'You did not speak to her as you speak to me?'
'In no degree.'
'What could have!..' Clara checked the murmured exclamation.
Sir Willoughby's expoundings on his latest of texts would have poured forth, had not a footman stepped across the lawn to inform him that his builder was in the laboratory and requested permission to consult with him.
Clara's plea of a horror of the talk of bricks and joists excused her from accompanying him. He had hardly been satisfied by her manner, he knew not why. He left her, convinced that he must do and say more to reach down to her female intelligence.
She saw young Crossjay, springing with pots of jam in him, join his patron at a bound, and taking a lift of arms, fly aloft, clapping heels. Her reflections were confused. Sir Willoughby was admirable with the lad. 'Is he two men?' she thought; and the thought ensued, 'Am I unjust?' She headed a run with young Crossjay to divert her mind.
Chapter VIII
A Run With The Truant; A Walk With The Master
The sight of Miss Middleton running inflamed young Crossjay with the passion of the game of hare and hounds. He shouted a view-halloo, and flung up his legs. She was fleet; she ran as though a hundred little feet were bearing her onward smooth as water over the lawn and the sweeps of grass of the park, so swiftly did the hidden pair multiply one another to speed her. So sweet was she in her flowing pace, that the boy, as became his age, translated admiration into a dogged frenzy of pursuit, and continued pounding along, when far outstripped, determined to run her down or die. Suddenly her flight wound to an end in a dozen twittering steps, and she sank. Young Crossjay attained her, with just breath enough to say: 'You are a runner!'
'I forgot you had been having your tea, my poor boy,' said she.
'And you don't pant a bit!' was his encomium.
'Dear me, no; not more than a bird. You might as well try to catch a bird.'
Young Crossjay gave a knowing nod. 'Wait till I get my second wind.'
'Now you must confess that girls run faster than boys.'
'They may at the start.'
'They do everything better.'
'They're flash-in-the-pans.'
'They learn their lessons.'
'You can't make soldiers or sailors of them, though.'
'And that is untrue. Have you never read of Mary Ambree? and Mistress Hannah Snell of Pondicherry? And there was the bride of the celebrated William Taylor. And what do you say to Joan of Arc? What do you say to Boadicea? I suppose you have never heard of the Amazons.'
'They weren't English.'
'Then it is your own countrywomen you decry, sir!'
Young Crossjay betrayed anxiety about his false position, and begged for the stories of Mary Ambree and the others who were English.
'See, you will not read for yourself, you hide and play truant with Mr. Whitford, and the consequence is you are ignorant of your country's history.'
Miss Middleton rebuked him, enjoying his wriggle between a perception of her fun and an acknowledgment of his peccancy. She commanded him to tell her which was the glorious Valentine's day of our naval annals; the name of the hero of the day, and the name of his ship. To these questions his answers were as ready as the guns of the good ship Captain, for the Spanish four-decker.
'And that you owe to Mr. Whitford,' said Miss Middleton.
'He bought me the books,' young Crossjay growled, and plucked at grass blades and bit them, foreseeing dimly but certainly the termination of all this.
Miss Middleton lay back on the grass and said: 'Are you going to be fond of me, Crossjay?'
The boy sat blinking. His desire was to prove to her that lie was immoderately fond of her already; and he might have flown at her neck had she been sitting up, but her recumbency and eyelids half closed excited wonder in him and awe. His young heart beat fast.
'Because, my dear boy,' she said, leaning on her elbow, 'you are a very nice boy, but an ungrateful boy, and there is no telling whether you will not punish any one who cares for you. Come along with me; pluck me some of these cowslips, and the speedwells near them; I think we both love wild-flowers.' She rose and took his arm. 'You shall row me on the lake while I talk to you seriously.'
It was she, however, who took the sculls at the boat-house, for she had been a playfellow with boys, and knew that one of them engaged in a manly exercise is not likely to listen to a woman.
'Now, Crossjay,' she said. Dense gloom overcame him like a cowl. She bent across her hands to laugh. 'As if I were going to lecture you, you silly boy!' He began to brighten dubiously. 'I used to be as fond of birdsnesting as you are. I like brave boys, and I like you for wanting to enter the Royal Navy. Only, how can you if you do not learn? You must get the captains to pass you, you know. Somebody spoils you: Miss Dale or Mr. Whitford.'
'Do they?' sung out young Crossjay.
'Sir Willoughby does?'
'I don't know about spoil. I can come round him.'
'I am sure he is very kind to you. I dare say you think Mr. Whitford rather severe. You should remember he has to teach you, so that you may pass for the navy. You must not dislike him because he makes you work. Supposing you had blown yourself up to-day! You would have thought it better to have been working with Mr. Whitford.'
'Sir Willoughby says, when he's married, you won't let me hide.'
'Ah! It is wrong to pet a big boy like you. Does not he what you call tip you, Crossjay?'
'Generally half-crown pieces. I've had a crown-piece. I've had sovereigns.'
'And for that you do as he bids you? And he indulges you because you… Well, but though Mr. Whitford does not give you money, he gives you his time, he tries to get you into the navy.'
'He pays for me.'
'What do you say?'
'My keep. And, as for liking him, if he were at the bottom of the water here, I'd go down after him. I mean to learn. We're both of us here at six o'clock in the morning, when it's light, and have a swim. He taught me. Only, I never cared for schoolbooks.'
'Are you quite certain that Mr. Whitford pays for you.'
'My father told me he did, and I must obey him. He heard my father was poor, with a family. He went down to see my father. My father came here once, and Sir Willoughby wouldn't see him. I know Mr. Whitford does. And Miss Dale told me he did. My mother says she thinks he does it to make up to us for my father's long walk in the rain and the cold he caught coming here to Patterne.'
'So you see you should not vex him, Crossjay. He is a good friend to your father and to you. You ought to love him.'
'I like him, and I like his face.'
'Why his face?'
'It's not like those faces! Miss Dale and I talk about him. She thinks that Sir Willoughby is the best-looking man ever born.'
'Were you not speaking of Mr. Whitford?'
'Yes; old Vernon. That's what Sir Willoughby calls him,' young Crossjay excused himself to her look of surprise. 'Do you know what he makes me think of? — his eyes, I mean. He makes me think of Robinson Crusoe's old goat in the cavern. I like him because he's always the same, and you're not positive about some people. Miss Middleton, if you look on at cricket, in comes a safe man for ten runs. He may get more, and he never gets less; and
