Produced by Al Haines
Through the Postern Gate
_A ROMANCE IN SEVEN DAYS_
By
Florence L. Barclay
Author of
"The Rosary," "The Mistress of Shenstone," "The Following of the Star," etc
London and New York
G. P. Putnam's Sons
1912
146_th Thousand_
_Made and Printed in Great Britain by The Camelot Press Limited, Southampton._
TO
MY MOTHER
Contents
THE FIRST DAY
THE STORY OF LITTLE BOY BLUE
THE SECOND DAY
MISS CHARTERIS TAKES CONTROL
THE THIRD DAY
THE BOY INVADES THE KITCHEN
THE FOURTH DAY
CHRISTOBEL SIGNS HER NAME
THE FIFTH DAY
GUY CHELSEA TAKES CONTROL
THE SIXTH DAY
MISS ANN HAS "_MUCH_ TO SAY"
AN INTERLUDE
"AS A DREAM, WHEN ONE AWAKETH"
THE SEVENTH DAY
THE STONE IS ROLLED AWAY
THE FIRST DAY
THE STORY OF LITTLE BOY BUTE
"But it was not your niece! It was always you I wanted," said the Boy.
He lay back, in a deep wicker chair, under the old mulberry-tree. Hehad taken the precaution of depositing his cup and saucer on the softturf beneath his chair, because he knew that, under the stress ofsudden emotion, china--especially the _best_ china--had a way of flyingoff his knee. And there was no question as to the exquisite quality ofthe china on the dainty tea-table over which Miss Christobel Charterispresided.
The Boy had watched her pouring the tea into those pretty rose-leafcups, nearly every afternoon during the golden two weeks just over. Heknew every movement of those firm white hands, so soft, yet so strongand capable.
The Boy used to stand beside her, ready to hand Mollie's cup, aspunctiliously as if a dozen girls had been sitting in the old garden,waiting to be quickly served by the only man.
The Boy enjoyed being the only man. Also he had quite charmingmanners. He never allowed the passing of bread-and-butter to interferewith the flow of conversation; yet the bread-and-butter was alwayswithin reach at the precise moment you wanted it, though the Boy'sbright eyes were fixed just then in keenest interest on the person whohappened to be speaking, and not a point of the story, or a word of theremark, was missed either by him or by you.
He used to watch the Aunt's beautiful hands very closely; and at last,every time he looked at them, his brown eyes kissed them. The Boythought this was a delightful secret known only to himself. But oneday, when he was bending over her, holding his own cup while she filledit, the Aunt suddenly said: "Don't!" It was so startling andunexpected, that the cup almost flew out of his hand. The Boy mighthave said: "Don't _what_?" which would have put the Aunt in adifficulty, because it would have been so very impossible to explain.But he was too honest. He at once _didn't_, and felt a little shy forfive minutes; then recovered, and hugged himself with a fearful joy atthe thought that she had _known_ his eyes had kissed her dear beautifulhands; then stole a look at her calm face, so completely unmoved in itsclassic beauty, and thought he must have been mistaken; only--what onearth else could she have said "Don't!" about, at that moment?
But Mollie was there, then; so no explanations were possible. Now atlast, thank goodness, Mollie had gone, and his own seven days hadbegun. This was the first day; and he was going to tell hereverything. There was absolutely nothing he would not be able to tellher. The delight of this fairly swept the Boy off his feet. He hadkept on the curb so long; and he was not used to curbs of any kind.
He lay back, his hands behind his head, and watched the Aunt's kindface, through half-closed lids. His brown eyes were shining, but verysoft. When the Aunt looked at them, she quickly looked away.
"How could you think the attraction would be gone?" he said. "It wasalways you, I wanted, not your niece. Good heavens! How can you havethought it was Mollie, when it was _you_--YOU, just only you, all thetime?"
The Aunt raised her beautiful eyebrows and looked him straight in theface.
"Is this a proposal?" she asked, quietly.
"Of course it is," said the Boy; "and jolly hard it has been, having towait two whole weeks to make it. I want you to marry me, Christobel.I dare say you think me a cheeky young beggar to suggest it, pointblank. But I want you to give me seven days; and, in those seven days,I am going to win you. Then it will seem to you, as it does to me, theonly possible thing to do."
His brown eyes were wide open now; and the glory of the love shiningout from them dazzled her. She looked away.
Then the swift colour swept over the face which all Cambridgeconsidered classic in its stern strong beauty, and she laughed; butrather breathlessly.
"You amazing boy!" she said. "Do you consider it right to take away aperson's breath, in this fashion? Or are you trying to be funny?"
"I have no designs on your breath," said the Boy; "and it is mymisfortune, but not my fault, if I seem funny." Then he sat forward inhis chair, his elbows on his knees, and both brown hands held outtowards her. "I want you to understand, dear," he continued,earnestly, "that I have said only a very little of all I have to say.But I hope that little is to the point; and I jolly well mean it."
The Aunt laughed again, and swung the toe of her neat brown shoe; ahabit she had, when trying to appear more at ease than she felt.
"It is certainly to the point," she said. "There can be no possibledoubt about that. But are you aware, dear boy, that I have beenassiduously chaperoning you and my niece, during the past two weeks;and watching, with the affectionate interest of a middle-aged relative,the course of true love running with satisfactory and unusualsmoothness?"
The Boy ignored the adjectives and innuendoes, and went straight to thepoint. He always had a way of ignoring all side issues or carefullyintroduced irrelevancy. It made him a difficult person to deal with,if the principal weapon in your armoury was elaborate argument.
"Why did you say 'Don't'?" asked the Boy.
The Aunt fell at once into the unintentional trap. She dropped hercalmly amused manner and answered hurriedly, while again the swiftcolour flooded her face: "Boy dear, I hardly know. It was somethingyou did, which, for a moment, I could not quite bear. Something passedfrom you to me, too intimate, too sweet, to be quite right. I said'Don't,' as involuntarily as one would say 'Don't' to a threatenedblow."
"It wasn't a blow," said the Boy, tenderly. "It was a kiss. Everytime I looked at your dear beautiful hand, lifting the silver teapot, Ikissed it. Didn't you feel it was a kiss?"
"No; I only felt it was unusual; something I could not understand; andI did not like it. Therefore I said 'Don't.'"
"But you admit it was sweet?" persisted the Boy.
"Exactly," replied the Aunt; "quite incomprehensibly sweet. And I donot like things I cannot comprehend; especially with amazing boysabout!"
"Didn't you know it was love?" asked the Boy, softly.
"No," replied the Aunt, emphatically; "most certainly, I did not."
The Boy got up, and came and knelt beside the arm of her chair.
"It was love," he said, his lips very close to the soft waves of herhair.
"Go back to your seat at once," said the Aunt, sternly.
The Boy went.
"And where does poor Mollie come in, in all this?" inquired the Aunt,with some asperity.
"Mollie?" said the Boy, complacently. "Oh, Mollie understood allright. She loves Phil, you know; intends t
o stick to him, and knowsyou will back her. The last part of the time, I brought her notes fromPhil, every day. Don't be angry, dear. You would have done ityourself, if Mollie and Phil had got hold of you, and implored you tobe a go-between. You remember the day we invaded the kitchen to seehow Martha made those little puffy buns--you know--the explosives? Youpinch them in the middle, and they burst into hundreds and thousands oflittle pieces. Jolly things for a stiffstand-up-in-a-crowd-and-all-hold-your-own-cups kind of drawing-roomparty; what we used to call 'a Perpendicular' in my Cambridge days. Isuppose they still keep up the name. Fancy those little buns explodingall over the place; and when you try to pick up the fragments, they gointo simply millions of crumbs, between your agitated fingers andanxious thumb!"
The Boy slapped his knee in intense enjoyment, and momentarily lost thethread of the conversation. The Aunt's mind was not sufficientlydetached to feel equal to a digression into peals of laughter over thisvision of the explosive buns. She wanted to find out how much Mollieknew. When the Boy had finished rocking backwards and forwards in hischair, she suggested, tentatively: "You went to the kitchen--?"
"Oh, yes," said the Boy, recovering. "We went to the kitchen to watchMartha make them, and to get the recipe. You see Mollie wanted themfor her father's clerical 'at homes.' Oh, I say--fancy! Thearchdeacons and curates, the rectors and vicars, all standing in asolemn crowd on the Bishop's best velvet-pile carpet; then Mollie, sodemure, handing round the innocent-looking little buns; and, heypresto! the pinching begins, and the explosions, and the hopelessattempts to gather up the fragments!"
The Boy nearly went off again; but he suddenly realized that the Auntwas not amused, and pulled himself together.
"Well, we stopped on the way to the kitchen for mutual confidences. Itwas not easy, bounded as we were by you on the one side, and Martha onthe other. We had to whisper. I dare say you thought we were kissingbehind the door, but we jolly well weren't! She told me about Phil;and I told her--oh, I told her _something_ of what I am trying to tellyou. Just enough to make her understand; so that we could go ahead,and play the game fair, all round. She was awfully glad, because shesaid: 'I have long feared my dear beautiful Aunt would marry anichthyosaurus.' I asked her what the--what the--I mean, what on earththe meaning of that was? And she said: 'An old fossil.'"
Again the swift flush swept over the calm face. But this time the Auntwent off, intentionally, on a side issue.
"I have heard you say 'What the deuce' before now, Boy. But I am gladyou appear to realize, judging by your laboured efforts to suppressthem, that these expressions shock me."
She looked at him, quizzically, through half-closed lids; but the Boywas wholly earnest.
"Well, you see," he said, "I am trying most awfully hard to be, inevery respect, just what you would wish the man who loves you shouldbe."
"Oh, you dear boy," said Christobel Charteris, a flood of suddenfeeling softening her face; "I must make you understand that I cannotpossibly take you seriously. I shall have to tell you a story no onehas ever heard before; a tender little story of a long-ago past. Imust tell you the story of my Little Boy Blue. Wait here a fewmoments, while I go indoors and give orders that we are not to bedisturbed."
Rising, she passed up the lawn to the little white house. The Boy'seyes followed her, noting with pride and delight the tall athleticfigure, fully developed, gracious in its ample lines, yet graceful inthe perfect swing of the well-poised walk. During all his collegeyears he had known that walk; admired that stately figure. He had beenin the set which called her "Juno" and "The Goddess"; which crowded tothe clubs if there was a chance of watching her play tennis. And now,during two wonderful weeks, he had been admitted, a welcomed guest, tothis little old-world oasis, bounded by high red-brick walls, where shedwelt and ruled. Quiet, sunny, happy hours he had spent in the hush ofthe old garden, strolling up and down the long narrow velvet turf,beneath the spreading trees, from the green postern gate in theright-hand corner of the bottom wall, to the flight of stone stepsleading up to the garden-door of the little white house.
The Boy knew, by now, exactly what he wanted. He wanted to marryChristobel Charteris.
He must have been rather a brave boy. He looked very youthful and slimas he lay back in his chair, watching the stately proportions of thewoman on whom he had set his young heart; very slight and boyish, inhis silver-grey suit, with lavender tie, and buttonhole of violas. TheBoy was very particular about his ties and buttonholes. They alwaysmatched. This afternoon, for the first time, he had arrived without abuttonhole. In the surprise and pleasure of his unexpected appearance,the Aunt had moved quickly down the sunlit lawn to meet and greet him.
Mollie had departed, early that morning. Her final words at therailway station, as her impish little face smiled farewell from thewindow of her compartment, had been: "Mind, Auntie dear, no mistakeabout Guy Chelsea! He's a charming fellow; and thank you ever so muchfor giving me such a good time with him. But you can report to Papa,that Guy Chelsea, _and_ his beautiful properties, _and_ his prospectivepeerage, _and_ his fifty thousand a year, _and_ his motor-cars, _and_his flying-machines, are absolutely powerless to tempt me away from myallegiance to Phil. Beside, it so happens, Guy himself is altogetherin love with SOME ONE ELSE."
The train having begun to move at the words "You can report to Papa,"Mollie finished the remainder of the sentence in a screaming crescendo,holding on to her hat with one hand, and waving a tiny lacepocket-handkerchief, emphatically, with the other. Even then, the Auntlost most of the sentence, and disbelieved the rest. The atmosphere oflove had been so unmistakable during those two weeks; the superabundantoverflow had even reached herself more than once, with an almoststartling thrill of emotion.
The Boy had been so full of vivid, glowing _joie-de-vivre_, radiatingfun and gaiety around him.
In their sets of tennis, played on her own court across the lane at thebottom of the garden, when she could beat him easily were hehandicapped by partnership with Mollie; but in genuine singles, whenMollie had tactfully collapsed on to a seat and declared herselfexhausted, his swift agility counterbalanced her magnificent service,and they were so evenly matched that each game proved a keen delight----
In the quiet teas beneath the mulberry tree, where the incomprehensibleatmosphere of unspoken tenderness gilded the light words and laughter,as sunlight touches leaf and flower to gold----
At the cosy dinners, to which they sometimes asked him, sitting in thegarden afterwards in the moonlight; when he would tell them thrillingtales of aviation, describing his initial flights, hairbreadth escapes;the joys of rapid soaring; the dangers of cross-currents, brokenpropellers, or twisted steering-gear----
On all these occasions, the Boy--with his enthusiasm, his fun, and hisfire--had been the life of the happy trio.
During those evenings, in the moonlight, when he started off onairships, one heart stood still very often while the Boy talked; but itstood still, silently. It was Mollie who clasped her hands andimplored him never to fly again; then, in the next breath, begged himto take her as a passenger, on the first possible occasion.
Happy days! But Mollie was the attraction; therefore, with Mollie'sdeparture, they would naturally come to an end.
The Boy had not asked if he might come again; and, for the moment, sheforgot that the Boy rarely asked for what he wanted. He usually tookit.
She had a lonely luncheon; spent the afternoon over letters andaccounts, picking up the dull threads of things laid aside during thegay holiday time.
It was not the Professor's day for calling. She was alone until four.Then she went out and sat under the mulberry. The garden was veryquiet. The birds' hour of silence was barely over.
Jenkins, the butler, had been sent into the town, so Martha brought outtea; as ample, as carefully arranged, as ever; and--cups for two!
"Why two cups, Martha?" queried Miss Charteris, languidly.
"Maybe there'll be a visitor," said Martha in
grim prophetic tones.Then her hard old face relaxed and creased into an unaccustomed smile."Maybe there is a visitor," she added, softly; for at that moment thepostern gate banged, and they saw the Boy coming up the garden, in ashaft of sunlight.
The Aunt walked quickly to meet him. His arrival was so unexpected;and she had been so lonely, and so dull.
"How nice of you," she said; "with the Attraction gone. But Marthaseems to have had a premonition of your coming. She has just broughtout tea, most suggestively arranged for two. How festive you are, Boy!Why this wedding attire? Are you coming from, or going to, a function?No? Then don't you want tennis after tea--a few good hard sets; justwe two, unhandicapped by our dear little Mollie?"
"No," said the Boy; "talk, please, to-day; just we two, unhandicappedby our dear little Mollie. Talk please; not tennis."
He paused beside the border, full of mauve and purple flowers. "Howjolly those little what-d'-you-call-'ems look, in the sunshine," hesaid.
Then the Aunt noticed that he wore no buttonhole, and that his tie waslavender. She picked four of her little violas, and pinned them intohis coat.
"Boy dear," she said, "you are a dandy in the matter of ties andbuttonholes; only it is so essentially _you_, that one rather enjoysit. But this is the first day I have known you to arrive without one,and have need to fall back upon my garden."
"It _is_ a first day," said the Boy, dropping into step with her, asshe moved toward the mulberry tree. "It starts a new regime, in thematter of buttonholes, and--other things. I am going to have sevendays, and this is the first."
"Really?" smiled the Aunt, amused at the Boy's intense seriousness. "Iam flattered that you should spend a portion of 'the first day' withme. Let us have tea, and then you shall tell me why seven days; andwhere you mean to pass them."
The Boy was rather silent during tea. The Aunt, trying to read hismind, thought at first that he regretted his flannels, and the chanceof tennis; then that he was missing Mollie. Whereupon the Auntrepeated her remark that it was nice of him to come, now the Attractionwas no longer there.
This gave him the cue for which he waited. His cup was empty, andsafely on the grass. The floodgates of the Boy's pent-up love andlonging burst open; the unforgettable words, "It was always you Iwanted," were spoken; and now he waited for her, under the mulberrytree. She had something to tell him; but, whatever it might be, itcould not seriously affect the situation. _He_ had told _her_--thatwas the great essential. He would win her in seven days. Already sheknew just what he wanted--a big step for the first day. He looked up,and saw her coming.
She had regained her usual calm. Her eyes were very kind. She smiledat the Boy, gently.
She took her seat in a low basket-work chair. He had leapt to hisfeet. She motioned him to another, just opposite hers. She wasfeeling rather queenly. Unconsciously her manner became somewhatregal. The Boy enjoyed it. He knew he was bent upon winning a queenamong women.
"I am going to tell you a story," she said.
"Yes?" said the Boy.
"It is about my Little Boy Blue."
"Yes?"
"_You_ were my Little Boy Blue."
"I?"
"Yes; twenty years ago."
"Then I was six," said the Boy, quite unperturbed.
"We were staying at Dovercourt, on the east coast. Our respectivefamilies had known each other. I used to watch you playing on theshore. You were a very tiny little boy."
"I dare say I was quite a nice little boy," said the Boy, complacently.
"Indeed you were; quite sweet. You wore white flannel knickers, and alittle blue coat."
"I dare say it was quite a nice little coat," said the Boy, "and I hopemy womenfolk had the tact to call it a 'blazer.'"
"It was a dear little coat--I should say 'blazer,'" said the Aunt; "andI called you my 'Little Boy Blue.' You also had a blue flannel cap,which you wore stuck on the back of your curls. I spoke to you twice,Little Boy Blue."
"Did you?" he said, and his brown eyes were tender. "Then no wonder Ifeel I have loved you all my life."
"Ah, but wait until you hear my story! The first time I spoke to you,it happened thus. Your nurse sat high up on the beach, in the longline of nurses, gossiping and doing needlework. You took your littlespade and bucket, and marched away, all by yourself, to a breakwater;and there you built a splendid sand castle. I sat on the breakwater,higher up, and watched you. You took immense pains; you overcamestupendous difficulties; and every time your little cap fell off, youpicked it up, dusted off the sand with the sleeve of your little bluecoat, and stuck it on the back of your curly head again. You were verysweet, Little Boy Blue. I can see you now."
The Aunt paused, and let her eyes dwell upon the Boy in appreciativeretrospection. If he felt this something of an ordeal, he certainlyshowed no signs of it. Not for a moment did his face lose itsexpression of delighted interest.
"Presently," continued the Aunt, "your castle and courtyard finished,you made a little cannon in the centre of the courtyard, for defence.Then you looked around for a cannon-ball. This was evidently a weightymatter, and indeed it turned out to be such. You stood your spadeagainst the breakwater; placed your bucket beside it; readjusted yourlittle cap, and trotted off almost to the water's edge. Yourconception of the size of your castle and cannon must have becomemagnified with every step of those small sturdy feet, for, arrived atthe water, you found a huge round stone nearly as large as your ownlittle head. This satisfied you completely, but you soon found youcould not carry it in your hands. You spent a moment in anxiousconsideration. Then you took off your little blue coat, spread it uponthe sand, rolled the cannon-ball upon it, tied the sleeves around it,picked up the hem and the collar, hoisted the heavy stone, andproceeded slowly and with difficulty up the shore. Every moment itseemed as if the stone must fall, and crush the bare toes of my LittleBoy Blue. So I flew to the rescue.
"'Little Boy Blue,' I said, 'may I help you to carry your stone?'
"You paused, and looked up at me. I doubt if you had breath to answerwhile you were walking. Your little face was flushed and damp withexertion; the blue cap was almost off; you had sand on your eyebrows,and sand on your little straight nose. But you looked at me with anexpression of indomitable courage and pride, and you said: 'Fanks; butI always does my own cawwying.' With that you started on, and I fellbehind--rebuffed!"
"Surly little beast!" ejaculated the Boy.
"Not at all," said the Aunt. "I won't have my Little Boy Blue callednames! He showed a fine independence of spirit. Now hear whathappened next.
"Little Boy Blue had almost reached his castle, with his somewhatlarge, but otherwise suitable, cannon-ball, when his nurse, glancing upfrom her needlework, perceived him staggering along in hisshirt-sleeves, and also saw the use to which he was putting his flannelcoat. She threw aside the blue over-all she was making, rushed downthe shore, calling my Little Boy Blue every uncomplimentary compoundnoun and adjective which entered her irate and flurried mind; seizedthe precious stone, unwound the little jacket, flung the stone away,shook out the sand and seaweed, and straightened the twisted sleeves.Then she proceeded to shake the breath out of my Little Boy Blue'salready rather breathless little body; put on the coat, jerked him upthe shore, and plumped him down with his back to the sea and hiscastle, to sit in disgrace and listen, while she told the assemblednurses what a 'born _h_imp of _h_evil' he was! I could have slain thatwoman! And I knew my little Boy Blue had no dear mother of his own. Iwanted to take him in my arms, smooth his tumbled curls, and comforthim. And all this time he had not uttered a sound. He had justexplained to me that he always did his own carrying, and evidently hehad learned to bear his childish sorrows in silence. I watched thelittle disconsolate blue back, usually so gaily erect, now round withshame and woe. Then I bethought me of something I could do. I madequite sure he was not peeping round. Then I went and found the chosenstone, and it was heavy indeed! I carried it to the breakwate
r, anddeposited it carefully within the courtyard of the castle. Then I satdown behind the breakwater, on the other side, and waited. I felt sureLittle Boy Blue would come back for his spade and bucket.
"Presently the nurses grew tired of bullying him. The strength of hisquiet non-resistance proved greater than their superior numbers andbrute force. Also his intelligent little presence was, undoubtedly, acheck upon their gossip. So he was told he might go; I conclude, onthe understanding that he should 'be a good boy' and carry no more'nasty heavy stones.' I saw him rise and shake the dust of the nurses'circle off his little feet! Then he pushed back his curls, and,without looking to the right or to the left, trotted straight to hiscastle. I wondered he did not glance, however hopelessly, in thesupposed direction of the desired stone. But, no! He came gaily on;and the light of a great expectation shone in his brown eyes.
"When he reached the breakwater, and found his castle, there--safely inthe courtyard--reposed the mighty cannon-ball. He stood still amoment, looking at it; and his cheeks went very pink. Then he pulledoff his little cap, and turned his radiant face up to the blue sky,flecked with fleeting white clouds. And--'Fank de Lord,' said myLittle Boy Blue."
There were unconcealed tears in the Aunt's kind eyes, and shecontrolled her quiet voice with difficulty. But the glory of a greatgladness had come over the Boy. Without as yet explaining itself inwords, it rang in his voice and laughter.
"I remember," he said. "Why, of course I remember! Not you, worseluck; but being lugged up the shore, and fearing I had lost mycannon-ball. And, you know, as quite a tiny chap, I had formed a habitof praying about all my little wants and woes. I sometimes think, howamused the angels must have been when my small petitions arrived.There was a scarecrow, in a field, I prayed for, regularly, everynight, for weeks. I had been struck by the fact that it looked lonely.Then I seriously upset the theology of the nursery, by passing througha course of persistent and fervent prayer for Satan. It appeared as anobvious logical conclusion to my infant mind: that if the personwho--according to nurse--spent all his time in going about makingeverybody naughty, could himself become good, all naughtiness wouldcease. Also, that anybody must be considered as 'past praying for,'was an idea which nearly broke my small heart With rage and misery,when it was first crudely forced upon me. I think the arch-fiend musthave turned away, silent and nonplussed, if he ever chanced to pass by,while a very tiny boy was kneeling up in his crib, pleading withtearful earnestness: 'Please God, bless poor old Satan; make him goodan' happy; an' take him back to heaven.' But it used to annoy nurseconsiderably, when she came into the same prayer, with barely a commabetween."
"Oh, my Little Boy Blue!" cried the Aunt. "Why was I not your mother!"
"Thank goodness, you were not!" said the Boy, imperturbably. "I don'twant you for a mother, dear. I want you for my wife."
"So you had prayed about the stone?" remarked the Aunt, hurriedly.
"Yes. While seated there in disgrace, I said: 'Please God, let anangel find my cannon-ball, which howwid old nurse fwowed away. An' letthe angel cawwy it safe to the courtyard of my castle.' And I was notat all surprised to find it there; merely very glad. So you see,Christobel, you were my guardian angel twenty years ago. No wonder Ifeel I have known and loved you, all my life."
"Wait until you hear the rest of my story, Little Boy Blue. But I cantestify that you were not surprised. Your brown eyes were simplyshining with faith and expectation, as you trotted down the shore.But--who said you might call me 'Christobel'?"
"No one," replied the Boy. "I thought of it myself. It seemed soperfect to be able to say it on the first of my seven days. And, ifyou consider, I have never called you 'Miss Charteris.' You alwaysseemed to me much too splendid to be 'Miss' anything. One might aswell say 'Miss Joan of Arc' or 'Miss Diana of the Ephesians.' But ofcourse I won't call you 'Christobel' if you would rather not."
"You quite absurd boy!" said the Aunt, laughing. "Call me anything youlike--just for your seven days. But you have not yet told me themeaning or significance of these seven days."
The Boy sat forward, eagerly.
"It's like this," he said. "I have always loved the story of how thearmy of Israel marched round Jericho during seven days. It appeals tome. The well-garrisoned, invincible city, with its high walls andbarred gates. The silent, determined army, marching round it, onceevery day. Apparently nothing was happening; but, in reality, theirfaith, enthusiasm, and will-power were undermining those mighty walls.And on the seventh day, when they marched round seven times to theblast of the priestly trumpets; at the seventh time, the ordeal ofsilence was over; leave was given to the great silent host to shout.So the rams' horns sounded a louder blast than ever; and then, with allthe pent-up enthusiasm born of those seven days of silent marching, thepeople shouted! Down fell the walls of Jericho, and up the conquerorswent, right into the heart of the citadel.... _I_ am prepared to marchround in silence, during seven days; but on the seventh day, Jerichowill be taken."
"_I_ being Jericho, I conclude," remarked the Aunt, dryly. "I cannotsay I have particularly noticed the silence. But that part of theprogramme would be decidedly dull; so we will omit it, and say, fromthe first: 'little Boy Blue, come blow me your horn!'"
"I shall blow it all right, on the seventh day," said the Boy, "andwhen I do, you will hear it."
He got up, came across, and knelt by the arm of her chair.
"I shall walk right up into the heart of the citadel," he said, "whenthe gates fly open, and the walls fall down; and there I shall findyou, my Queen; and together we shall 'inherit the kingdom.' O dearunconquered Citadel! O beautiful, golden kingdom! Don't you wish itwas the seventh day _now_, Christobel?"
His mouth looked so sweet, as he bent over her and said "Christo_bel_,"with a queer little accent on the final syllable, that the Aunt feltmomentarily dizzy.
"Go back to your chair, at once, Boy," she whispered.
And he went.
Neither spoke a word, for some minutes. The Boy lay back, watching themysterious moving of the mulberry leaves. The triumphant happiness inhis face was a rather breathless thing to see. It made you want tohear a great orchestra burst into the Hallelujah Chorus.
The Aunt watched the Boy, and wondered whether she must tell him aboutthe Professor, before the seventh day; and what he would say, when shedid tell him; and how Jericho would feel when the army of Israel, withsilent trumpets and banners drooping, marched disconsolate away,leaving its walls still standing; its gates still barred. Poor walls,supposed to be so mighty! Already they were trembling. If the Boy hadnot been so chivalrously obedient, he could have broken into thecitadel, five minutes ago. Did he know? .... She looked at hisradiant face.... Yes; he knew. There were not many things the Boy didnot know. She must not allow the seven days, even though she couldabsolutely trust his obedience and his chivalry. She must tell him therest of the story, and send him away to-day. Poor invading army, shornof its glad triumph! Poor Jericho, left desolate! It was decidedlyunusual to be compared to Jericho, and Diana of the Ephesians, and Joanof Arc, all in the same conversation; and it was rather funny to enjoyit. But then most things which happened by reason of the Boy _were_funny and unusual. He would always come marching 'as an army withbanners.' The Professor would drive up to Jericho in a fly, and knocka decorous rat-tat on the gate. Would the walls tremble at that knock?Alas, alas! They had never trembled yet. Would they ever trembleagain, save for the march-past of the Boy? Would the gates ever reallyfly open, except to the horn-blast of little Boy Blue? ... The Auntdared not think any longer. She felt she must take refuge in immediateaction.
"Boy dear," she said, in her most maternal voice, "come down from theclouds, and listen to me. I want to tell you the rest of the story ofmy Little Boy Blue."
He sprang up, and came and sat on the grass at her feet. All the Boy'smovements were so bewilderingly sudden. They were over and done,before you had time to consider whether or no you
intended to allowthem. But this new move was quite satisfactory. He looked less bigand manly, down on the grass; and she _really_ felt maternal, with hiscurly head so close to her knee. She even ventured to put out a coolmotherly hand and smooth the hair back from his forehead, as she beganto speak. She had intended to touch it only once--just to accentuatethe fact of her motherliness--but it was the sort of soft thick hairwhich seemed meant for the gentle passing through it of a woman'sfingers. And the Boy seemed to like it, for he gave one long sigh ofcontent, and leaned his head against her knee.
"Now I must tell you," said the Aunt, "of the only other time when Iventured to speak to my Little Boy Blue. He had come to his favouriteplace beside the breakwater. The tide had long ago swept away castle,courtyard, and cannon; but the cannon-ball was still there. It partookof the nature of 'things that remain.' Heavy stones usually do! When Ipeeped over the breakwater, Little Boy Blue was sitting on the sand.His sturdy legs were spread wide. His bare toes looked like ten littlepink sea-shells. Between his small brown knees, he had planted hisbucket. His right hand wielded a wooden spade, on the handle of whichwas writ large, in blue pencil: _Master Guy Chelsea_. He was bent uponfilling his bucket with sand. But the spade being long, and the buckettoo close to him--(Boy, leave my shoe alone! It does not requireattention)--most of the sand missed the bucket, and went over himself.I heard him sigh rather wearily, and say 'Blow!' in a tired littlevoice. I leaned over the breakwater. 'Little Boy Blue,' I said, 'mayI play with you, and help you to fill your bucket with sand?'
"Little Boy Blue looked up. His curls, his eyebrows, his long darkeyelashes were full of sand. There was sand on his little straightnose. But no amount of sand could detract from the dignity of hislittle face, or weaken its stern decision. He laid down his spade, putup a damp little hand, and, lifting his blue cap to me, said: 'Fanks;but I don't like girls.' Oh, Master Guy Chelsea, how you snubbed me!"
The Boy's broad shoulders shook with laughter, but he captured the handstill smoothing his hair; and, drawing it down to his lips, kissed itgently, back and palm, and then each finger.
"Poor kind-hearted, well-meaning little girl," he said. "But she mustadmit, little girls of seven are not always attractive to small boys ofsix."
"I was not seven," said the Aunt, with portentous emphasis. "Leave goof my hand, Boy, and listen. _When you were six, I was sixteen_."
This bomb of the Aunt's was received with a moment's respectfulsilence, as befitted the discharge of her principal field-piece. Thenthe Boy's gay voice said:
"And what of that, dear? When I was six, you were sixteen. When I wastwenty, you were twenty-nine----"
"Thirty, Boy; thirty! Be accurate. And now--you are twenty-six, and Iam getting on towards forty----"
"Thirty-six, dear, thirty-six! Be accurate!" pleaded the Boy.
"And when you are forty, I shall be fifty; and when you are fifty,Boy--only fifty; a man is in his prime at fifty--I shall be sixty."
"And when I am eighty," said the Boy, "you will be ninety--an old ladyis in her prime at ninety. What a charming old couple we shall be! Iwonder if we shall still play tennis. I think quite the jolliest thingto do, when we are very _very_ old--quite decrepit, you know--will beto stay at Folkestone, and hire two bath-chairs, with nice active oldmen to draw them; ancient, of course, but they would seem youngcompared to us; and then make them race on the Leas, a five-pound noteto the winner, to insure them really galloping. We would start at themost crowded time, when the band was playing, and race in and out amonglots of other bath-chairs going slowly, and simply terrified at us.Let's be sure and remember to do it, Christobel, sixty years fromto-day. Have you a pocket-book? I shall be a gay young person ofeighty-six, and you----"
"Boy dear," she said, bending over him, with a catch in her voice; "you_must_ be serious and listen. When I have said that which I must say,you will understand directly that it is no use having your seven days.It will be better and wiser to raise the siege at once, and march away.Listen! ... Hush, stay perfectly still. No; I can say what I am goingto say more easily if you don't look at me.... Please, Boy;_please_.... I told you my 'Little Boy Blue stories' to make yourealize how very much older I am than you. I was practically grown up,when you were still a dear delightful baby. I could have picked you upin my arms and carried you about. Oh, _cannot_ you see that, howevermuch I loved him--perhaps I should rather say: just _because_ I lovehim, because I have always wanted to help him carry his heavy stones;make the best of his life, and accomplish manfully the tasks he setshimself to do--I could not possibly marry my Little Boy Blue? I couldnot, oh I _could_ not, let him tie his youth and brightness to a woman,staid and middle-aged, who might almost be his mother!"
The earnest, anxious voice, eager in its determined insistence, ceased.
The Boy sat very still, his head bent forward, his brown hands claspinghis knees. Then suddenly he knelt up beside her, leaned over the armof her chair, and looked into her eyes. There was in his face such atender reverence of adoration, that the Aunt knew she need not beafraid to have him so near. This was holy ground. She put from offher feet the shoes of doubt and distrust; waiting, in perfect calmness,to hear what he had to say.
"Dear," murmured the Boy, tenderly, "your little stories might possiblyhave had the effect you intended--specially the place where you pausedand gazed at me as if you saw me still with sand upon my nose, and tenpink toes like sea-shells! That was calculated to make any chap feelyoungish, and a bit shy. Wasn't it? Yes; they might have told the wayyou meant, were it not for one dear sentence which overshadows all therest. You said just now: 'I knew my little Boy Blue had no mother. Iwanted to take him in my arms, smooth his curls, and comfort him.'Christobel, that dear wish of yours was a gift you then gave to yourLittle Boy Blue. You can't take it away now, because he has grownbigger. He still has no mother, no sisters, no near relations in theworld. That all holds good. Can you refuse him the haven, the help,the comfort you would have given him then, now--when at last he is oldenough to know and understand; to turn to them, in grateful worship andwonder? Would you have me marry a girl as feather-brained, asharum-scarum, as silly as I often am myself? You suggest Mollie; butthe Boy Blue of to-day agrees with his small wise self of twenty yearsago and says: 'Fanks, but I don't like girls!' Oh, Christobel, I wanta woman's love, a woman's arms, a woman's understanding tenderness!You said, just now, you wished you had been my mother. Does not thelove of the sort of wife a fellow really wants, have a lot of themother in it too? I've been filled with such a glory, Christobel,since you admitted what you felt for your Little Boy Blue because Iseemed to know, somehow, that having once felt it, though the feelingmay have gone to sleep, you could never put it quite away. But, ifyour Little Boy Blue came back, from the other end of the world, andwanted you----"
The Boy stopped suddenly, struck dumb by the look on the beautiful facebeneath his. He saw it pale to absolute whiteness, while the dear firmlips faltered and trembled. He saw the startled pain leap into theeyes. He did not understand the cause of her emotion, or know that hehad wakened in that strongly repressed nature the desperate hunger formotherhood, possible only to woman at the finest and best.
She realized now why she had never forgotten her Little Boy Blue of theDovercourt sands. He, in his baby beauty and sweetness, had wakenedthe embryo mother in the warm-hearted girl of sixteen. And now he hadcome back, in the full strength of his young manhood, overflowing withpassionate ideality and romance, to teach the lonely woman ofthirty-six the true sweet meaning of love and of wifehood.
Her heart seemed to turn to marble and cease beating. She felthelpless in her pain. Only the touch of her Little Boy Blue, or ofbaby Boy Blues so like him, that they must have come trotting down thesands of life straight from the heaven of his love and hers, could everstill this ache at her bosom.
She looked helplessly up into his longing, glowing, boyish face--sosweet, so young, so beautiful.
Should she pu
t up her arms and draw it to her breast?
She had given no actual promise to the Professor. She had notmentioned him to the Boy.
Ah, dear God! If one had waited twelve long years for a thing whichwas to prove but an empty husk after all! In order not to fail thepossible expectations of another, had she any right to lay such a heavyburden of disappointment upon her little Boy Blue? And, if she _must_do so, how could she best help him to bear it?
"Fanks," came a brave little voice, with almost startling distinctness,across the shore of memory; "Fanks, but I always does my own cawwying."
At last she found her voice.
"Boy dear," she said, gently; "please go now. I am tired."
Then she shut her eyes.
In a few seconds she heard the gate close, and knew the garden wasempty.
Tears slipped from between the closed lids, and coursed slowly down hercheeks. The only right way is apt to be a way of such pain at themoment, that even those souls possessing clearest vision and endowedwith strongest faith, are unable to hear the golden clarion-call,sounding amid the din of present conflict: "Through much tribulation,enter into the kingdom."
Thus hopeless tears fell in the old garden.
* * * * *
And Martha, the elderly housekeeper, faithful but curious, let fall thelath of the green Venetian blind covering the storeroom window, throughwhich she had permitted herself to peep. As the postern gate closed onthe erect figure of the Boy, she dropped the blind and turned away, anunwonted tear running down the furrows of her hard old face.
"Lord love 'im!" she said. "He'll get what he wants in time. There'snot a woman walks this earth as couldn't never refuse _'im_ nothing."
With which startling array of negatives, old Martha compiled onesupreme positive in favour of the Boy, leaving altogether out ofaccount--alas!--the Professor.
Then she wiped her eyes with her apron, and chid her nose harshly foran unexpected display of sentiment.
* * * * *
And the Boy tramped back to his hotel with his soul full of glory,knowing his first march round had been to some purpose. The walls ofthe beloved Citadel had trembled indeed.
* * * * *
"_And the evening and the morning were the first day._"
* * * * *
Through the Postern Gate: A Romance in Seven Days Page 1
