who
waved his cap in the air.

It was not long after this election, when Cedric was between seven and
eight years old, that the very strange thing happened which made so
wonderful a change in his life. It was quite curious, too, that the
day it happened he had been talking to Mr. Hobbs about England and
the Queen, and Mr. Hobbs had said some very severe things about the
aristocracy, being specially indignant against earls and marquises. It
had been a hot morning; and after playing soldiers with some friends
of his, Cedric had gone into the store to rest, and had found Mr. Hobbs
looking very fierce over a piece of the Illustrated London News, which
contained a picture of some court ceremony.

“Ah,” he said, “that's the way they go on now; but they'll get enough
of it some day, when those they've trod on rise and blow 'em up
sky-high,--earls and marquises and all! It's coming, and they may look
out for it!”

Cedric had perched himself as usual on the high stool and pushed his
hat back, and put his hands in his pockets in delicate compliment to Mr.
Hobbs.

“Did you ever know many marquises, Mr. Hobbs?” Cedric inquired,--“or
earls?”

“No,” answered Mr. Hobbs, with indignation; “I guess not. I'd like to
catch one of 'em inside here; that's all! I'll have no grasping tyrants
sittin' 'round on my cracker-barrels!”

And he was so proud of the sentiment that he looked around proudly and
mopped his forehead.

“Perhaps they wouldn't be earls if they knew any better,” said Cedric,
feeling some vague sympathy for their unhappy condition.

“Wouldn't they!” said Mr. Hobbs. “They just glory in it! It's in 'em.
They're a bad lot.”

They were in the midst of their conversation, when Mary appeared.

Cedric thought she had come to buy some sugar, perhaps, but she had not.
She looked almost pale and as if she were excited about something.

“Come home, darlint,” she said; “the misthress is wantin' yez.”

Cedric slipped down from his stool.

“Does she want me to go out with her, Mary?” he asked. “Good-morning,
Mr. Hobbs. I'll see you again.”

He was surprised to see Mary staring at him in a dumfounded fashion, and
he wondered why she kept shaking her head.

“What's the matter, Mary?” he said. “Is it the hot weather?”

“No,” said Mary; “but there's strange things happenin' to us.”

“Has the sun given Dearest a headache?” he inquired anxiously.

But it was not that. When he reached his own house there was a coupe
standing before the door and some one was in the little parlor talking
to his mamma. Mary hurried him upstairs and put on his best summer
suit of cream-colored flannel, with the red scarf around his waist, and
combed out his curly locks.

“Lords, is it?” he heard her say. “An' the nobility an' gintry. Och! bad
cess to them! Lords, indade--worse luck.”

It was really very puzzling, but he felt sure his mamma would tell him
what all the excitement meant, so he allowed Mary to bemoan herself
without asking many questions. When he was dressed, he ran downstairs
and went into the parlor. A tall, thin old gentleman with a sharp face
was sitting in an arm-chair. His mother was standing near by with a pale
face, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh! Ceddie!” she cried out, and ran to her little boy and caught him
in her arms and kissed him in a frightened, troubled way. “Oh! Ceddie,
darling!”

The tall old gentleman rose from his chair and looked at Cedric with his
sharp eyes. He rubbed his thin chin with his bony hand as he looked.

He seemed not at all displeased.

“And so,” he said at last, slowly,--“and so this is little Lord
Fauntleroy.”




II

There was never a more amazed little boy than Cedric during the week
that followed; there was never so strange or so unreal a week. In the
first place, the story his mamma told him was a very curious one. He was
obliged to hear it two or three times before he could understand it. He
could not imagine what Mr. Hobbs would think of it. It began with earls:
his grandpapa, whom he had never seen, was an earl; and his eldest
uncle, if he had not been killed by a fall from his horse, would have
been an earl, too, in time; and after his death, his other uncle would
have been an earl, if he had not died suddenly, in Rome, of a fever.
After that, his own papa, if he had lived, would have been an earl, but,
since they all had died and only Cedric was left, it appeared that HE
was to be an earl after his grandpapa's death--and for the present he
was Lord Fauntleroy.

He turned quite pale when he was first told of it.

“Oh! Dearest!” he said, “I should rather not be an earl. None of the
boys are earls. Can't I NOT be one?”

But it seemed to be unavoidable. And when, that evening, they sat
together by the open window looking out into the shabby street, he
and his mother had a long talk about it. Cedric sat on his footstool,
clasping one knee in his favorite attitude and wearing a bewildered
little face rather red from the exertion of thinking. His grandfather
had sent for him to come to England, and his mamma thought he must go.

“Because,” she said, looking out of the window with sorrowful eyes, “I
know your papa would wish it to be so, Ceddie. He loved his home very
much; and there are many things to be thought of that a little boy can't
quite understand. I should be a selfish little mother if I did not send
you. When you are a man, you will see why.”

Ceddie shook his head mournfully.

“I shall be very sorry to leave Mr. Hobbs,” he said. “I'm afraid he'll
miss me, and I shall miss him. And I shall miss them all.”

When Mr. Havisham--who was the family lawyer of the Earl of Dorincourt,
and who had been sent by him to bring Lord Fauntleroy to England--came
the next day, Cedric heard many things. But, somehow, it did not console
him to hear that he was to be a very rich man when he grew up, and that
he would have castles here and castles there, and great parks and deep
mines and grand estates and tenantry. He was troubled about his friend,
Mr. Hobbs, and he went to see him at the store soon after breakfast, in
great anxiety of mind.

He found him reading the morning paper, and he approached him with a
grave demeanor. He really felt it would be a great shock to Mr. Hobbs
to hear what had befallen him, and on his way to the store he had been
thinking how it would be best to break the news.

“Hello!” said Mr. Hobbs. “Mornin'!”

“Good-morning,” said Cedric.

He did not climb up on the high stool as usual, but sat down on a
cracker-box and clasped his knee, and was so silent for a few moments
that Mr. Hobbs finally looked up inquiringly over the top of his
newspaper.

“Hello!” he said again.

Cedric gathered all his strength of mind together.

“Mr. Hobbs,” he said, “do you remember what we were talking about
yesterday morning?”

“Well,” replied Mr. Hobbs,--“seems to me it was England.”

“Yes,” said Cedric; “but just when Mary came for me, you know?”

Mr. Hobbs rubbed the back of his head.

“We WAS mentioning Queen Victoria and the aristocracy.”

“Yes,” said Cedric, rather hesitatingly, “and--and earls; don't you
know?”

“Why, yes,” returned Mr. Hobbs; “we DID touch 'em up a little; that's
so!”

Cedric flushed up to the curly bang on his forehead. Nothing so
embarrassing as this had ever happened to him in his life. He was a
little afraid that it might be a trifle embarrassing to Mr. Hobbs, too.

“You said,” he proceeded, “that you wouldn't have them sitting 'round on
your cracker-barrels.”

“So I did!” returned Mr. Hobbs, stoutly. “And I meant it. Let 'em try
it--that's all!”

“Mr. Hobbs,” said Cedric, “one is sitting on this box now!”

Mr. Hobbs almost jumped out of his chair.

“What!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” Cedric announced, with due modesty; “_I_ am one--or I am going to
be. I won't deceive you.”

Mr. Hobbs looked agitated. He rose up suddenly and went to look at the
thermometer.

“The mercury's got into your head!” he exclaimed, turning back to
examine his young friend's countenance. “It IS a hot day! How do you
feel? Got any pain? When did you begin to feel that way?”

He put his big hand on the little boy's hair. This was more embarrassing
than ever.

“Thank you,” said Ceddie; “I'm all right. There is nothing the matter
with my head. I'm sorry to say it's true, Mr. Hobbs. That was what Mary
came to take me home for. Mr. Havisham was telling my mamma, and he is a
lawyer.”

Mr. Hobbs sank into his chair and mopped his forehead with his
handkerchief.

“ONE of us has got a sunstroke!” he exclaimed.

“No,” returned Cedric, “we haven't. We shall have to make the best of
it, Mr. Hobbs. Mr. Havisham came all the way from England to tell us
about it. My grandpapa sent him.”

Mr. Hobbs stared wildly at the innocent, serious little face before him.

“Who is your grandfather?” he asked.

Cedric put his hand in his pocket and carefully drew out a piece of
paper, on which something was written in his own round, irregular hand.

“I couldn't easily remember it, so I wrote it down on this,” he
said. And he read aloud slowly: “'John Arthur Molyneux Errol, Earl of
Dorincourt.' That is his name, and he lives in a castle--in two or three
castles, I think. And my papa, who died, was his youngest son; and I
shouldn't have been a lord or an earl if my papa hadn't died; and my
papa wouldn't have been an earl if his two brothers hadn't died. But
they all died, and there is no one but me,--no boy,--and so I have to be
one; and my grandpapa has sent for me to come to England.”

Mr. Hobbs seemed to grow hotter and hotter. He mopped his forehead and
his bald spot and breathed hard. He began to see that something very
remarkable had happened; but when he looked at the little boy sitting on
the cracker-box, with the innocent, anxious expression in his childish
eyes, and saw that he was not changed at all, but was simply as he had
been the day before, just a handsome, cheerful, brave little fellow in
a blue suit and red neck-ribbon, all this information about the nobility
bewildered him. He was all the more bewildered because Cedric gave it
with such ingenuous simplicity, and plainly without realizing himself
how stupendous it was.

“Wha--what did you say your name was?” Mr. Hobbs inquired.

“It's Cedric Errol, Lord Fauntleroy,” answered Cedric. “That was what
Mr. Havisham called me. He said when I went into the room: 'And so this
is little Lord Fauntleroy!'”

“Well,” said Mr. Hobbs, “I'll be--jiggered!”

This was an exclamation he always used when he was very much astonished
or excited. He could think of nothing else to say just at that puzzling
moment.

Cedric felt it to be quite a proper and suitable ejaculation. His
respect and affection for Mr. Hobbs were so great that he admired and
approved of all his remarks. He had not seen enough of society as yet to
make him realize that sometimes Mr. Hobbs was not quite conventional.
He knew, of course, that he was different from his mamma, but, then, his
mamma was a lady, and he had an idea that ladies were always different
from gentlemen.

He looked at Mr. Hobbs wistfully.

“England is a long way off, isn't it?” he asked.

“It's across the Atlantic Ocean,” Mr. Hobbs answered.

“That's the worst of it,” said Cedric. “Perhaps I shall not see you
again for a long time. I don't like to think of that, Mr. Hobbs.”

“The best of friends must part,” said Mr. Hobbs.

“Well,” said Cedric, “we have been friends for a great many years,
haven't we?”

“Ever since you was born,” Mr. Hobbs answered. “You was about six weeks
old when you was first walked out on this street.”

“Ah,” remarked Cedric, with a sigh, “I never thought I should have to be
an earl then!”

“You think,” said Mr. Hobbs, “there's no getting out of it?”

“I'm afraid not,” answered Cedric. “My mamma says that my papa would
wish me to do it. But if I have to be an earl, there's one thing I can
do: I can try to be a good one. I'm not going to be a tyrant. And if
there is ever to be another war with America, I shall try to stop it.”

His conversation with Mr. Hobbs was a long and serious one. Once having
got over the first shock, Mr. Hobbs was not so rancorous as might have
been expected; he endeavored to resign himself to the situation, and
before the interview was at an end he had asked a great many questions.
As Cedric could answer but few of them, he endeavored to answer
them himself, and, being fairly launched on the subject of earls and
marquises and lordly estates, explained many things in a way which would
probably have astonished Mr. Havisham, could that gentleman have heard
it.

But then there were many things which astonished Mr. Havisham. He had
spent all his life in England, and was not accustomed to American people
and American habits. He had been connected professionally with the
family of the Earl of Dorincourt for nearly forty years, and he knew all
about its grand estates and its great wealth and importance; and, in a
cold, business-like way, he felt an interest in this little boy, who, in
the future, was to be the master and owner of them all,--the future Earl
of Dorincourt. He had known all about the old Earl's disappointment
in his elder sons and all about his fierce rage at Captain Cedric's
American marriage, and he knew how he still hated the gentle little
widow and would not speak of her except with bitter and cruel words. He
insisted that she was only a common American girl, who had entrapped
his son into marrying her because she knew he was an earl's son. The
old lawyer himself had more than half believed this was all true. He had
seen a great many selfish, mercenary people in his life, and he had
not a good opinion of Americans. When he had been driven into the cheap
street, and his coupe had stopped before the cheap, small house, he had
felt actually shocked. It seemed really quite dreadful to think that the
future owner of Dorincourt Castle and Wyndham Towers and Chorlworth, and
all the other stately splendors, should have been born and brought up in
an insignificant house in a street with a sort of green-grocery at the
corner. He wondered what kind of a child he would be, and what kind of a
mother he had. He rather shrank from seeing them both. He had a sort of
pride in the noble family whose legal affairs he had conducted so long,
and it would have annoyed him very much to have found himself obliged to
manage a woman who would seem to him a vulgar, money-loving person, with
no respect for her dead husband's country and the dignity of his name.
It was a very old name and a very splendid one, and Mr. Havisham had
a great respect for it himself, though he was only a cold, keen,
business-like old lawyer.

When Mary handed him into the small parlor, he looked around it
critically. It was plainly furnished, but it had a home-like look; there
were no cheap, common ornaments, and no cheap, gaudy pictures; the few
adornments on the walls were in good taste and about the room were many
pretty things which a woman's hand might have made.

“Not at all bad so far,” he had said to himself; “but perhaps the
Captain's taste predominated.” But when Mrs. Errol came into the room,
he began to think she herself might have had something to do with it. If
he had not been quite a self-contained and stiff old gentleman, he would
probably have started when he saw her. She looked, in the simple black
dress, fitting closely to her slender figure, more like a young girl
than the mother of a boy of seven. She had a pretty, sorrowful, young
face, and a very tender, innocent look in her large brown eyes,--the
sorrowful look that had never quite left her face since her husband had
died. Cedric was used to seeing it there; the only times he had ever
seen it fade out had been when he was playing with her or talking to
her, and had said some old-fashioned thing, or used some long word he
had picked up out of the newspapers or in his conversations with Mr.
Hobbs. He was fond of using long words, and he was always pleased
when they made her laugh, though he could not understand why they
were laughable; they were quite serious matters with him. The lawyer's
experience taught him to read people's characters very shrewdly, and
as soon as he saw Cedric's mother he knew that the old Earl had made a
great mistake in thinking her a vulgar, mercenary woman. Mr. Havisham
had never been married, he had never even been in love, but he divined
that this pretty young creature with the sweet voice and sad eyes
had married Captain Errol only because she loved him with all her
affectionate heart, and that she had never once thought it an advantage
that he was an earl's son. And he saw he should have no trouble with
her, and he began to feel that perhaps little Lord Fauntleroy might not
be such a trial to his noble family, after all. The Captain had been a
handsome fellow, and the young mother was very pretty, and perhaps the
boy might be well enough to look at.

When he first told Mrs. Errol what he had come for, she turned very
pale.

“Oh!” she said; “will he have to be taken away from me? We love each
other so much! He is such a happiness to me! He is all I have. I have
tried to be a good mother to him.” And her sweet young voice trembled,
and the tears rushed into her eyes. “You do not know what he has been to
me!” she said.

The lawyer cleared his throat.

“I am obliged to tell you,” he said, “that the Earl of Dorincourt
is not--is not very friendly toward you. He is an old man, and his
prejudices are very strong. He has always especially disliked America
and Americans, and was very much enraged by his son's marriage. I am
sorry to be the bearer of so unpleasant a communication, but he is
very fixed in his determination not to see you. His plan is that Lord
Fauntleroy shall be educated under his own supervision; that he shall
live with him. The Earl is attached to Dorincourt Castle, and spends a
great deal of time there. He is a victim to inflammatory gout, and is
not fond of London. Lord Fauntleroy will, therefore, be likely to live
chiefly at Dorincourt. The Earl offers you as a home Court Lodge, which
is situated pleasantly, and is not very far from the castle. He also
offers you a suitable income. Lord Fauntleroy will be permitted to visit
you; the only stipulation is, that you shall not visit him or enter the
park gates. You see you will not be really separated from your son, and
I assure you, madam, the terms are not so harsh as--as they might
have been. The advantage of such surroundings and education as Lord
Fauntleroy will have, I am sure you must see, will be very great.”

He felt a little uneasy lest she should begin to cry or make a scene,
as he knew some women would have done. It embarrassed and annoyed him to
see women cry.

But she did not. She went to the window and stood with her face turned
away for a few moments, and he saw she was trying to steady herself.

“Captain Errol was very fond of Dorincourt,” she said at last. “He loved
England, and everything English. It was always a grief to him that he
was parted from his home. He was proud of his home, and of his name. He
would wish--I know he would wish that his son should know the beautiful
old places, and be brought up in such a way as would be suitable to his
future position.”

Then she came back to the table and stood looking up at Mr. Havisham
very gently.

“My husband would wish it,” she said. “It will be best for my little
boy. I know--I am sure the Earl would not be so unkind as to try to
teach him not to love me; and I know--even if he tried--that my little
boy is too much like his father to be harmed. He has a warm, faithful
nature, and a true heart. He would love me even if he did not see me;
and so long as we may see each other, I ought not to suffer very much.”

“She thinks very little of herself,” the lawyer thought. “She does not
make any terms for herself.”

“Madam,” he said aloud, “I respect your consideration for your son. He
will thank you for it when he is a man. I assure you Lord Fauntleroy
will be most carefully guarded, and every effort will be used to insure
his happiness. The Earl of Dorincourt will be as anxious for his comfort
and well-being as you yourself could be.”

“I hope,” said the tender little mother, in a rather broken voice, “that
his grandfather will love Ceddie. The little boy has a very affectionate
nature; and he has always been loved.”

Mr. Havisham cleared his throat again. He could not quite imagine the
gouty, fiery-tempered old Earl loving any one very much; but he knew it
would be to his interest to be kind, in his irritable way, to the child
who was to be his heir. He knew, too, that if Ceddie were at all a
credit to his name, his grandfather would be proud of him.

“Lord Fauntleroy will be comfortable, I am sure,” he replied. “It was
with a view to his happiness that the Earl desired that you should be
near enough to him to see him frequently.”

He did not think it would be discreet to repeat the exact words the Earl
had used, which were in fact neither polite nor amiable.

Mr. Havisham preferred to express his noble patron's offer in smoother
and more courteous language.

He had another slight shock when Mrs. Errol asked Mary to find her
little boy and bring him to her, and Mary told her where he was.

“Sure I'll foind him aisy enough, ma'am,” she said; “for it's wid Mr.
Hobbs he is this minnit, settin' on his high shtool by the counther an'
talkin' pollytics, most loikely, or enj'yin' hisself among the soap an'
candles an' pertaties, as sinsible an' shwate as ye plase.”

“Mr. Hobbs has known him all his life,” Mrs. Errol said to the lawyer.
“He is very kind to Ceddie, and there is a great friendship between
them.”

Remembering the glimpse he had caught of the store as he passed it,
and having a recollection of the barrels of potatoes and apples and
the various odds and ends, Mr. Havisham felt his doubts arise again.
In England, gentlemen's sons did not make friends of grocerymen, and it
seemed to him a rather singular proceeding. It would be very awkward if
the child had bad manners and a disposition to like low company. One of
the bitterest humiliations of the old Earl's life had been that his two
elder sons had been fond of low company. Could it be, he thought,
that this boy shared their bad qualities instead of his father's good
qualities?

He was thinking uneasily about this as he talked to Mrs. Errol until the
child came into the room. When the door opened, he actually hesitated
a moment before looking at Cedric. It would, perhaps, have seemed very
queer to a great many people who knew him, if they could have known the
curious sensations that passed through Mr. Havisham when he looked down
at the boy, who ran into his mother's arms. He experienced a revulsion
of feeling which was quite exciting. He recognized in an instant that
here was one of the finest and handsomest little fellows he had ever
seen.

His beauty was something unusual. He had a strong, lithe, graceful
little body and a manly little face; he held his childish head up, and
carried himself with a brave air; he was so like his father that it was
really startling; he had his father's golden hair and his mother's
brown eyes, but there was nothing sorrowful or timid in them. They were
innocently fearless eyes; he looked as if he had never feared or doubted
anything in his life.

“He is the best-bred-looking and handsomest little fellow I ever saw,”
 was what Mr. Havisham thought. What he said aloud was simply, “And so
this is little Lord Fauntleroy.”

And, after this, the more he saw of little Lord Fauntleroy, the more of
a surprise he found him. He knew very little about children, though he
had seen plenty of them in England--fine, handsome, rosy girls and boys,
who were strictly taken care of by their tutors and governesses, and who
were sometimes shy, and sometimes a trifle boisterous, but never very
interesting to a ceremonious, rigid old lawyer. Perhaps his personal
interest in little Lord Fauntleroy's fortunes made him notice Ceddie
more than he had noticed other children; but, however that was, he
certainly found himself noticing him a great deal.

Cedric did not know he was being observed, and he only behaved himself
in his ordinary manner. He shook hands with Mr. Havisham in his friendly
way when they were introduced to each other, and he answered all his
questions with the unhesitating readiness with which he answered Mr.
Hobbs. He was neither shy nor bold, and when Mr. Havisham was talking to
his mother, the lawyer noticed that he listened to the conversation with
as much interest as if he had been quite grown up.

“He seems to be a very mature little fellow,” Mr. Havisham said to the
mother.

“I think he is, in some things,” she answered. “He has always been very
quick to learn, and he has lived a great deal with grownup people. He
has a funny little habit of using long words and expressions he has read
in books, or has heard others use, but he is very fond of childish
play. I think he is rather clever, but he is a very boyish little boy,
sometimes.”

The next time Mr. Havisham met him, he saw that this last was quite
true. As his coupe turned the corner, he caught sight of a group of
small boys, who were evidently much excited. Two of them were about to
run a race, and one of them was his young lordship, and he was shouting
and making as much noise as the noisiest of his companions. He stood
side by side with another boy, one little red leg advanced a step.

“One, to make ready!” yelled the starter. “Two, to be steady. Three--and
away!”

Mr. Havisham found himself leaning out of the window of his coupe with
a curious feeling of interest. He really never remembered having seen
anything quite like the way in which his lordship's lordly little red
legs flew up behind his knickerbockers and tore over the ground as he
shot out in the race at the signal word. He shut his small hands and set
his face against the wind; his bright hair streamed out behind.

“Hooray, Ced Errol!” all the boys shouted, dancing and shrieking with
excitement. “Hooray, Billy Williams! Hooray, Ceddie! Hooray, Billy!
Hooray! 'Ray! 'Ray!”

“I really believe he is going to win,” said Mr. Havisham. The way in
which the red legs flew and flashed up and down, the shrieks of the
boys, the wild efforts of Billy Williams, whose brown legs were not to
be despised, as they followed closely in the rear of the red legs, made
him feel some excitement. “I really--I really can't help hoping he will
win!” he said, with an apologetic sort of cough. At that moment, the
wildest yell of all went up from the dancing, hopping boys. With
one last frantic leap the future Earl of Dorincourt had reached the
lamp-post at the end of the block and touched it, just two seconds
before Billy Williams flung himself at it, panting.

“Three cheers for Ceddie Errol!” yelled the little boys. “Hooray for
Ceddie Errol!”

Mr. Havisham drew his head in at the window of his coupe and leaned back
with a dry smile.

“Bravo, Lord Fauntleroy!” he said.

As his carriage stopped before the door of Mrs. Errol's house, the
victor and the vanquished were coming toward it, attended by the
clamoring crew. Cedric walked by Billy Williams and was speaking to him.
His elated little face was very red, his curls clung to his hot, moist
forehead, his hands were in his pockets.

“You see,” he was saying, evidently with the intention of making defeat
easy for his unsuccessful rival, “I guess I won because my legs are a
little longer than yours. I guess that was it. You see, I'm three days
older than you, and that gives me a 'vantage. I'm three days older.”

And this view of the case seemed to cheer Billy Williams so much that
he began to smile on the world again, and felt able to swagger a little,
almost as if he had won the race instead of losing it. Somehow, Ceddie
Errol had a way of making people feel comfortable. Even in the first
flush of his triumphs, he remembered that the person who was beaten
might not feel so gay as he did, and might like to think that he MIGHT
have been the winner under different circumstances.

That morning Mr. Havisham had quite a long conversation with the winner
of the race--a conversation which made him smile his dry smile, and rub
his chin with his bony hand several times.

Mrs. Errol had been called out of the parlor, and the lawyer and Cedric
were left together. At first Mr. Havisham wondered what he should say to
his small companion. He had an idea that perhaps it would be best to say
several things which might prepare Cedric for meeting his grandfather,
and, perhaps, for the great change that was to come to him. He could see
that Cedric had not the least idea of the sort of thing he was to see
when he reached England, or of the sort of home that waited for him
there. He did not even know yet that his mother was not to live in the
same house with him. They had thought it best to let him get over the
first shock before telling him.

Mr. Havisham sat in an arm-chair on one side of the open window; on the
other side was another still larger chair, and Cedric sat in that and
looked at Mr. Havisham. He sat well back in the depths of his big seat,
his curly head against the cushioned back, his legs crossed, and his
hands thrust deep into his pockets, in a quite Mr. Hobbs-like way. He
had been watching Mr. Havisham very steadily when his mamma had been in
the room, and after she was gone he still looked at him in respectful
thoughtfulness. There was a short silence after Mrs. Errol went out,
and Cedric seemed to be studying Mr. Havisham, and Mr. Havisham was
certainly studying Cedric. He could not make up his mind as to what an
elderly gentleman should say to a little boy who won races, and wore
short knickerbockers and red stockings on legs which were not long
enough to hang over a big chair when he sat well back in it.

But Cedric relieved him by suddenly beginning the conversation himself.

“Do you know,” he said, “I don't know what an earl is?”

“Don't you?” said Mr. Havisham.

“No,” replied Ceddie. “And I think when a boy is going to be one, he
ought to know. Don't you?”

“Well--yes,” answered Mr. Havisham.

“Would you mind,” said Ceddie respectfully--“would you mind 'splaining
it to me?” (Sometimes when he used his long words he did not pronounce
them quite correctly.) “What made him an earl?”

“A king or queen, in the first place,” said Mr. Havisham. “Generally,
he is made an earl because he has done some service to his sovereign, or
some great deed.”

“Oh!” said Cedric; “that's like the President.”

“Is it?” said Mr. Havisham. “Is that why your presidents are elected?”

“Yes,” answered Ceddie cheerfully. “When a man is very good and knows a
great deal, he is elected president. They have torch-light processions
and bands, and everybody makes speeches. I used to think I might perhaps
be a president, but I never thought of being an earl. I didn't know
about earls,” he said, rather hastily, lest Mr. Havisham might feel it
impolite in him not to have wished to be one,--“if I'd known about them,
I dare say I should have thought I should like to be one.”

“It is rather different from being a president,” said Mr. Havisham.

“Is it?” asked Cedric. “How? Are there no torch-light processions?”

Mr. Havisham crossed his own legs and put the tips of his fingers
carefully together. He thought perhaps the time had come to explain
matters rather more clearly.

“An earl is--is a very important person,” he began.

“So is a president!” put in Ceddie. “The torch-light processions are
five miles long, and they shoot up rockets, and the band plays! Mr.
Hobbs took me to see them.”

“An earl,” Mr. Havisham went on, feeling rather uncertain of his ground,
“is frequently of very ancient lineage----”

“What's that?” asked Ceddie.

“Of very old family--extremely old.”

“Ah!” said Cedric, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets. “I
suppose that is the way with the apple-woman near the park. I dare say
she is of ancient lin-lenage. She is so old it would surprise you how
she can stand up. She's a hundred, I should think, and yet she is out
there when it rains, even. I'm sorry for her, and so are the other boys.
Billy Williams once had nearly a dollar, and I asked him to buy five
cents' worth of apples from her every day until he had spent it all.
That made twenty days, and he grew tired of apples after a week; but
then--it was quite fortunate--a gentleman gave me fifty cents and I
bought apples from her instead. You feel sorry for any one that's so
poor and has such ancient lin-lenage. She says hers has gone into her
bones and the rain makes it worse.”

Mr. Havisham felt rather at a loss as he looked at his companion's
innocent, serious little face.

“I am afraid you did not quite understand me,” he explained. “When I
said 'ancient lineage' I did not mean old age; I meant that the name
of such a family has been known in the world a long time; perhaps for
hundreds of years persons bearing that name have been known and spoken
of in the history of their country.”

“Like George Washington,” said Ceddie. “I've heard of him ever since I
was born, and he was known about, long before that. Mr. Hobbs says
he will never be forgotten. That's because of the Declaration of
Independence, you know, and the Fourth of July. You see, he was a very
brave man.”

“The first Earl of Dorincourt,” said Mr. Havisham solemnly, “was created
an earl four hundred years ago.”

“Well, well!” said Ceddie. “That was a long time ago! Did you tell
Dearest that? It would int'rust her very much. We'll tell her when she
comes in. She always likes to hear cur'us things. What else does an earl
do besides being created?”

“A great many of them have helped to govern England. Some of them have
been brave men and have fought in great battles in the old days.”

“I should like to do that myself,” said Cedric. “My papa was a soldier,
and he was a very brave man--as brave as George Washington. Perhaps
that was because he would have been an earl if he hadn't died. I am glad
earls are brave. That's a great 'vantage--to be a brave man. Once I used
to be rather afraid of things--in the dark, you know; but when I thought
about the soldiers in the Revolution and George Washington--it cured
me.”

“There is another advantage in being an earl, sometimes,” said Mr.
Havisham slowly, and he fixed his shrewd eyes on the little boy with a
rather curious expression. “Some earls have a great deal of money.”

He was curious because he wondered if his young friend knew what the
power of money was.

“That's a good thing to have,” said Ceddie innocently. “I wish I had a
great deal of money.”

“Do you?” said Mr. Havisham. “And why?”

“Well,” explained Cedric, “there are so many things a person can do with
money. You see, there's the apple-woman. If I were very rich I should
buy her a little tent to put her stall in, and a little stove, and then
I should give her a dollar every morning it rained, so that she could
afford to stay at home. And then--oh! I'd give her a shawl. And, you
see, her bones wouldn't feel so badly. Her bones are not like our bones;
they hurt her when she moves. It's very painful when your bones hurt
you. If I were rich enough to do all those things for her, I guess her
bones would be all right.”

“Ahem!” said Mr. Havisham. “And what else would you do if you were
rich?”

“Oh! I'd do a great many things. Of course I should buy Dearest all
sorts of beautiful things, needle-books and fans and gold thimbles and
rings, and an encyclopedia, and a carriage, so that she needn't have to
wait for the street-cars. If she liked pink silk dresses, I should buy
her some, but she likes black best. But I'd take her to the big stores,
and tell her to look 'round and choose for herself. And then Dick----”

“Who is Dick?” asked Mr. Havisham.

“Dick is a boot-black,” said his young lordship, quite warming up in
his interest in plans so exciting. “He is one of the nicest boot-blacks
you ever knew. He stands at the corner of a street down-town. I've
known him for years. Once when I was very little, I was walking out
with Dearest, and she bought me a beautiful ball that bounced, and I
was carrying it and it bounced into the middle of the street where the
carriages and horses were, and I was so disappointed, I began to cry--I
was very little. I had kilts on. And Dick was blacking a man's shoes,
and he said 'Hello!' and he ran in between the horses and caught the
ball for me and wiped it off with his coat and gave it to me and said,
'It's all right, young un.' So Dearest admired him very much, and so did
I, and ever since then, when we go down-town, we talk to him. He says
'Hello!' and I say 'Hello!' and then we talk a little, and he tells me
how trade is. It's been bad lately.”

“And what would you like to do for him?” inquired the lawyer, rubbing
his chin and smiling a queer smile.

“Well,” said Lord Fauntleroy, settling himself in his chair with a
business air, “I'd buy Jake out.”

“And who is Jake?” Mr. Havisham asked.

“He's Dick's partner, and he is the worst partner a fellow could have!
Dick says so. He isn't a credit to the business, and he isn't square. He
cheats, and that makes Dick mad. It would make you mad, you know, if you
were blacking boots as hard as you could, and being square all the time,
and your partner wasn't square at all. People like Dick, but they don't
like Jake, and so sometimes they don't come twice. So if I were rich,
I'd buy Jake out and get Dick a 'boss' sign--he says a 'boss' sign goes
a long way; and I'd get him some new clothes and new brushes, and start
him out fair. He says all he wants is to start out fair.”

There could have been nothing more confiding and innocent than the way
in which his small lordship told his little story, quoting his friend
Dick's bits of slang in the most candid good faith. He seemed to feel
not a shade of a doubt that his elderly companion would be just as
interested as he was himself. And in truth Mr. Havisham was beginning
to be greatly interested; but perhaps not quite so much in Dick and the
apple-woman as in this kind little lordling, whose curly head was so
busy, under its yellow thatch, with good-natured plans for his friends,
and who seemed somehow to have forgotten himself altogether.

“Is there anything----” he began. “What would you get for yourself, if
you were rich?”

“Lots of things!” answered Lord Fauntleroy briskly; “but first I'd give
Mary some money for Bridget--that's her sister, with twelve children,
and a husband out of work. She comes here and cries, and Dearest gives
her things in a basket, and then she cries again, and says: 'Blessin's
be on yez, for a beautiful lady.' And I think Mr. Hobbs would like a
gold watch and chain to remember me by, and a meerschaum pipe. And then
I'd like to get up a company.”

“A company!” exclaimed Mr. Havisham.

“Like a Republican rally,” explained Cedric, becoming quite excited.
“I'd have torches and uniforms and things for all the boys and myself,
too. And we'd march, you know, and drill. That's what I should like for
myself, if I were rich.”

The door opened and Mrs. Errol came in.

“I am sorry to have been obliged to leave you so long,” she said to Mr.
Havisham; “but a poor woman, who is in great trouble, came to see me.”

“This young gentleman,” said Mr. Havisham, “has been telling me about
some of his friends, and what he would do for them if he were rich.”

“Bridget is one of his friends,” said Mrs. Errol; “and it is Bridget
to whom I have been talking in the kitchen. She is in great trouble now
because her husband has rheumatic fever.”

Cedric slipped down out of his big chair.

“I think I'll go and see her,” he said, “and ask her how he is. He's a
nice man when he is well. I'm obliged to him because he once made me a
sword out of wood. He's a very talented man.”

He ran out of the room, and Mr. Havisham rose from his chair. He seemed
to have something in his mind which he wished to speak of.

He hesitated a moment, and then said, looking down at Mrs. Errol:

“Before I left Dorincourt Castle, I had an interview with the Earl, in
which he gave me some instructions. He is desirous that his grandson
should look forward with some pleasure to his future life in England,
and also to his acquaintance with himself. He said that I must let his
lordship know that the change in his life would bring him money and the
pleasures children enjoy; if he expressed any wishes, I was to gratify
them, and to tell him that his grand-father had given him what he
wished. I am aware that the Earl did not expect anything quite like
this; but if it would give Lord Fauntleroy pleasure to assist this poor
woman, I should feel that the Earl would be displeased if he were not
gratified.”

For the second time, he did not repeat the Earl's exact words. His
lordship had, indeed, said:

“Make the lad understand that I can give him anything he wants. Let him
know what it is to be the grandson of the Earl of Dorincourt. Buy him
everything he takes a fancy to; let him have money in his pockets, and
tell him his grandfather put it there.”

His motives were far from being good, and if he had been dealing with a
nature less affectionate and warm-hearted than little Lord Fauntleroy's,
great harm might have been done. And Cedric's mother was too gentle to
suspect any harm. She thought that perhaps this meant that a lonely,
unhappy old man, whose children were dead, wished to be kind to her
little boy, and win his love and confidence. And it pleased her very
much to think that Ceddie would be able to help Bridget. It made her
happier to know that the very first result of the strange fortune which
had befallen her little boy was that he could do kind things for those
who needed kindness. Quite a warm color bloomed on her pretty young
face.

“Oh!” she said, “that was very kind of the Earl; Cedric will be so
glad! He has always been fond of Bridget and Michael. They are quite
deserving. I have often wished I had been able to help them more.
Michael is a hard-working man when he is well, but he has been ill a
long time and needs expensive medicines and warm clothing and nourishing
food. He and Bridget will not be wasteful of what is given them.”

Mr. Havisham put his thin hand in his breast pocket and drew forth a
large pocket-book. There was a queer look in his keen face. The truth
was, he was wondering what the Earl of Dorincourt would say when he was
told what was the first wish of his grandson that had been granted. He
wondered what the cross, worldly, selfish old nobleman would think of
it.

“I do not know that you have realized,” he said, “that the Earl of
Dorincourt is an exceedingly rich man. He can afford to gratify any
caprice. I think it would please him to know that Lord Fauntleroy had
been indulged in any fancy. If you will call him back and allow me, I
shall give him five pounds for these people.”

“That would be twenty-five dollars!” exclaimed Mrs. Errol. “It will seem
like wealth to them. I can scarcely believe that it is true.”

“It is quite true,” said Mr. Havisham, with his dry smile. “A great
change has taken place in your son's life, a great deal of power will
lie in his hands.”

“Oh!” cried his mother. “And he is such a little boy--a very little boy.
How can I teach him to use it well? It makes me half afraid. My pretty
little Ceddie!”

The lawyer slightly cleared his throat. It touched his worldly, hard old
heart to see the tender, timid look in her brown eyes.

“I think, madam,” he said, “that if I may judge from my interview with
Lord Fauntleroy this morning, the next Earl of Dorincourt will think
for others as well as for his noble self. He is only a child yet, but I
think he may be trusted.”

Then his mother went for Cedric and brought him back into the parlor.
Mr. Havisham heard him talking before he entered the room.

“It's infam-natory rheumatism,” he was saying, “and that's a kind of
rheumatism that's dreadful. And he thinks about the rent not being paid,
and Bridget says that makes the inf'ammation worse. And Pat could get a
place in a store if he had some clothes.”

His little face looked quite anxious when he came in. He was very sorry
for Bridget.

“Dearest said you wanted me,” he said to Mr. Havisham. “I've been
talking to Bridget.”

Mr. Havisham looked down at him a moment. He felt a little awkward and
undecided. As Cedric's mother had said, he was a very little boy.

“The Earl of Dorincourt----” he began, and then he glanced involuntarily
at Mrs. Errol.

Little Lord Fauntleroy's mother suddenly kneeled down by him and put
both her tender arms around his childish body.

“Ceddie,” she said, “the Earl is your grandpapa, your own papa's father.
He is very, very kind, and he loves you and wishes you to love him,
because the sons who were his little boys are dead. He wishes you to be
happy and to make other people happy. He is very rich, and he wishes you
to have everything you would like to have. He told Mr. Havisham so, and
gave him a great deal of money for you. You can give some to Bridget
now; enough to pay her rent and buy Michael everything. Isn't that fine,
Ceddie? Isn't he good?” And she kissed the child on his round cheek,
where the bright color suddenly flashed up in his excited amazement.

He looked from his mother to Mr. Havisham.

“Can I have it now?” he cried. “Can I give it to her this minute? She's
just going.”

Mr. Havisham handed him the money. It was in fresh, clean greenbacks and
made a neat roll.

Ceddie flew out of the room with it.

“Bridget!” they heard him shout, as he tore into the kitchen. “Bridget,
wait a minute! Here's some money. It's for you, and you can pay the
rent. My grandpapa gave it to me. It's for you and Michael!”

“Oh, Master Ceddie!” cried Bridget, in an awe-stricken voice. “It's
twinty-foive dollars is here. Where be's the misthress?”

“I think I shall have to go and explain it to her,” Mrs. Errol said.

So she, too, went out of the room and Mr. Havisham was left alone for
a while. He went to the window and stood looking out into the street
reflectively. He was thinking of the old Earl of Dorincourt, sitting
in his great, splendid, gloomy library at the castle, gouty and lonely,
surrounded by grandeur and luxury, but not really loved by any one,
because in all his long life he had never really loved any one but
himself; he had been selfish and self-indulgent and arrogant and
passionate; he had cared so much for the Earl of Dorincourt and his
pleasures that there had been no time for him to think of other people;
all his wealth and power, all the benefits from his noble name and high
rank, had seemed to him to be things only to be used to amuse and give
pleasure to the Earl of Dorincourt; and now that he was an old man, all
this excitement and self-indulgence had only brought him ill health and
irritability and a dislike of the world, which certainly disliked him.
In spite of all his splendor, there was never a more unpopular old
nobleman than the Earl of Dorincourt, and there could scarcely have been
a more lonely one. He could fill his castle with guests if he chose. He
could give great dinners and splendid hunting parties; but he knew that
in secret the people who would accept his invitations were afraid of his
frowning old face and sarcastic, biting speeches. He had a cruel tongue
and a bitter nature, and he took pleasure in sneering at people and
making them feel uncomfortable, when he had the power to do so, because
they were sensitive or proud or timid.

Mr. Havisham knew his hard, fierce ways by heart, and he was thinking
of him as he looked out of the window into the narrow, quiet street. And
there rose in his mind, in sharp contrast, the picture of the cheery,
handsome little fellow sitting in the big chair and telling his story of
his friends, Dick and the apple-woman, in his generous, innocent, honest
way. And he thought of the immense income, the beautiful, majestic
estates, the wealth, and power for good or evil, which in the course of
time would lie in the small, chubby hands little Lord Fauntleroy thrust
so deep into his pockets.

“It will make a great difference,” he said to himself. “It will make a
great difference.”

Cedric and his mother came back soon after. Cedric was in high spirits.
He sat down in his own chair, between his mother and the lawyer, and
fell into one of his quaint attitudes, with his hands on his knees. He
was glowing with enjoyment of Bridget's relief and rapture.

“She cried!” he said. “She said she was crying for joy! I never saw any
one cry for joy before. My grandpapa must be a very good man. I didn't
know he was so good a man. It's more--more agreeabler to be an earl than
I thought it was. I'm almost glad--I'm almost QUITE glad I'm going to be
one.”




III

Cedric's good opinion of the advantages of being an earl increased
greatly during the next week. It seemed almost impossible for him to
realize that there was scarcely anything he might wish to do which he
could not do easily; in fact, I think it may be said that he did
not fully realize it at all. But at least he understood, after a few
conversations with Mr. Havisham, that he could gratify all his nearest
wishes, and he proceeded to gratify them with a simplicity and delight
which caused Mr. Havisham much diversion. In the week before they sailed
for England he did many curious things. The lawyer long after remembered
the morning they went down-town together to pay a visit to Dick, and the
afternoon they so amazed the apple-woman of ancient lineage by stopping
before her stall and telling her she was to have a tent, and a stove,
and a shawl, and a sum of money which seemed to her quite wonderful.

“For I have to go to England and be a lord,” explained Cedric,
sweet-temperedly. “And I shouldn't like to have your bones on my mind
every time it rained. My own bones never hurt, so I think I don't know
how painful a person's bones can be, but I've sympathized with you a
great deal, and I hope you'll be better.”

“She's a very good apple-woman,” he said to Mr. Havisham, as they walked
away, leaving the proprietress of the stall almost gasping for breath,
and not at all believing in her great fortune. “Once, when I fell
down and cut my knee, she gave me an apple for nothing. I've always
remembered her for it. You know you always remember people who are kind
to you.”

It had never occurred to his honest, simple little mind that there were
people who could forget kindnesses.

The interview with Dick was quite exciting. Dick had just been having
a great deal of trouble with Jake, and was in low spirits when they saw
him. His amazement when Cedric calmly announced that they had come to
give him what seemed a very great thing to him, and would set all his
troubles right, almost struck him dumb. Lord Fauntleroy's manner of
announcing the object of his visit was very simple and unceremonious.
Mr. Havisham was much impressed by its directness as he stood by and
listened. The statement that his old friend had become a lord, and was
in danger of being an earl if he lived long enough, caused Dick to
so open his eyes and mouth, and start, that his cap fell off. When he
picked it up, he uttered a rather singular exclamation. Mr. Havisham
thought it singular, but Cedric had heard it before.

“I soy!” he said, “what're yer givin' us?” This plainly embarrassed his
lordship a little, but he bore himself bravely.

“Everybody thinks it not true at first,” he said. “Mr. Hobbs thought
I'd had a sunstroke. I didn't think I was going to like it myself, but I
like it better now I'm used to it. The one who is the Earl now, he's my
grandpapa; and he wants me to do anything I like. He's very kind, if
he IS an earl; and he sent me a lot of money by Mr. Havisham, and I've
brought some to you to buy Jake out.”

And the end of the matter was that Dick actually bought Jake out, and
found himself the possessor of the business and some new brushes and a
most astonishing sign and outfit. He could not believe in his good luck
any more easily than the apple-woman of ancient lineage could believe
in hers; he walked about like a boot-black in a dream; he stared at
his young benefactor and felt as if he might wake up at any moment. He
scarcely seemed to realize anything until Cedric put out his hand to
shake hands with him before going away.

“Well, good-bye,” he said; and though he tried to speak steadily, there
was a little tremble in his voice and he winked his big brown eyes.
“And I hope trade'll be good. I'm sorry I'm going away to leave you, but
perhaps I shall come back again when I'm an earl. And I wish you'd write
to me, because we were always good friends. And if you write to me,
here's where you must send your letter.” And he gave him a slip of
paper. “And my name isn't Cedric Errol any more; it's Lord Fauntleroy
and--and good-bye, Dick.”

Dick winked his eyes also, and yet they looked rather moist about the
lashes. He was not an educated boot-black, and he would have found it
difficult to tell what he felt just then if he had tried; perhaps that
was why he didn't try, and only winked his eyes and swallowed a lump in
his throat.

“I wish ye wasn't goin' away,” he said in a husky voice. Then he winked
his eyes again. Then he looked at Mr. Havisham, and touched his cap.
“Thanky, sir, fur bringin' him down here an' fur wot ye've done,
He's--he's a queer little feller,” he added. “I've allers thort a heap
of him. He's such a game little feller, an'--an' such a queer little
un.”

And when they turned away he stood and looked after them in a dazed
kind of way, and there was still a mist in his eyes, and a lump in his
throat, as he watched the gallant little figure marching gayly along by
the side of its tall, rigid escort.

Until the day of his departure, his lordship spent as much time as
possible with Mr. Hobbs in the store. Gloom had settled upon Mr. Hobbs;
he was much depressed in spirits. When his young friend brought to him
in triumph the parting gift of a gold watch and chain, Mr. Hobbs found
it difficult to acknowledge it properly. He laid the case on his stout
knee, and blew his nose violently several times.

“There's something written on it,” said Cedric,--“inside the case.
I told the man myself what to say. 'From his oldest friend, Lord
Fauntleroy, to Mr. Hobbs. When this you see, remember me.' I don't want
you to forget me.”

Mr. Hobbs blew his nose very loudly again.

“I sha'n't forget you,” he said, speaking a trifle huskily, as Dick had
spoken; “nor don't you go and forget me when you get among the British
arrystocracy.”

“I shouldn't forget you, whoever I was among,” answered his lordship.
“I've spent my happiest hours with you; at least, some of my happiest
hours. I hope you'll come to see me sometime. I'm sure my grandpapa
would be very much pleased. Perhaps he'll write and ask you, when I tell
him about you. You--you wouldn't mind his being an earl, would you, I
mean you wouldn't stay away just because he was one, if he invited you
to come?”

“I'd come to see you,” replied Mr. Hobbs, graciously.

So it seemed to be agreed that if he received a pressing invitation from
the Earl to come and spend a few months at Dorincourt Castle, he was to
lay aside his republican prejudices and pack his valise at once.

At last all the preparations were complete; the day came when the trunks
were taken to the steamer, and the hour arrived when the carriage stood
at the door. Then a curious feeling of loneliness came upon the little
boy. His mamma had been shut up in her room for some time; when she came
down the stairs, her eyes looked large and wet, and her sweet mouth was
trembling. Cedric went to her, and she bent down to him, and he put his
arms around her, and they kissed each other. He knew something made them
both sorry, though he scarcely knew what it was; but one tender little
thought rose to his lips.

“We liked this little house, Dearest, didn't we?” he said. “We always
will like it, won't we?”

“Yes--yes,” she answered, in a low, sweet voice. “Yes, darling.”

And then they went into the carriage and Cedric sat very close to her,
and as she looked back out of the window, he looked at her and stroked
her hand and held it close.

And then, it seemed almost directly, they were on the steamer in the
midst of the wildest bustle and confusion; carriages were driving
down and leaving passengers; passengers were getting into a state of
excitement about baggage which had not arrived and threatened to be too
late; big trunks and cases were being bumped down and dragged about;
sailors were uncoiling ropes and hurrying to and fro; officers were
giving orders; ladies and gentlemen and children and nurses were coming
on board,--some were laughing and looked gay, some were silent and sad,
here and there two or three were crying and touching their eyes with
their handkerchiefs. Cedric found something to interest him on every
side; he looked at the piles of rope, at the furled sails, at the tall,
tall masts which seemed almost to touch the hot blue sky; he began to
make plans for conversing with the sailors and gaining some information
on the subject of pirates.

It was just at the very last, when he was standing leaning on the
railing of the upper deck and watching the final preparations, enjoying
the excitement and the shouts of the sailors and wharfmen, that his
attention was called to a slight bustle in one of the groups not far
from him. Some one was hurriedly forcing his way through this group and
coming toward him. It was a boy, with something red in his hand. It was
Dick. He came up to Cedric quite breathless.

“I've run all the way,” he said. “I've come down to see ye off. Trade's
been prime! I bought this for ye out o' what I made yesterday. Ye kin
wear it when ye get among the swells. I lost the paper when I was tryin'
to get through them fellers downstairs. They didn't want to let me up.
It's a hankercher.”

He poured it all forth as if in one sentence. A bell rang, and he made a
leap away before Cedric had time to speak.

“Good-bye!” he panted. “Wear it when ye get among the swells.” And he
darted off and was gone.

A few seconds later they saw him struggle through the crowd on the lower
deck, and rush on shore just before the gang-plank was drawn in. He
stood on the wharf and waved his cap.

Cedric held the handkerchief in his hand. It was of bright red silk
ornamented with purple horseshoes and horses' heads.

There was a great straining and creaking and confusion. The people on
the wharf began to shout to their friends, and the people on the steamer
shouted back:

“Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye, old fellow!” Every one seemed to be
saying, “Don't forget us. Write when you get to Liverpool. Good-bye!
Good-bye!”

Little Lord Fauntleroy leaned forward and waved the red handkerchief.

“Good-bye, Dick!” he shouted, lustily. “Thank you! Good-bye, Dick!”

And the big steamer moved away, and the people cheered again, and
Cedric's mother drew the veil over her eyes, and on the shore there was
left great confusion; but Dick saw nothing save that bright, childish
face and the bright hair that the sun shone on and the breeze lifted,
and he heard nothing but the hearty childish voice calling “Good-bye,
Dick!” as little Lord Fauntleroy steamed slowly away from the home of
his birth to the unknown land of his ancestors.




IV

It was during the voyage that Cedric's mother told him that his home was
not to be hers; and when he first understood it, his grief was so
great that Mr. Havisham saw that the Earl had been wise in making the
arrangements that his mother should be quite near him, and see him
often; for it was very plain he could not have borne the separation
otherwise. But his mother managed the little fellow so sweetly and
lovingly, and made him feel that she would be so near him, that, after a
while, he ceased to be oppressed by the fear of any real parting.

“My house is not far from the Castle, Ceddie,” she repeated each time
the subject was referred to--“a very little way from yours, and you can
always run in and see me every day, and you will have so many things
to tell me! and we shall be so happy together! It is a beautiful place.
Your papa has often told me about it. He loved it very much; and you
will love it too.”

“I should love it better if you were there,” his small lordship said,
with a heavy little sigh.

He could not but feel puzzled by so strange a state of affairs, which
could put his “Dearest” in one house and himself in another.

The fact was that Mrs. Errol had thought it better not to tell him why
this plan had been made.

“I should prefer he should not be told,” she said to Mr. Havisham. “He
would not really understand; he would only be shocked and hurt; and
I feel sure that his feeling for the Earl will be a more natural and
affectionate one if he does not know that his grandfather dislikes me so
bitterly. He has never seen hatred or hardness, and it would be a great
blow to him to find out that any one could hate me. He is so loving
himself, and I am so dear to him! It is better for him that he should
not be told until he is much older, and it is far better for the Earl.
It would make a barrier between them, even though Ceddie is such a
child.”

So Cedric only knew that there was some mysterious reason for the
arrangement, some reason which he was not old enough to understand, but
which would be explained when he was older. He was puzzled; but, after
all, it was not the reason he cared about so much; and after many talks
with his mother, in which she comforted him and placed before him the
bright side of the picture, the dark side of it gradually began to fade
out, though now and then Mr. Havisham saw him sitting in some queer
little old-fashioned attitude, watching the sea, with a very grave face,
and more than once he heard an unchildish sigh rise to his lips.

“I don't like it,” he said once as he was having one of his almost
venerable talks with the lawyer. “You don't know how much I don't like
it; but there are a great many troubles in this world, and you have
to bear them. Mary says so, and I've heard Mr. Hobbs say it too. And
Dearest wants me to like to live with my grandpapa, because, you see,
all his children are dead, and that's very mournful. It makes you
sorry for a man, when all his children have died--and one was killed
suddenly.”

One of the things which always delighted the people who made the
acquaintance of his young lordship was the sage little air he wore
at times when he gave himself up to conversation;--combined with his
occasionally elderly remarks and the extreme innocence and seriousness
of his round childish face, it was irresistible. He was such a handsome,
blooming, curly-headed little fellow, that, when he sat down and nursed
his knee with his chubby hands, and conversed with much gravity, he was
a source of great entertainment to his hearers. Gradually Mr. Havisham
had begun to derive a great deal of private pleasure and amusement from
his society.

“And so you are going to try to like the Earl,” he said.

“Yes,” answered his lordship. “He's my relation, and of course you have
to like your relations; and besides, he's been very kind to me. When a
person does so many things for you, and wants you to have everything you
wish for, of course you'd like him if he wasn't your relation; but when
he's your relation and does that, why, you're very fond of him.”

“Do you think,” suggested Mr. Havisham, “that he will be fond of you?”

“Well,” said Cedric, “I think he will, because, you see, I'm his
relation, too, and I'm his boy's little boy besides, and, well, don't
you see--of course he must be fond of me now, or he wouldn't want me to
have everything that I like, and he wouldn't have sent you for me.”

“Oh!” remarked the lawyer, “that's it, is it?”

“Yes,” said Cedric, “that's it. Don't you think that's it, too? Of
course a man would be fond of his grandson.”

The people who had been seasick had no sooner recovered from their
seasickness, and come on deck to recline in their steamer-chairs and
enjoy themselves, than every one seemed to know the romantic story of
little Lord Fauntleroy, and every one took an interest in the little
fellow, who ran about the ship or walked with his mother or the tall,
thin old lawyer, or talked to the sailors. Every one liked him; he
made friends everywhere. He was ever ready to make friends. When the
gentlemen walked up and down the deck, and let him walk with them, he
stepped out with a manly, sturdy little tramp, and answered all their
jokes with much gay enjoyment; when the ladies talked to him, there was
always laughter in the group of which he was the center; when he played
with the children, there was always magnificent fun on hand. Among the
sailors he had the heartiest friends; he heard miraculous stories about
pirates and shipwrecks and desert islands; he learned to splice ropes
and rig toy ships, and gained an amount of information concerning
“tops'ls” and “mains'ls,” quite surprising. His conversation had,
indeed, quite a nautical flavor at times, and on one occasion he raised
a shout of laughter in a group of ladies and gentlemen who were sitting
on deck, wrapped in shawls and overcoats, by saying sweetly, and with a
very engaging expression:

“Shiver my timbers, but it's a cold day!”

It surprised him when they laughed. He had picked up this sea-faring
remark from an “elderly naval man” of the name of Jerry, who told him
stories in which it occurred frequently. To judge from his stories of
his own adventures, Jerry had made some two or three thousand voyages,
and had been invariably shipwrecked on each occasion on an island
densely populated with bloodthirsty cannibals. Judging, also, by these
same exciting adventures, he had been partially roasted and eaten
frequently and had been scalped some fifteen or twenty times.

“That is why he is so bald,” explained Lord Fauntleroy to his mamma.
“After you have been scalped several times the hair never grows again.
Jerry's never grew again after that last time, when the King of the
Parromachaweekins did it with the knife made out of the skull of the
Chief of the Wopslemumpkies. He says it was one of the most serious
times he ever had. He was so frightened that his hair stood right
straight up when the king flourished his knife, and it never would lie
down, and the king wears it that way now, and it looks something like a
hair-brush. I never heard anything like the asperiences Jerry has had! I
should so like to tell Mr. Hobbs about them!”

Sometimes, when the weather was very disagreeable and people were
kept below decks in the saloon, a party of his grown-up friends would
persuade him to tell them some of these “asperiences” of Jerry's, and as
he sat relating them with great delight and fervor, there was certainly
no more popular voyager on any ocean steamer crossing the Atlantic than
little Lord Fauntleroy. He was always innocently and good-naturedly
ready to do his small best to add to the general entertainment, and
there was a charm in the very unconsciousness of his own childish
importance.

“Jerry's stories int'rust them very much,” he said to his mamma. “For my
part--you must excuse me, Dearest--but sometimes I should have thought
they couldn't be all quite true, if they hadn't happened to Jerry
himself; but as they all happened to Jerry--well, it's very strange, you
know, and perhaps sometimes he may forget and be a little mistaken, as
he's been scalped so often. Being scalped a great many times might make
a person forgetful.”

It was eleven days after he had said good-bye to his friend Dick before
he reached Liverpool; and it was on the night of the twelfth day that
the carriage in which he and his mother and Mr. Havisham had driven from
the station stopped before the gates of Court Lodge. They could not
see much of the house in the darkness. Cedric only saw that there was a
drive-way under great arching trees, and after the carriage had rolled
down this drive-way a short distance, he saw an open door and a stream
of bright light coming through it.

Mary had come with them to attend her mistress, and she had reached the
house before them. When Cedric jumped out of the carriage he saw one or
two servants standing in the wide, bright hall, and Mary stood in the
door-way.

Lord Fauntleroy sprang at her with a gay little shout.

“Did you get here, Mary?” he said. “Here's Mary, Dearest,” and he kissed
the maid on her rough red cheek.

“I am glad you are here, Mary,” Mrs. Errol said to her in a low voice.
“It is such a comfort to me to see you. It takes the strangeness away.”
 And she held out her little hand, which Mary squeezed encouragingly. She
knew how this first “strangeness” must feel to this little mother who
had left her own land and was about to give up her child.

The English servants looked with curiosity at both the boy and his
mother. They had heard all sorts of rumors about them both; they knew
how angry the old Earl had been, and why Mrs. Errol was to live at the
lodge and her little boy at the castle; they knew all about the great
fortune he was to inherit, and about the savage old grandfather and his
gout and his tempers.

“He'll have no easy time of it, poor little chap,” they had said among
themselves.

But they did not know what sort of a little lord had come among
them; they did not quite understand the character of the next Earl of
Dorincourt.

He pulled off his overcoat quite as if he were used to doing things for
himself, and began to look about him. He looked about the broad hall, at
the pictures and stags' antlers and curious things that ornamented it.
They seemed curious to him because he had never seen such things before
in a private house.

“Dearest,” he said, “this is a very pretty house, isn't it? I am glad
you are going to live here. It's quite a large house.”

It was quite a large house compared to the one in the shabby New York
street, and it was very pretty and cheerful. Mary led them upstairs to
a bright chintz-hung bedroom where a fire was burning, and a large
snow-white Persian cat was sleeping luxuriously on the white fur
hearth-rug.

“It was the house-kaper up at the Castle, ma'am, sint her to yez,”
 explained Mary. “It's herself is a kind-hearted lady an' has had
iverything done to prepar' fur yez. I seen her meself a few minnits, an'
she was fond av the Capt'in, ma'am, an' graivs fur him; and she said to
say the big cat slapin' on the rug moight make the room same homeloike
to yez. She knowed Capt'in Errol whin he was a bye--an' a foine handsum'
bye she ses he was, an' a foine young man wid a plisint word fur every
one, great an' shmall. An' ses I to her, ses I: 'He's lift a bye
that's loike him, ma'am, fur a foiner little felly niver sthipped in
shoe-leather.”'

When they were ready, they went downstairs into another big bright room;
its ceiling was low, and the furniture was heavy and beautifully carved,
the chairs were deep and had high massive backs, and there were queer
shelves and cabinets with strange, pretty ornaments on them. There was
a great tiger-skin before the fire, and an arm-chair on each side of it.
The stately white cat had responded to Lord Fauntleroy's stroking and
followed him downstairs, and when he threw himself down upon the rug,
she curled herself up grandly beside him as if she intended to make
friends. Cedric was so pleased that he put his head down by hers, and
lay stroking her, not noticing what his mother and Mr. Havisham were
saying.

They were, indeed, speaking in a rather low tone. Mrs. Errol looked a
little pale and agitated.

“He need not go to-night?” she said. “He will stay with me to-night?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Havisham in the same low tone; “it will not be
necessary for him to go to-night. I myself will go to the Castle as soon
as we have dined, and inform the Earl of our arrival.”

Mrs. Errol glanced down at Cedric. He was lying in a graceful, careless
attitude upon the black-and-yellow skin; the fire shone on his handsome,
flushed little face, and on the tumbled, curly hair spread out on the
rug; the big cat was purring in drowsy content,--she liked the caressing
touch of the kind little hand on her fur.

Mrs. Errol smiled faintly.

“His lordship does not know all that he is taking from me,” she said
rather sadly. Then she looked at the lawyer. “Will you tell him, if you
please,” she said, “that I should rather not have the money?”

“The money!” Mr. Havisham exclaimed. “You can not mean the income he
proposed to settle upon you!”

“Yes,” she answered, quite simply; “I think I should rather not have
it. I am obliged to accept the house, and I thank him for it, because it
makes it possible for me to be near my child; but I have a little money
of my own,--enough to live simply upon,--and I should rather not take
the other. As he dislikes me so much, I should feel a little as if I
were selling Cedric to him. I am giving him up only because I love him
enough to forget myself for his good, and because his father would wish
it to be so.”

Mr. Havisham rubbed his chin.

“This is very strange,” he said. “He will be very angry. He won't
understand it.”

“I think he will understand it after he thinks it over,” she said. “I do
not really need the money, and why should I accept luxuries from the
man who hates me so much that he takes my little boy from me--his son's
child?”

Mr. Havisham looked reflective for a few moments.

“I will deliver your message,” he said afterward.

And then the dinner was brought in and they sat down together, the big
cat taking a seat on a chair near Cedric's and purring majestically
throughout the meal.

When, later in the evening, Mr. Havisham presented himself at the
Castle, he was taken at once to the Earl. He found him sitting by the
fire in a luxurious easy-chair, his foot on a gout-stool. He looked
at the lawyer sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows, but Mr. Havisham
could see that, in spite of his pretense at calmness, he was nervous and
secretly excited.

“Well,” he said; “well, Havisham, come back, have you? What's the news?”

“Lord Fauntleroy and his mother are at Court Lodge,” replied Mr.
Havisham. “They bore the voyage very well and are in excellent health.”

The Earl made a half-impatient sound and moved his hand restlessly.

“Glad to hear it,” he said brusquely. “So far, so good. Make yourself
comfortable. Have a glass of wine and settle down. What else?”

“His lordship remains with his mother to-night. To-morrow I will bring
him to the Castle.”

The Earl's elbow was resting on the arm of his chair; he put his hand up
and shielded his eyes with it.

“Well,” he said; “go on. You know I told you not to write to me about
the matter, and I know nothing whatever about it. What kind of a lad is
he? I don't care about the mother; what sort of a lad is he?”

Mr. Havisham drank a little of the glass of port he had poured out for
himself, and sat holding it in his hand.

“It is rather difficult to judge of the character of a child of seven,”
 he said cautiously.

The Earl's prejudices were very intense. He looked up quickly and
uttered a rough word.

“A fool, is he?” he exclaimed. “Or a clumsy cub? His American blood
tells, does it?”

“I do not think it has injured him, my lord,” replied the lawyer in
his dry, deliberate fashion. “I don't know much about children, but I
thought him rather a fine lad.”

His manner of speech was always deliberate and unenthusiastic, but he
made it a trifle more so than usual. He had a shrewd fancy that it
would be better that the Earl should judge for himself, and be quite
unprepared for his first interview with his grandson.

“Healthy and well-grown?” asked my lord.

“Apparently very healthy, and quite well-grown,” replied the lawyer.

“Straight-limbed and well enough to look at?” demanded the Earl.

A very slight smile touched Mr. Havisham's thin lips. There rose up
before his mind's eye the picture he had left at Court Lodge,--the
beautiful, graceful child's body lying upon the tiger-skin in careless
comfort--the bright, tumbled hair spread on the rug--the bright, rosy
boy's face.

“Rather a handsome boy, I think, my lord, as boys go,” he said, “though
I am scarcely a judge, perhaps. But you will find him somewhat different
from most English children, I dare say.”

“I haven't a doubt of that,” snarled the Earl, a twinge of gout seizing
him. “A lot of impudent little beggars, those American children; I've
heard that often enough.”

“It is not exactly impudence in his case,” said Mr. Havisham. “I can
scarcely describe what the difference is. He has lived more with older
people than with children, and the difference seems to be a mixture of
maturity and childishness.”

“American impudence!” protested the Earl. “I've heard of it before. They
call it precocity and freedom. Beastly, impudent bad manners; that's
what it is!”

Mr. Havisham drank some more port. He seldom argued with his lordly
patron,--never when his lordly patron's noble leg was inflamed by gout.
At such times it was always better to leave him alone. So there was a
silence of a few moments. It was Mr. Havisham who broke it.

“I have a message to deliver from Mrs. Errol,” he remarked.

“I don't want any of her messages!” growled his lordship; “the less I
hear of her the better.”

“This is a rather important one,” explained the lawyer. “She prefers not
to accept the income you proposed to settle on her.”

The Earl started visibly.

“What's that?” he cried out. “What's that?”

Mr. Havisham repeated his words.

“She says it is not necessary, and that as the relations between you are
not friendly----”

“Not friendly!” ejaculated my lord savagely; “I should say they were not
friendly! I hate to think of her! A mercenary, sharp-voiced American! I
don't wish to see her.”

“My lord,” said Mr. Havisham, “you can scarcely call her mercenary. She
has asked for nothing. She does not accept the money you offer her.”

“All done for effect!” snapped his noble lordship. “She wants to wheedle
me into seeing her. She thinks I shall admire her spirit. I don't admire
it! It's only American independence! I won't have her living like a
beggar at my park gates. As she's the boy's mother, she has a position
to keep up, and she shall keep it up. She shall have the money, whether
she likes it or not!”

“She won't spend it,” said Mr. Havisham.

“I don't care whether she spends it or not!” blustered my lord. “She
shall have it sent to her. She sha'n't tell people that she has to live
like a pauper because I have done nothing for her! She wants to give the
boy a bad opinion of me! I suppose she has poisoned his mind against me
already!”

“No,” said Mr. Havisham. “I have another message, which will prove to
you that she has not done that.”

“I don't want to hear it!” panted the Earl, out of breath with anger and
excitement and gout.

But Mr. Havisham delivered it.

“She asks you not to let Lord Fauntleroy hear anything which would
lead him to understand that you separate him from her because of your
prejudice against her. He is very fond of her, and she is convinced that
it would cause a barrier to exist between you. She says he would not
comprehend it, and it might make him fear you in some measure, or at
least cause him to feel less affection for you. She has told him that
he is too young to understand the reason, but shall hear it when he is
older. She wishes that there should be no shadow on your first meeting.”

The Earl sank back into his chair. His deep-set fierce old eyes gleamed
under his beetling brows.

“Come, now!” he said, still breathlessly. “Come, now! You don't mean the
mother hasn't told him?”

“Not one word, my lord,” replied the lawyer coolly. “That I can
assure you. The child is prepared to believe you the most amiable and
affectionate of grandparents. Nothing--absolutely nothing has been said
to him to give him the slightest doubt of your perfection. And as
I carried out your commands in every detail, while in New York, he
certainly regards you as a wonder of generosity.”

“He does, eh?” said the Earl.

“I give you my word of honor,” said Mr. Havisham, “that Lord
Fauntleroy's impressions of you will depend entirely upon yourself. And
if you will pardon the liberty I take in making the suggestion, I think
you will succeed better with him if you take the precaution not to speak
slightingly of his mother.”

“Pooh, pooh!” said the Earl. “The youngster is only seven years old!”

“He has spent those seven years at his mother's side,” returned Mr.
Havisham; “and she has all his affection.”




V

It was late in the afternoon when the carriage containing little Lord
Fauntleroy and Mr. Havisham drove up the long avenue which led to the
castle. The Earl had given orders that his grandson should arrive in
time to dine with him; and for some reason best known to himself, he had
also ordered that the child should be sent alone into the room in which
he intended to receive him. As the carriage rolled up the avenue, Lord
Fauntleroy sat leaning comfortably against the luxurious cushions, and
regarded the prospect with great interest. He was, in fact, interested
in everything he saw. He had been interested in the carriage, with
its large, splendid horses and their glittering harness; he had been
interested in the tall coachman and footman, with their resplendent
livery; and he had been especially interested in the coronet on the
panels, and had struck up an acquaintance with the footman for the
purpose of inquiring what it meant.

When the carriage reached the great gates of the park, he looked out of
the window to get a good view of the huge stone lions ornamenting the
entrance. The gates were opened by a motherly, rosy-looking woman, who
came out of a pretty, ivy-covered lodge. Two children ran out of the
door of the house and stood looking with round, wide-open eyes at the
little boy in the carriage, who looked at them also. Their mother stood
courtesying and smiling, and the children, on receiving a sign from her,
made bobbing little courtesies too.

“Does she know me?” asked Lord Fauntleroy. “I think she must think she
knows me.” And he took off his black velvet cap to her and smiled.

“How do you do?” he said brightly. “Good-afternoon!”

The woman seemed pleased, he thought. The smile broadened on her rosy
face and a kind look came into her blue eyes.

“God bless your lordship!” she said. “God bless your pretty face! Good
luck and happiness to your lordship! Welcome to you!”

Lord Fauntleroy waved his cap and nodded to her again as the carriage
rolled by her.

“I like that woman,” he said. “She looks as if she liked boys. I should
like to come here and play with her children. I wonder if she has enough
to make up a company?”

Mr. Havisham did not tell him that he would scarcely be allowed to make
playmates of the gate-keeper's children. The lawyer thought there was
time enough for giving him that information.

The carriage rolled on and on between the great, beautiful trees which
grew on each side of the avenue and stretched their broad, swaying
branches in an arch across it. Cedric had never seen such trees,--they
were so grand and stately, and their branches grew so low down on their
huge trunks. He did not then know that Dorincourt Castle was one of the
most beautiful in all England; that its park was one of the broadest and
finest, and its trees and avenue almost without rivals. But he did know
that it was all very beautiful. He liked the big, broad-branched trees,
with the late afternoon sunlight striking golden lances through them. He
liked the perfect stillness which rested on everything. He felt a great,
strange pleasure in the beauty of which he caught glimpses under and
between the sweeping boughs--the great, beautiful spaces of the park,
with still other trees standing sometimes stately and alone, and
sometimes in groups. Now and then they passed places where tall ferns
grew in masses, and again and again the ground was azure with the
bluebells swaying in the soft breeze. Several times he started up with
a laugh of delight as a rabbit leaped up from under the greenery and
scudded away with a twinkle of short white tail behind it. Once a covey
of partridges rose with a sudden whir and flew away, and then he shouted
and clapped his hands.

“It's a beautiful place, isn't it?” he said to Mr. Havisham. “I never
saw such a beautiful place. It's prettier even than Central Park.”

He was rather puzzled by the length of time they were on their way.

“How far is it,” he said, at length, “from the gate to the front door?”

“It is between three and four miles,” answered the lawyer.

“That's a long way for a person to live from his gate,” remarked his
lordship.

Every few minutes he saw something new to wonder at and admire. When he
caught sight of the deer, some couched in the grass, some standing with
their pretty antlered heads turned with a half-startled air toward the
avenue as the carriage wheels disturbed them, he was enchanted.

“Has there been a circus?” he cried; “or do they live here always? Whose
are they?”

“They live here,” Mr. Havisham told him. “They belong to the Earl, your
grandfather.”

It was not long after this that they saw the castle. It rose up before
them stately and beautiful and gray, the last rays of the sun casting
dazzling lights on its many windows. It had turrets and battlements and
towers; a great deal of ivy grew upon its walls; all the broad, open
space about it was laid out in terraces and lawns and beds of brilliant
flowers.

“It's the most beautiful place I ever saw!” said Cedric, his round face
flushing with pleasure. “It reminds any one of a king's palace. I saw a
picture of one once in a fairy-book.”

He saw the great entrance-door thrown open and many servants standing in
two lines looking at him. He wondered why they were standing there, and
admired their liveries very much. He did not know that they were there
to do honor to the little boy to whom all this splendor would one
day belong,--the beautiful castle like the fairy king's palace, the
magnificent park, the grand old trees, the dells full of ferns and
bluebells where the hares and rabbits played, the dappled, large-eyed
deer couching in the deep grass. It was only a couple of weeks since he
had sat with Mr. Hobbs among the potatoes and canned peaches, with his
legs dangling from the high stool; it would not have been possible for
him to realize that he had very much to do with all this grandeur. At
the head of the line of servants there stood an elderly woman in a rich,
plain black silk gown; she had gray hair and wore a cap. As he entered
the hall she stood nearer than the rest, and the child thought from the
look in her eyes that she was going to speak to him. Mr. Havisham, who
held his hand, paused a moment.

“This is Lord Fauntleroy, Mrs. Mellon,” he said. “Lord Fauntleroy, this
is Mrs. Mellon, who is the housekeeper.”

Cedric gave her his hand, his eyes lighting up.

“Was it you who sent the cat?” he said. “I'm much obliged to you,
ma'am.”

Mrs. Mellon's handsome old face looked as pleased as the face of the
lodge-keeper's wife had done.

“I should know his lordship anywhere,” she said to Mr. Havisham. “He has
the Captain's face and way. It's a great day, this, sir.”

Cedric wondered why it was a great day. He looked at Mrs. Mellon
curiously. It seemed to him for a moment as if there were tears in her
eyes, and yet it was evident she was not unhappy. She smiled down on
him.

“The cat left two beautiful kittens here,” she said; “they shall be sent
up to your lordship's nursery.”

Mr. Havisham said a few words to her in a low voice.

“In the library, sir,” Mrs. Mellon replied. “His lordship is to be taken
there alone.”


A few minutes later, the very tall footman in livery, who had escorted
Cedric to the library door, opened it and announced: “Lord Fauntleroy,
my lord,” in quite a majestic tone. If he was only a footman, he felt it
was rather a grand occasion when the heir came home to his own land and
possessions, and was ushered into the presence of the old Earl, whose
place and title he was to take.

Cedric crossed the threshold into the room. It was a very large and
splendid room, with massive carven furniture in it, and shelves upon
shelves of books; the furniture was so dark, and the draperies so heavy,
the diamond-paned windows were so deep, and it seemed such a distance
from one end of it to the other, that, since the sun had gone down, the
effect of it all was rather gloomy. For a moment Cedric thought there
was nobody in the room, but soon he saw that by the fire burning on the
wide hearth there was a large easy-chair and that in that chair some one
was sitting--some one who did not at first turn to look at him.

But he had attracted attention in one quarter at least. On the floor,
by the arm-chair, lay a dog, a huge tawny mastiff, with body and limbs
almost as big as a lion's; and this great creature rose majestically and
slowly, and marched toward the little fellow with a heavy step.

Then the person in the chair spoke. “Dougal,” he called, “come back,
sir.”

But there was no more fear in little Lord Fauntleroy's heart than there
was unkindness--he had been a brave little fellow all his life. He put
his hand on the big dog's collar in the most natural way in the world,
and they strayed forward together, Dougal sniffing as he went.

And then the Earl looked up. What Cedric saw was a large old man with
shaggy white hair and eyebrows, and a nose like an eagle's beak between
his deep, fierce eyes. What the Earl saw was a graceful, childish figure
in a black velvet suit, with a lace collar, and with love-locks waving
about the handsome, manly little face, whose eyes met his with a look of
innocent good-fellowship. If the Castle was like the palace in a fairy
story, it must be owned that little Lord Fauntleroy was himself rather
like a small copy of the fairy prince, though he was not at all aware
of the fact, and perhaps was rather a sturdy young model of a fairy.
But there was a sudden glow of triumph and exultation in the fiery old
Earl's heart as he saw what a strong, beautiful boy this grandson was,
and how unhesitatingly he looked up as he stood with his hand on the big
dog's neck. It pleased the grim old nobleman that the child should show
no shyness or fear, either of the dog or of himself.

Cedric looked at him just as he had looked at the woman at the lodge and
at the housekeeper, and came quite close to him.

“Are you the Earl?” he said. “I'm your grandson, you know, that Mr.
Havisham brought. I'm Lord Fauntleroy.”

He held out his hand because he thought it must be the polite and proper
thing to do even with earls. “I hope you are very well,” he continued,
with the utmost friendliness. “I'm very glad to see you.”

The Earl shook hands with him, with a curious gleam in his eyes; just at
first, he was so astonished that he scarcely knew what to say. He stared
at the picturesque little apparition from under his shaggy brows, and
took it all in from head to foot.

“Glad to see me, are you?” he said.

“Yes,” answered Lord Fauntleroy, “very.”

There was a chair near him, and he sat down on it; it was a high-backed,
rather tall chair, and his feet did not touch the floor when he had
settled himself in it, but he seemed to be quite comfortable as he sat
there, and regarded his august relative intently but modestly.

“I've kept wondering what you would look like,” he remarked. “I used to
lie in my berth in the ship and wonder if you would be anything like my
father.”

“Am I?” asked the Earl.

“Well,” Cedric replied, “I was very young when he died, and I may not
remember exactly how he looked, but I don't think you are like him.”

“You are disappointed, I suppose?” suggested his grandfather.

“Oh, no,” responded Cedric politely. “Of course you would like any one
to look like your father; but of course you would enjoy the way your
grandfather looked, even if he wasn't like your father. You know how it
is yourself about admiring your relations.”

The Earl leaned back in his chair and stared. He could not be said to
know how it was about admiring his relations. He had employed most of
his noble leisure in quarreling violently with them, in turning them out
of his house, and applying abusive epithets to them; and they all hated
him cordially.

“Any boy would love his grandfather,” continued Lord Fauntleroy,
“especially one that had been as kind to him as you have been.”

Another queer gleam came into the old nobleman's eyes.

“Oh!” he said, “I have been kind to you, have I?”

“Yes,” answered Lord Fauntleroy brightly; “I'm ever so much obliged to
you about Bridget, and the apple-woman, and Dick.”

“Bridget!” exclaimed the Earl. “Dick! The apple-woman!”

“Yes!” explained Cedric; “the ones you gave me all that money for--the
money you told Mr. Havisham to give me if I wanted it.”

“Ha!” ejaculated his lordship. “That's it, is it? The money you were
to spend as you liked. What did you buy with it? I should like to hear
something about that.”

He drew his shaggy eyebrows together and looked at the child sharply. He
was secretly curious to know in what way the lad had indulged himself.

“Oh!” said Lord Fauntleroy, “perhaps you didn't know about Dick and the
apple-woman and Bridget. I forgot you lived such a long way off from
them. They were particular friends of mine. And you see Michael had the
fever----”

“Who's Michael?” asked the Earl.

“Michael is Bridget's husband, and they were in great trouble. When a
man is sick and can't work and has twelve children, you know how it is.
And Michael has always been a sober man. And Bridget used to come to our
house and cry. And the evening Mr. Havisham was there, she was in the
kitchen crying, because they had almost nothing to eat and couldn't pay
the rent; and I went in to see her, and Mr. Havisham sent for me and he
said you had given him some money for me. And I ran as fast as I could
into the kitchen and gave it to Bridget; and that made it all right; and
Bridget could scarcely believe her eyes. That's why I'm so obliged to
you.”

“Oh!” said the Earl in his deep voice, “that was one of the things you
did for yourself, was it? What else?”

Dougal had been sitting by the tall chair; the great dog had taken its
place there when Cedric sat down. Several times it had turned and looked
up at the boy as if interested in the conversation. Dougal was a
solemn dog, who seemed to feel altogether too big to take life's
responsibilities lightly. The old Earl, who knew the dog well, had
watched it with secret interest. Dougal was not a dog whose habit it was
to make acquaintances rashly, and the Earl wondered somewhat to see how
quietly the brute sat under the touch of the childish hand. And, just
at this moment, the big dog gave little Lord Fauntleroy one more look
of dignified scrutiny, and deliberately laid its huge, lion-like head on
the boy's black-velvet knee.

The small hand went on stroking this new friend as Cedric answered:

“Well, there was Dick,” he said. “You'd like Dick, he's so square.”

This was an Americanism the Earl was not prepared for.

“What does that mean?” he inquired.

Lord Fauntleroy paused a moment to reflect. He was not very sure himself
what it meant. He had taken it for granted as meaning something very
creditable because Dick had been fond of using it.

“I think it means that he wouldn't cheat any one,” he exclaimed; “or
hit a boy who was under his size, and that he blacks people's boots
very well and makes them shine as much as he can. He's a perfessional
bootblack.”

“And he's one of your acquaintances, is he?” said the Earl.

“He is an old friend of mine,” replied his grandson. “Not quite as old
as Mr. Hobbs, but quite old. He gave me a present just before the ship
sailed.”

He put his hand into his pocket and drew forth a neatly folded red
object and opened it with an air of affectionate pride. It was the red
silk handkerchief with the large purple horse-shoes and heads on it.

“He gave me this,” said his young lordship. “I shall keep it always. You
can wear it round your neck or keep it in your pocket. He bought it with
the first money he earned after I bought Jake out and gave him the new
brushes. It's a keepsake. I put some poetry in Mr. Hobbs's watch. It
was, 'When this you see, remember me.' When this I see, I shall always
remember Dick.”

The sensations of the Right Honorable the Earl of Dorincourt could
scarcely be described. He was not an old nobleman who was very easily
bewildered, because he had seen a great deal of the world; but here was
something he found so novel that it almost took his lordly breath away,
and caused him some singular emotions. He had never cared for children;
he had been so occupied with his own pleasures that he had never had
time to care for them. His own sons had not interested him when they
were very young--though sometimes he remembered having thought Cedric's
father a handsome and strong little fellow. He had been so selfish
himself that he had missed the pleasure of seeing unselfishness in
others, and he had not known how tender and faithful and affectionate a
kind-hearted little child can be, and how innocent and unconscious are
its simple, generous impulses. A boy had always seemed to him a most
objectionable little animal, selfish and greedy and boisterous when not
under strict restraint; his own two eldest sons had given their tutors
constant trouble and annoyance, and of the younger one he fancied he had
heard few complaints because the boy was of no particular importance. It
had never once occurred to him that he should like his grandson; he had
sent for the little Cedric because his pride impelled him to do so. If
the boy was to take his place in the future, he did not wish his name
to be made ridiculous by descending to an uneducated boor. He had been
convinced the boy would be a clownish fellow if he were brought up in
America. He had no feeling of affection for the lad; his only hope was
that he should find him decently well-featured, and with a respectable
share of sense; he had been so disappointed in his other sons, and had
been made so furious by Captain Errol's American marriage, that he had
never once thought that anything creditable could come of it. When the
footman had announced Lord Fauntleroy, he had almost dreaded to look at
the boy lest he should find him all that he had feared. It was because
of this feeling that he had ordered that the child should be sent to
him alone. His pride could not endure that others should see his
disappointment if he was to be disappointed. His proud, stubborn old
heart therefore had leaped within him when the boy came forward with his
graceful, easy carriage, his fearless hand on the big dog's neck. Even
in the moments when he had hoped the most, the Earl had never hoped that
his grandson would look like that. It seemed almost too good to be true
that this should be the boy he had dreaded to see--the child of the
woman he so disliked--this little fellow with so much beauty and such
a brave, childish grace! The Earl's stern composure was quite shaken by
this startling surprise.

And then their talk began; and he was still more curiously moved, and
more and more puzzled. In the first place, he was so used to seeing
people rather afraid and embarrassed before him, that he had expected
nothing else but that his grandson would be timid or shy. But Cedric was
no more afraid of the Earl than he had been of Dougal. He was not bold;
he was only innocently friendly, and he was not conscious that there
could be any reason why he should be awkward or afraid. The Earl could
not help seeing that the little boy took him for a friend and treated
him as one, without having any doubt of him at all. It was quite plain
as the little fellow sat there in his tall chair and talked in his
friendly way that it had never occurred to him that this large,
fierce-looking old man could be anything but kind to him, and rather
pleased to see him there. And it was plain, too, that, in his childish
way, he wished to please and interest his grandfather. Cross, and
hard-hearted, and worldly as the old Earl was, he could not help feeling
a secret and novel pleasure in this very confidence. After all, it was
not disagreeable to meet some one who did not distrust him or shrink
from him, or seem to detect the ugly part of his nature; some one who
looked at him with clear, unsuspecting eyes,--if it was only a little
boy in a black velvet suit.

So the old man leaned back in his chair, and led his young companion
on to telling him still more of himself, and with that odd gleam in his
eyes watched the little fellow as he talked. Lord Fauntleroy was quite
willing to answer all his questions and chatted on in his genial little
way quite composedly. He told him all about Dick and Jake, and the
apple-woman, and Mr. Hobbs; he described the Republican Rally in all
the glory of its banners and transparencies, torches and rockets. In
the course of the conversation, he reached the Fourth of July and
the Revolution, and was just becoming enthusiastic, when he suddenly
recollected something and stopped very abruptly.

“What is the matter?” demanded his grandfather. “Why don't you go on?”

Lord Fauntleroy moved rather uneasily in his chair. It was evident to
the Earl that he was embarrassed by the thought which had just occurred
to him.

“I was just thinking that perhaps you mightn't like it,” he replied.
“Perhaps some one belonging to you might have been there. I forgot you
were an Englishman.”

“You can go on,” said my lord. “No one belonging to me was there. You
forgot you were an Englishman, too.”

“Oh! no,” said Cedric quickly. “I'm an American!”

“You are an Englishman,” said the Earl grimly. “Your father was an
Englishman.”

It amused him a little to say this, but it did not amuse Cedric. The lad
had never thought of such a development as this. He felt himself grow
quite hot up to the roots of his hair.

“I was born in America,” he protested. “You have to be an American if
you are born in America. I beg your pardon,” with serious politeness
and delicacy, “for contradicting you. Mr. Hobbs told me, if there were
another war, you know, I should have to--to be an American.”

The Earl gave a grim half laugh--it was short and grim, but it was a
laugh.

“You would, would you?” he said.

He hated America and Americans, but it amused him to see how serious and
interested this small patriot was. He thought that so good an American
might make a rather good Englishman when he was a man.

They had not time to go very deep into the Revolution again--and
indeed Lord Fauntleroy felt some delicacy about returning to the
subject--before dinner was announced.

Cedric left his chair and went to his noble kinsman. He looked down at
his gouty foot.

“Would you like me to help you?” he said politely. “You could lean on
me, you know. Once when Mr. Hobbs hurt his foot with a potato-barrel
rolling on it, he used to lean on me.”

The big footman almost periled his reputation and his situation by
smiling. He was an aristocratic footman who had always lived in the best
of noble families, and he had never smiled; indeed, he would have felt
himself a disgraced and vulgar footman if he had allowed himself to be
led by any circumstance whatever into such an indiscretion as a smile.
But he had a very narrow escape. He only just saved himself by staring
straight over the Earl's head at a very ugly picture.

The Earl looked his valiant young relative over from head to foot.

“Do you think you could do it?” he asked gruffly.

“I THINK I could,” said Cedric. “I'm strong. I'm seven, you know. You
could lean on your stick on one side, and on me on the other. Dick says
I've a good deal of muscle for a boy that's only seven.”

He shut his hand and moved it upward to his shoulder, so that the Earl
might see the muscle Dick had kindly approved of, and his face was so
grave and earnest that the footman found it necessary to look very hard
indeed at the ugly picture.

“Well,” said the Earl, “you may try.”

Cedric gave him his stick and began to assist him to rise. Usually, the
footman did this, and was violently sworn at when his lordship had an
extra twinge of gout. The Earl was not a very polite person as a rule,
and many a time the huge footmen about him quaked inside their imposing
liveries.

But this evening he did not swear, though his gouty foot gave him more
twinges than one. He chose to try an experiment. He got up slowly
and put his hand on the small shoulder presented to him with so much
courage. Little Lord Fauntleroy made a careful step forward, looking
down at the gouty foot.

“Just lean on me,” he said, with encouraging good cheer. “I'll walk very
slowly.”

If the Earl had been supported by the footman he would have rested less
on his stick and more on his assistant's arm. And yet it was part of his
experiment to let his grandson feel his burden as no light weight.
It was quite a heavy weight indeed, and after a few steps his young
lordship's face grew quite hot, and his heart beat rather fast, but he
braced himself sturdily, remembering his muscle and Dick's approval of
it.

“Don't be afraid of leaning on me,” he panted. “I'm all right--if--if it
isn't a very long way.”

It was not really very far to the dining-room, but it seemed rather a
long way to Cedric, before they reached the chair at the head of the
table. The hand on his shoulder seemed to grow heavier at every step,
and his face grew redder and hotter, and his breath shorter, but he
never thought of giving up; he stiffened his childish muscles, held his
head erect, and encouraged the Earl as he limped along.

“Does your foot hurt you very much when you stand on it?” he asked. “Did
you ever put it in hot water and mustard? Mr. Hobbs used to put his in
hot water. Arnica is a very nice thing, they tell me.”

The big dog stalked slowly beside them, and the big footman followed;
several times he looked very queer as he watched the little figure
making the very most of all its strength, and bearing its burden with
such good-will. The Earl, too, looked rather queer, once, as he glanced
sidewise down at the flushed little face. When they entered the room
where they were to dine, Cedric saw it was a very large and imposing
one, and that the footman who stood behind the chair at the head of the
table stared very hard as they came in.

But they reached the chair at last. The hand was removed from his
shoulder, and the Earl was fairly seated.

Cedric took out Dick's handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“It's a warm night, isn't it?” he said. “Perhaps you need a fire
because--because of your foot, but it seems just a little warm to me.”

His delicate consideration for his noble relative's feelings was such
that he did not wish to seem to intimate that any of his surroundings
were unnecessary.

“You have been doing some rather hard work,” said the Earl.

“Oh, no!” said Lord Fauntleroy, “it wasn't exactly hard, but I got a
little warm. A person will get warm in summer time.”

And he rubbed his damp curls rather vigorously with the gorgeous
handkerchief. His own chair was placed at the other end of the table,
opposite his grandfather's. It was a chair with arms, and intended for
a much larger individual than himself; indeed, everything he had seen so
far,--the great rooms, with their high ceilings, the massive furniture,
the big footman, the big dog, the Earl himself,--were all of proportions
calculated to make this little lad feel that he was very small, indeed.
But that did not trouble him; he had never thought himself very large
or important, and he was quite willing to accommodate himself even to
circumstances which rather overpowered him.

Perhaps he had never looked so little a fellow as when seated now in
his great chair, at the end of the table. Notwithstanding his solitary
existence, the Earl chose to live in some state. He was fond of his
dinner, and he dined in a formal style. Cedric looked at him across
a glitter of splendid glass and plate, which to his unaccustomed eyes
seemed quite dazzling. A stranger looking on might well have smiled at
the picture,--the great stately room, the big liveried servants, the
bright lights, the glittering silver and glass, the fierce-looking old
nobleman at the head of the table and the very small boy at the foot.
Dinner was usually a very serious matter with the Earl--and it was a
very serious matter with the cook, if his lordship was not pleased or
had an indifferent appetite. To-day, however, his appetite seemed a
trifle better than usual, perhaps because he had something to think of
beside the flavor of the entrees and the management of the gravies. His
grandson gave him something to think of. He kept looking at him across
the table. He did not say very much himself, but he managed to make the
boy talk. He had never imagined that he could be entertained by hearing
a child talk, but Lord Fauntleroy at once puzzled and amused him, and
he kept remembering how he had let the childish shoulder feel his weight
just for the sake of trying how far the boy's courage and endurance
would go, and it pleased him to know that his grandson had not quailed
and had not seemed to think even for a moment of giving up what he had
undertaken to do.

“You don't wear your coronet all the time?” remarked Lord Fauntleroy
respectfully.

“No,” replied the Earl, with his grim smile; “it is not becoming to me.”

“Mr. Hobbs said you always wore it,” said Cedric; “but after he thought
it over, he said he supposed you must sometimes take it off to put your
hat on.”

“Yes,” said the Earl, “I take it off occasionally.”

And one of the footmen suddenly turned aside and gave a singular little
cough behind his hand.

Cedric finished his dinner first, and then he leaned back in his chair
and took a survey of the room.

“You must be very proud of your house,” he said, “it's such a beautiful
house. I never saw anything so beautiful; but, of course, as I'm only
seven, I haven't seen much.”

“And you think I must be proud of it, do you?” said the Earl.

“I should think any one would be proud of it,” replied Lord Fauntleroy.
“I should be proud of it if it were my house. Everything about it is
beautiful. And the park, and those trees,--how beautiful they are, and
how the leaves rustle!”

Then he paused an instant and looked across the table rather wistfully.

“It's a very big house for just two people to live in, isn't it?” he
said.

“It is quite large enough for two,” answered the Earl. “Do you find it
too large?”

His little lordship hesitated a moment.

“I was only thinking,” he said, “that if two people lived in it who were
not very good companions, they might feel lonely sometimes.”

“Do you think I shall make a good companion?” inquired the Earl.

“Yes,” replied Cedric, “I think you will. Mr. Hobbs and I were great
friends. He was the best friend I had except Dearest.”

The Earl made a quick movement of his bushy eyebrows.

“Who is Dearest?”

“She is my mother,” said Lord Fauntleroy, in a rather low, quiet little
voice.

Perhaps he was a trifle tired, as his bed-time was nearing, and perhaps
after the excitement of the last few days it was natural he should be
tired, so perhaps, too, the feeling of weariness brought to him a vague
sense of loneliness in the remembrance that to-night he was not to sleep
at home, watched over by the loving eyes of that “best friend” of his.
They had always been “best friends,” this boy and his young mother. He
could not help thinking of her, and the more he thought of her the less
was he inclined to talk, and by the time the dinner was at an end the
Earl saw that there was a faint shadow on his face. But Cedric bore
himself with excellent courage, and when they went back to the library,
though the tall footman walked on one side of his master, the Earl's
hand rested on his grandson's shoulder, though not so heavily as before.

When the footman left them alone, Cedric sat down upon the hearth-rug
near Dougal. For a few minutes he stroked the dog's ears in silence and
looked at the fire.

The Earl watched him. The boy's eyes looked wistful and thoughtful, and
once or twice he gave a little sigh. The Earl sat still, and kept his
eyes fixed on his grandson.

“Fauntleroy,” he said at last, “what are you thinking of?”

Fauntleroy looked up with a manful effort at a smile.

“I was thinking about Dearest,” he said; “and--and I think I'd better
get up and walk up and down the room.”

He rose up, and put his hands in his small pockets, and began to walk to
and fro. His eyes were very bright, and his lips were pressed together,
but he kept his head up and walked firmly. Dougal moved lazily and
looked at him, and then stood up. He walked over to the child, and began
to follow him uneasily. Fauntleroy drew one hand from his pocket and
laid it on the dog's head.

“He's a very nice dog,” he said. “He's my friend. He knows how I feel.”

“How do you feel?” asked the Earl.

It disturbed him to see the struggle the little fellow was having with
his first feeling of homesickness, but it pleased him to see that he
was making so brave an effort to bear it well. He liked this childish
courage.

“Come here,” he said.

Fauntleroy went to him.

“I never was away from my own house before,” said the boy, with a
troubled look in his brown eyes. “It makes a person feel a strange
feeling when he has to stay all night in another person's castle instead
of in his own house. But Dearest is not very far away from me. She told
me to remember that--and--and I'm seven--and I can look at the picture
she gave me.”

He put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a small violet
velvet-covered case.

“This is it,” he said. “You see, you press this spring and it opens, and
she is in there!”

He had come close to the Earl's chair, and, as he drew forth the little
case, he leaned against the arm of it, and against the old man's arm,
too, as confidingly as if children had always leaned there.

“There she is,” he said, as the case opened; and he looked up with a
smile.

The Earl knitted his brows; he did not wish to see the picture, but he
looked at it in spite of himself; and there looked up at him from it
such a pretty young face--a face so like the child's at his side--that
it quite startled him.

“I suppose you think you are very fond of her,” he said.

“Yes,” answered Lord Fauntleroy, in a gentle tone, and with simple
directness; “I do think so, and I think it's true. You see, Mr. Hobbs
was my friend, and Dick and Bridget and Mary and Michael, they were my
friends, too; but Dearest--well, she is my CLOSE friend, and we always
tell each other everything. My father left her to me to take care of,
and when I am a man I am going to work and earn money for her.”

“What do you think of doing?” inquired his grandfather.

His young lordship slipped down upon the hearth-rug, and sat there with
the picture still in his hand. He seemed to be reflecting seriously,
before he answered.

“I did think perhaps I might go into business with Mr. Hobbs,” he said;
“but I should LIKE to be a President.”

“We'll send you to the House of Lords instead,” said his grandfather.

“Well,” remarked Lord Fauntleroy, “if I COULDN'T be a President, and if
that is a good business, I shouldn't mind. The grocery business is dull
sometimes.”

Perhaps he was weighing the matter in his mind, for he sat very quiet
after this, and looked at the fire for some time.

The Earl did not speak again. He leaned back in his chair and watched
him. A great many strange new thoughts passed through the old nobleman's
mind. Dougal had stretched himself out and gone to sleep with his head
on his huge paws. There was a long silence.


In about half an hour's time Mr. Havisham was ushered in. The great room
was very still when he entered. The Earl was still leaning back in his
chair. He moved as Mr. Havisham approached, and held up his hand in a
gesture of warning--it seemed as if he had scarcely intended to make the
gesture--as if it were almost involuntary. Dougal was still asleep, and
close beside the great dog, sleeping also, with his curly head upon his
arm, lay little Lord Fauntleroy.




VI

When Lord Fauntleroy wakened in the morning,--he had not wakened at all
when he had been carried to bed the night before,--the first sounds he
was conscious of were the crackling of a wood fire and the murmur of
voices.

“You will be careful, Dawson, not to say anything about it,” he heard
some one say. “He does not know why she is not to be with him, and the
reason is to be kept from him.”

“If them's his lordship's orders, mem,” another voice answered, “they'll
have to be kep', I suppose. But, if you'll excuse the liberty, mem, as
it's between ourselves, servant or no servant, all I have to say is,
it's a cruel thing,--parting that poor, pretty, young widdered cre'tur'
from her own flesh and blood, and him such a little beauty and a
nobleman born. James and Thomas, mem, last night in the servants' hall,
they both of 'em say as they never see anythink in their two lives--nor
yet no other gentleman in livery--like that little fellow's ways, as
innercent an' polite an' interested as if he'd been sitting there dining
with his best friend,--and the temper of a' angel, instead of one (if
you'll excuse me, mem), as it's well known, is enough to curdle your
blood in your veins at times. And as to looks, mem, when we was rung
for, James and me, to go into the library and bring him upstairs, and
James lifted him up in his arms, what with his little innercent face
all red and rosy, and his little head on James's shoulder and his hair
hanging down, all curly an' shinin', a prettier, takiner sight you'd
never wish to see. An' it's my opinion, my lord wasn't blind to it
neither, for he looked at him, and he says to James, 'See you don't wake
him!' he says.”

Cedric moved on his pillow, and turned over, opening his eyes.

There were two women in the room. Everything was bright and cheerful
with gay-flowered chintz. There was a fire on the hearth, and the
sunshine was streaming in through the ivy-entwined windows. Both women
came toward him, and he saw that one of them was Mrs. Mellon, the
housekeeper, and the other a comfortable, middle-aged woman, with a face
as kind and good-humored as a face could be.

“Good-morning, my lord,” said Mrs. Mellon. “Did you sleep well?”

His lordship rubbed his eyes and smiled.

“Good-morning,” he said. “I didn't know I was here.”

“You were carried upstairs when you were asleep,” said the housekeeper.
“This is your bedroom, and this is Dawson, who is to take care of you.”

Fauntleroy sat up in bed and held out his hand to Dawson, as he had held
it out to the Earl.

“How do you do, ma'am?” he said. “I'm much obliged to you for coming to
take care of me.”

“You can call her Dawson, my lord,” said the housekeeper with a smile.
“She is used to being called Dawson.”

“MISS Dawson, or MRS. Dawson?” inquired his lordship.

“Just Dawson, my lord,” said Dawson herself, beaming all over. “Neither
Miss nor Missis, bless your little heart! Will you get up now, and let
Dawson dress you, and then have your breakfast in the nursery?”

“I learned to dress myself many years ago, thank you,” answered
Fauntleroy. “Dearest taught me. 'Dearest' is my mamma. We had only Mary
to do all the work,--washing and all,--and so of course it wouldn't do
to give her so much trouble. I can take my bath, too, pretty well if
you'll just be kind enough to 'zamine the corners after I'm done.”

Dawson and the housekeeper exchanged glances.

“Dawson will do anything you ask her to,” said Mrs. Mellon.

“That I will, bless him,” said Dawson, in her comforting, good-humored
voice. “He shall dress himself if he likes, and I'll stand by, ready to
help him if he wants me.”

“Thank you,” responded Lord Fauntleroy; “it's a little hard sometimes
about the buttons, you know, and then I have to ask somebody.”

He thought Dawson a very kind woman, and before the bath and the
dressing were finished they were excellent friends, and he had found out
a great deal about her. He had discovered that her husband had been a
soldier and had been killed in a real battle, and that her son was a
sailor, and was away on a long cruise, and that he had seen pirates and
cannibals and Chinese people and Turks, and that he brought home strange
shells and pieces of coral which Dawson was ready to show at any moment,
some of them being in her trunk. All this was very interesting. He also
found out that she had taken care of little children all her life, and
that she had just come from a great house in another part of England,
where she had been taking care of a beautiful little girl whose name was
Lady Gwyneth Vaughn.

“And she is a sort of relation of your lordship's,” said Dawson. “And
perhaps sometime you may see her.”

“Do you think I shall?” said Fauntleroy. “I should like that. I never
knew any little girls, but I always like to look at them.”

When he went into the adjoining room to take his breakfast, and saw
what a great room it was, and found there was another adjoining it which
Dawson told him was his also, the feeling that he was very small indeed
came over him again so strongly that he confided it to Dawson, as he sat
down to the table on which the pretty breakfast service was arranged.

“I am a very little boy,” he said rather wistfully, “to live in such a
large castle, and have so many big rooms,--don't you think so?”

“Oh! come!” said Dawson, “you feel just a little strange at first,
that's all; but you'll get over that very soon, and then you'll like it
here. It's such a beautiful place, you know.”

“It's a very beautiful place, of course,” said Fauntleroy, with a little
sigh; “but I should like it better if I didn't miss Dearest so. I always
had my breakfast with her in the morning, and put the sugar and cream in
her tea for her, and handed her the toast. That made it very sociable,
of course.”

“Oh, well!” answered Dawson, comfortingly, “you know you can see her
every day, and there's no knowing how much you'll have to tell her.
Bless you! wait till you've walked about a bit and seen things,--the
dogs, and the stables with all the horses in them. There's one of them I
know you'll like to see----”

“Is there?” exclaimed Fauntleroy; “I'm very fond of horses. I was very
fond of Jim. He was the horse that belonged to Mr. Hobbs' grocery wagon.
He was a beautiful horse when he wasn't balky.”

“Well,” said Dawson, “you just wait till you've seen what's in the
stables. And, deary me, you haven't looked even into the very next room
yet!”

“What is there?” asked Fauntleroy.

“Wait until you've had your breakfast, and then you shall see,” said
Dawson.

At this he naturally began to grow curious, and he applied himself
assiduously to his breakfast. It seemed to him that there must be
something worth looking at, in the next room; Dawson had such a
consequential, mysterious air.

“Now, then,” he said, slipping off his seat a few minutes later; “I've
had enough. Can I go and look at it?”

Dawson nodded and led the way, looking more mysterious and important
than ever. He began to be very much interested indeed.

When she opened the door of the room, he stood upon the threshold and
looked about him in amazement. He did not speak; he only put his hands
in his pockets and stood there flushing up to his forehead and looking
in.

He flushed up because he was so surprised and, for the moment, excited.
To see such a place was enough to surprise any ordinary boy.

The room was a large one, too, as all the rooms seemed to be, and it
appeared to him more beautiful than the rest, only in a different way.
The furniture was not so massive and antique as was that in the rooms
he had seen downstairs; the draperies and rugs and walls were brighter;
there were shelves full of books, and on the tables were numbers of
toys,--beautiful, ingenious things,--such as he had looked at with
wonder and delight through the shop windows in New York.

“It looks like a boy's room,” he said at last, catching his breath a
little. “Whom do they belong to?”

“Go and look at them,” said Dawson. “They belong to you!”

“To me!” he cried; “to me? Why do they belong to me? Who gave them to
me?” And he sprang forward with a gay little shout. It seemed almost
too much to be believed. “It was Grandpapa!” he said, with his eyes as
bright as stars. “I know it was Grandpapa!”

“Yes, it was his lordship,” said Dawson; “and if you will be a nice
little gentleman, and not fret about things, and will enjoy yourself,
and be happy all the day, he will give you anything you ask for.”

It was a tremendously exciting morning. There were so many things to be
examined, so many experiments to be tried; each novelty was so absorbing
that he could scarcely turn from it to look at the next. And it was so
curious to know that all this had been prepared for himself alone; that,
even before he had left New York, people had come down from London
to arrange the rooms he was to occupy, and had provided the books and
playthings most likely to interest him.

“Did you ever know any one,” he said to Dawson, “who had such a kind
grandfather!”

Dawson's face wore an uncertain expression for a moment. She had not
a very high opinion of his lordship the Earl. She had not been in the
house many days, but she had been there long enough to hear the old
nobleman's peculiarities discussed very freely in the servants' hall.

“An' of all the wicious, savage, hill-tempered hold fellows it was ever
my hill-luck to wear livery hunder,” the tallest footman had said, “he's
the wiolentest and wust by a long shot.”

And this particular footman, whose name was Thomas, had also repeated to
his companions below stairs some of the Earl's remarks to Mr. Havisham,
when they had been discussing these very preparations.

“Give him his own way, and fill his rooms with toys,” my lord had said.
“Give him what will amuse him, and he'll forget about his mother quickly
enough. Amuse him, and fill his mind with other things, and we shall
have no trouble. That's boy nature.”

So, perhaps, having had this truly amiable object in view, it did not
please him so very much to find it did not seem to be exactly this
particular boy's nature. The Earl had passed a bad night and had spent
the morning in his room; but at noon, after he had lunched, he sent for
his grandson.

Fauntleroy answered the summons at once. He came down the broad
staircase with a bounding step; the Earl heard him run across the hall,
and then the door opened and he came in with red cheeks and sparkling
eyes.

“I was waiting for you to send for me,” he said. “I was ready a long
time ago. I'm EVER so much obliged to you for all those things! I'm EVER
so much obliged to you! I have been playing with them all the morning.”

“Oh!” said the Earl, “you like them, do you?”

“I like them so much--well, I couldn't tell you how much!” said
Fauntleroy, his face glowing with delight. “There's one that's like
baseball, only you play it on a board with black and white pegs, and you
keep your score with some counters on a wire. I tried to teach Dawson,
but she couldn't quite understand it just at first--you see, she never
played baseball, being a lady; and I'm afraid I wasn't very good at
explaining it to her. But you know all about it, don't you?”

“I'm afraid I don't,” replied the Earl. “It's an American game, isn't
it? Is it something like cricket?”

“I never saw cricket,” said Fauntleroy; “but Mr. Hobbs took me several
times to see baseball. It's a splendid game. You get so excited! Would
you like me to go and get my game and show it to you? Perhaps it would
amuse you and make you forget about your foot. Does your foot hurt you
very much this morning?”

“More than I enjoy,” was the answer.

“Then perhaps you couldn't forget it,” said the little fellow anxiously.
“Perhaps it would bother you to be told about the game. Do you think it
would amuse you, or do you think it would bother you?”

“Go and get it,” said the Earl.

It certainly was a novel entertainment this,--making a companion of a
child who offered to teach him to play games,--but the very novelty of
it amused him. There was a smile lurking about the Earl's mouth when
Cedric came back with the box containing the game, in his arms, and an
expression of the most eager interest on his face.

“May I pull that little table over here to your chair?” he asked.

“Ring for Thomas,” said the Earl. “He will place it for you.”

“Oh, I can do it myself,” answered Fauntleroy. “It's not very heavy.”

“Very well,” replied his grandfather. The lurking smile deepened on the
old man's face as he watched the little fellow's preparations; there was
such an absorbed interest in them. The small table was dragged forward
and placed by his chair, and the game taken from its box and arranged
upon it.

“It's very interesting when you once begin,” said Fauntleroy. “You see,
the black pegs can be your side and the white ones mine. They're men,
you know, and once round the field is a home run and counts one--and
these are the outs--and here is the first base and that's the second and
that's the third and that's the home base.”

He entered into the details of explanation with the greatest animation.
He showed all the attitudes of pitcher and catcher and batter in the
real game, and gave a dramatic description of a wonderful “hot ball”
 he had seen caught on the glorious occasion on which he had witnessed a
match in company with Mr. Hobbs. His vigorous, graceful little body, his
eager gestures, his simple enjoyment of it all, were pleasant to behold.

When at last the explanations and illustrations were at an end and the
game began in good earnest, the Earl still found himself entertained.
His young companion was wholly absorbed; he played with all his childish
heart; his gay little laughs when he made a good throw, his enthusiasm
over a “home run,” his impartial delight over his own good luck and his
opponent's, would have given a flavor to any game.

If, a week before, any one had told the Earl of Dorincourt that on that
particular morning he would be forgetting his gout and his bad temper
in a child's game, played with black and white wooden pegs, on a gayly
painted board, with a curly-headed small boy for a companion, he would
without doubt have made himself very unpleasant; and yet he certainly
had forgotten himself when the door opened and Thomas announced a
visitor.

The visitor in question, who was an elderly gentleman in black, and no
less a person than the clergyman of the parish, was so startled by the
amazing scene which met his eye, that he almost fell back a pace, and
ran some risk of colliding with Thomas.

There was, in fact, no part of his duty that the Reverend Mr. Mordaunt
found so decidedly unpleasant as that part which compelled him to call
upon his noble patron at the Castle. His noble patron, indeed, usually
made these visits as disagreeable as it lay in his lordly power to make
them. He abhorred churches and charities, and flew into violent rages
when any of his tenantry took the liberty of being poor and ill and
needing assistance. When his gout was at its worst, he did not hesitate
to announce that he would not be bored and irritated by being told
stories of their miserable misfortunes; when his gout troubled him less
and he was in a somewhat more humane frame of mind, he would perhaps
give the rector some money, after having bullied him in the most
painful manner, and berated the whole parish for its shiftlessness and
imbecility. But, whatsoever his mood, he never failed to make as many
sarcastic and embarrassing speeches as possible, and to cause the
Reverend Mr. Mordaunt to wish it were proper and Christian-like to throw
something heavy at him. During all the years in which Mr. Mordaunt
had been in charge of Dorincourt parish, the rector certainly did not
remember having seen his lordship, of his own free will, do any one a
kindness, or, under any circumstances whatever, show that he thought of
any one but himself.

He had called to-day to speak to him of a specially pressing case, and
as he had walked up the avenue, he had, for two reasons, dreaded his
visit more than usual. In the first place, he knew that his lordship
had for several days been suffering with the gout, and had been in
so villainous a humor that rumors of it had even reached the
village--carried there by one of the young women servants, to her
sister, who kept a little shop and retailed darning-needles and cotton
and peppermints and gossip, as a means of earning an honest living.
What Mrs. Dibble did not know about the Castle and its inmates, and the
farm-houses and their inmates, and the village and its population, was
really not worth being talked about. And of course she knew everything
about the Castle, because her sister, Jane Shorts, was one of the upper
housemaids, and was very friendly and intimate with Thomas.

“And the way his lordship do go on!” said Mrs. Dibble, over the counter,
“and the way he do use language, Mr. Thomas told Jane herself, no flesh
and blood as is in livery could stand--for throw a plate of toast at Mr.
Thomas, hisself, he did, not more than two days since, and if it weren't
for other things being agreeable and the society below stairs most
genteel, warning would have been gave within a' hour!”

And the rector had heard all this, for somehow the Earl was a favorite
black sheep in the cottages and farm-houses, and his bad behavior gave
many a good woman something to talk about when she had company to tea.

And the second reason was even worse, because it was a new one and had
been talked about with the most excited interest.

Who did not know of the old nobleman's fury when his handsome son the
Captain had married the American lady? Who did not know how cruelly he
had treated the Captain, and how the big, gay, sweet-smiling young man,
who was the only member of the grand family any one liked, had died in
a foreign land, poor and unforgiven? Who did not know how fiercely his
lordship had hated the poor young creature who had been this son's wife,
and how he had hated the thought of her child and never meant to see the
boy--until his two sons died and left him without an heir? And then,
who did not know that he had looked forward without any affection or
pleasure to his grandson's coming, and that he had made up his mind that
he should find the boy a vulgar, awkward, pert American lad, more likely
to disgrace his noble name than to honor it?

The proud, angry old man thought he had kept all his thoughts secret. He
did not suppose any one had dared to guess at, much less talk over what
he felt, and dreaded; but his servants watched him, and read his
face and his ill-humors and fits of gloom, and discussed them in the
servants' hall. And while he thought himself quite secure from the
common herd, Thomas was telling Jane and the cook, and the butler, and
the housemaids and the other footmen that it was his opinion that “the
hold man was wuss than usual a-thinkin' hover the Capting's boy, an'
hanticipatin' as he won't be no credit to the fambly. An' serve him
right,” added Thomas; “hit's 'is hown fault. Wot can he iggspect from a
child brought up in pore circumstances in that there low Hamerica?”

And as the Reverend Mr. Mordaunt walked under the great trees, he
remembered that this questionable little boy had arrived at the Castle
only the evening before, and that there were nine chances to one that
his lordship's worst fears were realized, and twenty-two chances to one
that if the poor little fellow had disappointed him, the Earl was even
now in a tearing rage, and ready to vent all his rancor on the first
person who called--which it appeared probable would be his reverend
self.

Judge then of his amazement when, as Thomas opened the library door, his
ears were greeted by a delighted ring of childish laughter.

“That's two out!” shouted an excited, clear little voice. “You see it's
two out!”

And there was the Earl's chair, and the gout-stool, and his foot on
it; and by him a small table and a game on it; and quite close to him,
actually leaning against his arm and his ungouty knee, was a little boy
with face glowing, and eyes dancing with excitement. “It's two out!” the
little stranger cried. “You hadn't any luck that time, had you?”--And
then they both recognized at once that some one had come in.

The Earl glanced around, knitting his shaggy eyebrows as he had a
trick of doing, and when he saw who it was, Mr. Mordaunt was still
more surprised to see that he looked even less disagreeable than usual
instead of more so. In fact, he looked almost as if he had forgotten for
the moment how disagreeable he was, and how unpleasant he really could
make himself when he tried.

“Ah!” he said, in his harsh voice, but giving his hand rather
graciously. “Good-morning, Mordaunt. I've found a new employment, you
see.”

He put his other hand on Cedric's shoulder,--perhaps deep down in his
heart there was a stir of gratified pride that it was such an heir he
had to present; there was a spark of something like pleasure in his eyes
as he moved the boy slightly forward.

“This is the new Lord Fauntleroy,” he said. “Fauntleroy, this is Mr.
Mordaunt, the rector of the parish.”

Fauntleroy looked up at the gentleman in the clerical garments, and gave
him his hand.

“I am very glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said, remembering
the words he had heard Mr. Hobbs use on one or two occasions when he had
been greeting a new customer with ceremony.

Cedric felt quite sure that one ought to be more than usually polite to
a minister.

Mr. Mordaunt held the small hand in his a moment as he looked down at
the child's face, smiling involuntarily. He liked the little fellow from
that instant--as in fact people always did like him. And it was not the
boy's beauty and grace which most appealed to him; it was the simple,
natural kindliness in the little lad which made any words he uttered,
however quaint and unexpected, sound pleasant and sincere. As the rector
looked at Cedric, he forgot to think of the Earl at all. Nothing in the
world is so strong as a kind heart, and somehow this kind little
heart, though it was only the heart of a child, seemed to clear all the
atmosphere of the big gloomy room and make it brighter.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Fauntleroy,” said the
rector. “You made a long journey to come to us. A great many people will
be glad to know you made it safely.”

“It WAS a long way,” answered Fauntleroy, “but Dearest, my mother, was
with me and I wasn't lonely. Of course you are never lonely if your
mother is with you; and the ship was beautiful.”

“Take a chair, Mordaunt,” said the Earl. Mr. Mordaunt sat down. He
glanced from Fauntleroy to the Earl.

“Your lordship is greatly to be congratulated,” he said warmly.

But the Earl plainly had no intention of showing his feelings on the
subject.

“He is like his father,” he said rather gruffly. “Let us hope he'll
conduct himself more creditably.” And then he added: “Well, what is it
this morning, Mordaunt? Who is in trouble now?”

This was not as bad as Mr. Mordaunt had expected, but he hesitated a
second before he began.

“It is Higgins,” he said; “Higgins of Edge Farm. He has been very
unfortunate. He was ill himself last autumn, and his children had
scarlet fever. I can't say that he is a very good manager, but he has
had ill-luck, and of course he is behindhand in many ways. He is in
trouble about his rent now. Newick tells him if he doesn't pay it, he
must leave the place; and of course that would be a very serious matter.
His wife is ill, and he came to me yesterday to beg me to see about
it, and ask you for time. He thinks if you would give him time he could
catch up again.”

“They all think that,” said the Earl, looking rather black.

Fauntleroy made a movement forward. He had been standing between his
grandfather and the visitor, listening with all his might. He had begun
to be interested in Higgins at once. He wondered how many children there
were, and if the scarlet fever had hurt them very much. His eyes were
wide open and were fixed upon Mr. Mordaunt with intent interest as that
gentleman went on with the conversation.

“Higgins is a well-meaning man,” said the rector, making an effort to
strengthen his plea.

“He is a bad enough tenant,” replied his lordship. “And he is always
behindhand, Newick tells me.”

“He is in great trouble now,” said the rector.

“He is very fond of his wife and children, and if the farm is taken
from him they may literally starve. He can not give them the nourishing
things they need. Two of the children were left very low after the
fever, and the doctor orders for them wine and luxuries that Higgins can
not afford.”

At this Fauntleroy moved a step nearer.

“That was the way with Michael,” he said.

The Earl slightly started.

“I forgot YOU!” he said. “I forgot we had a philanthropist in the room.
Who was Michael?” And the gleam of queer amusement came back into the
old man's deep-set eyes.

“He was Bridget's husband, who had the fever,” answered Fauntleroy; “and
he couldn't pay the rent or buy wine and things. And you gave me that
money to help him.”

The Earl drew his brows together into a curious frown, which somehow was
scarcely grim at all. He glanced across at Mr. Mordaunt.

“I don't know what sort of landed proprietor he will make,” he said.
“I told Havisham the boy was to have what he wanted--anything he
wanted--and what he wanted, it seems, was money to give to beggars.”

“Oh! but they weren't beggars,” said Fauntleroy eagerly. “Michael was a
splendid bricklayer! They all worked.”

“Oh!” said the Earl, “they were not beggars. They were splendid
bricklayers, and bootblacks, and apple-women.”

He bent his gaze on the boy for a few seconds in silence. The fact was
that a new thought was coming to him, and though, perhaps, it was not
prompted by the noblest emotions, it was not a bad thought. “Come here,”
 he said, at last.

Fauntleroy went and stood as near to him as possible without encroaching
on the gouty foot.

“What would YOU do in this case?” his lordship asked.

It must be confessed that Mr. Mordaunt experienced for the moment a
curious sensation. Being a man of great thoughtfulness, and having spent
so many years on the estate of Dorincourt, knowing the tenantry, rich
and poor, the people of the village, honest and industrious, dishonest
and lazy, he realized very strongly what power for good or evil would be
given in the future to this one small boy standing there, his brown eyes
wide open, his hands deep in his pockets; and the thought came to him
also that a great deal of power might, perhaps, through the caprice of
a proud, self-indulgent old man, be given to him now, and that if his
young nature were not a simple and generous one, it might be the worst
thing that could happen, not only for others, but for himself.

“And what would YOU do in such a case?” demanded the Earl.

Fauntleroy drew a little nearer, and laid one hand on his knee, with the
most confiding air of good comradeship.

“If I were very rich,” he said, “and not only just a little boy, I
should let him stay, and give him the things for his children; but
then, I am only a boy.” Then, after a second's pause, in which his face
brightened visibly, “YOU can do anything, can't you?” he said.

“Humph!” said my lord, staring at him. “That's your opinion, is it?” And
he was not displeased either.

“I mean you can give any one anything,” said Fauntleroy. “Who's Newick?”

“He is my agent,” answered the Earl, “and some of my tenants are not
over-fond of him.”

“Are you going to write him a letter now?” inquired Fauntleroy. “Shall I
bring you the pen and ink? I can take the game off this table.”

It plainly had not for an instant occurred to him that Newick would be
allowed to do his worst.

The Earl paused a moment, still looking at him. “Can you write?” he
asked.

“Yes,” answered Cedric, “but not very well.”

“Move the things from the table,” commanded my lord, “and bring the pen
and ink, and a sheet of paper from my desk.”

Mr. Mordaunt's interest began to increase. Fauntleroy did as he was told
very deftly. In a few moments, the sheet of paper, the big inkstand, and
the pen were ready.

“There!” he said gayly, “now you can write it.”

“You are to write it,” said the Earl.

“I!” exclaimed Fauntleroy, and a flush overspread his forehead. “Will
it do if I write it? I don't always spell quite right when I haven't a
dictionary, and nobody tells me.”

“It will do,” answered the Earl. “Higgins will not complain of the
spelling. I'm not the philanthropist; you are. Dip your pen in the ink.”

Fauntleroy took up the pen and dipped it in the ink-bottle, then he
arranged himself in position, leaning on the table.

“Now,” he inquired, “what must I say?”

“You may say, 'Higgins is not to be interfered with, for the present,'
and sign it, 'Fauntleroy,'” said the Earl.

Fauntleroy dipped his pen in the ink again, and resting his arm, began
to write. It was rather a slow and serious process, but he gave his
whole soul to it. After a while, however, the manuscript was complete,
and he handed it to his grandfather with a smile slightly tinged with
anxiety.

“Do you think it will do?” he asked.

The Earl looked at it, and the corners of his mouth twitched a little.

“Yes,” he answered; “Higgins will find it entirely satisfactory.” And he
handed it to Mr. Mordaunt.

What Mr. Mordaunt found written was this:


“Dear mr. Newik if you pleas mr. higins is not to be intur feared with
for the present and oblige. Yours rispecferly,

“FAUNTLEROY.”


“Mr. Hobbs always signed his letters that way,” said Fauntleroy; “and I
thought I'd better say 'please.' Is that exactly the right way to spell
'interfered'?”

“It's not exactly the way it is spelled in the dictionary,” answered the
Earl.

“I was afraid of that,” said Fauntleroy. “I ought to have asked. You
see, that's the way with words of more than one syllable; you have to
look in the dictionary. It's always safest. I'll write it over again.”

And write it over again he did, making quite an imposing copy, and
taking precautions in the matter of spelling by consulting the Earl
himself.

“Spelling is a curious thing,” he said. “It's so often different
from what you expect it to be. I used to think 'please' was spelled
p-l-e-e-s, but it isn't, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled
d-e-r-e, if you didn't inquire. Sometimes it almost discourages you.”

When Mr. Mordaunt went away, he took the letter with him, and he took
something else with him also--namely, a pleasanter feeling and a more
hopeful one than he had ever carried home with him down that avenue on
any previous visit he had made at Dorincourt Castle.

When he was gone, Fauntleroy, who had accompanied him to the door, went
back to his grandfather.

“May I go to Dearest now?” he asked. “I think she will be waiting for
me.”

The Earl was silent a moment.

“There is something in the stable for you to see first,” he said. “Ring
the bell.”

“If you please,” said Fauntleroy, with his quick little flush. “I'm very
much obliged; but I think I'd better see it to-morrow. She will be
expecting me all the time.”

“Very well,” answered the Earl. “We will order the carriage.” Then he
added dryly, “It's a pony.”

Fauntleroy drew a long breath.

“A pony!” he exclaimed. “Whose pony is it?”

“Yours,” replied the Earl.

“Mine?” cried the little fellow. “Mine--like the things upstairs?”

“Yes,” said his grandfather. “Would you like to see it? Shall I order it
to be brought around?”

Fauntleroy's cheeks grew redder and redder.

“I never thought I should have a pony!” he said. “I never thought that!
How glad Dearest will be. You give me EVERYthing, don't you?”

“Do you wish to see it?” inquired the Earl.

Fauntleroy drew a long breath. “I WANT to see it,” he said. “I want to
see it so much I can hardly wait. But I'm afraid there isn't time.”

“You MUST go and see your mother this afternoon?” asked the Earl. “You
think you can't put it off?”

“Why,” said Fauntleroy, “she has been thinking about me all the morning,
and I have been thinking about her!”

“Oh!” said the Earl. “You have, have you? Ring the bell.”

As they drove down the avenue, under the arching trees, he was rather
silent. But Fauntleroy was not. He talked about the pony. What color was
it? How big was it? What was its name? What did it like to eat best? How
old was it? How early in the morning might he get up and see it?

“Dearest will be so glad!” he kept saying. “She will be so much obliged
to you for being so kind to me! She knows I always liked ponies so much,
but we never thought I should have one. There was a little boy on Fifth
Avenue who had one, and he used to ride out every morning and we used to
take a walk past his house to see him.”

He leaned back against the cushions and regarded the Earl with rapt
interest for a few minutes and in entire silence.

“I think you must be the best person in the world,” he burst forth at
last. “You are always doing good, aren't you?--and thinking about other
people. Dearest says that is the best kind of goodness; not to think
about yourself, but to think about other people. That is just the way
you are, isn't it?”

His lordship was so dumfounded to find himself presented in such
agreeable colors, that he did not know exactly what to say. He felt that
he needed time for reflection. To see each of his ugly, selfish motives
changed into a good and generous one by the simplicity of a child was a
singular experience.

Fauntleroy went on, still regarding him with admiring eyes--those great,
clear, innocent eyes!

“You make so many people happy,” he said. “There's Michael and Bridget
and their ten children, and the apple-woman, and Dick, and Mr.
Hobbs, and Mr. Higgins and Mrs. Higgins and their children, and Mr.
Mordaunt,--because of course he was glad,--and Dearest and me, about
the pony and all the other things. Do you know, I've counted it up on
my fingers and in my mind, and it's twenty-seven people you've been kind
to. That's a good many--twenty-seven!”

“And I was the person who was kind to them--was I?” said the Earl.

“Why, yes, you know,” answered Fauntleroy. “You made them all happy.
Do you know,” with some delicate hesitation, “that people are sometimes
mistaken about earls when they don't know them. Mr. Hobbs was. I am
going to write him, and tell him about it.”

“What was Mr. Hobbs's opinion of earls?” asked his lordship.

“Well, you see, the difficulty was,” replied his young companion,
“that he didn't know any, and he'd only read about them in books. He
thought--you mustn't mind it--that they were gory tyrants; and he said
he wouldn't have them hanging around his store. But if he'd known YOU,
I'm sure he would have felt quite different. I shall tell him about
you.”

“What shall you tell him?”

“I shall tell him,” said Fauntleroy, glowing with enthusiasm, “that
you are the kindest man I ever heard of. And you are always thinking of
other people, and making them happy and--and I hope when I grow up, I
shall be just like you.”

“Just like me!” repeated his lordship, looking at the little kindling
face. And a dull red crept up under his withered skin, and he suddenly
turned his eyes away and looked out of the carriage window at the great
beech-trees, with the sun shining on their glossy, red-brown leaves.

“JUST like you,” said Fauntleroy, adding modestly, “if I can. Perhaps
I'm not good enough, but I'm going to try.”

The carriage rolled on down the stately avenue under the beautiful,
broad-branched trees, through the spaces of green shade and lanes of
golden sunlight. Fauntleroy saw again the lovely places where the ferns
grew high and the bluebells swayed in the breeze; he saw the deer,
standing or lying in the deep grass, turn their large, startled eyes as
the carriage passed, and caught glimpses of the brown rabbits as they
scurried away. He heard the whir of the partridges and the calls and
songs of the birds, and it all seemed even more beautiful to him than
before. All his heart was filled with pleasure and happiness in the
beauty that was on every side. But the old Earl saw and heard very
different things, though he was apparently looking out too. He saw
a long life, in which there had been neither generous deeds nor kind
thoughts; he saw years in which a man who had been young and strong and
rich and powerful had used his youth and strength and wealth and power
only to please himself and kill time as the days and years succeeded
each other; he saw this man, when the time had been killed and old age
had come, solitary and without real friends in the midst of all his
splendid wealth; he saw people who disliked or feared him, and people
who would flatter and cringe to him, but no one who really cared whether
he lived or died, unless they had something to gain or lose by it. He
looked out on the broad acres which belonged to him, and he knew what
Fauntleroy did not--how far they extended, what wealth they represented,
and how many people had homes on their soil. And he knew, too,--another
thing Fauntleroy did not,--that in all those homes, humble or
well-to-do, there was probably not one person, however much he envied
the wealth and stately name and power, and however willing he would have
been to possess them, who would for an instant have thought of calling
the noble owner “good,” or wishing, as this simple-souled little boy
had, to be like him.

And it was not exactly pleasant to reflect upon, even for a cynical,
worldly old man, who had been sufficient unto himself for seventy years
and who had never deigned to care what opinion the world held of him so
long as it did not interfere with his comfort or entertainment. And the
fact was, indeed, that he had never before condescended to reflect
upon it at all; and he only did so now because a child had believed
him better than he was, and by wishing to follow in his illustrious
footsteps and imitate his example, had suggested to him the curious
question whether he was exactly the person to take as a model.

Fauntleroy thought the Earl's foot must be hurting him, his brows
knitted themselves together so, as he looked out at the park; and
thinking this, the considerate little fellow tried not to disturb him,
and enjoyed the trees and the ferns and the deer in silence.

But at last the carriage, having passed the gates and bowled through the
green lanes for a short distance, stopped. They had reached Court Lodge;
and Fauntleroy was out upon the ground almost before the big footman had
time to open the carriage door.

The Earl wakened from his reverie with a start.

“What!” he said. “Are we here?”

“Yes,” said Fauntleroy. “Let me give you your stick. Just lean on me
when you get out.”

“I am not going to get out,” replied his lordship brusquely.

“Not--not to see Dearest?” exclaimed Fauntleroy with astonished face.

“'Dearest' will excuse me,” said the Earl dryly. “Go to her and tell her
that not even a new pony would keep you away.”

“She will be disappointed,” said Fauntleroy. “She will want to see you
very much.”

“I am afraid not,” was the answer. “The carriage will call for you as we
come back.--Tell Jeffries to drive on, Thomas.”

Thomas closed the carriage door; and, after a puzzled look, Fauntleroy
ran up the drive. The Earl had the opportunity--as Mr. Havisham once
had--of seeing a pair of handsome, strong little legs flash over the
ground with astonishing rapidity. Evidently their owner had no intention
of losing any time. The carriage rolled slowly away, but his lordship
did not at once lean back; he still looked out. Through a space in the
trees he could see the house door; it was wide open. The little figure
dashed up the steps; another figure--a little figure, too, slender and
young, in its black gown--ran to meet it. It seemed as if they flew
together, as Fauntleroy leaped into his mother's arms, hanging about her
neck and covering her sweet young face with kisses.




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.




VIII

Lord Dorincourt had occasion to wear his grim smile many a time as
the days passed by. Indeed, as his acquaintance with his grandson
progressed, he wore the smile so often that there were moments when
it almost lost its grimness. There is no denying that before Lord
Fauntleroy had appeared on the scene, the old man had been growing very
tired of his loneliness and his gout and his seventy years. After so
long a life of excitement and amusement, it was not agreeable to sit
alone even in the most splendid room, with one foot on a gout-stool,
and with no other diversion than flying into a rage, and shouting at
a frightened footman who hated the sight of him. The old Earl was too
clever a man not to know perfectly well that his servants detested
him, and that even if he had visitors, they did not come for love of
him--though some found a sort of amusement in his sharp, sarcastic talk,
which spared no one. So long as he had been strong and well, he had gone
from one place to another, pretending to amuse himself, though he had
not really enjoyed it; and when his health began to fail, he felt tired
of everything and shut himself up at Dorincourt, with his gout and his
newspapers and his books. But he could not read all the time, and he
became more and more “bored,” as he called it. He hated the long nights
and days, and he grew more and more savage and irritable. And then
Fauntleroy came; and when the Earl saw him, fortunately for the little
fellow, the secret pride of the grandfather was gratified at the outset.
If Cedric had been a less handsome little fellow, the old man might have
taken so strong a dislike to him that he would not have given himself
the chance to see his grandson's finer qualities. But he chose to
think that Cedric's beauty and fearless spirit were the results of the
Dorincourt blood and a credit to the Dorincourt rank. And then when
he heard the lad talk, and saw what a well-bred little fellow he was,
notwithstanding his boyish ignorance of all that his new position meant,
the old Earl liked his grandson more, and actually began to find himself
rather entertained. It had amused him to give into those childish hands
the power to bestow a benefit on poor Higgins. My lord cared nothing
for poor Higgins, but it pleased him a little to think that his grandson
would be talked about by the country people and would begin to be
popular with the tenantry, even in his childhood. Then it had gratified
him to drive to church with Cedric and to see the excitement and
interest caused by the arrival. He knew how the people would speak of
the beauty of the little lad; of his fine, strong, straight body; of
his erect bearing, his handsome face, and his bright hair, and how they
would say (as the Earl had heard one woman exclaim to another) that the
boy was “every inch a lord.” My lord of Dorincourt was an arrogant old
man, proud of his name, proud of his rank, and therefore proud to show
the world that at last the House of Dorincourt had an heir who was
worthy of the position he was to fill.

The morning the new pony had been tried, the Earl had been so pleased
that he had almost forgotten his gout. When the groom had brought out
the pretty creature, which arched its brown, glossy neck and tossed its
fine head in the sun, the Earl had sat at the open window of the library
and had looked on while Fauntleroy took his first riding lesson. He
wondered if the boy would show signs of timidity. It was not a very
small pony, and he had often seen children lose courage in making their
first essay at riding.

Fauntleroy mounted in great delight. He had never been on a pony before,
and he was in the highest spirits. Wilkins, the groom, led the animal by
the bridle up and down before the library window.

“He's a well plucked un, he is,” Wilkins remarked in the stable
afterward with many grins. “It weren't no trouble to put HIM up. An' a
old un wouldn't ha' sat any straighter when he WERE up. He ses--ses
he to me, 'Wilkins,' he ses, 'am I sitting up straight? They sit up
straight at the circus,' ses he. An' I ses, 'As straight as a arrer,
your lordship!'--an' he laughs, as pleased as could be, an' he ses,
'That's right,' he ses, 'you tell me if I don't sit up straight,
Wilkins!'”

But sitting up straight and being led at a walk were not altogether and
completely satisfactory. After a few minutes, Fauntleroy spoke to his
grandfather--watching him from the window:

“Can't I go by myself?” he asked; “and can't I go faster? The boy on
Fifth Avenue used to trot and canter!”

“Do you think you could trot and canter?” said the Earl.

“I should like to try,” answered Fauntleroy.

His lordship made a sign to Wilkins, who at the signal brought up his
own horse and mounted it and took Fauntleroy's pony by the leading-rein.

“Now,” said the Earl, “let him trot.”

The next few minutes were rather exciting to the small equestrian. He
found that trotting was not so easy as walking, and the faster the pony
trotted, the less easy it was.

“It j-jolts a g-goo-good deal--do-doesn't it?” he said to Wilkins.
“D-does it j-jolt y-you?”

“No, my lord,” answered Wilkins. “You'll get used to it in time. Rise in
your stirrups.”

“I'm ri-rising all the t-time,” said Fauntleroy.

He was both rising and falling rather uncomfortably and with many shakes
and bounces. He was out of breath and his face grew red, but he held on
with all his might, and sat as straight as he could. The Earl could
see that from his window. When the riders came back within speaking
distance, after they had been hidden by the trees a few minutes,
Fauntleroy's hat was off, his cheeks were like poppies, and his lips
were set, but he was still trotting manfully.

“Stop a minute!” said his grandfather. “Where's your hat?”

Wilkins touched his. “It fell off, your lordship,” he said, with evident
enjoyment. “Wouldn't let me stop to pick it up, my lord.”

“Not much afraid, is he?” asked the Earl dryly.

“Him, your lordship!” exclaimed Wilkins. “I shouldn't say as he knowed
what it meant. I've taught young gen'lemen to ride afore, an' I never
see one stick on more determinder.”

“Tired?” said the Earl to Fauntleroy. “Want to get off?”

“It jolts you more than you think it will,” admitted his young lordship
frankly. “And it tires you a little, too; but I don't want to get off.
I want to learn how. As soon as I've got my breath I want to go back for
the hat.”

The cleverest person in the world, if he had undertaken to teach
Fauntleroy how to please the old man who watched him, could not have
taught him anything which would have succeeded better. As the pony
trotted off again toward the avenue, a faint color crept up in the
fierce old face, and the eyes, under the shaggy brows, gleamed with a
pleasure such as his lordship had scarcely expected to know again. And
he sat and watched quite eagerly until the sound of the horses' hoofs
returned. When they did come, which was after some time, they came at a
faster pace. Fauntleroy's hat was still off; Wilkins was carrying it for
him; his cheeks were redder than before, and his hair was flying about
his ears, but he came at quite a brisk canter.

“There!” he panted, as they drew up, “I c-cantered. I didn't do it as
well as the boy on Fifth Avenue, but I did it, and I staid on!”

He and Wilkins and the pony were close friends after that. Scarcely a
day passed in which the country people did not see them out together,
cantering gayly on the highroad or through the green lanes. The children
in the cottages would run to the door to look at the proud little brown
pony with the gallant little figure sitting so straight in the saddle,
and the young lord would snatch off his cap and swing it at them, and
shout, “Hullo! Good-morning!” in a very unlordly manner, though with
great heartiness. Sometimes he would stop and talk with the children,
and once Wilkins came back to the castle with a story of how Fauntleroy
had insisted on dismounting near the village school, so that a boy who
was lame and tired might ride home on his pony.

“An' I'm blessed,” said Wilkins, in telling the story at the
stables,--“I'm blessed if he'd hear of anything else! He wouldn't let
me get down, because he said the boy mightn't feel comfortable on a big
horse. An' ses he, 'Wilkins,' ses he, 'that boy's lame and I'm not,
and I want to talk to him, too.' And up the lad has to get, and my lord
trudges alongside of him with his hands in his pockets, and his cap on
the back of his head, a-whistling and talking as easy as you please!
And when we come to the cottage, an' the boy's mother come out all in a
taking to see what's up, he whips off his cap an' ses he, 'I've brought
your son home, ma'am,' ses he, 'because his leg hurt him, and I don't
think that stick is enough for him to lean on; and I'm going to ask my
grandfather to have a pair of crutches made for him.' An' I'm blessed if
the woman wasn't struck all of a heap, as well she might be! I thought I
should 'a' hex-plodid, myself!”

When the Earl heard the story he was not angry, as Wilkins had been
half afraid that he would be; on the contrary, he laughed outright, and
called Fauntleroy up to him, and made him tell all about the matter from
beginning to end, and then he laughed again. And actually, a few days
later, the Dorincourt carriage stopped in the green lane before the
cottage where the lame boy lived, and Fauntleroy jumped out and
walked up to the door, carrying a pair of strong, light, new crutches
shouldered like a gun, and presented them to Mrs. Hartle (the lame boy's
name was Hartle) with these words: “My grandfather's compliments, and if
you please, these are for your boy, and we hope he will get better.”

“I said your compliments,” he explained to the Earl when he returned to
the carriage. “You didn't tell me to, but I thought perhaps you forgot.
That was right, wasn't it?”

And the Earl laughed again, and did not say it was not. In fact, the two
were becoming more intimate every day, and every day Fauntleroy's faith
in his lordship's benevolence and virtue increased. He had no doubt
whatever that his grandfather was the most amiable and generous of
elderly gentlemen. Certainly, he himself found his wishes gratified
almost before they were uttered; and such gifts and pleasures were
lavished upon him, that he was sometimes almost bewildered by his own
possessions. Apparently, he was to have everything he wanted, and to
do everything he wished to do. And though this would certainly not have
been a very wise plan to pursue with all small boys, his young lordship
bore it amazingly well. Perhaps, notwithstanding his sweet nature, he
might have been somewhat spoiled by it, if it had not been for the
hours he spent with his mother at Court Lodge. That “best friend” of his
watched over him ever closely and tenderly. The two had many long talks
together, and he never went back to the Castle with her kisses on his
cheeks without carrying in his heart some simple, pure words worth
remembering.

There was one thing, it is true, which puzzled the little fellow very
much. He thought over the mystery of it much oftener than any one
supposed; even his mother did not know how often he pondered on it; the
Earl for a long time never suspected that he did so at all. But, being
quick to observe, the little boy could not help wondering why it was
that his mother and grandfather never seemed to meet. He had noticed
that they never did meet. When the Dorincourt carriage stopped at
Court Lodge, the Earl never alighted, and on the rare occasions of his
lordship's going to church, Fauntleroy was always left to speak to his
mother in the porch alone, or perhaps to go home with her. And
yet, every day, fruit and flowers were sent to Court Lodge from the
hot-houses at the Castle. But the one virtuous action of the Earl's
which had set him upon the pinnacle of perfection in Cedric's eyes, was
what he had done soon after that first Sunday when Mrs. Errol had walked
home from church unattended. About a week later, when Cedric was going
one day to visit his mother, he found at the door, instead of the large
carriage and prancing pair, a pretty little brougham and a handsome bay
horse.

“That is a present from you to your mother,” the Earl said abruptly.
“She can not go walking about the country. She needs a carriage. The man
who drives will take charge of it. It is a present from YOU.”

Fauntleroy's delight could but feebly express itself. He could scarcely
contain himself until he reached the lodge. His mother was gathering
roses in the garden. He flung himself out of the little brougham and
flew to her.

“Dearest!” he cried, “could you believe it? This is yours! He says it is
a present from me. It is your own carriage to drive everywhere in!”

He was so happy that she did not know what to say. She could not have
borne to spoil his pleasure by refusing to accept the gift even though
it came from the man who chose to consider himself her enemy. She was
obliged to step into the carriage, roses and all, and let herself be
taken to drive, while Fauntleroy told her stories of his grandfather's
goodness and amiability. They were such innocent stories that sometimes
she could not help laughing a little, and then she would draw her little
boy closer to her side and kiss him, feeling glad that he could see only
good in the old man, who had so few friends.

The very next day after that, Fauntleroy wrote to Mr. Hobbs. He wrote
quite a long letter, and after the first copy was written, he brought it
to his grandfather to be inspected.

“Because,” he said, “it's so uncertain about the spelling. And if you'll
tell me the mistakes, I'll write it out again.”

This was what he had written:


“My dear mr hobbs i want to tell you about my granfarther he is the best
earl you ever new it is a mistake about earls being tirents he is not a
tirent at all i wish you new him you would be good friends i am sure
you would he has the gout in his foot and is a grate sufrer but he is
so pashent i love him more every day becaus no one could help loving an
earl like that who is kind to every one in this world i wish you
could talk to him he knows everything in the world you can ask him any
question but he has never plaid base ball he has given me a pony an

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