A Christmas Child: A Sketch of a Boy-Life

But "possible" was not quickly at all in the case of poor Cissy and her companion. Polly was of a calm and placid nature, with something of the resignation to evils that one sees in the peasant class all over the world; but Narcissa, impulsive and sensitive, with her dainty dislike to mud, and her unaccustomedness to such adventures, could not long restrain her tears, and under the waterproof cloak she cried sadly, feeling frightened too at the angry gusts of rain and wind which sounded to her like the voices of ogres waiting to seize them and carry them off to some dreadful cavern.

The summit of their misfortunes seemed reached when they toppled over and lay for a moment or two helplessly struggling on the wet ground. But oh, what delight to hear Esther's kind voice, and how Cissy clung to her and sobbed out her woes! She was more than half comforted again by the time they reached the farm-house, and just as mother was considering whether it would not be better to undress them in the kitchen before the fire and bring down their dry clothes, Master Ted, "very wet, yes very wet, oh very wet indeed," made his appearance, with rosy cheeks and a general look of self-satisfaction.

"Did they get home all right?" he said, cheerily. "It was a good thing you brought the cloak, mother. And the wood isn't so wet after all."

And an hour or two later, dried and consoled and sitting round the kitchen table for an extra good tea to which Mrs. Crosby had invited them, all the children agreed that after all the expedition had not turned out badly.

But the weather had changed there was no doubt; for the time at least the sunny days were over. The party in the farm-house had grown smaller too, for the uncles had had to leave, and even the children's father had been summoned away unexpectedly to London. And a day or two after the children's picnic their mother stood at the window rather anxiously looking out at the ever-falling rain.

"It really looks like as if it would never leave off," she said, and there was some reason for her feeling distressed. She had hoped for a letter from the children's father that day, and very probably it was lying at the two-miles-and-a-half-off post-office, waiting for some one to fetch it. For it was not one of the postman's days for coming round by the farm-house; that only happened twice a week, but hitherto this had been of little consequence to the farm-house visitors. Their letters perhaps had not been of such importance as to be watched for with much anxiety, and in the fine weather it was quite a pleasant little walk to the post-office by the fields and the stepping-stones across the river. But all this rain had so swollen the river that now the stepping-stones were useless; there was nothing for it but to take the long round by the road; and this added to the difficulty in another way, for it was not by any means every day that Mr. Crosby or his son were going in that direction, or that they could, at this busy season, spare a man so long off work. So the children's mother could not see how she was to get her letter if this rain continued – at least not for several days, for the old postman had called yesterday – he would not take the round of the Skensdale farm for another three or four days at least, and even then, the post-office people were now so accustomed to some of the "gentry" calling for their letters themselves, that it was doubtful, not certain at least, if they would think of giving them to the regular carrier. And with some anxiety, for her husband had gone to London on business of importance, Ted's mother went to bed.

Early next morning she was awakened by a tap at the door, a gentle little tap. She almost fancied she had heard it before in her sleep without being really aroused.

"Come in," she said, and a very business-like figure, which at the first glance she hardly recognised, made its appearance. It was Ted; dressed in waterproof from head to foot, cloak, leggings, and all, he really looked ready to defy the weather – a sort of miniature diver, for he had an oilskin cap on his head too, out of which gleamed his bright blue eyes, full of eagerness and excitement.

"Mother," he said, "I hope I haven't wakened you too soon. I got up early on purpose to see about your letters. It's still raining as hard as ever, and even if it left off, there'd be no crossing the stepping-stones for two or three days, Farmer Crosby says. And he can't spare any one to-day to go to the post. I'm the only one that can, so I've got ready, and don't you think I'd better go at once?"

Ted's mother looked out of the window. Oh, how it was pouring! She thought of the long walk – the two miles and a half through the dripping grass of the meadows, along the muddy, dreary road, and all the way back again; and then the possibility of the swollen river having escaped its bounds where the road lay low, came into her mind and frightened her. For Ted was a little fellow still – only eleven and a half, and slight and delicate for his age. And then she looked at him and saw the eager readiness in his eyes, and remembered that he was quick-witted and careful, and she reflected also that he must learn, sooner or later, to face risks and difficulties for himself.

"Ted, my boy," she said, "it's very nice of you to have thought of it, and I know it would be a great disappointment if I didn't let you go. But you'll promise me to be very careful – to do nothing rash or unwise; if the river is over the road, for instance, or there is the least danger, you'll turn back?"

"Yes, mother, I'll be very careful, really," said Ted. "I'll do nothing silly. Good-bye, mother; thank you so much for letting me go. I've got my stick, but there's no use taking an umbrella."

And off he set; his mother watching him from the window as far as she could see him, trudging bravely along – a quaint little figure – through the pouring rain. For more than a mile she could see him making his way along the meadow path, gradually lessening as the distance increased, till a little black speck was all she could distinguish, and then it too disappeared round the corner.

And an hour or so later, there were warm, dry boots and stockings before the fire, which even in August the continued rain made necessary, and a "beautiful" breakfast of hot coffee, and a regular north-country rasher of bacon, and Mrs. Crosby's home-made bread and butter, all waiting on the table. And Ted's mother took up her post again to watch for the reappearance of the tiny black speck, which was gradually to grow into her boy. It did not tarry. As soon as was possible it came in sight.

"How quick he has been – my dear, clever, good little Ted!" his mother said to herself. And you may be sure that she, and Cissy too, were both at the door to meet the little human water-rat, dripping, dripping all over, like "Johnny Head-in-air" in old "Struwelpeter," but with eyes as bright as any water-rat's, and cheeks rosy with cold and exercise and pleasure all mixed together, who, before he said a word, held out the precious letter.

"Here it is, mother – from father, just as you expected. I do hope it's got good news."

How could it bring other? Mother felt before she opened it that it could not contain any but good news, nor did it. Then she just gave her brave little boy one good kiss and one hearty "Thank you, Ted." For she did not want to spoil him by overpraise, or to take the bloom off what he evidently thought nothing out of the common, by exaggerating it.

And Ted enjoyed his breakfast uncommonly, I can assure you. He was only eleven and a half. I think our Ted showed that he had a sweet and brave spirit of his own; – don't you, children?

CHAPTER XI

"IT'S ONLY I, MOTHER."

"How well my own heart knewThat voice so clear and true."

The summer in the wolds, so long looked forward to, was over. It had been very happy, in spite of the rain having given the visitors at the Skensdale farm-house rather more of his company than they had bargained for, and it left many happy memories behind it.

And the coming home again was happy too. The days were beginning to "draw in" as people say, and "home," with its coal-fires – which, though not so picturesque, are ever so much warmer than wood ones, I assure you – its well-closing doors and shutters, its nice carpets and curtains, was after all a better place for chilly days and evenings than even the most interesting of farm-houses. And Ted had his school-work to think of too; he was anxious to take a very good place at the next examinations, for he was getting on for twelve, and "some day" he knew that he would have to go out into the world as it were, on his own account – to go away, that is to say, to a big boarding-school, as Percy had done before him.

He did work well, and he was rewarded, and this Christmas was a very happy one. There was plenty of skating, and Ted got on famously. Indeed, he learnt to be so clever at it, that Cissy used to feel quite proud, when people admired him for it, to think that he was her brother, though Ted himself took it quite simply. Skating was to him the greatest pleasure he knew. To feel oneself skimming along by one's own will, and yet with a power beyond oneself, was delightful past words.

"I do think," thought Ted to himself, one clear bright frosty day, when the sky was as blue, almost, as in summer, "I do think it's as nice as flying."

And then looking up, as he skimmed along, at the beautiful sky which winter or summer he loved so much, there came over him that same strange sweet wonder– the questioning he could not have put into words, as to whether the Heaven he often thought of in his dreamy childish way, was really up there, and what it was like, and what they did there. It must be happy and bright – happier and brighter even than down here, because there, in some way that Ted knew that neither he nor the wisest of mankind could explain, one would be nearer God. But yet it was difficult to understand how it could be much brighter and happier than this happy life down below. There was no good trying to understand, Ted decided. God understood, and that was enough. And as He had made us so happy here, He might be trusted to know what was best for us there. Only – yes, that was the greatest puzzle of all, far more puzzling than anything else —everybody was not happy here – alas! no, Ted knew enough to know that – many, many were not happy; many, many were not good, and had never even had a chance of becoming so. Ah, that was a puzzle!

"When I'm a man," thought Ted – and it was a thought that came to him often – "I'll try to do something for those poor boys in London."

For nothing had made more impression on Ted, during his stay in London, than the sight of the so-called "City Arabs," and all he had heard about them. He had even written a story on the subject, taking for his hero a certain "Tom," whose adventures and misadventures were most thrilling; ending, for Ted liked stories that ended well, with his happy adoption into a kind-hearted family, such as it is to be wished there were more of to be found in real life! I should have liked to tell you this story, and some day perhaps I shall do so, but not, I fear, in this little book, for there are even a great many things about Ted himself which I shall not have room for.

There were other pleasures besides skating this Christmas time. Among these there was a very delightful entertainment given by some of Ted's father's and mother's friends to a very large party, both old and young. It was a regular Christmas gathering – so large that the great big old-fashioned ball-room at the "Red Lion" was engaged for the purpose.

Dear me, what a great many scenes this old ball-room had witnessed! Election contests without end, during three-quarters of a century and more; balls of the old-world type, when the gentlemen had powdered wigs and ribbon-tied "queues;" which, no doubt, you irreverent little people of the nineteenth century would call "pig-tails;" and my Lady Grizzle from the hall once actually stuck in the doorway, so ponderous was her head-gear, though by dint of good management her hoop and furbelows had been got through. And farther back still, in the Roundhead days, when – so ran the legend – a party of rollicking cavaliers, and a company commanded by one Captain Holdfast Armstrong, passed two succeeding nights in the Red Lion's ball-room, neither – so cleverly did the cautious landlord manage – having the least idea of the other's near neighbourhood.

But never had the old ball-room seen happier faces or heard merrier laughter than at this Christmas party; and among the happy faces none was brighter than our Ted's. He really did enjoy himself, though one of the youngest of the guests, for Cissy had been pronounced too young, but had reconciled herself to going to bed at her usual hour, by Ted's promise to tell her all about it the next day. And besides his boy friends – Percy, of course, who was home for the holidays, and Rex, and several others – Ted had another companion this evening whom he was very fond of. This was a little girl about his own age, named Gertrude, the daughter of a friend of his father's. I have not told you about her before, because, I suppose, I have had so many things to tell, that I have felt rather puzzled how to put them all in nicely, especially as they are all simple, everyday things, with nothing the least wonderful or remarkable about them. Gertrude was a very dear little girl; she almost seemed to Ted like another kind of sister. He had Mabel, and Christine her sister, as big ones, and Cissy as his own particular little one, and Gertrude seemed to come in as a sort of companion sister, between the big ones and the little one. Ted was very rich in friends, you see, friends of all kinds. He used often to count them up and say so to himself.

Well, this evening of the big Christmas party was, as I said, one of the happiest he had ever known. All his friends were there – all looking as happy as happy could be.

"When I'm a man," thought Ted to himself, "I'd like to give parties like this every Christmas," and as he looked round the room his eyes gleamed with pleasure. Gertrude was standing beside him – they were going to be partners in a country-dance, which was a favourite of Ted's. Just then his mother came up to where they were standing.

"Ted, my boy," she said, "I am going home now. It is very late for you already – half-past twelve. The others, however, are staying later, but I think it is quite time for you and me to be going, don't you?"

Ted's face clouded – a most unusual thing to happen.

"Gertrude isn't going yet," he said, "and Rex and his brothers; they're staying later. O mother, must I come now?"

His mother hesitated. She was always reluctant to disappoint the children if it could be helped, yet, on the other hand, she was even more anxious not to spoil them. But the sight of Ted's eager face carried the day.

"Ah well," she said, smiling, "I suppose I must be indulgent for once and go home without you. So good-night, Ted – you will come with the others – I hope it won't be very late."

As she turned away, it struck her that Ted's face did not look altogether delighted.

"Poor Ted," she said to herself, "he doesn't like to see me go away alone." But hoping he would enjoy himself, and that he would not be too tired "to-morrow morning," she went home without any misgiving, and she was not sorry to go. She found the Christmas holidays and all they entailed more fatiguing than did the children, for whom all these pleasant things "grew" without preparation.

It was a rather dark night – so thought Ted's mother to herself as she glanced out of her window for a moment before drawing the curtains close and going to bed – all the house was shut up, and all those who had stayed at home fast asleep by this time, and it had been arranged that the others should let themselves in with a latch-key. Ted's mother felt, therefore, rather surprised and a little startled when she heard a bell ring; at first she could hardly believe that she was not mistaken, and to be quite sure she opened the window and called out "Is there any one there?" There was half a moment's silence, then some one came out a little from under the porch, where he had been standing since ringing the bell, and a well-known voice replied – how clearly and brightly its young tones rose up through the frosty air —

"It is only I, mother. I thought I'd rather come home after all."

"You, Ted," she replied; – "you, and alone?"

"Yes, mother. I thought somehow you'd like better to have me, so I just ran home."

"And weren't you frightened, Ted?" she said a little anxiously, but with a glad feeling at her heart; "weren't you afraid to come through the lonely streets, and the road, more lonely still, outside the town? For it is very dark, and everything shut up – weren't you afraid?"

"Oh no, mother – not a bit," he replied, "only just when I had left all the houses I did walk a little faster, I think. But I'm so glad I came, if you're pleased, mother."

And when his mother had opened the door and let him in and given him a good-night kiss even more loving than usual, Ted went to bed and to sleep with a light happy heart, and his mother, as she too fell asleep, thanked God for her boy.

I must now, I think, children, ask you to pass over with me nearly a whole year of Ted's life. These holidays ended, came, by slow degrees that year, the always welcome spring; then sunny summer again, a bright and happy summer this, though spent at my little friends' own home instead of at the Skensdale farm-house; then autumn with its shortening days and lengthening evenings, gradually shortening and lengthening into winter again; till at last Christmas itself, like the familiar figure of an old friend, whom, just turning the corner of the road where we live, we descry coming to visit us, was to be seen not so far off.

Many things had happened during this year, which, though all such simple things, I should like to tell you of but for the old restrictions of time and space. And indeed I have to thank you for having listened to me so long, for I blame myself a little for not having told you more plainly at the beginning that it was not a regular "story" I had to tell you in the "carrots" coloured book this year, but just some parts, simple and real, of a child-life that I love to think of. And I would have liked to leave it here – for some reasons that is to say – or I would have liked to tell how Ted grew up into such a man as his boyhood promised – honest-hearted, loving, and unselfish, and as happy as a true Christmas child could not but be. But, dears, I cannot tell you this, for it was not to be so. Yet I am so anxious that the little book I have tried to write in such a way that his happy life and nature should be loved by other children – I am so anxious that the ending of this little book should not seem to you a sad one, at Christmas-time too of all times, that I find it a little difficult to say what has to be said. For in the truest sense the close of my book is not sad. I will just tell it simply as it really was, trusting that you will know I love you all too well to wish to throw any cloud over your bright faces and thoughts.

Well, as I said, this year had brought many little events, some troubles of course, and much good, to our Ted. He had grown a good deal taller, and thinner too, and he never, even as a tiny toddler, could have been called fat! But he was well and strong, and had made good progress at school and good progress too in other ways. He was getting on famously at cricket and football, and was a first-rate croquet-player, for croquet was then in fashion. And the museum had not been neglected; it had really grown into a very respectable and interesting museum, so that not only Ted's own people and near friends were pleased to see it, but even his parents' friends, and sometimes others, again, who happened to be visiting them, would ask the little collector to admit them. I really think it would be a good thing if more boys took to having museums; it would be a good thing for them, for nothing can be more amusing and interesting too, and a very good thing for their friends, especially in bad weather or in holiday-time, when now and then the hours hang heavily on these young people's hands, and one is inclined to wish that some fancy work for boys could be invented. Ted's museum had grown very much, and was always a great resource for him and for Cissy too, for, to tell the truth, her tastes were rather boyish.

His library had grown too. I cannot tell you how many nice books he had, and still less could I tell you how he treasured them. When, through much service, some of them grew weak in the back, he would, though reluctantly, consent to have them re-bound; and he had a pretty, and to my mind a touching, way of showing his affection for these old friends, which I never heard of in any other child. Before a book of his went to be bound he would carefully – tenderly I might almost say – cut off the old cover and lay it aside; and among the many sweet traces left by our boy – but I did not mean to say that, only as it came naturally of itself I will leave it – few went more to his mother's heart than to find in one of his drawers the packet carefully tied up of his dear books' old coats.

Nothing gave Ted so much pleasure as a present of a book. This Christmas he had set his heart on one, and Christmas was really coming so near that he had begun to think of presents, and to write out, as was his habit, a list of all the people in the house, putting opposite the name of each the present he had reason to think would be most acceptable. The list ended in a modest-looking "self," and opposite "self" was written "a book." But all the other presents would have to be thought over and consulted about with mother – all except hers of course, which in its turn would have to be discussed with his father or Mabel perhaps – ever so many times, before it came to the actual buying.

One Sunday – it was about three weeks to Christmas by this time – the head master of Ted's school, who was also a clergyman, mentioned after the usual service that he wished to have a special thanksgiving service this year for the good health that had been enjoyed by the boys this "half." It had been almost exceptionally good, he said; and he himself, for one, and he was sure every one connected with the school would feel the same, was very thankful for it.

Ted's mother and Mabel, who were both, as it happened, at the school chapel service that afternoon, glanced at their boy when this announcement was made. They knew well that, despite his merry heart, Ted was sensitive to things that do not affect all children, and they were not surprised to see his cheeks grow a little paler. There was something in the thought of this solemn Thanksgiving, in which he was to take part, that gave him a little of the same feeling as he had had long ago in the grand old church, when he looked up to the lofty roof, shrouded in a mystery of dim light his childish eyes could not pierce, and the sudden carillon broke out as if sung by the angels in heaven.

And a little chill struck to his mother's heart; she knew the service was a good and fitting acknowledgment of God's care, and yet a strange feeling went through her, for which she blamed herself, almost like that of the poor Irishwomen, who, when any one remarks on the beauty and healthiness of their children, hasten to cross themselves and to murmur softly "In a good hour be it spoken." For human nature, above all mother nature, is the same all the world over!

But on their way home she and Mabel talked it over, and decided that it was better to say nothing about it to Ted.

"It would only deepen the impression and make him nervous," said Mabel wisely.

A day or two later – a damp, rainy day it had been, there were a good many such about this time – Ted's mother, entering the drawing-room in the evening, heard some one softly singing to himself, gently touching the piano at the same time. It was already dusk, and she went in very quietly. The little musician did not hear her, and she sat down in silence for a moment to listen, for it was Ted, and the song in his sweet, clear tones – tones with a strange touch of sadness in them like the church bells, was "Home, sweet home."