Fairies Afield Part 7

But already Michael's kindness had revived them, and they stood up, eager to get to the only home they had now a chance of. The cousins looked at each other. What was in store for the poor things? Their grandmother, a loving soul, would welcome them no doubt, and share with them all she had. But that "all" was really nothing. She was feeble and crippled with rheumatism. But for old Peter and his friend Ysenda, she would before this have risked dying of starvation.

However--"Cheer up," said Michael, as he hoisted little Mattie on to his shoulder, Paul loading himself with the bundles. "Cheer up. We'll be at the good dame's in no time. Giles," he went on, for Hodge was looking sulky and disapproving, "Giles, you might do worse than help the boy--or at least bring a bundle of my f.a.ggots and come with us. Martha's fire will be none too big."

Giles started forward, half shamed into doing his part--and Hodge, who was, after all, more stupid than bad-hearted, drew out of his pocket two small copper coins, which he handed to Paul.

"Tell your granny," he said, "that's to help to get you some milk for breakfast from the farm near by her cottage."

Paul smiled gratefully and thanked him.

Then they set off--Hodge walking with them a part of the way, till he reached the turning to his own home.

The poor dame was still up--sitting by the tiny fire in her kitchen, grudging to lose any of its welcome warmth, when Michael--leaving the others at the door--stepped in warily with a cheerful "good evening," so as not to terrify the lonely old woman.

Mingled indeed were her feelings, as you can imagine. Loving delight as she clasped the little travellers in her trembling arms, though even in that first moment the dire misgiving seized her as to how they were to be fed and clothed! So pathetic are often the greatest joys of the very poor.

But the children for the moment had no such fears.

"Oh granny, granny," cried the little girl, "it is so sweet, so lovely to have found you," and Paul turned away to hide the tears which he thought himself too big a boy to give way to.

They were near Michael's own eyes, and even Giles had a lump in his throat as he set to work to build up the fire with the bundle of his cousin's f.a.ggots.

The dame looked about her anxiously.

"My darlings, you must be hungry," she was beginning, but the little new-comers interrupted her.

"No, no," they said, with the quick thoughtfulness of the children of their cla.s.s, "this kind man," pointing to Michael, "gave us supper at his house. We only want to go to bed, and it will be so beautiful to wake in the morning and to find we are with our own granny."

"And I have money to get some more bread and milk for breakfast," added Paul, jingling the two coppers in his pocket, "so that will be all right."

With the help of the two young men, a bed was soon made up for the boy on the old kitchen settle, as there was room for little Mattie beside the dame. Everything in the cottage was scrupulously clean, for to have had it otherwise would have broken Dame Martha's heart, and by the handy way that the children moved about, tired though they were, she was pleased to see that they had been well and carefully brought up. So for the moment she tried to dismiss her anxiety.

But when the cousins said good-night and set off on their way home Michael's heart felt heavy for the little family.

"Good Lord!" he murmured, "if only I were rich!"

"What then?" asked Giles. "You'd be for taking the lot of them on your shoulders, I suppose. Well, as things are, you can't do so. Of course they must all go to the workhouse, though to-night it would have been cruel to hint at such a thing."

Michael said nothing, but he had some hope that this might be avoided.

That very day--I have said it was a Sat.u.r.day--a long conversation had taken place at old Peter's between himself and his favourite Ysenda.

She had looked in as she often did, and was startled and distressed to find him far from well.

"Yes," he said, in answer to her kindly enquiries, "yes, my dear young friend, I am failing fast. You must not grieve about it--the thought of dying is very familiar to me and far from unwelcome. But there is something I wish to consult you about. You know my secret. You know the only legacy I can leave behind me. It is as to this that I want to know your opinion, for you have a good sound judgment as well as a kind heart. To me myself the greatest pleasure would be to bequeath my magic gift to _you_, my dear Ysenda."

But the girl, as he had in his heart expected, shook her head.

"No, dear Peter," she replied. "There are those nearer to you than I, and more in need of help. Besides--I know the secret; the fulfilling its conditions would therefore be no test of my deserving its benefits. Nor do I stand in want of them. No--dear friend--if, as you kindly say, you consider my advice worth attending to, I would propose this. Bequeath the enchanted table to whichever of your three nephews discovers the inner spell which governs it. In this there will be nothing unfair. You can teach them the magic words, and then inform them that the further secret must be sought and found by themselves--or by himself. Hodge is the eldest--let him have the first trial, then Giles, and lastly Michael."

"And if--supposing Hodge succeeds?" said Peter with a rather curious enquiry in his tone.

Ysenda's face flushed a little.

"Well then, it would be all right. He would continue to use his power as it should be used."

"And Giles?"

"In the same way, of course," she replied.

"But--if both failed, and Mike came to have his try at it?"

Ysenda raised her pretty head with a gesture of pride.

"_Then_," she replied, "it would most certainly be all right. As to _Michael's_ good heart I have no misgiving whatever. Quite independently of the spell, no sooner would he have it in his power to show kindness to any one in need of it than he would be eager to do so."

"I agree with you," said her old friend; and to himself he added, "I suspected as much. Ah well, they are worthy of each other, and I trust that all will prosper with them."

Then after a moment's silence he went on again:

"I will do as you advise, my child. To-morrow I will announce my intention, and take the three into my confidence as far as is necessary.

Then when my own summons comes I shall feel that I have acted for the best--fairly by all, though my own wishes are with that good young fellow, Michael."

Ysenda rose to go.

"You will come again soon?" said the old man. "The sands are running out quickly, I feel, and I am not likely to be mistaken."

"Dear Peter," whispered the young girl, and the tears rose to her eyes.

"Bless you, my child," laying his hand on her shoulder. Then just as she was turning away, a curious, listening expression crept over his face.

"Yes, yes," he murmured, as if in reply to some inaudible voice, "yes."

Ysenda felt a little frightened, and of this Peter seemed at once aware.

He patted her again.

"Do not be alarmed," he said, with a smile. "I have no dealings with the black arts. But certain things are communicated to me in ways that I must not reveal. And just now--I am glad you were still here. Trouble, or rather perplexity--for the trouble is mingled with joy--is at hand for our good old friend Dame Martha. Will you go to see her to-morrow, Ysenda, and learn about it?"

"I was already intending to enquire how she is," said the girl. "I will certainly not fail to see her, and I will do all I can to help her, you may be sure."

"Of that I have no doubt," said Peter. "Good-night, my child."

Many things pa.s.sed through Ysenda's mind as she walked slowly home. She had no mother, and her father, though devoted to her, his only child, was a hard man. He thought her fanciful and romantic, as she had on several occasions refused to marry to please him. For his great idea was that her husband should be a wealthy man.

"He must at least show on his side as handsome a sum as will be the dowry I give you," he had often repeated. But so far, none of the suitors that in this respect were approved of by the father had found favour in his daughter's eyes, so that he began to think the girl had determined against marrying at all, little suspecting the love that had already crept into her sweet heart.

"Ah, well," he thought to himself, "better live single than make a poor choice of some pauper who would squander her fortune, though for that matter, unless I look to it, she will be for giving it all away in charity once the breath's out of my body. Ysenda is too 'giving' by half."

And with this idea, rich though he was, the father kept the girl but slenderly supplied with money. She had to account to him for every farthing, and only by denying herself many little things she had naturally a right to expect, was she able to help her poorer neighbours.

And without old Peter's contributions, though in cash he had not much to give, still less would it have been possible for her to a.s.sist those in need.