Part 3

"Let's!" agreed Mary. So together they scrambled down the river bank, and heaped a piece of driftwood with stiff clay. Returning, George cut two slender switches from a willow-tree and presented one to his partner. Then he rolled a bit of clay into a marble-sized ball, pressed it firmly on the tip of the rod, and, with a quick fling, sent the ball far out into the river.

George wielded his twig so dexterously that he could tap a mast in a passing boat, and selecting almost any tree, stone, or sail within a range of two hundred yards, could send his pudgy bullet home.

His cheeks soon glowed with the fun and exercise, and at every swish of the withe he called his comrade to bear witness to his unerring aim.

Mary, following his example, faithfully loaded her switch and let fly at every target that her fancy chose. Her success, however, was not brilliant, for her ball seldom soared beyond the shadows of the trees under which they sat, and never by any chance approached the object she had intended to hit. After numerous fruitless efforts, she laid aside her wand and brought from her basket a rag-doll which George had christened "Heatheress."

Luncheon followed, and when Mary had spread the repast on a napkin, she said,--

"Let's play house while we eat, and I'll be the mother, and you be the father, and Heatheress will be the baby, and Aladdin--oh, yes, Aladdin will be the visitor."

Now George would have writhed with shame had the boys at school heard of his entering into such girlish pastimes as this, but Mary was always so ready to join any game that he suggested, no matter how much she might dislike it, that he felt in duty bound to play her plays a part of the time. Besides, Mary Duff was so sweet, so winsome, that George found it hard to refuse anything that she asked; so he played "house" with a will, and enjoyed it nearly as much as she.

"Mr. Aladdin," called Mistress Mary, as she gathered her family about the board, "please don't take the trouble to come downstairs; I have just sent your luncheon up to your room."

The guest was evidently pleased with the arrangement, for he ate heartily of the delicious green things that he found in his apartment.

When the children had finished, they withdrew to the screen of a blasted oak and sat rigidly still, watching the birds fly down and carry away the crumbs of the feast.

Later, they made little rafts of chips gathered from the river, furnished them with paper sails and pebbly cargoes, and set them afloat for Spain, Africa, and Jamaica.

Finally, George drew from the breast of his jacket a faded, ragged book, and lay in the grass reading aloud from his favorite story of Robert Bruce, while Mary leaned against a tree near by and listened. Before the reader had reached the climax of the tale, he glanced over his book, only to discover the little girl fast asleep against her tree, with her lap full of wild flowers. Forbearing to disturb her, George finished the story in silence. Then the book slipped from his hands and he, too, stretched on the cool grass, with a few stray sunbeams flickering across him, sank down, down, to the land of dreams.

A sociable whinny roused the boy at length, and scrambling up by aid of a slender sapling, he noticed that the shadows had greatly lengthened during his nap.

"Wake up, Mary," he called, tweaking one of her brown curls; "I promised your mother that I would bring you back by five o'clock, and we must go now."

Mary assented, as she usually did to whatever George proposed, and in five minutes she had sprung into the red saddle and cantered off to the first tying-place.

"Where's mother?" cried George, entering the house half an hour later.

"She's gone to Mrs. McCurdie's for tea," replied May Gray, the Scotch woman who had been George's nurse.

"Then I'll get Mary to come and have tea with me," and Master Byron hurried down the stairs and through his neighbor's gate. He returned shortly, bringing Mary with him; and the children were in the midst of their meal, when the street door was thrown hastily open and Mrs. Byron stepped into the room. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes flashing with excitement.

"What is it, mother?" demanded George, rising, alarmed by her visible agitation.

Mrs. Byron placed both hands upon his shoulders, and looking down into his eyes, said hurriedly,--

"Your great-uncle, Lord Byron, is dead; and you, George, are now Lord Byron of Rochdale, master of Newstead Abbey, and chief of the Erneis."

The boy looked bewildered, and resting one hand upon the table for support, he bent earnestly toward his mother.

"_I am Lord Byron?_"

"You are! you are! Mrs. McCurdie has just come from Newstead, and she told me that uncle died nearly a month ago. There has been some mistake, else we should have heard of it before. I never knew the old gentleman, for he and poor Jack were not the best of friends, but I cannot think that he would have had us left in ignorance of his death. Doubtless the letters and papers will come very soon, and then, my lord, you can go to England and take possession of your castle."

"It--is--very--strange," murmured the boy. Always he had known that some day he would probably come into his uncle's title and estates, but he had somehow expected the momentous event to delay its happening until he should become a man. That honor and riches should at this time come to him, little George Byron, of Broad Street, Aberdeen, was an overwhelming surprise. True to his nature, whenever deeply moved by joy or sorrow, he grew silent, trying to settle in his own mind whether he was the same boy who had thrown clay balls in the woods that day.

Mrs. Byron rapidly explained some of the changes to come, and George listened as though stunned by the glories of his prospects.

May Gray, his devoted old nurse, slipped out and imparted the news of her dear boy's succession to all whom she met.

Presently neighbors and friends came flocking in to hear the story. The drawing-room became quickly crowded with guests, and they made so much of George, shaking his hand, patting his head, bowing to him, and offering compliments he did not understand, that the boy began to think being a lord was rather tiresome business.

When they departed, George closed the door upon the last one with a loud sigh of relief, and went in search of Mary, with whom he had not spoken since his mother had arrived with her astounding message.

The little girl sat demurely on a low stool, and as George approached her, she rose and backed timidly away.

The boy looked at her curiously.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I--I must go home," she whispered, making for the door.

"No, you mustn't! Your mother said you were to wait until your father called for you. It's terribly early yet."

"But I must go," insisted the child, with her hand upon the knob.

"Mary!"

George's tone was suddenly masterful. "Are you mad at me?"

"No, oh, no," she replied, shaking her head vigorously.

"Well, something makes you seem very queer. If you're not mad, tell me why you're starting home!"

Mary looked at him steadily for a moment, then her brown eyes filled with tears, her chin began to quiver, and she sobbed out,--

"I can't play with you any more, George, because your mother said you were--_a lord_, and--_awful rich_!"

Down went her face into the circle of her chubby arm.

"Mary, don't cry, please don't cry!" entreated George with a suspicious break in his own voice. "I like you the very same, the very same, and I'm just as I was, Mary. Truly I am."

Perceiving with distress that the little maid's plump shoulders still shook with grief, George regarded her uncertainly for a moment, then hurried across to Mrs. Byron, who sat busily writing at her desk.

"Mother," he inquired anxiously, "do you see any difference in me since I have been made a lord?"

"No," replied she, laughing, without looking up, "certainly not."

"There! I told you!" he exclaimed triumphantly, returning to the side of his sorrowful guest. "You will believe mother, won't you?"

A nod of the head against the pinafore sleeve rewarded him. Then from the depths of the elbow came in a choking voice,--

"But, George, you are going away!"

"Yes," he returned sadly, "I am going away."

A fresh outburst of weeping greeted his admission, and at his wits' end for means to comfort the little woman, he declared,--

"When I leave, Mary, I'll give Aladdin to you."

"Oh, George, _Aladdin_!"

Up came the tear-stained face, dimpling with joy and surprise.

"Yes, Aladdin. And whenever you ride him, it will be just as nice as playing with me, won't it now?"

"Oh, yes," she assented graciously.

"And, Mary," went on the boy earnestly, the while something tugged hard at his heart and threatened too to strangle him, "let's promise that all our lives you'll like me better than anybody else in the world, and I'll like you better than anybody else in the world."

"Let's!" she agreed; and George took her brown little hand in his, and pressed it to his lips, in such fashion as he had read that the gallant Gordons greeted the ladies of their clan.

The following day came a letter with an impressive yellow seal, confirming the fact of George's lordship.

Then followed a sale of all the furniture and draperies which the Byrons had used in the Broad Street flat; and one morning in July, the family left Aberdeen for England.

They were not to go to the castle at once to live, for the Earl of Carlisle, George's new guardian, had decreed that he should attend one of the great English schools for boys, joining his mother only at vacation times. Mrs. Byron did not desire to spend the months of George's absence alone in the great establishment, so she had taken a house near the school, where, except for occasional visits to the new domain, they would reside while George's education was being further advanced. But now they were going for a glimpse of their future home, and after to-day, Aberdeen would know them no more.

May Gray accompanied the Byrons to England, sturdily refusing to be left behind.

Mary Duff attended them to the coach, and the children's parting was a tearful one on both sides. But after many embraces, and the boy's promise to send her a letter every week, Mary allowed George to mount to the seat beside his mother; and as the conveyance rolled slowly away, she waved both chubby hands in response to George's steadily fluttering handkerchief, until the coach, Blue Dog, was lost to view.

After a night spent at the Nottingham inn, the Byrons hired a carriage and drove out to Newstead.

When they came to the Abbey woods, and the woman at the toll-bar held out her hand to receive their coins, Mrs. Byron, playfully feigning to be a stranger in order to hear what the toll-keeper would say, asked lightly,--

"To whom does this place belong?"

"The owner, Lord Byron, has been some weeks dead."

"And who is the next heir?" ventured Mrs. Byron.

Innocently the woman replied,--

"They say it is a little boy who lives at Aberdeen."

"And this is he, bless him!" ejaculated May Gray, unable to keep the secret; and at her words, the astonished toll-woman bowed nearly to the ground, hysterically commanding the baby who clung to her skirts to salute his young lord.

The Byrons drove through the Abbey woods, which proved to be an arm of the very Sherwood forest where long ago had dwelt Robin Hood and his merry men. Past the lake, with its fish, pleasure boats, and the toy ships which the old lord had delighted to sail to the end of his days; through the park, stocked with deer for the chase, and up to the Abbey they came.

The boy caught his breath at sight of the grand old structure which had been the glory and retreat of hundreds of monks in the Middle Ages, and which later King Henry the Eighth had presented to a certain Lord Byron, who had fashioned one of its wings into a princely dwelling. The visitors drove around the ancient pile, feasting their eyes upon its Anglo-Gothic beauties; then they descended from the carriage and entered the building. Guided by one of the servants in charge of the premises, they visited the dim cloisters, where scores of hooded monastics had daily walked; the chapel, the cells, the castle dungeons, the vast hall where the first Lord Byron had entertained three hundred guests at Christmas dinner; the late lord's drawing-room, the art gallery, and the mighty kitchen.

Everywhere the news had spread that the boyish guest was none other than the rightful lord of Newstead; and wherever George Byron appeared, men uncovered deferentially, and women and children offered sweeping curtsies. Mrs. Byron smiled at these with proud acknowledgment, and May Gray chuckled without ceasing throughout the progress, but George's face was uncommonly grave.

When his feet became too weary to allow of further touring, the party sat down before an open-air luncheon, spread for them on a table in the shade of a great elm.

Mrs. Byron, noting George's sombre silence, asked curiously,--

"Of what are you thinking, my lord?"

"Of Mary," he returned soberly.

"Of Mary," she exclaimed in surprise; "doesn't the sight of all this grandeur atone for her loss?"

"No," he returned, "nothing can take the place of Mary."

"Then I'll tell you what we'll do," rejoined his mother quickly; "if you promise to study well at school, and bring in good reports, we will come back to Newstead at holiday time, and invite Mary to spend Christmas with us here."

"Oh, mother, do you mean it?"

"Certainly, I mean it."

"Hurrah, hurrah, for Newstead and Christmas and Mary!"

One day in the city of London there was published a strangely beautiful poem. Upon the first page was printed the title, "Childe Harold," and just beneath it appeared the name of the author: George Gordon Byron.

When the scholars and students and fashionable folk read the little book, they were spellbound by the beauty of the story and the verse. Immediately they said to one another,--

"We must know him, this poet who can write such enchanting lines;" and forthwith they thronged to his house to learn what sort of a person he might be.

They found a man, young, genial, elegant in appearance and cordial in manner. A few noticed that he limped slightly when he walked; others that his features were strikingly handsome; and all agreed that any one so thoughtful and talented should be sought out and welcomed to every one of their homes.

Thereupon, invitations began to pour in upon the poet, every post bringing letters from persons of rank, families of quiet life, statesmen, professors, and even people from the provinces, urging George Byron to visit them and enjoy the hospitality they had to offer. The citizens of London opened their doors to him with one accord, vying with one another for the privilege of receiving him under their roofs.

The young lord was astonished at the warmth of their enthusiasm, and to this day is remembered his saying,--

"I awoke one morning and found myself famous."

"TOM PEAR-TREE'S PORTRAIT"

[GAINSBOROUGH]

Tommy Gainsborough did a very dreadful thing. If he had not possessed such a trick in the use of pen and pencil, this never would have happened. But, you see, he spent most of his school hours in drawing pictures on the fly-leaves of his books, which pleased the other boys so greatly that he filled their books also with sketches of people, trees, and houses; while they, in return, worked out his problems in fractions and wrote his spelling lessons for him. His copy-book he was content to keep himself, for he chanced to be the best penman at the Sudbury Grammar School, and his pages were always elegantly inscribed.

As the months went by, and his lesson papers were daily found to be correct, the teacher's reports of Master Gainsborough's progress proved highly gratifying to the boy's parents. But while Jack supplied his answers in arithmetic, and Joe prompted him with names and dates at history time, Tommy Gainsborough's ignorance of these subjects was deplorable, and his conduct towards parents and teachers was deceiving indeed.

As spring came on he grew restless under the confinement of walls and rules, and longed for the dewy fields and fragrant lanes. If only he might spend the days outside, he thought, instead of sitting mewed up in this dreary schoolroom, what splendid woodland pictures he could draw. Twice he asked the schoolmaster to excuse him, but Mr. Burroughs curtly refused, since it would be unfair to dismiss one pupil to roam the meadows and keep the others at their tasks. Tommy next tried his father, but that gentleman replied with all seriousness,--

"My son, you have worked so well this term that I wish you to keep a perfect record until the end of the year. When vacation comes you will be free to spend every day out of doors, but your education is too important to be slighted for pleasure."

Tommy was much disappointed at this decision, and, I am sorry to say, closed the door quite ungently as he started for school.

The day was an enchanting one, and as the boy trudged along the unpaved streets that ran between rows of quaint and ancient houses, a feeling of hot rebellion took possession of him.

"Father does as he likes," he muttered, "and I think I ought to do the same way once in a while. What is the sense in listening to old Burroughs drone all day about nouns and divisors?"

The fresh spring breeze, with its scents of green things growing, was so tantalizing that he paused before the schoolhouse door and thoughtfully wrinkled his brow. Presently his face grew defiant, and he dashed into the schoolroom with the look of a man who had made up his mind to do as he pleased.

Finding himself to be the first arrival, he hurried to his desk. Deftly tearing from his copy-book a slip of paper resembling those upon which Mr. Gainsborough wrote Tommy's occasional excuses, the boy dipped his pen and quickly wrote the words,--

"Give Tom a holiday."

Now if he had used his own style of penmanship the ruse would have been readily understood by the schoolmaster; but he boldly imitated his father's finely pointed lettering to a nicety, and at the end jotted down the initials, "_J. G._," with two short lines drawn under them, just as his father would have signed the note.

Carefully drying his pen, he closed his desk and left the building before any one else arrived. He waited around the corner until almost time for school to begin, then rushed into the schoolroom, now filled with noisy pupils, marched straight up to the master's desk, and presented his forged excuse.

Mr. Burroughs read the slip with some surprise.

"Of course, Tom," he said, "if your father wishes you to have a holiday, I shall not refuse permission; but I understood that he wished you to remain steadily at school until vacation time."

"May I go?" queried the boy hastily, not caring to discuss the question.

Mr. Burroughs bowed, but laid the slip of paper in his desk. Tommy, not lingering for further debate, sped from the room; and when he reached the place in the next street, where, under Dame Curran's rosebush, he had hidden his sketch-book, he threw his cap high in air from sheer joy of springtime and freedom.

Out from the town he hurried, and soon was tramping through the forest that furnished the banks of the winding river Stour. All day long he revelled in the glory of the woods, and hour after hour he worked with his pencil, striving to put into his book the charming bits of landscape that greeted his eye on every side. One sketch comprised a bend in the river, with grassy meads beyond; another, an old vine-covered bridge, now fallen into disuse; a third merely pictured a broken tree lying across the sunlit path.

Occasionally he experienced a sharp twinge somewhere when he remembered that all this pleasure was stolen. "But then," he argued, "what difference does it make? Old Burroughs didn't know, and father will never find it out!"

He stifled these pricking thoughts as fast as they arose, not permitting them seriously to disturb his holiday. He whistled, he sang, he lay on his back and looked up at the sky through the chinks in the tender foliage. Sometimes he closed his eyes and listened, and the mysterious woodland sounds, mingled with the purling of the river, yielded him boundless enjoyment. When, however, the shadows of the trees fell at a certain angle, Tommy closed his sketch-book with a sigh and went swiftly homeward.

"I must get there at the usual time," he meditated, "else they'll ask me where I've been."

As he came in sight of the "Black Horse," the public inn of bygone times, where armored knights had claimed food and shelter, but which was now the comfortable residence of John Gainsborough, Tommy began to whistle airily.

Approaching nearer, he discovered that his father had come with pipe and chair to the front stoop, and was sitting with his face turned down the street, as though watching for somebody.

Tommy began to whistle louder, and as he turned in at the gate, his countenance was beaming with innocence.

He bounded up the steps with the intention of getting into the house as quickly as possible, but as his hand touched the latch a stentorian voice said,--

"Thomas!"

The boy stopped short, his eyes round with surprise, his lips still puckered for the whistling that had been so abruptly quelled.

"I called for you at school to-day."

"_Called for me at school to-day_," echoed Tommy, reddening in dismay.

"I did. I found that I must drive out to Squire Bagley's place, and I decided to take you along. It seems that you had already given Mr. Burroughs an excuse from me."

Tommy's fingers began to pick at his jacket, and he racked his brains for a story that would fit the occasion.

"Well, father, I thought--"

"Silence, if you please! I am terribly shocked to find that my son would deliberately write and act a lie. Such conduct deserves the severest punishment. Will you take your whipping before tea or after?"

"After," said Tommy promptly; and accepting this as a dismissal he vanished into the house.

The evening meal was not a joyous one for the culprit, owing to his foretaste of what was coming later. His brothers and sisters evidently knew nothing of his escapade, and chattered among themselves as usual; but his mother's eyes rested upon him from time to time with sorrow in their depths. Once a sob came into Tommy's throat, but he fiercely choked it back, scorning to weep even under such harrowing circumstances.

As the family rose from the table, Mr. Gainsborough, pointing to the stairway, said sternly,--

"To your own room, Thomas!"

Very slowly the boy obeyed, and when the upper door had closed upon him, Mrs. Gainsborough laid a detaining hand upon her husband's arm.

"Wait for a moment, John, and look at the child's work."

Mrs. Gainsborough, who was herself an accomplished painter of flowers, opened Tommy's sketch-book, and laid before her husband's eyes the record of the day's outlawry.

A whispered consultation followed, then Mr. Gainsborough ascended the stair with a heavy, portentous tread.

Tommy, sitting miserably on the side of his bed, heard the measured tramp, tramp along the corridor; and folding his arms he set his teeth grimly and waited for the worst.

Mr. Gainsborough entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"Thomas," he began in a relentless tone, "you have disgraced yourself and your family by your behavior to-day, but I have decided not to give you a whipping."

Tommy leaped from the bed with an exclamation of puzzled relief.

"Instead, my son, I shall take away all your pencils and drawing materials for a month, and shall see that you do not have access to any at school."