Chapter 1

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THE OLD CASTLE

AND

Other Stories.

LONDON: THOMAS NELSON AND SONS.

EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.

1881.

* * * * *

Contents.

THE OLD CASTLE,

GEORGE AND ALICK,

THE SIXPENNY CALICO,

A WESTMORELAND STORY,

* * * * *

THE OLD CASTLE.

How pleasant the parlour looked on the evening of "Flaxy's" birthday. To be sure it was November, and the wind was setting the poor dying leaves in a miserable shiver with some dreadful story of an iceberg he had just been visiting. But what cared Dicky and Prue, or Dudley and Flaxy, or all the rest sitting cosily around that charming fire, which glowed as if some kind fairy had filled up the little black grate with carbuncles and rubies? Over the mantle-piece were branches of pretty white sperm candles, whose light fell softly on the heavy red curtains and the roses in the carpet, and danced in the eyes of the happy children.

They, the children, had been having a "splendid time." They had played games, and put together dissected maps, and tried puzzles, and read in Flaxy's wonderful books; and since tea they had had a grand romp at "fox and geese," even such big boys as Bernard and Dudley joining in; and now they were resting with pretty red cheeks and parted mouths.

"Well, what shall we do now?" cried little Prue, who could not bear that a minute of the precious time should be wasted in mere sitting still.

"Why, isn't it a good time for some one else to tell his story?" asked Flaxy.

"Just the thing," was the unanimous response. "Another story! a story!" and then a voice cried, "And let Dudley Wylde tell it."

"Well," said Dudley, slowly, "if I must tell a _true_ story about _myself_, I'm afraid it won't be much to my credit, but as Flaxy wasn't a coward about it, I'll try to be as brave as a _girl_. Shall I tell you something that happened to Bernard and me when we lived over in England?"

"Oh, please don't tell that story, Dud," pleaded Bernard with reddening cheeks, but all the rest cried, "Oh, yes, go on, go on," and Dudley began.

"You all know that Bernard and I were both left orphans when we were almost little babies, and Uncle Wylde sent for us to come and live with him--me first, and Bernard about a year afterwards. I was only six years old when Bernard came, but I remember I was very angry about it. Old Joe, the coachman, and I, had had a quarrel that morning, and he told me uncle 'would never care for me any more after Cousin Bernard came, for he was a much finer boy than I, and looked like a young English lord, with his blue eyes and white skin, but _I_ was a little, dark, ill-tempered foreigner (my mother was Italian, you know), and he wondered how uncle could like me at all.'"

"But uncle did love you dearly, you know," broke in Bernard.

"A great deal better than I deserved, that's certain," said Dudley, "but I almost worshipped _him_, and I couldn't bear the thoughts of his loving any one better than me. So all the day that Bernard was expected I stood sulkily by the window, and would not play, nor eat, nor even speak when Uncle Wylde came and took me in his lap.

"'Poor child,' said uncle, at last, 'he needs some one of his own age to play with. I hope the little cousins will be fine company for each other.'

"Just then the carriage drove up, and uncle ran out and took such a lovely little boy in his arms; but when I heard him say, almost with a sob, 'Darling child, you are just the image of your dear, dear mother,' then I thought, 'There, it is all true what Joe said, uncle loves him the best already;' and I bit my fingers so that when uncle bade me hold out my hand to my cousin, he was frightened to see it covered with blood, and drew back with a shiver; and then I grew angry about that, too, and called him '_proud_,' and went and hid away every plaything I could find.

"Well, I won't have time to tell you every little thing, only that as Bernard and I grew up together, I did not love him any better. He was almost always kind and good."

"Now Dud, you must not say so," said Bernard, blushing. "I did everything to tease you."

"You must not interrupt," cried Dudley. "This is _my_ story, remember. You never teased me much, but the great thing I couldn't forgive you was that uncle loved you best."

"No, I'm sure he didn't," cried Bernard.

"No more interruptions," said all the children, and Dudley went on.

"Well, you see I was very suspicious and miserable, and I always thought Bernard wanted to make fun of me. When he first began to call me 'Dud,' for _short_, I thought he meant that I was like the old rags that Joe used to clean the carriages with, for he always used to call them 'old duds.' And then sometimes when I came in from riding on Lightfoot's bare back, with my hair blown every sort of a way, if he said, 'Shall we have our lessons now, uncle? here comes _Wylde_,' I always thought he was trying to make uncle think I was _wild_ like those horrid Indians we used to read about, while he, Bernard, was always neat and smooth like a little gentleman. So you see there was nothing that Bernard could do or say, that I did not twist around to make myself miserable.

"One day, when I had been playing with my dog Sambo half the morning, and riding Lightfoot the rest of the time, I was called on to recite Latin to uncle, and didn't know one word. But Bernard recited like a book, and when it was over, uncle did not scold me, he never did, but just gave Bernard the pretty picture I had long been wanting, of the boy climbing up over crag and ice, shouting 'Excelsior.'

"That very afternoon we had planned to take a walk together to an old ruined castle, but I was so cross and sullen I wonder Bernard did not slip away and go alone. I can't begin to tell you how envious and unhappy I felt, and I quarrelled so with him about every little thing, that at last he scarcely opened his mouth."

"I don't believe this story is true," said Flaxy indignantly. "I'm sure the Dudley Wylde _we_ know was never so bad and quarrelsome."

Dudley smiled, while Bettine whispered softly, "But he's different _now_, Flaxy. Do you know his uncle says he is trying to be a _Christian_?"

Flaxy looked up with a bright tear of sympathy, as Dudley continued.

"At last we reached the castle, where we had often been before, and for a while I was more good-natured, for there was nothing I liked better than climbing up and down the broken stairway, which wound round and round like a great screw, or looking into every queer little room hid away in the thick walls, or climbing to the turrets to wave my handkerchief like the flag of a conquering hero.

"But this afternoon there was something new to see. In the great hall just under the stairs, the floor had lately caved away, and you could see down into a deep vault. Bernard and I lay down with our faces just over the edge, and tried to see the bottom, but it was dark as pitch, and we couldn't make out anything.

"'I shouldn't wonder if they buried dead people there, a great while ago,' said Bernard, with a little shiver; and when we both got up, feeling very sober, he said, just to raise our spirits,--

"'Let's have a race up the steps, and see which will get to the roof first.'

"Off we started. I could generally climb like a wild cat, but in some way I stumbled and hurt my knee, and Bernard gained very fast. I felt my quick temper rising again. 'Shall he beat me in everything?' I said to myself, and with a great spring I caught up to him, and seized his jacket. Then began a struggle. Bernard cried 'Fair play,' and tried to throw me off; but I was very angry, and strong as a young tiger, and all of a sudden--for I didn't know what I was about--I just flung him with all my might right over the edge, where the railing was half broken down!"

"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried little Prue, bursting into tears, "did it _kill_ him?"

A merry laugh from Bernard, followed by a hearty chorus from the rest, restored bewildered little Prue to her senses. But Dudley went on very soberly.

"Bernard screamed as he went over, and with that scream all my anger died in a minute, and I sat down on the stairs, shaking from head to foot. Then I listened, but I didn't hear a sound. I don't know how long I sat there, but at last I got up very slowly, and began to come down just like an old man. It was so dreadfully still in the old castle, that I felt in a queer way, as if _I_ must be very careful, too, and I stepped on my tip-toes, and held my breath. When I got to the foot, I felt as if a big hand held my heart tight, and when I tried to walk towards the spot where I thought Bernard must have fallen, I could not move a step. But after a great while--it seemed like a year--I managed to drag myself to the place, and, do you know, no one was there!"

"Why, where _could_ he be?" cried the astonished children.

"Well, I thought he might have fallen, and rolled off under the stairs into that dreadful vault."

"Oh, don't have him get in _there_, please," cried tender little Prue.

"Then," said Dudley slowly, "I leaned over the vault, and called his name, 'Bernard! Bernard!' and then I jumped back, and almost screamed, for I thought some other boy had spoken. I did not know my own voice; it sounded so strange and solemn. But no one answered, and I dragged myself away, feeling as if that awful hand grew tighter on my heart, and thinking, as I went out of the door, how two of us went in, and _why_ I was coming out _alone_. Then I sat down on the grass, and though it was warm summer weather, I shivered from head to foot, and _I_ remember thinking to myself, 'This queer boy sitting here isn't Dudley Wylde--this boy _couldn't_ get angry, he's as cold as an icicle--and Dudley Wylde's heart used to beat, beat, oh! so lively and quick, but _this_ boy's heart is under a great weight, and will never stir again--this boy will never run again, nor laugh, nor care for anything--this boy isn't, he _can't_ be Dudley Wylde;' and I felt so sorry for him I almost cried. Then, all of a sudden, I remember, I began to work very hard. I picked up stones out of the path, and carried them a great way off, and worked till I was just ready to drop. Then I took some flowers, and picked them all to pieces--so curious to see how they were put together, and I worked at that till I was nearly wild with headache. Then I sat very still, and wondered if that boy who wasn't, _couldn't_ be, Dudley Wylde--was ever going home; and then I thought that perhaps if he sat there a little while longer he would _die_, and that was the best thing that could happen to him, for then he would never hear any one say--'Where is _Bernard_?' So I sat there in this queer way, waiting for the boy to die, when I heard a noise, and, looking up, saw--"

"Oh, what?" cried little Prue, clasping her hands, "a griffin, with claws?"

But Dudley could not speak, and Bernard went on. "It's too bad for 'Dud' to tell that story, when he makes himself so much worse than he really was. I was as much to blame as he in that quarrel, and I ought to have had my share of the misery. You see, when he threw me over, my tippet caught on the rough edge of the railing, and held me just a minute, but that minute saved me, for in some way, I hardly know how, I swung in and dropped safely on the steps just under 'Dud.' Then I hurried into one of those queer little places in the wall, and hid, for I was angry, and meant to give him a good fright; and as I happened to have a little book in my pocket, I began to read, and got so interested that I forgot everything till it began to grow dark. Then I hurried down, wondering that everything was so still. But when I saw 'Dud,'" said he, turning with an affectionate glance to his cousin, "I was frightened, for he was so changed I hardly knew him, and I was afraid he was dying. So I ran to him, and took him right in my arms, and called him every dear name I could think of; but he only stared at me, with the biggest, wildest eyes, you ever saw. 'Dud,' said I, '_dear_ fellow, what _is_ the matter, don't you know me?' Then all of a sudden he burst out crying. O girls! you never cried like that, and I hope you never will,--great big sobs, and I helped him. Then he flung his arms tight around my neck, and kissed me for the first time in his life--kissed me over and over, my cheeks and my hair and my hands, and then he laughed, and right in the midst cried as if his heart would break, and I began to understand that poor 'Dud' thought he had killed me. No one knows how long we laughed and cried, and kissed each other, but when we grew a little calmer we went back into the old castle, and on the very steps where we had our quarrel, we knelt down, holding each other's hands, and promised always to love each other, and try to keep down our wicked tempers."

"And we asked some one to help us to keep the resolution," said Dudley, gently.

"Well, how is it!" said little Prue with a bewildered air; "was it you and '_Dud_' that went and knelt on the steps to pray?"

"Yes, 'Dud' and I."

"Well then, what became of that other wicked boy that wasn't _Dudley Wylde_ at all?"

Another shout covered poor Prue with confusion, as Bernard answered,--

"Would you believe it, you dear little Prue, we have never seen anything of him from that day to this?"

GEORGE AND ALICK.

"Well, you know, Annie, it is all very well to try to be kind to and help nice people--people whom you like. It is the nicest thing in the world to help you, Annie, because you are always so good, and kind, and gentle. But there are people to whom I never could be kind, let me try ever so much."

"But Georgie," his sister began.

He interrupted her with some impatience.

"Oh, I know what you are going to say. You always say that we ought to like everybody. But that is nonsense. Everybody is not likable, and I don't like people who are not likable, and I never shall, and never can."

"I did not mean to say that. I don't always say it; I don't think I ever said it," she answered quietly. "I know that one cannot like people who are not likable. But Georgie," (with much earnestness,) "I know, and you know, that it is God's will, that it is God's command, that we should be kind, and tender, and gentle, and pitiful to every one, whether we like them or not."

Yes, Georgie did know that. Often had he been reminded of it. But as this was a command he often broke, he did not like to think of it. He moved restlessly and impatiently on his chair, and said, with some fretfulness:--

"Well, but how can one; at least how can a rough boy like me? You can, Annie, I know. You do. Although you are often confined to this stupid bed for weeks at a time, you do more good, and make more people happy and comfortable, than any one in all the house. You are so good. It is easy for you."

"No, Georgie, it is not easy for me," she answered, her sweet, pale face, flushing at his praise. "I am not always kind. But a thought came into my mind about a year ago that has always helped me a great deal. I think God must have put it into my mind. Indeed I am sure he did, it has helped me so much."

"And what was the thought?" George asked eagerly.

"I was thinking how difficult it was to feel kindly, to feel rightly towards those whom we don't care for, who are not pleasant; and then it came all in a minute into my head, that we should find it much easier if we could only remember ever and always that everybody we meet must be either God's friend or God's enemy."

"But how could that help?" George asked, knitting his brows, as if greatly puzzled.

Annie tried to explain.

"You know," she said, "that there are no two ways about it,--that we must either be God's friend or his enemy."

"Yes," he answered thoughtfully; "papa made me see that long ago."

"And every boy you meet is either the one or the other, whatever else he may be, nice or not, pleasant and likable, or unpleasant and unlikable. If he be God's friend--if he be a boy who loves our dear Lord Jesus Christ," she went on, with an earnestness of feeling which brought tears to her eyes,--"a boy whom Christ loves, and for whom he died--a boy that Christ cares for, and is ever watching over, and in whose troubles and pleasures, joys and sorrows, Christ is tenderly concerned--O Georgie, if he be Christ's friend, must not we like to be kind to and help him, to do him as much good and as little harm as we can?"

"Yes, yes, I see," he answered softly, and with much feeling. Annie went on.

"And if he be a boy who does not love God," she said solemnly, "then must he be one of the wicked with whom God says that he is angry every day. And oh, Georgie, think what it must be to have God angry with you every day! to go through the world without God, never to think of him with love! to have no God to serve, no God to care for you; never to have your troubles made easy by knowing that the loving God has sent them, never to have your joys made sweet because they are his loving gift! O Georgie, how dreary, how desolate! Can you help being pitiful to any one who is in such a state?"

"No, oh no," was said by Georgie's eyes even more earnestly than by his tongue. He said no more; for boys cannot speak of what they feel so readily as girls. But Annie's thought had gone deep into his heart, and as he went a few minutes after down towards the village on an errand for his father, his whole thoughts were occupied by it. Much more soberly than usual did he walk down the avenue, thinking over again all that Annie had said, and praying earnestly that God would keep it in his memory, and bring it strongly before him each time he had occasion to use it.

Such occasion was close at hand. As he came out of the gate into the road, he saw, a little way before him, a boy who, as he feared--nay, rather as he knew--was one of those wicked of whom Annie had been speaking. His name was Alick. Poor fellow, he was a cripple; he had been a cripple from his very babyhood. He had never been able to put his feet to the ground, to walk or run about like other boys, but could only get along slowly and painfully by the help of crutches. He was besides very delicate, and often suffered violent attacks of pain in his back and limbs, so that every one must have felt sorry for him, had he not been such a bad, cruel, selfish boy, that anger often drove pity away from the softest hearts. But there was this excuse for him, he had never had any one to teach him better. His mother died when he was a baby. His father was very rich, but was a coarse, hard man--one who, like the unjust judge, feared not God, nor regarded man. He was fond of his poor boy, who was his only child, but he showed his fondness by indulging his every wish, and suffering him to do in all things exactly as he pleased. So that Alick grew more and more wicked, cruel, and selfish every year, until he had come to be disliked and avoided by every one who knew him. Georgie had a particular dislike to him. For Alick, knowing that Georgie was far too brave to strike a cripple who could not help himself, took the greatest pleasure in teasing, and provoking, and working him up into passions which George could not vent upon him.

The two boys saw each other a good while before they met, and Alick had time to prepare a taunting speech which he knew would be particularly provoking to George. But George also had time to think of Alick, time to recollect what Annie had said about the utter dreariness of going through the world without God; and God, answering George's earnest prayer, caused this recollection to move his heart to the tenderest pity and concern for poor Alick. So when the mocking, provoking speech was given forth in the bitterest way, George's only answer was a look of tender, even of loving compassion.

Alick misunderstood George's feeling. He thought that look was meant to express pity for his infirmities, and pity on that account he could not bear. His cheek flushed crimson with anger, and he poured forth a volley of fearful oaths and curses upon George, who was now passing him upon the opposite side of the road. Again George only answered with that look so strangely full of deep, tender pity, that Alick's heart was stirred by it, he knew not how nor why. He felt half provoked, as if he were being cheated out of his anger, and taking up a small stone from the old wall against which he leaned, he threw it at George, hitting him pretty smartly upon the arm. George took no further notice than merely to turn round and walk backward, so as to be able to watch for and avoid future compliments of the same kind. Many such were sent after him without effect. But just as he was getting beyond reach, Alick, in a last violent effort to throw far enough, overbalanced himself, one crutch slipped from under him, and he fell forward on his face in the mud!

In an instant George was by his side, helping him to rise, and asking tenderly if he were hurt. He was covered with mud from head to foot, his face was sorely cut and bruised by some sharp stones lying under the mud, and his teeth had cut through his upper lip. Georgie raised him into a sitting posture, and did all he could for him. A little burn ran by the way-side. Georgie dipped his handkerchief in it, and kneeling beside him, tried to wash away the mud and blood from his face with the utmost tenderness and gentleness, saying all the time words of kindness and concern, and giving him those looks of deep, wistful pity.

At first Alick submitted to his kind offices without speaking; but after a few minutes he turned his head from him with a fretful, impatient, "There, that'll do," and stretched out his hand for his crutches. Georgie brought them to him, and helped him to get upon them. But poor Alick had severely sprained his shoulder in trying to save himself as he fell, and the attempt to use his crutches gave him the most violent pain. Selfish boys are never manly. They always think too much of their own troubles. This new pain, and the fear that he should not be able to get home, were too much for Alick. He gave way to a most unrestrained fit of crying. At another time George would have been either provoked or amused at the big boy crying thus like a baby. But now the pity God had planted in his heart swallowed up every other feeling. He thought only of comforting and helping him.

"Oh, don't cry," he said encouragingly; "I'll get you home, never fear. See, sit here a minute, and I'll run for Annie's garden-chair, and wheel you home in it." And having seated him comfortably leaning against the wall, he ran off, and was back with the chair before even the impatient Alick could have expected him.

It was not easy to drive the chair through the soft mud, where hidden stones, were constantly turning aside the wheels, jarring George's arms, and calling forth bitter complaints from the fretful Alick. But Georgie bore complaints and jarrings with equal patience and kindly good humour, and as the homes of the two boys were not far apart, he got Alick safe to his own door in no very long time.

The next afternoon when Georgie came home from school, he heard from his mother that the doctor had been there to see Annie, and had told them that Alick was very ill. He had sprained his back as well as his shoulder, and was suffering great pain, and must, the doctor said, be confined to bed for many weeks. Georgie felt very sorry for him.