Little Lord Fauntleroy
“I told her you didn't know, and I would tell you,” he said. He jumped
down and came and leaned against the Earl's chair. “You can make it all
right,” he said, “just as you made it all right for Higgins. You always
make it all right for everybody. I told her you would, and that Newick
must have forgotten to tell you.”
The Earl looked down at the hand on his knee. Newick had not forgotten
to tell him; in fact, Newick had spoken to him more than once of the
desperate condition of the end of the village known as Earl's Court.
He knew all about the tumble-down, miserable cottages, and the bad
drainage, and the damp walls and broken windows and leaking roofs,
and all about the poverty, the fever, and the misery. Mr. Mordaunt
had painted it all to him in the strongest words he could use, and his
lordship had used violent language in response; and, when his gout had
been at the worst, he said that the sooner the people of Earl's Court
died and were buried by the parish the better it would be,--and there
was an end of the matter. And yet, as he looked at the small hand on his
knee, and from the small hand to the honest, earnest, frank-eyed face,
he was actually a little ashamed both of Earl's Court and himself.
“What!” he said; “you want to make a builder of model cottages of me,
do you?” And he positively put his own hand upon the childish one and
stroked it.
“Those must be pulled down,” said Fauntleroy, with great eagerness.
“Dearest says so. Let us--let us go and have them pulled down to-morrow.
The people will be so glad when they see you! They'll know you have come
to help them!” And his eyes shone like stars in his glowing face.
The Earl rose from his chair and put his hand on the child's shoulder.
“Let us go out and take our walk on the terrace,” he said, with a short
laugh; “and we can talk it over.”
And though he laughed two or three times again, as they walked to and
fro on the broad stone terrace, where they walked together almost
every fine evening, he seemed to be thinking of something which did
not displease him, and still he kept his hand on his small companion's
shoulder.
X
The truth was that Mrs. Errol had found a great many sad things in the
course of her work among the poor of the little village that appeared so
picturesque when it was seen from the moor-sides. Everything was not as
picturesque, when seen near by, as it looked from a distance. She had
found idleness and poverty and ignorance where there should have been
comfort and industry. And she had discovered, after a while, that
Erleboro was considered to be the worst village in that part of the
country. Mr. Mordaunt had told her a great many of his difficulties
and discouragements, and she had found out a great deal by herself. The
agents who had managed the property had always been chosen to please the
Earl, and had cared nothing for the degradation and wretchedness of the
poor tenants. Many things, therefore, had been neglected which should
have been attended to, and matters had gone from bad to worse.
As to Earl's Court, it was a disgrace, with its dilapidated houses and
miserable, careless, sickly people. When first Mrs. Errol went to the
place, it made her shudder. Such ugliness and slovenliness and want
seemed worse in a country place than in a city. It seemed as if there it
might be helped. And as she looked at the squalid, uncared-for children
growing up in the midst of vice and brutal indifference, she thought
of her own little boy spending his days in the great, splendid castle,
guarded and served like a young prince, having no wish ungratified, and
knowing nothing but luxury and ease and beauty. And a bold thought came
in her wise little mother-heart. Gradually she had begun to see, as had
others, that it had been her boy's good fortune to please the Earl very
much, and that he would scarcely be likely to be denied anything for
which he expressed a desire.
“The Earl would give him anything,” she said to Mr. Mordaunt. “He would
indulge his every whim. Why should not that indulgence be used for the
good of others? It is for me to see that this shall come to pass.”
She knew she could trust the kind, childish heart; so she told the
little fellow the story of Earl's Court, feeling sure that he would
speak of it to his grandfather, and hoping that some good results would
follow.
And strange as it appeared to every one, good results did follow.
The fact was that the strongest power to influence the Earl was his
grandson's perfect confidence in him--the fact that Cedric always
believed that his grandfather was going to do what was right and
generous. He could not quite make up his mind to let him discover that
he had no inclination to be generous at all, and that he wanted his
own way on all occasions, whether it was right or wrong. It was such
a novelty to be regarded with admiration as a benefactor of the entire
human race, and the soul of nobility, that he did not enjoy the idea of
looking into the affectionate brown eyes, and saying: “I am a violent,
selfish old rascal; I never did a generous thing in my life, and I don't
care about Earl's Court or the poor people”--or something which would
amount to the same thing. He actually had learned to be fond enough
of that small boy with the mop of yellow love-locks, to feel that he
himself would prefer to be guilty of an amiable action now and then.
And so--though he laughed at himself--after some reflection, he sent for
Newick, and had quite a long interview with him on the subject of the
Court, and it was decided that the wretched hovels should be pulled down
and new houses should be built.
“It is Lord Fauntleroy who insists on it,” he said dryly; “he thinks it
will improve the property. You can tell the tenants that it's his
idea.” And he looked down at his small lordship, who was lying on the
hearth-rug playing with Dougal. The great dog was the lad's constant
companion, and followed him about everywhere, stalking solemnly after
him when he walked, and trotting majestically behind when he rode or
drove.
Of course, both the country people and the town people heard of the
proposed improvement. At first, many of them would not believe it; but
when a small army of workmen arrived and commenced pulling down the
crazy, squalid cottages, people began to understand that little Lord
Fauntleroy had done them a good turn again, and that through his
innocent interference the scandal of Earl's Court had at last been
removed. If he had only known how they talked about him and praised him
everywhere, and prophesied great things for him when he grew up, how
astonished he would have been! But he never suspected it. He lived his
simple, happy, child life,--frolicking about in the park; chasing the
rabbits to their burrows; lying under the trees on the grass, or on
the rug in the library, reading wonderful books and talking to the Earl
about them, and then telling the stories again to his mother; writing
long letters to Dick and Mr. Hobbs, who responded in characteristic
fashion; riding out at his grandfather's side, or with Wilkins as
escort. As they rode through the market town, he used to see the people
turn and look, and he noticed that as they lifted their hats their
faces often brightened very much; but he thought it was all because his
grandfather was with him.
“They are so fond of you,” he once said, looking up at his lordship with
a bright smile. “Do you see how glad they are when they see you? I hope
they will some day be as fond of me. It must be nice to have EVERYbody
like you.” And he felt quite proud to be the grandson of so greatly
admired and beloved an individual.
When the cottages were being built, the lad and his grandfather used to
ride over to Earl's Court together to look at them, and Fauntleroy
was full of interest. He would dismount from his pony and go and make
acquaintance with the workmen, asking them questions about building and
bricklaying, and telling them things about America. After two or three
such conversations, he was able to enlighten the Earl on the subject of
brick-making, as they rode home.
“I always like to know about things like those,” he said, “because you
never know what you are coming to.”
When he left them, the workmen used to talk him over among themselves,
and laugh at his odd, innocent speeches; but they liked him, and
liked to see him stand among them, talking away, with his hands in his
pockets, his hat pushed back on his curls, and his small face full
of eagerness. “He's a rare un,” they used to say. “An' a noice little
outspoken chap, too. Not much o' th' bad stock in him.” And they would
go home and tell their wives about him, and the women would tell each
other, and so it came about that almost every one talked of, or knew
some story of, little Lord Fauntleroy; and gradually almost every
one knew that the “wicked Earl” had found something he cared for at
last--something which had touched and even warmed his hard, bitter old
heart.
But no one knew quite how much it had been warmed, and how day by day
the old man found himself caring more and more for the child, who was
the only creature that had ever trusted him. He found himself looking
forward to the time when Cedric would be a young man, strong and
beautiful, with life all before him, but having still that kind heart
and the power to make friends everywhere, and the Earl wondered what the
lad would do, and how he would use his gifts. Often as he watched the
little fellow lying upon the hearth, conning some big book, the light
shining on the bright young head, his old eyes would gleam and his cheek
would flush.
“The boy can do anything,” he would say to himself, “anything!”
He never spoke to any one else of his feeling for Cedric; when he spoke
of him to others it was always with the same grim smile. But Fauntleroy
soon knew that his grandfather loved him and always liked him to be
near--near to his chair if they were in the library, opposite to him at
table, or by his side when he rode or drove or took his evening walk on
the broad terrace.
“Do you remember,” Cedric said once, looking up from his book as he lay
on the rug, “do you remember what I said to you that first night about
our being good companions? I don't think any people could be better
companions than we are, do you?”
“We are pretty good companions, I should say,” replied his lordship.
“Come here.”
Fauntleroy scrambled up and went to him.
“Is there anything you want,” the Earl asked; “anything you have not?”
The little fellow's brown eyes fixed themselves on his grandfather with
a rather wistful look.
“Only one thing,” he answered.
“What is that?” inquired the Earl.
Fauntleroy was silent a second. He had not thought matters over to
himself so long for nothing.
“What is it?” my lord repeated.
Fauntleroy answered.
“It is Dearest,” he said.
The old Earl winced a little.
“But you see her almost every day,” he said. “Is not that enough?”
“I used to see her all the time,” said Fauntleroy. “She used to kiss me
when I went to sleep at night, and in the morning she was always there,
and we could tell each other things without waiting.”
The old eyes and the young ones looked into each other through a moment
of silence. Then the Earl knitted his brows.
“Do you NEVER forget about your mother?” he said.
“No,” answered Fauntleroy, “never; and she never forgets about me.
I shouldn't forget about YOU, you know, if I didn't live with you. I
should think about you all the more.”
“Upon my word,” said the Earl, after looking at him a moment longer, “I
believe you would!”
The jealous pang that came when the boy spoke so of his mother seemed
even stronger than it had been before; it was stronger because of this