Fairies Afield Part 11

"Let's count it as belonging to us all," said hospitable Michael. "It shall be a fixed rule that you two dine with me every Sunday, same as to-day. And as long as the good people favour us as they've done this time, the least _we_ can do is to let those who are less well off than we, share in our prosperity. I've a feeling that it's what old Uncle Peter would wish."

"That's why you mean to have the dame and her boy and girl every Sunday?" said Hodge. "Well, for my part I wouldn't take upon me to object. They're nice-mannered children, and the dame's an old friend.

And there was enough and to spare."

Giles was looking very thoughtful.

"Yes, indeed," he exclaimed. "It's the right thing to do, and, as you say, it's following after our kind old G.o.dfather. I say, Mike," he went on, "maybe--I shouldn't be very surprised if that's how you've hit the nail on the head--eh, what do you think of that?"

Michael stared. Such an idea had never occurred to him, and indeed he scarcely understood what Giles meant. He thought of it afterwards, however.

Then his cousins left him, and he began to wish he could manage to see Ysenda to tell her the good news.

"She'll be as pleased as I am myself," he thought, "as pleased as if the good luck had been her own. And after all, it's thanks to her I persevered. By the bye, I wonder what I should do with that nice piece of meat she brought me, to fall back upon in case of need. I shouldn't keep it--maybe she'd like me to take it to the dame. I'll just have a look at it."

He turned to the cupboard--it was a sort of larder with a wired opening to the fresh air, which he had arranged himself, for he was very neat-handed. But when he drew back the door, he started with surprise.

He could scarcely believe his eyes, and rubbed them hard to make sure he was not dreaming! For there, neatly placed on the shelves, was not only kind Ysenda's gift, but all the remains of the dinner--cold duck, pork pie, plum-pudding, sauces, vegetables, fruit! almost as tempting a sight as had been the viands on their first appearance, so daintily were they all arranged, so clean and bright were the china and gla.s.s.

Michael really laughed with pleasure.

"If only I could tell Ysenda," he said aloud.

The opportunity for so doing was coming nearer, though he knew it not.

On their way home Dame Martha and the children met the farmer and his daughter. Ysenda stopped to speak to them, and her father, who happened to be in a very good humour, as he had made excellent terms for the sale of his numerous stacks of hay, accosted the old woman kindly enough, though he had been one of those who had called her very foolish for accepting the charge of the penniless orphans.

"Well, dame," he began, "and how goes the world with you?" and almost before Ysenda heard the first words of her reply, the young girl guessed, what indeed she was already sure of, that Michael's trial of the magic spell had succeeded--so bright and happy looked the dame, so bursting with joyful excitement were Paul and Mattie.

"Oh, I am all of a tremble with thankfulness," replied Martha. "Such a feast as we have had! Never was there a kinder host than young Michael----"

"And, and," interrupted the children, forgetting their shyness, "we're to have dinner with him every Sunday--just fancy that! And see what we've got to take home for a treat," and they held out the beautiful oranges.

"I _am_ pleased----" began Ysenda, but her father interrupted her.

"Young Michael, did you say," he inquired, turning to the dame, "young _Michael_! How comes it that he can afford to give feasts? I thought it was all he could do to keep himself--not to speak of feasting."

"And a real feast it was," said Martha, "roast ducks, and pies, and----"

"Plum-pudding, and these oranges and apples," the children went on. "And every Sunday, sir, every Sunday it's to be the same--dinner with him."

"Glad to hear it," said the farmer, rather shortly.

Then with a nod of farewell, and a sweet smile from his daughter, the two walked on.

For a few moments neither spoke. They were near their own home by this time. Suddenly the farmer exclaimed:

"Queer business this seems of young Michael's. He's a steady, hard-working fellow, but none too well-off. Maybe old Peter left him something after all--unbeknown to any one?"

He did not exactly ask the question of Ysenda, but he looked at her as he spoke. He knew how very friendly she had been with the old man. She smiled, and her pretty eyes lighted up.

"Maybe," was all she said.

But an hour or two later, when her father had finished smoking his Sunday afternoon pipe, he called her.

"Ysenda," he said,--he was sitting in the porch, for the day was mild for the time of year,--"Ysenda, I'm thinking about that young fellow--Michael."

"Yes, father?" she said questioningly.

"You know that old Thomas is leaving us." Thomas was the farmer's head man. "He's getting past work, and he's got some tidy savings put by. He won't be badly off. I'm not sorry. I'd like some one younger and sharper about the place, though I'd scarce have found it in my heart to dismiss him. But he wants to go. I've been casting about for a new man. I wonder how Michael would do."

"Was it what you heard this afternoon that's made you think of him?" the girl asked, straight-forwardly.

The farmer seemed a little taken aback.

"Well--not exactly. But you see," he replied, "if so be that old Peter did leave him something, well then, Peter was a wise man, a very wise man--it shows he thought highly of the young fellow, and if he was to come to me instead of Thomas, I'd as lief as not that he had a something of his own. It would give him a better position over the others, you see."

From her father's practical point of view, Ysenda did "see"; and when he went on to propose that they should stroll round by Michael's cottage for their evening walk, "just to have a look at things," she made no objection.

"We might say we heard of his kindness to the dame, and ask about her and how she's getting on," added the farmer.

So Michael, sitting ruminating by the fire, was not a little surprised when, on opening the door in answer to a knock, he was confronted by the two visitors.

"We thought we'd look in to--to congratulate you on your--your kindness to our old friend and her grandchildren," the farmer began, very amiably. "We've heard all about it from them, you must know."

Michael's sunburnt face had grown very red, first with the delight of seeing Ysenda, and then by the startling word "congratulate." For he knew that the secret confided to him and his cousins would be of no value if it were made known to others, so that Peter had trusted to them to keep it faithfully.

Ysenda seemed to guess his alarm, and with a smile and a whisper she rea.s.sured him, even before her father had finished speaking.

"It is all right," she said. "I know you have won"; and later on, she added, "It is what Peter hoped and wished for."

So nothing was wanting to Michael's satisfaction. He begged his visitors to honour him by staying to supper, and when the farmer saw the good fare so quickly and neatly laid before them, his opinion of Michael, needless to say, rose still higher, and before he took leave of the young man he had hinted at the proposal he was thinking of.

This was the beginning of a happy life for Mike. He became the farmer's right hand, and before long his son-in-law. Nor in his prosperity did Michael ever forget his old friends. Never a Sunday pa.s.sed without his cousins and his poorer neighbours--Martha and her grandchildren--being his guests. Never, therefore, did the "good people" fail to respond to his summons.

And even before Ysenda became the hostess on these occasions, she felt that she might reveal to him the secret of the condition which in his generosity he had unconsciously fulfilled.

"Peter told me what it was," she said. "The magic feast is only bestowed on him who invites as his guests those poorer than himself. But had you known this, the charm would have been lost. Your motive was pure kindness--free from all selfishness, therefore you succeeded where Hodge and even Giles, good-natured though he is, failed!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Your motive was pure kindness--free from all selfishness, therefore you succeeded."]

"All the same, sweetheart," said Michael, "I feel that I owe my happy fortune to _you_, as well as to dear old Peter and to the 'good people'

themselves. May I always have a grateful heart and remember those whose lives are less favoured than mine."

The Weather Maiden