The Empire Annual for Girls, 1911 Part 40

The Pearl-rimmed Locket

BY

M. B. MANWELL

March came in with a roar that year. The elms of Old Studley creaked and groaned loudly as the wild wind tossed them about like toys.

"I'm frighted to go to bed," wailed little Jinty Ransom, burying her face in Mrs. Barbara's lap, when she had finished saying her prayers.

"Ah, dear, 'taint for we to be frightened at anything G.o.d sends! Do'ent He hold the storms in the hollow of His hand? And thou, dear maid, what's wind and tempest that's only 'fulfilling His word' compared wi'

life's storms that will gather over thy sunny head one day, sure as sure?" Mrs. Barbara, the professor's ancient housekeeper, laid her knotted hand on the golden curls on her lap.

But "thou, dear maid" could not look ahead so far. It was more than enough for Jinty that Nature's waves and storms were pa.s.sing over her at the moment.

"Sit beside my bed, and talk me to sleep, please, Mrs. Barbara, dear!"

entreated the little girl, clutching tightly at the old lady's skirts.

So Mrs. Barbara seated herself, knitting in hand, by the little white bed, and Jinty listened to the stories she loved best of all, those of the days when her father was a little boy and played under the great elms of Old Studley with Mike, the ancient raven, that some people declared was a hundred years old at least. He was little more than a dream-father, for he had been for most of Jinty's little life away in far-off China in the diplomatic service. Her sweet, young, gentle mother Jinty did not remember at all, for she dwelt in a land that is far-and-away farther off than China, a land:

"Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through In G.o.d's most holy sight."

"And, really and truly, Mrs. Barbara, was it the very same Mike and not another raven that pecked at father's little legs same's he pecks at mine?" Jinty inquired sleepily.

"The very self-same. Thief that he is and was!" wrathfully said Mrs.

Barbara, who detested the venerable raven, a bird that gave himself the airs of being one of the family of Old Studley, and stirred up more mischief than a dozen human boys even.

"Why," grumbled on the old lady, "there's poor Sally Bent, the henwife, she's driven distracted with Mike's thievish tricks. This week only he stole seven eggs, three on 'em turkey's eggs no less. He set himself on the watch, he did, and as soon as an egg was laid he nipped it up warm, and away with it! If 'twasn't for master's anger I'd strangle that evil bird, I should. Why, bless her! The little maid's asleep, she is!"

And Mrs. Barbara crept away to see after her other helpless charge, the good old professor who lived so far back in the musty-fusty past that he would never remember to feed his body, so busy was he in feasting his mind on the dead languages.

Next morning the tearing winds had departed, the stately elms were motionless at rest, and the sun beat down with a fierce radiance, upon the red brick walls of Old Studley.

Jinty Ransom leaned out of her latticed window and smiled contentedly back at the genial sun.

"Ah, thou maid, come down and count over the crocus flowers!" called up Mrs. Barbara from the green lawn below. "I fear me that thief Mike has nipped off the heads of a few dozens, out o' pure wicked mischief."

Presently Jinty was flas.h.i.+ng like a sunbeam in and out of the old house.

"I must go round and scold Mike, then I'll come, back for breakfast, Mrs. Barbara. Grandpapa's not down yet."

[Sidenote: Mike on the War-path]

But scolding's a game two can play at. Mike charged at Jinty with a volley of angry chatter and fierce flappings of his heavy black wings.

It was no good trying to get in a word about the headless crocus plants or the seven stolen eggs.

"Anybody would think that I was the thief who stole them, not you!"

indignantly said Jinty. Then Mike craned suddenly forward to give the straight little legs a wicked nip, and Jinty fled with shrieks, to the proud ecstasy of the raven, who "hirpled" at her heels into the dining-room, into the learned presence of the old professor, by whom the mischievous Mike was welcomed as if he were a prince of the blood.

The raven knew, none better, that he had the freedom of the city, and at once set to work to abuse it. A sorry breakfast-table it was in less than five minutes. Here and there over the white tablecloth Mike scuttled and scrambled. His beak plunged into the cream-jug, then deep into the b.u.t.ter, next aimed a dab at the marmalade, and then he uttered a wrathful shriek became the bacon was too hot for his taste.

"My patience! Flesh and blood couldn't stand this!" Mrs. Barbara came in, her hands in the air.

But the professor neither saw nor heard the old housekeeper's anger.

"Wonderful, wonderful!" he was admiringly ejaculating. "Behold the amazing instinct implanted by nature. See how the feathered epicure picks and chooses his morning meal!"

"If a 'feathered pickyer' means a black thief as ever was, sir, that bird's well named!" said the housekeeper wrathfully.

At last Mike made his final choice, and, out of pure contrariness, it was the bowl of hot bread and milk prepared for Jinty's breakfast from which he flatly refused to be elbowed away.

"My pretty! Has it s.n.a.t.c.hed the very cup from thy lip!" Mrs. Barbara's indignation boiled over against the bold audacious tyrant so abetted by its master--and hers. "If I'd but my will o' thee, thou thief, I'd flog thee sore!" she added.

"Quoth the raven: never more!"

solemnly edged in the professor, with a ponderous chuckle over his own apt.i.tude which went unapplauded save by himself.

"I want my breakfast, grandpapa," whimpered Jinty.

It was all very funny indeed to witness Mike's reckless charge of destruction over the snowy tablecloth, but, when it came to his calm appropriation of her own breakfast, why, as Mrs. Barbara said, "Flesh and blood couldn't stand it."

"Have a cup of black coffee and some omelette, dearling!" said the professor, who would not have called anybody "darling" for the world.

Then the reckless old gentleman proceeded to placidly sort the letters lying on the breakfast-table, comfortably unconscious that little maids "cometh up" on different fare from that of tough old veterans.

"Why, why! Here's a surprise for us all!" Pus.h.i.+ng back his spectacles into the very roots of his white hair, the professor stared feebly round on the company, and twiddled in his fingers a sheet of thin foreign paper.

"Yes, sir?" Mrs. Barbara turned to her master eagerly alert for the news, and Jinty wondered if it were to say the dream-father was coming home at last.

But Mike, though some folk believe that ravens understand every word you say, continued to dip again and again into his stolen bread and milk with a lofty indifference. It might be an earthquake that had come to Old Studley for all he knew. What if it were? There would always be a ledge of rock somewhere about where he, Mike, could hold on in safety if the earth were topsy-turvy. Besides, he had now scooped up the last sc.r.a.p of Jinty's breakfast, and it behoved him to be up and doing some mischief.

His bold black eye caught a gleam of silver, an opportunity ready to his beak. It was a quaint little Norwegian silver salt-cellar in the form of a swan. Mike, with his head on one side, considered the feasibility of removing that ancient Norse relic quietly. Then, afraid perhaps of bringing about bad luck by spilling the salt, he gave up the idea and stole softly away, unnoticed by his betters, who seemed ridiculously occupied with a thin, rustling sheet of paper.

But to this day Mrs. Barbara has never found the salt-spoon, a little silver oar, belonging to that Norse salt-cellar, and she never will, that's certain.

"Extraordinary, most extraordinary!" the professor was repeating. Then, when Mrs. Barbara felt she could bear it no longer, he went on to read out the foreign letter.

It was from his son, Jinty's father, and told how his life had been recently in grave peril. His house had been attacked by native rioters, and he would certainly have been murdered had it not been for the warning of a friendly Chinaman. Mr. Ransom escaped in the darkness, but the loyal native who had saved him, paid the cost with his own life. He was cruelly hacked to pieces for his so-called treachery. When the rioters were quelled by a British detachment, Mr. Ransom's first thought was for the family of his faithful friend. But it was too late.

With the exception of one tiny girl all had been killed by the rioters.

This forlorn little orphan was already on her way crossing the Pacific, for she was to be housed and educated at Old Studley with Mr. Ransom's own little daughter, and at his expense. Common grat.i.tude could do no less.

[Sidenote: Ah Lon]

The letter went on to say that Ah Lon, the little Chinese maiden, was a well-brought-up child, her father belonging to the anti-foot-binding community which is fast making its way throughout China. She would therefore be no more trouble in the old home than a little English girl, than father's own Jinty, in fact.

"Well, of course," said the Professor meditatively, "the heavy end of the beam will come upon you, my good Barbara. There's plenty of room in the old house for this young stranger, but she will be a great charge for you."

"'Deed, sir, and it's a charge I never looked to have put upon me!"

quavered the scandalised Mrs. Barbara, twisting the corner of her ap.r.o.n agitatedly. "A haythen Chinee under this respected roof where there's been none but Christian Ransoms for generations back!"