Chatterbox, 1906 Part 118

'Oh, Peet, he is such a good fellow,' she went on, 'so kind to every one, and so good to his mother! As to _her_, she is just the best mother possible. Peet, do you know Jack--have you spoken to him?'

She was anxious to know if Jack had had his interview; from Peet's manner she feared he had not, or that something was wrong.

'Why should I speak to him?' asked the gardener, in his most forbidding tones.

'Because d.i.c.k has,' she ventured, scarcely knowing how to say more in Peet's surly mood.

'd.i.c.k and I are two different persons, Miss.'

'Yes,' said Estelle, softly, 'd.i.c.k is a--is very near Heaven, Aunt Betty says. Peet, I think it is worse for the man who has done the wrong.'

'Do you, Miss? Well, _I_ can't see it. It's not my way of thinking, anyhow.'

'It would be,' said Estelle, taking her courage in both hands, 'if you believed in forgiveness at all. Auntie told us what a hard time you had with d.i.c.k's illness,' continued Estelle, as Peet's face had not relented, 'but you are all right now. Jack has had a hard time too, because he was so dreadfully sorry for the wrong he had done. But it is not all right with him, and he says it never will be, because he cannot undo the harm.'

'No, he can't,' replied Peet, grimly.

'Well,' said Estelle, with a sigh, 'I am glad he has d.i.c.k's forgiveness, and that d.i.c.k called him his friend. Jack felt that more than anything.

He said it was like coals of fire on his head.'

Seeing Peet made no attempt to reply, but continued his work as if the subject were ended, Estelle sighed again, and went slowly back to join the others, who were crossing the lawn with Jack, on their way to the Bridge House, where he was to say good-bye to d.i.c.k.

'Oh, Jack,' cried Georgie, 'Estelle says you sing so beautifully! Will you sing to d.i.c.k? He loves music, and some day I shall buy him a barrel-organ to play to him always.'

Jack shook his head. 'He won't care to hear me, Master George.'

But Georgie was so sure d.i.c.k would care, that he ran on ahead of the party to ask him. As the rest came up, Mrs. Peet was at the door to receive them. She looked into Jack's face and held out her hand.

'For his sake!' she said, motioning with her head towards her son. 'I can't go against his wishes.'

Grasping her hand in his big palms, Jack could only murmur gratefully, 'Thank you.' The next moment he had been seized upon by Georgie, and dragged to d.i.c.k's chair to sing. Turning very red, he said he did not know if he could trust his voice. Mrs. Peet, however, urging her son's fondness for music, begged him to give them something. Against such an appeal Jack could make no resistance. He sang as he had never sung before. d.i.c.k's eyes never left his face, and when Jack rose to go, d.i.c.k shook his hands with a world of feeling and pardon in eyes and clasp.

There had been one listener unseen by all, who stood with bowed head, leaning heavily on the gate of the porch. Perhaps it was Aunt Betty's gentle pleadings which had fallen like the 'gentle rain from heaven'

upon his hard temper, preparing the ground for Estelle's soft words on behalf of Jack. Perhaps it was that his own better nature had a.s.serted itself when all outside arguments had failed, and made him see how 'to err is human, to forgive divine.' Peet waited there in front of his house; and when Jack's voice came to him through the half-closed door in the concluding words of the last song, he understood dimly, in his own fas.h.i.+on, that no one could have sung in that way who had not known what real suffering was.

As Jack came out of the little garden, Peet stood in front of him, grim and determined, though there were wrinkles about his eyes. They showed how severe the pain and struggle were. Holding out his hand, he muttered gruffly, 'He is pretty near a saint, he is,' nodding towards the house, 'and I would not like to be shut out from where he goes. So we will just let bygones be bygones. There's my hand on it, if you will take it in the same spirit.'

Jack grasped the proffered hand with a mighty grip. His heart was full.

'Let it be how you please,' he said, in eager grat.i.tude, 'so long as you do forgive me. I am more thankful than I am able to say for the kindness and forgiveness which have been shown me. But do not think that I shall ever forget the past, or cease to feel the most bitter sorrow for what I have done.'

Peet returned the pressure of his hand with a little more warmth, and Estelle thought his face was softer.

There was no time for more words. The children rushed out to pursue Jack. Mrs. Peet, even with Estelle's a.s.sistance, could no longer restrain them.

Jack must say good-bye to Aunt Betty, and have a word with the Earl. As they all walked up the Park together, the sailor told them that Lord Lynwood had asked him to persuade Mrs. Wright to come to Tyre-c.u.m-Widcombe. He would give her a little cottage, a pretty garden, and would see that she wanted for nothing all her life. Jack himself was offered a permanent berth on Lord Lynwood's own yacht. A shout of delight greeted this announcement. Estelle was full of joy.

'We shall see you and dear Goody very often,' she cried, with sparkling eyes. 'Oh, won't we make you both happy!'

The other children echoed her delight.

'I have a great plan,' went on Estelle, dancing along gleefully, 'and I know it will simply send everybody wild with joy.'

'What is it?' asked Alan, eagerly. 'As long as it does not take you away, I don't mind.'

'I think I can persuade Father to take us all in his yacht, and we will bring Goody here ourselves.'

This proposal did indeed send the children wild. Not a word could Jack get in edgewise for several minutes.

'You are sure she will come?' asked Estelle.

'I think she will,' said Jack, smiling. 'She will never be happy away from our little Missie.'

THE END.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Have you spoken to Jack?'"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I struck furiously at the brute."]

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By HAROLD ERICSON.

IX.--A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

'Oh, yes,' said Bobbie Oakfield, a night or two after Vandeleur's story of the plucky j.a.panese sailor; 'that young Hayas.h.i.+ was a smart fellow, and as brave as they make them; but as you have blown the j.a.panese trumpet, I think it is only fair I should blow a Russian one, if only to show that the Russians can be, in an emergency, as brave as the j.a.ps themselves, which is the same as saying as brave as any man on this earth, not excepting an Englishman of the true kind!'

Well, I was in Russia--I have been many times, as you know, getting a little big or other game-shooting from my relations there. On this occasion there were reports up from my cousin's 'shoot' of wolves having been seen about; it was a cold season, and that is the kind of season in which the sportsman gets a good chance of adding a wolf-skin or two to his collection, for they become more accessible--tamer perhaps, certainly bolder--when it is cold. It is not a matter of choice with the poor creatures, but of stern necessity; they _must_ come nearer to the villages, because food is difficult to obtain elsewhere. My cousin could not respond to Michael the keeper's invitation to come down and make a battue for the wolves. 'You can go by yourself if you like,' he said to me; 'Michael will make you comfortable, and if there are any wolves he will show them to you. Don't miss them, if he brings you within range, for that is an unpardonable crime in Michael's eyes, and he would never forgive you!'

Well, I went down to Dubrofda, prepared to stay for a week. I found that Michael was away, trying to secure a family of elk, which he had followed for several days. The under-keeper, Gavril, was there, however, and under his auspices I hoped to find sport, though he informed me sadly, on my arrival, that he had not seen wolves for several days.

'They came into the village after straying dogs one night,' he said, 'and pulled down a sheep of old Ivan Trusof's. Ivan fired his old blunderbuss at them, and the noise seems to have scared them away.

To-morrow I will try after them, and if that fails we must see whether a squeal-pig will attract them.'

'A squeal-pig?' I repeated, laughingly; 'what in the world is that?'

Gavril glanced at me in some displeasure. 'It is a common way of hunting the wolves,' he said. 'Perhaps the method is not known in England.'

I explained that the last English wolf was killed many years ago. Then Gavril described the process which he had called the squeal-pig method of wolf-hunting.

'You get a very young pig,' he said, 'and put it into a sack. Now, no pig likes being put into a sack, and when a pig does not like a thing he squeals as though he were being killed. The sportsmen drive slowly through the wood by night, and all the while the pig is making a terrible din--a din that can be heard a mile or two away. If there is one thing in the world that a wolf prefers above another, as a delicacy, it is pork. Every wolf in the forest hears the yelling of the pig, and comes to see what is the matter, and whether there is a chance of any pork for supper. Sometimes the beasts become so excited that they will come quite close to the sledge in which the pig is squealing in its bag.