Mr. Hobbs took him to see a great torchlight procession, and many of the men who carried torches remembered afterward a stout man who stood near a lamppost and held on his shoulder a handsome little shouting boy, who waved his cap in the air.
It was not long after this election, when Cedric was between seven and eight years old, that the very strange thing happened which made so wonderful a change in his life. It was quite curious, too, that the day it happened he had been talking to Mr. Hobbs about England and the Queen, and Mr. Hobbs had said some very severe things about the aristocracy, being specially indignant against earls and marquises. It had been a hot morning; and after playing soldiers with some friends of his, Cedric had gone into the store to rest, and had found Mr. Hobbs looking very fierce over a piece of the Illustrated London News, which contained a picture of some court ceremony.
“Ah,” he said, “that’s the way they go on now; but they’ll get enough of it some day, when those they’ve trod on rise and blow ’em up sky-high—earls and marquises and all! It’s coming, and they may look out for it!”
Cedric had perched himself as usual on the high stool and pushed his hat back, and put his hands in his pockets in delicate compliment to Mr. Hobbs.
“Did you ever know many marquises, Mr. Hobbs?” Cedric inquired—“or earls?”
“No,” answered Mr. Hobbs, with indignation; “I guess not. I’d like to catch one of ’em inside here; that’s all! I’ll have no grasping tyrants sittin’ ’round on my cracker-barrels!”
And he was so proud of the sentiment that he looked around proudly and mopped his forehead.
“Perhaps they wouldn’t be earls if they knew any better,” said Cedric, feeling some vague sympathy for their unhappy condition.
“Wouldn’t they!” said Mr. Hobbs. “They just glory in it! It’s in ’em. They’re a bad lot.”
They were in the midst of their conversation, when Mary appeared.
Cedric thought she had come to buy some sugar, perhaps, but she had not. She looked almost pale and as if she were excited about something.
“Come home, darlint,” she said; “the misthress is wantin’ yez.”
Cedric slipped down from his stool.
“Does she want me to go out with her, Mary?” he asked. “Good morning, Mr. Hobbs. I’ll see you again.”
He was surprised to see Mary staring at him in a dumbfounded fashion, and he wondered why she kept shaking her head.
“What’s the matter, Mary?” he said. “Is it the hot weather?”
“No,” said Mary; “but there’s strange things happenin’ to us.”
“Has the sun given Dearest a headache?” he inquired anxiously.
But it was not that. When he reached his own house there was a coupe standing before the door and someone was in the little parlor talking to his mamma. Mary hurried him upstairs and put on his best summer suit of cream-colored flannel, with the red scarf around his waist, and combed out his curly locks.
“Lords, is it?” he heard her say. “An’ the nobility an’ gintry. Och! bad cess to them! Lords, indade—worse luck.”
It was really very puzzling, but he felt sure his mamma would tell him what all the excitement meant, so he allowed Mary to bemoan herself without asking many questions. When he was dressed, he ran downstairs and went into the parlor. A tall, thin old gentleman with a sharp face was sitting in an armchair. His mother was standing near by with a pale face, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes.
“Oh! Ceddie!” she cried out, and ran to her little boy and caught him in her arms and kissed him in a frightened, troubled way. “Oh! Ceddie, darling!”
The tall old gentleman rose from his chair and looked at Cedric with his sharp eyes. He rubbed his thin chin with his bony hand as he looked.
He seemed not at all displeased.
“And so,” he said at last, slowly—“and so this is little Lord Fauntleroy.”
II
There was never a more amazed little boy than Cedric during the week that followed; there was never so strange or so unreal a week. In the first place, the story his mamma told him was a very curious one. He was obliged to hear it two or three times before he could understand it. He could not imagine what Mr. Hobbs would think of it. It began with earls: his grandpapa, whom he had never seen, was an earl; and his eldest uncle, if he had not been killed by a fall from his horse, would have been an earl, too, in time; and after his death, his other uncle would have been an earl, if he had not died suddenly, in Rome, of a fever. After that, his own papa, if he had lived, would have been an earl, but, since they all had died and only Cedric was left, it appeared that he was to be an earl after his grandpapa’s death—and for the present he was Lord Fauntleroy.
He turned quite pale when he was first told of it.
“Oh! Dearest!” he said, “I should rather not be an earl. None of the boys are earls. Can’t I not be one?”
But it seemed to be unavoidable. And when, that evening, they sat together by the open window looking out into the shabby street, he and his mother had a long talk about it. Cedric sat on his footstool, clasping one knee in his favorite attitude and wearing a bewildered little face rather red from the exertion of thinking. His grandfather had sent for him to come to England, and his
