Little Lord Fauntleroy
as he moved the boy slightly forward.
“This is the new Lord Fauntleroy,” he said. “Fauntleroy, this is Mr.
Mordaunt, the rector of the parish.”
Fauntleroy looked up at the gentleman in the clerical garments, and gave
him his hand.
“I am very glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said, remembering
the words he had heard Mr. Hobbs use on one or two occasions when he had
been greeting a new customer with ceremony.
Cedric felt quite sure that one ought to be more than usually polite to
a minister.
Mr. Mordaunt held the small hand in his a moment as he looked down at
the child's face, smiling involuntarily. He liked the little fellow from
that instant--as in fact people always did like him. And it was not the
boy's beauty and grace which most appealed to him; it was the simple,
natural kindliness in the little lad which made any words he uttered,
however quaint and unexpected, sound pleasant and sincere. As the rector
looked at Cedric, he forgot to think of the Earl at all. Nothing in the
world is so strong as a kind heart, and somehow this kind little
heart, though it was only the heart of a child, seemed to clear all the
atmosphere of the big gloomy room and make it brighter.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Fauntleroy,” said the
rector. “You made a long journey to come to us. A great many people will
be glad to know you made it safely.”
“It WAS a long way,” answered Fauntleroy, “but Dearest, my mother, was
with me and I wasn't lonely. Of course you are never lonely if your
mother is with you; and the ship was beautiful.”
“Take a chair, Mordaunt,” said the Earl. Mr. Mordaunt sat down. He
glanced from Fauntleroy to the Earl.
“Your lordship is greatly to be congratulated,” he said warmly.
But the Earl plainly had no intention of showing his feelings on the
subject.
“He is like his father,” he said rather gruffly. “Let us hope he'll
conduct himself more creditably.” And then he added: “Well, what is it
this morning, Mordaunt? Who is in trouble now?”
This was not as bad as Mr. Mordaunt had expected, but he hesitated a
second before he began.
“It is Higgins,” he said; “Higgins of Edge Farm. He has been very
unfortunate. He was ill himself last autumn, and his children had
scarlet fever. I can't say that he is a very good manager, but he has
had ill-luck, and of course he is behindhand in many ways. He is in
trouble about his rent now. Newick tells him if he doesn't pay it, he
must leave the place; and of course that would be a very serious matter.
His wife is ill, and he came to me yesterday to beg me to see about
it, and ask you for time. He thinks if you would give him time he could
catch up again.”
“They all think that,” said the Earl, looking rather black.
Fauntleroy made a movement forward. He had been standing between his
grandfather and the visitor, listening with all his might. He had begun
to be interested in Higgins at once. He wondered how many children there
were, and if the scarlet fever had hurt them very much. His eyes were
wide open and were fixed upon Mr. Mordaunt with intent interest as that
gentleman went on with the conversation.
“Higgins is a well-meaning man,” said the rector, making an effort to
strengthen his plea.
“He is a bad enough tenant,” replied his lordship. “And he is always
behindhand, Newick tells me.”
“He is in great trouble now,” said the rector.
“He is very fond of his wife and children, and if the farm is taken
from him they may literally starve. He can not give them the nourishing
things they need. Two of the children were left very low after the
fever, and the doctor orders for them wine and luxuries that Higgins can
not afford.”
At this Fauntleroy moved a step nearer.
“That was the way with Michael,” he said.
The Earl slightly started.
“I forgot YOU!” he said. “I forgot we had a philanthropist in the room.
Who was Michael?” And the gleam of queer amusement came back into the
old man's deep-set eyes.
“He was Bridget's husband, who had the fever,” answered Fauntleroy; “and
he couldn't pay the rent or buy wine and things. And you gave me that
money to help him.”
The Earl drew his brows together into a curious frown, which somehow was
scarcely grim at all. He glanced across at Mr. Mordaunt.
“I don't know what sort of landed proprietor he will make,” he said.
“I told Havisham the boy was to have what he wanted--anything he
wanted--and what he wanted, it seems, was money to give to beggars.”
“Oh! but they weren't beggars,” said Fauntleroy eagerly. “Michael was a
splendid bricklayer! They all worked.”
“Oh!” said the Earl, “they were not beggars. They were splendid
bricklayers, and bootblacks, and apple-women.”
He bent his gaze on the boy for a few seconds in silence. The fact was
that a new thought was coming to him, and though, perhaps, it was not
prompted by the noblest emotions, it was not a bad thought. “Come here,”
he said, at last.
Fauntleroy went and stood as near to him as possible without encroaching
on the gouty foot.
“What would YOU do in this case?” his lordship asked.
It must be confessed that Mr. Mordaunt experienced for the moment a
curious sensation. Being a man of great thoughtfulness, and having spent
so many years on the estate of Dorincourt, knowing the tenantry, rich
and poor, the people of the village, honest and industrious, dishonest
and lazy, he realized very strongly what power for good or evil would be
given in the future to this one small boy standing there, his brown eyes
wide open, his hands deep in his pockets; and the thought came to him
also that a great deal of power might, perhaps, through the caprice of
a proud, self-indulgent old man, be given to him now, and that if his
young nature were not a simple and generous one, it might be the worst
thing that could happen, not only for others, but for himself.
“And what would YOU do in such a case?” demanded the Earl.
Fauntleroy drew a little nearer, and laid one hand on his knee, with the
most confiding air of good comradeship.
“If I were very rich,” he said, “and not only just a little boy, I
should let him stay, and give him the things for his children; but
then, I am only a boy.” Then, after a second's pause, in which his face
brightened visibly, “YOU can do anything, can't you?” he said.
“Humph!” said my lord, staring at him. “That's your opinion, is it?” And
he was not displeased either.
“I mean you can give any one anything,” said Fauntleroy. “Who's Newick?”
“He is my agent,” answered the Earl, “and some of my tenants are not
over-fond of him.”
“Are you going to write him a letter now?” inquired Fauntleroy. “Shall I
bring you the pen and ink? I can take the game off this table.”
It plainly had not for an instant occurred to him that Newick would be
allowed to do his worst.
The Earl paused a moment, still looking at him. “Can you write?” he
asked.
“Yes,” answered Cedric, “but not very well.”
“Move the things from the table,” commanded my lord, “and bring the pen
and ink, and a sheet of paper from my desk.”
Mr. Mordaunt's interest began to increase. Fauntleroy did as he was told
very deftly. In a few moments, the sheet of paper, the big inkstand, and
the pen were ready.
“There!” he said gayly, “now you can write it.”
“You are to write it,” said the Earl.
“I!” exclaimed Fauntleroy, and a flush overspread his forehead. “Will
it do if I write it? I don't always spell quite right when I haven't a
dictionary, and nobody tells me.”
“It will do,” answered the Earl. “Higgins will not complain of the
spelling. I'm not the philanthropist; you are. Dip your pen in the ink.”
Fauntleroy took up the pen and dipped it in the ink-bottle, then he
arranged himself in position, leaning on the table.
“Now,” he inquired, “what must I say?”
“You may say, 'Higgins is not to be interfered with, for the present,'
and sign it, 'Fauntleroy,'” said the Earl.
Fauntleroy dipped his pen in the ink again, and resting his arm, began
to write. It was rather a slow and serious process, but he gave his
whole soul to it. After a while, however, the manuscript was complete,
and he handed it to his grandfather with a smile slightly tinged with
anxiety.
“Do you think it will do?” he asked.
The Earl looked at it, and the corners of his mouth twitched a little.
“Yes,” he answered; “Higgins will find it entirely satisfactory.” And he
handed it to Mr. Mordaunt.
What Mr. Mordaunt found written was this:
“Dear mr. Newik if you pleas mr. higins is not to be intur feared with
for the present and oblige. Yours rispecferly,
“FAUNTLEROY.”
“Mr. Hobbs always signed his letters that way,” said Fauntleroy; “and I
thought I'd better say 'please.' Is that exactly the right way to spell
'interfered'?”
“It's not exactly the way it is spelled in the dictionary,” answered the
Earl.
“I was afraid of that,” said Fauntleroy. “I ought to have asked. You
see, that's the way with words of more than one syllable; you have to
look in the dictionary. It's always safest. I'll write it over again.”
And write it over again he did, making quite an imposing copy, and
taking precautions in the matter of spelling by consulting the Earl
himself.
“Spelling is a curious thing,” he said. “It's so often different
from what you expect it to be. I used to think 'please' was spelled
p-l-e-e-s, but it isn't, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled
d-e-r-e, if you didn't inquire. Sometimes it almost discourages you.”
When Mr. Mordaunt went away, he took the letter with him, and he took
something else with him also--namely, a pleasanter feeling and a more
hopeful one than he had ever carried home with him down that avenue on
any previous visit he had made at Dorincourt Castle.
When he was gone, Fauntleroy, who had accompanied him to the door, went
back to his grandfather.
“May I go to Dearest now?” he asked. “I think she will be waiting for
me.”
The Earl was silent a moment.
“There is something in the stable for you to see first,” he said. “Ring
the bell.”
“If you please,” said Fauntleroy, with his quick little flush. “I'm very
much obliged; but I think I'd better see it to-morrow. She will be
expecting me all the time.”
“Very well,” answered the Earl. “We will order the carriage.” Then he
added dryly, “It's a pony.”
Fauntleroy drew a long breath.
“A pony!” he exclaimed. “Whose pony is it?”
“Yours,” replied the Earl.
“Mine?” cried the little fellow. “Mine--like the things upstairs?”
“Yes,” said his grandfather. “Would you like to see it? Shall I order it
to be brought around?”
Fauntleroy's cheeks grew redder and redder.
“I never thought I should have a pony!” he said. “I never thought that!
How glad Dearest will be. You give me EVERYthing, don't you?”
“Do you wish to see it?” inquired the Earl.
Fauntleroy drew a long breath. “I WANT to see it,” he said. “I want to
see it so much I can hardly wait. But I'm afraid there isn't time.”
“You MUST go and see your mother this afternoon?” asked the Earl. “You
think you can't put it off?”
“Why,” said Fauntleroy, “she has been thinking about me all the morning,
and I have been thinking about her!”
“Oh!” said the Earl. “You have, have you? Ring the bell.”
As they drove down the avenue, under the arching trees, he was rather
silent. But Fauntleroy was not. He talked about the pony. What color was
it? How big was it? What was its name? What did it like to eat best? How
old was it? How early in the morning might he get up and see it?
“Dearest will be so glad!” he kept saying. “She will be so much obliged
to you for being so kind to me! She knows I always liked ponies so much,
but we never thought I should have one. There was a little boy on Fifth
Avenue who had one, and he used to ride out every morning and we used to