The Village of Youth Part 7

"Yes, it is a beautiful creeper, and ought to grow nicely round your window and make you quite a little bower."

The excitement of the children could no longer be curbed. Miss Brand was heartily glad when the distribution was over, and she could see the poor waifs happy with their little presents. It would be difficult to describe their joy. Many of their number had never possessed anything before. To have a book, a doll, a top, a pencil--something that was their very own--seemed like a delightful dream.

Father Francis had resolved to strike a blow for his _protege_ before the day was over. Just as Lord Eltonville was preparing to depart, he told him that there was a little chorister among his flock who had a lovely voice, and that if his lords.h.i.+p would oblige him by staying through the short prayer with which they were about to end the day's pleasure he would hear the boy sing.

The n.o.bleman graciously complied, and stood, hat in hand, while the priest said a Paternoster and three Aves, the children joining in fervently. Then Father Francis rose and sat at the harmonium. His lords.h.i.+p watched George take his place beside his spiritual director. He noticed the lad's pale, worn face, his ragged clothes, and his air of utter helplessness, and felt sorry that the good priest should have prevailed upon him to stay and witness the poor little fellow's failure.

There was not a sound in the schoolroom. The grand ladies held their breath in pity. Miss Brand looked anxious. The children longed for the success of their gentle comrade, and Maggie's heart beat with suppressed excitement.

"_Te Deum Laudamus, te Dominum confitemur._"

The voice seemed to pierce the heavens, so fresh and pure was its tone.

Lord Eltonville's heart stood still. The waif's face had changed with those first words of praise; it had become illuminated with a great light, his insignificant little figure had gained a king's dignity.

"_Te aeternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur._"

Lord Eltonville's imagination was fired by the music. He seemed to be in a little church of his own that was full of the perfume of incense. The low of distant oxen and the ripple of the river came through the open window. His only son, who died at about George's age, lay buried in the churchyard; the small grave was yellow with early primroses. He, too, had an angel's voice, stilled for ever excepting in his father's memory.

"_Tu Rex gloriae, Christe._"

Tears fell from the n.o.bleman's eyes. Nor song of lark, nor rustle of waving gra.s.s, nor anything he had ever heard in all nature, had touched him so deeply as the waif's rendering of that hymn of praise.

As the last words died away Lord Eltonville stepped forward with outstretched hand; but George's strength was exhausted, the flush died away from his face, and he fell backwards into the priest's arms.

IV.

Time and circ.u.mstances change men, some for good and some for ill. It is an acknowledged fact that success often spoils the best natures, although to those on whom Fortune seldom smiles, this is hard to realise.

Thanks to Lord Eltonville's generosity and kind care, George Ermen had become a great man. His wish had been gratified; he had earned money and position.

Twenty years had pa.s.sed since the geranium show. The ragged waif of that day had owned a sweet, loving nature, which seemed lost in the great musician of St. James's.

His father had died in prison. His mother's memory had scarcely survived. He never spoke of his early days, and looked upon them as a disgrace. Miss Brand's name seldom occurred to him, Father Francis was forgotten, and Maggie Reed languished in poverty.

In a gorgeous mansion, replete with every luxury, the musician sat at dinner with his young wife. The room was elegantly furnished; the walls were hung with fine oil-paintings. The table was decorated with hot-house flowers. Outside it was snowing, and the night was bitterly cold.

There was a great hush in the house. In the morning they had buried their only child. She had lived a year, and the first snow of winter had covered her grave.

George Ermen's selfish heart had been deeply touched by the loss of the little one, and somehow, when dinner was over, and he sat alone in his study, the remembrance of his childhood came over him like a forgotten strain of music.

The snow, every now and then, fell hissing into the fire which blazed upon the hearth.

The musician sat down to the organ and sang a few s.n.a.t.c.hes from his Ma.s.s, which was to be given for the first time on Christmas Day.

"There is a poor woman at the door, dear," said his wife, coming in silently and standing near him, a pathetic figure in her black dress.

"Oh, Mary, I can't see anybody to-day," he answered, placing his arm round her with unwonted gentleness.

"Gordon tried to dismiss her, George; but she seemed so distressed, and begged so hard to be allowed to speak with you, that he came to me, and when I saw her----"

"I understand, dear, I know your tender heart. If I gave in to you we shouldn't have a penny in the world----"

"We are so rich, George, we could give and give, and never feel it----"

"Well, well, don't cry, Mary. What is the woman's name?"

"Maggie Reed!"

Maggie Reed. The little face seemed to rise up before him as an angel's among the squalid surroundings of his childhood.

"Let her come in, dear," he said, with a tenderness in his voice that she had seldom heard of late.

Presently Maggie stood before him, ragged and wet, her pale face worn with want and suffering. She must have been about twenty-eight; but she looked ten years older.

"Maggie!" he cried, taking her hand, and placing her in a chair.

"Mr. Ermen. I came ter ask yer somethin, not ter beg. Don't think I've come ter beg. I want yer ter let Father Francis say yer Ma.s.s. 'E's seen all about it in the papers, how it's ter be sung on Christmas Day. 'E's an old man, and he would never ask yer 'imself, but 'e always thinks of yer, and prays for yer."

"And do you?" murmured George.

What a low cur he had been to let this poor girl suffer all her life!

And his other humble friends, too, whom he had vowed never to forsake!

"I hev' prayed for yer every night and morning since yer left us. I've said, 'G.o.d bless him, and make him great.' Yer see, sir, women don't forget."

V.

It was Christmas Day. The church was filled with great and fas.h.i.+onable people. Among the gorgeous crowd were to be seen Miss Brand and Maggie Reed, the latter in a warm dress of grey cloth.

Nearer the altar knelt George and his wife, his eyes often seeking the place where his friends were seated.

Father Francis, a.s.sisted by two other priests, was officiating.

George looked happier to-day. The presence of his. .h.i.therto forgotten companions had revived him, and the good father had spoken soothing words to him about his child's death. George had been overcome, and unaccustomed tears coursed down his face as he clasped the father's hand, and said,--

"Ah! one's early friends are true. Their love makes life worth having."

While the choir sang the _Gloria in Excelsis_, the musician's thoughts had strayed to his early days. He was thinking of the sunbeam, and wondering whether its visit was a dream. If so, it must have been a dream straight from G.o.d, for that day had gained him his career.

The golden flower had reared its head very near to the Sun-lands. Would it ever reach them?

He remembered a secret drawer in his escritoire, in which there was a small plaster crucifix, a faded geranium leaf, and a silver compa.s.s. He had kept these little relics, and yet he had ceased to remember the friends who had smoothed the rough pages of his childhood and pencilled his name in the book of fortune.

But Father Francis and Maggie and Miss Brand should be safe now; they should know no further sorrow!

The sun burst forth in the winter sky, shone into the church, and brightened the gloomy corners.