Part 4

"Oh, father," howled Tommy despairingly, "I'd rather take the whipping--even two of 'em, if you'll give me back my things! Please whip me, father, as you said you would, and let me have my sketch-book!"

"At the end of a month, and not one day sooner."

Mr. Gainsborough kept his word, and throughout the following weeks Tommy's fingers fairly tingled for the touch of his beloved instruments. Pencils and paper were so costly at that time that it was useless for him to save his pennies in the hope of buying them for himself; and during the weary days of waiting, Tommy decided positively that his pen should never again perform dishonest tricks, plunging him into such trouble.

One midsummer morning, weeks after Tommy's pencils had been restored to him, Mrs. Gainsborough appeared at the corner of the garden, where the boy was busily digging worms for fish bait.

"Tommy," she inquired in a vexed tone, "have you been gathering my yellow pears?"

"No," returned he, pushing his hat back and looking up at the distressed lady.

Now Tommy was guilty of so many mischievous doings that when anything went wrong about the place he was always suspected of being in the plot somewhere, though sometimes he was truly innocent, as happened to be the case just now.

"No," he repeated, "I haven't touched a single one of the yellow pears. Honor bright!"

"Then some one else has," declared Mrs. Gainsborough. "For three days, since they have been ripening so beautifully, I have tried to find enough to fill a fancy basket for the dean; and although each evening I have seen ten or twelve that would be perfect in another day, I have gone the following morning to gather them, and have found only hard and green ones hanging. The other children know nothing about it, so I suppose some one has stolen the pears. It is too provoking!"

Mrs. Gainsborough turned away, and her son went on with his digging, giving no further thought to the missing fruit.

The next morning he awoke very early, so early that the great red sun was just peeping over the hill. He turned drowsily on his pillow and was preparing to launch into another delicious nap, when it occurred to him that sunrise was a capital time for the drawing of shadows.

Instantly he scrambled out of bed, and five minutes later was on his way through the orchard with his sketch-book under his arm.

Dew lay thickly upon the grass and leaves, and even the ruddy fruit hanging overhead sparkled brightly as the first rays of the sun shone upon its clinging drops.

"Now for the shadows," thought Tommy, glancing about the orchard. "I think I'll draw that clump of currant bushes, if I can get a good position."

He walked up and down several times, trying to find a place where his view would be unobstructed. This was no easy matter amid so many trees, but at length he found that by sitting inside the entrance of an old rustic summer-house he could command his model exactly.

A few feet at his left, and close beside the stone wall dividing the orchard from the public road, grew his mother's pear-tree, laden with ripe, rich fruit.

Tommy had opened his book, and with half-closed eyes and uplifted pencil was measuring the height of the currant bushes, when, to his surprise, a head suddenly appeared above the wall, at the very spot shaded by the pear-tree.

The stranger cast a quick, cautious glance about the premises, showing that his errand was no friendly one, then threw back his head and gazed greedily at the luscious pears that grew above him. As he stood thus, with the morning light falling brightly across his visage, Tommy saw that his features were strongly marked and prominent, his face seamed by deep and vicious lines.

The boy, accustomed to study the form and appearance of things, quickly comprehended the stranger's long nose, low brow, pointed chin, and hollow cheeks.

The man looked furtively about for the second time and sprang to the top of the wall. Quite unconscious that a spectator was eagerly watching from the covered structure near by, the intruder ascended boldly into the pear-tree and proceeded to fill his pockets and hat with the juicy fruit.

Never a sound came from the summer-house, but before the rogue had completed his stolen harvest, Tommy's cunning pencil had drawn the robber's portrait, with the narrowed eyes, leering lips, unkempt hair, and rakish hat, exactly as they had impressed him at the moment when the vagabond stood gazing aloft at the fruit overhead. Tommy finished the sketch with a few hasty strokes, then closed his book and burst suddenly from the summer-house, shouting "Wow, wow!" at the top of his voice.

Down leaped the man to the earth, and scaling the wall at a bound, he fled, dropping many of the pears as he ran.

Tommy's unearthly shrieks had roused the household, and he hurriedly explained to his mother the cause of her daily vanishing pears, displaying his sketch as proof of his argument.

An hour later Mr. Gainsborough opened Tommy's book before the squire, pointed to the drawing upon the last page, and related the story of the boy's early morning experience.

The squire immediately recognized the picture as of a ne'er-do-weel who had been loitering about Sudbury for some time, and who had more than once been convicted of petty thieving.

"I'll send for him," declared the magistrate; and that very afternoon the offender was brought in.

Mr. Gainsborough accused him of invading his orchard and attempting to carry away his fruit; but the culprit stoutly denied all knowledge of the episode.

Quietly the squire opened Tommy's book, and held it before the defendant's astonished gaze.

He uttered a baffled whine, then, with a laugh that was like a snarl, he admitted his guilt of the morning, and also confessed to having robbed the pear-tree upon three previous occasions.

"My man," announced the squire sternly, "I shall let you go free this time upon your promise of good behavior, but if you ever repeat the offence I'll give you a sentence of confinement on bread and water. There is plenty of honest employment to be had in Sudbury, and I advise you to go to work and live as a decent citizen."

The man shambled out, and from that day forth was seen no more about the village.

Mr. Gainsborough, concluding from the day's developments that he could justly afford to encourage this play-work of Tommy's, which was beginning to take on a shade of importance, bought a large new sketch-book and presented it to the boy.

Tommy turned five somersaults to express the warmth of his gratitude; but before despatching the old book to its future home on the closet shelf, he opened it and, with his bravest flourishes, wrote beneath the sketch on the final page,--

"Tom Pear-tree's Portrait."

When years had gone by and Thomas Gainsborough had arrived at manhood, he astonished all England by his remarkable paintings. His pictures of woods and lanes, fields and shining water, captivated the country folk by presenting so perfectly the scenes before their doors; and the city dwellers were awakened by his colors to the charms of the wide, sweet country they had forgotten.

These landscape studies set Thomas Gainsborough high in the world of art, but when at length he turned his cunning brush to the task of painting portraits, his fame was heralded from city to province. He began by making likenesses of his wife and daughters, and when these were exhibited at the Royal Academy, people exclaimed at the skill and dignity of the work. Even King George III., who chanced to visit the gallery on one of these occasions, paused before Gainsborough's canvas, and clasped his hands in admiration.

"Summon this painter to the palace," commanded he, "and let him paint his sovereign and his queen."

This order from the king made Gainsborough's portraits the fashion at court, and straightway all the ladies of rank and beauty came to him, entreating him to paint their pictures.

His fortune and reputation, by these well-earned favors, rose far beyond anything he had expected, and if ever a man was truly happy in his life and work, that man was Thomas Gainsborough.

He was so generous, so good-humored, so lovable in his old-time frankness, that people who sought his acquaintance because he was a famous artist quickly forgot his amazing skill in the pleasure of his ever-boyish company.

It was supposed that he had reached the climax of his art when he exhibited a picture of the Duchess of Devonshire, for this set Great Britain agog with praise and wonder; but Thomas Gainsborough was destined to climb yet one step higher in the ladder of public esteem, and the work that crowned his success and brought the world to his feet was a childish portrait entitled "Blue Boy." This was hung on the wall of the Royal Academy, and when the spectators came surging through the gallery, chattering amiably of this canvas and that, they halted speechless before the boy with the thoughtful eyes, the fresh brown skin, and the pale-blue dress. The lad was so young, so sweet, so lifelike in his quiet pose, that not a word was uttered by the critics standing by. One by one they slipped away, aware that Thomas Gainsborough had not attained the goal of his greatness by pictures of kings, queens, court beauties, and mighty soldiers, but by the youthful, innocent portrait entitled simply "Blue Boy."

GEORG'S CHAMPION

[HÄNDEL]

"No, no, Hans, you are too loud, and Frieda goes too fast! Just listen to Otto's trumpet and watch my cane, all of you, and then you'll be right."

The tone was an emphatic one, and the speaker pounded sharply on the floor with his walking stick.

He was a small boy, whose flaxen hair hung straight and thick on either side of his face. He was panting with excitement, his eyes were sparkling, his lips were set.

Before him, on the floor, sat six boys and girls in a semi-circle, attending earnestly to his commands. One boy possessed a toy horn; two others, mouth organs; a fourth, a chubby girl, had dropped a tin fife in sheer fright; and the fifth and sixth clung to drum and dinner-bell respectively.

"This time," went on the conductor sternly, "I want you to begin when I bring my cane _down_. Now watch! One, two, three, four,--_one_!"

As the big baton descended with the leader's vehement "_one_," a deafening uproar burst from the obedient orchestra.

"Keep on, keep on! You're going it now! _Slower_, Frieda! One, two, three, four!"

The director swung his cane vigorously, shouting his orders above the strains of the lusty symphony. A few measures were bravely rendered, when the conductor suddenly threw down his stick with a look of extreme exasperation.

"Peter," he said quietly, in the tone of a teacher sorely tried but patient, "please don't _jingle_ the bell. Take the clapper in your hand, and tap it when I say 'one' and 'three.' Like this!" and seizing the bell, he illustrated his meaning, compelling the fat offender to perform the feat to his satisfaction before going on with the rehearsal. When the bell-ringer had been sufficiently drilled, the director once again took up his baton and ordered a fresh beginning.

They were playing in good earnest, for this imperious conductor desired something far above the discordant blasts that are usually obtained from musical toys. Weeks before he had assigned to each playmate a certain instrument, teaching him in private to draw real melody from it; and to-day he had assembled the six performers in his bedroom, introducing them to the delight of joining together in a familiar musical theme.

To be sure, the toys were shrill and piping, the players often faulty and careless, but after an hour's persistent and perspiring labor on the part of all concerned, the Duke's Military March rang through the house in creditable time and tune.

While the music continued with true martial spirit, the door opened softly, and a plump, fair girl of sixteen peeped into the room. Perceiving the occupation of the children, she smiled brightly and slipped away. A moment later another form appeared upon the threshold, that of an elderly, dignified man. His hair was white, his eyes were protected by huge gold spectacles, his shoulders were slightly bent; but a close observer would have readily detected a resemblance between the handsome old gentleman and the leader of the orchestra. One bore the markings of age, the other the dimples of childhood; but they plainly displayed a kindred will, energy, and intelligence, although one was seventy and the other but seven.

Mr. Händel was the town surgeon of Halle, appointed by the Duke of Sächse, and the flaxen-haired boy was the idolized child of his declining years.

At first sight of the juvenile orchestra the visitor smiled as indulgently as had the girl before him, entering the chamber unobserved, and seating himself in a distant corner where he could watch the highly interesting performance. But he turned quickly grave when his eye fell upon the small director, who was bending anxiously forward, his whole being absorbed in the sounds that issued from the toys at signal of his cane. The flush that burned the leader's cheek, the intensity of his glance, and the strained alertness of his lithe young body, seemed a forbidding vision to the old gentleman, for his face clouded and he shook his head in increasing disapproval.

Presently the concert ended, the children scrambled noisily to their feet, and the conductor leaned upon his cane, regarding them with the serene composure of a man who has wrought successfully and is modestly proud of the fact.

"We must go home, Georg," said Peter, exchanging his bell for his cap.

"I'm going to run, 'cause I'm so dretful hungry," announced Frieda, disappearing in quest of curds and seed cakes.

"You may all go now," consented the director affably, "but," raising a commanding finger, "we will practise again at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, and whoever is one minute late won't be invited to my party in the afternoon."

"Oh, Georg," wailed Frieda, recalled from the corridor by this edict, "must I come at seven, whether I've had any breakfast or not?"

The leader bowed.

"Whether you have had any breakfast or not," he rejoined firmly.

The children trooped down the stairs, leaving their chief to gather up the toys and place them carefully upon the table.

He was about to leave the room when, for the first time, he discovered that he was not alone.

"Father!" he exclaimed, bounding gladly to the old man's side, and laying one hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "Did you hear us play? Didn't we do well? If only we had a fiddle we could make much better music. Oh, father, it is such fun--why--what's the matter, father? I sharpened your pens and aired your dressing-gown."

The boy's hilarious comments ceased as he became aware of his father's darkened expression, and he hastened to allay the doubts that he supposed to be the cause of this unlooked-for displeasure.

"I know, Georg, that you sharpened the pens, and I believe you when you tell me that you aired the dressing-gown, but I shall give you a new duty to-day. See that you perform it promptly!"

Georg listened in wonder, for never before had his father addressed him with such hardness of manner, and instinctively the boy drew a pace backward.

"A new--duty?" he stammered.

"I want you to take those musical toys and throw them into the pond, or give them to some one who never comes into this house."

Georg was dumfounded.

"Throw them away--my trumpet, my fife, my--"

Breathless with consternation the boy rushed to the table and gathered his treasures protectingly in his arms.

"These--I must--keep," he asserted chokingly, eying his father from the breastworks of drum and bell.

For answer Mr. Händel pointed to the door, and Georg, reading naught but doom in that significant gesture, dropped his toys with a crash and clasped his father's arm beseechingly.

"Father, don't make me throw them in the pond! Tell me why it is wrong for me to have them; please, father, tell me!"

The old gentleman's face expressed both resolution and kindness.

"Listen, Georg. When I gave you those toys at Christmas time, I expected you to amuse yourself with them as other children do, in turn with balls, kites, and sleds. But this you have failed to do, and every play-hour since that time you have given to these musical toys. Now, Georg, I mean to give you a thorough education, so that when you are a man you may become a jurist, capable of following a respectable career and earning a snug fortune. Ever since you were born I have planned and saved for this purpose, and I cannot have my arrangements upset by these silly mouth organs. Tut, tut!" as the boy endeavored to speak, "no words, my son, over this matter! If I allow you to keep these things and play with them, day in and day out, as you have been doing, you will grow into a _musician_, and then where will my jurist be? No, no, it is not to be thought of. When I came in to-day, you were so deep in the Duke's March that you did not know that I was near. No, boy, you cannot have them any longer. I would have taken them away before, had I realized that you were so set upon them."

"Please, father--" whispered Georg, quaking, but persistent.

"You must either throw them away or give them away to-day. You shall have an hour to decide which you wish to do, and at the end of it, I shall expect the matter to be settled for all time. Also, Georg, I wish you to see no more of four of those children who were here to-day. Frieda and Peter seemed dull enough, but the others were too musical by far to be fit companions for you. You may tell them that I forbid them the house from to-day."

At this stroke of fate, Georg threw himself at full length on the floor, sobbing tempestuously. His father departed without further parley, and the boy was left alone to battle with his disappointment.

As the hour drew to a close, he mastered his emotion as well as he was able, washed from his face the traces of weeping, and hurried out to call a meeting of his orchestra by the pond-side.

He would not confess to his mates that he was grieved with the message he had for them, but delivered it with an air of mannish bravado.

"I shan't have an orchestra any more, and I have brought you all of my instruments. I'll give you each the one you've been using, so you can play hereafter. You needn't come to-morrow to rehearse, for I can't lead any longer."

"No orchestra! You won't lead!" chorused the musicians blankly, as they received the cherished toys into their hands.

"Never again," affirmed Georg loftily, but he must needs set his teeth hard upon his lower lip, lest its trembling should betray his stinging regret.

"You see," he explained with the easy patronage of a captain who has led his troops to victory, but who is about to be promoted out of their midst, "it is not as though I were to be a musician when I grow up. It is all well enough for you fellows to play on these things every day, but I really ought not to waste my time with them, for," importantly, "when I am a man, I am going to be a jurist."

"A _what_?" demanded his hearers in one breath, much impressed by the high-sounding title.

"A jurist," Georg repeated, folding his arms, much gratified at the effect his announcement had produced.

"What does a--a jurist do?" inquired Frieda, feminine curiosity conquering her awe.

"Oh," replied Georg easily, "a jurist, Frieda, writes down in a book everything that people ought to do, and when they don't do just as he has written, he cuts off their heads."

"Ach!"

"Their heads?"

"You will learn to cut them off?"

Georg bowed.

"Now you understand why I must give up the orchestra. If you decide to keep on without me, perhaps, sometime--"

He was turning away with a kingly wave of the hand, his last sentence unfinished, when a question from Peter recalled him to the second and most distressing part of his mission.

"You'll have your party to-morrow afternoon? We needn't play on things, you know."

The blood mounted to Georg's forehead, and his fingers twitched uncomfortably; but he managed to speak so boldly that his listeners were quite unaware of his struggle.

"I am glad you mentioned the party, Peter, for I had nearly forgotten it. No, I won't have any party, and I must tell you--at least, father says--that--that Hans and Otto and Gretchen and Leopold must not come to my house any more. Of course," he added hastily, seeking to drown the gasps of his troopers, "it isn't that you're not good enough and nice enough for me to play with, but father says that you four are very musical, and you might make me musical too; but Frieda and Peter can come, for they are dull."

"I hate your old tunes and notes, anyway," protested Peter, much injured; but Frieda cut him short with the excited proposal,--

"Let's have your party for Peter and me and you, to-morrow!"

"_Have_ your party! _Have_ your party!" sneered Otto; and Hans informed Georg in biting tones that he wouldn't forget this when his birthday came next month.

Here Georg visibly weakened, for he remembered that Hans was expecting either a violin or a flute upon that occasion, and he nearly lost his studied indifference with the recollection. He was obliged to face about, to hide the sudden teardrops that glistened on his cheeks; and, marching proudly toward his father's pasture, with head high in air, and back steadily kept toward his forsaken band, he called out,--

"I'm not mad at you, but you can be mad at me if you like. I won't have a party to-morrow for Frieda and Peter, 'cause I like Hans and Otto better than I do them, 'cause they know how to keep time when I beat."

He had reached the pasture with the last word of parting, and flinging himself over the bars, he fled across the green as though twenty scouts of the enemy were close upon his heels. The mask that he had worn to conceal his heartburning had fallen, and he was crying bitterly as he ran.

Old Kappelstahr, Georg's special pet since the days when she was a sportive calf, stood mildly chewing her cud near the inner fence. As her master dashed among the kine in evident agitation, the heifer turned to look after him, apparently surprised that he had passed her by without a word of greeting.

Georg, glancing backward, happened to catch that look of gentle interest. He halted irresolutely, then, rushing to her side and throwing his arms about her neck, the dejected jurist sobbed out his woe upon her warm brown shoulder.

During the succeeding days and weeks, Georg felt as lonely as a shipwrecked mariner cast upon a deserted island of the sea. Instinctively, when lessons were done, he reached out for amusement to the musical toys that were his no longer. Sometimes he heard sounds arising from the pond-side, where his forbidden orchestra rehearsed under Otto's direction. That he might neither make music nor mingle with those who did, filled him with blank dismay; and hour by hour he wandered about the house and garden, unable to attach himself to other interests or games. His father required him to make an industrious use of his school hours, even adding to the regular course certain studies that he deemed useful to one preparing for a serious profession.

The old gentleman was sorry indeed when he saw how the absence of the musical toys and companions affected Georg, and he even sought to modify the discipline by presenting to the boy a complete set of carpenter's tools.

Georg thanked him for the gift, but what was the old gentleman's surprise, a week later, upon seeing the chest in his son's room, still unopened, with every tool in place, and across the wooden lid a series of black and white keys painted, in imitation of a harpsichord.

Mr. Händel frowned, but made no reference to the matter before Georg.