radiant masses beneath her straw bonnet, but she could not appreciate the angelic impression she made on the child, who had been tried so long by such a captivity. ‘My poor child,’ she said, ‘I am no angel; I am only Miss Charlecote. I’m afraid you have been shut up here;’ and, coming nearer, she perceived that it was a boy of about seven years old, well dressed, though his garments were disordered. He stood up as she came near, but he was trembling all over, and as she drew him into her bosom, and put her arms round him, she found him quivering with icy cold.
‘Poor little fellow,’ she said, rocking him, as she sat on the step and folded her shawl round him, ‘have you been here all night? How cold you are; I must take you home, my dear. What is your name?’
‘I’m Robert Mervyn Fulmort,’ said the little boy, clinging to her. ‘We came in to see Mr. Charlecote’s monument put up, and I suppose they forgot me. I waked up, and everybody was gone, and the door was locked. Oh! please,’ he gasped, ‘take me out. I don’t want to cry.’
She thought it best to take him at once into the cheerful sunlight, but it did not yet yield the warmth that he needed; and all her soothing words could not check the nervous tremor, though he held her so tight that it seemed as if he would never let her go.
‘You shall come home with me, my dear little boy; you shall have some breakfast, and then I will take you safe home to Beauchamp.’
‘Oh, if you please!’ said the boy, gratefully.
Exercise was thawing his numbed limbs, and his eyes brightened.
‘Whom were you with?’ she asked. ‘Who could have forgotten you?’
‘I came with Lieschen and nurse and the babies. The others went out with Mademoiselle.’
‘And you went to sleep?’
‘Yes; I liked to see the mason go chip, chip, and I wanted to see them fit the thing in. I got into that great pew, to see better; and I made myself a nest, but at last they were all gone.’
‘And what did you do, then? Were you afraid?’
‘I didn’t know what to do. I ran all about to see if I could look out at a window, but I couldn’t.’
‘Did you try to call?’
‘Wouldn’t it have been naughty?’ said the boy; and then with an impulse of honest truthfulness, ‘I did try once; but do you know, there was another voice came back again, and I thought that die Geistern wachten sich auf.’
‘The what?’
‘Die Geistern das Lieschen sagt in die Gewolben wohnen,’ said little Robert, evidently quite unconscious whether he spoke German or English.
‘So you could not call for the echo. Well, did you not think of the bells?’
‘Yes; but, oh! the door was shut; and then, I’ll tell you—but don’t tell Mervyn—I did cry.’
‘Indeed, I don’t wonder. It must have been very lonely.’
‘I didn’t like it,’ said Robert, shivering; and getting to his German again, he described ‘das Gewitter’ beating on the panes, with wind and whirling leaves, and the unearthly noises of the creaking vane. The terror of the lonely, supperless child was dreadful to think of; and she begged to know what he could have done as it grew dark.
‘I got to Mr. Charlecote,’ said Robert—an answer that thrilled her all over. ‘I said I’d be always very good, if he would take care of me, and not let them frighten me. And so I did go to sleep.’
‘I’m sure Mr. Charlecote would, my dear little man,’ began Honora, then checked by remembering what he would have said. ‘But didn’t you think of One more sure to take care of you than Mr. Charlecote?’
‘Lieschen talks of der Lieber Gott,’ said the little boy. ‘We said our prayers in the nursery, but Mervyn says only babies do.’
‘Mervyn is terribly wrong, then,’ said Honora, shuddering. ‘Oh! Robert, Mr. Charlecote never got up nor went to bed without asking the good God to take care of him, and make him good.’
‘Was that why he was so good?’ asked Robert.
‘Indeed it was,’ said she, fervently; ‘nobody can be good without it. I hope my little friend will never miss his prayers again, for they are the only way to be manly and afraid of nothing but doing wrong, as he was.’
‘I won’t miss them,’ said Robert, eagerly; then, with a sudden, puzzled look—‘Did he send you?’
‘Who?’
‘Mr. Charlecote.’
‘Why—how should . . . ? What made you think so?’
‘I—why, once in the night I woke up; and oh! it was so dark, and there were such noises, such rattlings and roarings; and then it came all white—white light—all the window-bars and all so plain upon the wall; and then came—bending, bending over—a great gray darkness—oh! so horrible!—and went away, and came back.’
‘The shadow of the trees, swaying in the moonlight.’
‘Was it? I thought it was the Nebel Wittwen neckten mir, and then the Erlkonung-tochter. Wissen sie—and oh! I did scream once; and then, somehow, it grew quietly darker; and I thought Mr. Charlecote had me folded up so warm on his horse’s back, and that we rode ever so far; and they stretched out their long white arms, and could not get me; but somehow he set me down on a cold stone, and said, “Wait here, Robin, and I’ll send her to lead you.” And then came a creaking, and there were you.’
‘Well, little Robin, he did not quite send me; but it was to see his tablet that I came down this morning; so he brought me after all. He was my very dear Cousin Humfrey, and I like you for having been his little friend. Will you be mine, too, and let me help you, if I can? and if your papa and mamma give leave, come and see me, and play with the little girl and boy who live with me?’
‘Oh, yes!’ cried Robert; ‘I like you.’
The alliance was sealed with a hearty kiss.
‘But,’ said Robert, ‘you must ask Mademoiselle; papa and mamma are away!’
‘And how was it no one ever missed you?’
Robert was far less surprised at this than she was; for, like all children, to be left behind appeared to him a contingency rather probable than otherwise.
He was a fine-looking boy, with dark gray, thoughtful eyes, and a pleasant countenance; but his nerves had been so much shaken that he started, and seemed ready to catch hold of her at every sound.
‘What’s that?’ he cried, as a trampling came along the alley as they entered the garden.
‘Only my two little cousins,’ said Honora, smiling. ‘I hope you will be good friends, though perhaps Owen is too young a playfellow. Here, Lucy, Owen—here is a little friend for you—Robert Fulmort.’
The children came eagerly up, and Lucilla, taking her hand, raised her face to kiss the stranger; but Robert did not approve of the proceeding, and held up his head. Lucilla rose on tiptoe; Robin did the same. As he had the advantage of a whole year’s height, he fully succeeded in keeping out of her reach; and very comical was the effect. She gave it up at last, and contented herself with asking, ‘And where do you come from?’
‘Out of the church,’ was Robin’s reply.
‘Then you are very good and holy, indeed,’ said Owen, looking at him earnestly, with clasped hands.
‘No!’ said Robert, gruffly.
‘Poor little man! he was left behind, and shut up in the church all night, without any supper,’ said Honora.
‘Shut up in the church like Goody Two-shoes!’ cried Lucilla dancing about. ‘Oh, what fun!’
‘Did the angels come and sing to you?’