Prince Fortunatus by William Black (good books for 8th graders .TXT) 📕

from giving up the rest of the afternoon to her small proteges. In the most natural way in the world she turned to Maurice Mangan--and her eyes sought his in a curiously straightforward, confiding fashion that caused Lionel to wonder.

"On Christmas-day, of all the days of the year!" she said, as if appealing to Maurice. "Surely, surely, I must give up Christmas-day to them! Oh, do you know, Mr. Mangan, there never was a happier present than you thought of for the little blind boy who got his leg broken--you remember? He learned almost directly how to do the puzzle; and he gets the ring off so quickly that no one can see how it is done; and he laughs with delight when he finds that any neighbor coming in can only growl and grumble--and fail. I'm going there just now; won't you come? And mind you be very angry when you can't get the ring off; you may use any language you like about your clumsiness--poor little chap, he has heard plenty of that in his time."

Maurice needed no second invitation; this was what he had come for; he had found the sunlight to lighten up the Christmas-day withal; his face, that was almost beautiful in its fine intellectuality, showed that whenever she spoke to him. Lionel, of course, went with them.

And again it was Maurice Mangan whom Miss Francie addressed, as they walked along to the village.

"Do you know, in all this blessed place, I can't find a copy of Mrs. Hemans's poems; and I wanted you to read 'The Arab to his Horse'--is that the title?--at my school-treat to-morrow. They would all understand that. Well, we must get something else; for we're to make a show of being educational and instructive before the romping begins. I think the 'Highland Schottische' is the best of any for children who haven't learned dancing; they can all jump about somehow--and the music is inspiriting. The vicar's daughters are coming to hammer at the piano. Oh, Mr. Mangan," she continued, still appealing to him, "do you think you could tell them a thrilling folk-story?--wouldn't that be better?"

"Don't you want me to do something, Francie?" said Lionel, perhaps a little hurt.

"Do you mean--"

"The only thing I'm fit for--I'll sing them a song, if you like. 'My Pretty Jane'--no, that would hardly do--'The Death of Nelson' or 'Rule Britannia'--"

"Wouldn't there be rather a risk, Lionel? If you were to miss your train--and disappoint a great audience in London?" she said, gently.

"Oh, I'll take my chance of that? I'm used to it," he said, "I'll have Dick and the pony waiting outside. Oh, yes, I'll sing something for them."

"It will be very kind of you," she said.

And again, as they went to this or that cottage, to see that the small convalescent folk were afforded every possible means of holding high holiday (how fortunate they were as compared with thousands of similar unfortunates, shivering away the hopeless hours in dingy courts and alleys, gin clutching at every penny, that might have got food for their empty stomachs or rags for their poor shrunken limbs!), it was to Maurice Mangan that Francie chiefly talked, and, indeed, he seemed to know all about those patient little sufferers, and the time they had been down here, and when they might have to be sent back to London to make way for their successors. There was also a question as to which of their toys they might be permitted to carry off with them.

"Oh, I wouldn't deprive them of one," Mangan said, distinctly. "I've brought down a heap more this morning."

"Again--again?" she said, almost reproachfully; but the gentle gray eyes looked pleased, notwithstanding.

Well, that Christmas evening was spent in the doctor's house with much quiet enjoyment; for the old people were proud to have their only son with them for so long a time; and Francie seemed glad to have the various labors of the day over; and Maurice Mangan, with quite unwonted zest, kept the talk flowing free. Next morning was chiefly devoted to preparations for the big entertainment to be given in the school-room; and in due course Lionel redeemed his promise by singing no fewer than four songs--at the shyly proffered request of the vicar's pretty daughters; thereafter, leaving Maurice to conduct the gay proceedings to a close, he got out and jumped into the trap and was driven off to the station. He arrived at the New Theatre in plenty of time; the odor of consumed gas was almost a shock to him, well as he was used to it, after the clear air of Winstead.

And did he grudge or envy the obvious interest and confidence that appeared to have sprung up between his cousin and his friend? Not one bit. Maurice had always had a higher appreciation of Francie and her aims and ideals than he himself had, much as he liked her; and it was but natural she should turn to the quarter from which she could derive most sympathy and practical help. And if Maurice's long-proclaimed admiration for Miss Savonarola should lead to a still closer bond between those two--what then?

It was not jealousy that had hold of Lionel Moore's heart just at this time; it was rather a curious unrest that seemed to increase as day by day went by without bringing any word of Nina. Had she vouchsafed the smallest message, to say she was safe and well, to give him some notion of her whereabouts, it might have been different; but he knew not which way to turn, north, south, east, or west; at this season of kindly remembrance he could summon up no sort of picture of Nina and her surroundings. If only he had known, he kept repeating to himself. He had been so wrapped up in his idle dreams and visions that, all unwittingly, he had spurned and crushed this true heart beating close to his side. And as for making amends, what amends could now be made; He only wanted to know that Nina was alive--and could forgive.

As he sat by himself in the still watches of the night, plunged in silent reverie, strange fancies began to fill his brain. He recalled stories in which he had read of persons separated by great distances communicating with each other by some species of spiritual telegraphy; and a conviction took possession of him that now, if ever--now as the old year was about to go out and the new year come in--he could call to Nina across the unknown void that lay between them, and that she would hear and perchance respond. Surely, on New-Year's Eve, Nina would be thinking of her friends in London; and, if their earnest and anxious thoughts could but meet her half-way, might there not be some sudden understanding, some recognition, some glad assurance that all was well? This wild fancy so grew upon him that when the last day of the year arrived it had become a fixed belief; and yet it was with a haunting sense of dread--a dread of he knew not what--that he looked forward to the stroke of twelve.

He got through his performance that night as if he were in a dream, and hurried home; it was not far from midnight when he arrived. He only glanced at the outside of the letters awaiting him; there was no one from her; not in that way was Nina to communicate with him, if her hopes for the future, her forgiveness for what lay in the past, were to reach him at all. He drew a chair to the table and sat down, leaving the letters unheeded.

The slow minutes passed; his thoughts went wandering over the world, seeking for what they could not find. And how was he to call to Nina across the black gulf of the night, wheresoever she might be? Suddenly there leaped into his recollection an old German ballad he used to sing. It was that of the three comrades who were wont to drink together, until one died, and another died, and nevertheless the solitary survivor kept the accustomed tryst, and still, sitting there alone, he had the three glasses filled, and still he sang aloud, "Aus voller Brust." There came an evening; as he filled the cups, a tear fell into his own; yet bravely he called to his ghostly companions, "I drink to you, my brothers--but why are you so mute and still?" And behold! the glasses clinked together; and the wine was slowly drunk out of all the three, "Fiducit! du wackerer Zecher!"--it was the loyal comrade's last draught. And now Lionel, hardly knowing what he was doing--for there were such wild desires and longings in his brain--went to a small cabinet hard by and brought forth the loving-cup he had given to Nina. They two were the last who had drunk out of it. And if now, if once again, on this last night of all the nights of the year, he were to repeat his challenge, would she not know? He cared not in what form she might appear--Nina could not be other than gentle--silent she might be, but surely her eyes would shine with kindness and forgiveness. He was not aware of it, but his fingers were trembling as he took the cup in twain, and put the two tiny goblets on the table and filled them with wine. Nay, in a sort of half-dazed fashion he went and opened the door and left it wide--might there not be some shadowy footfall on the empty stair! He returned to the table and sat down; it was almost twelve; he was shivering a little--the night was cold.

All around him the silence appeared to grow more profound; there was only the ticking of a clock. As minute after minute passed, the suspense became almost unendurable; something seemed to be choking him; and yet his eyes would furtively and nervously wander from the small goblets before him to the open door, as if he expected some vision to present itself there, from whatsoever distant shore it might come.

The clock behind him struck a silver note, and instantly this vain fantasy vanished; what was the use of regarding the two wine-filled cups when he knew that Nina was far and far away? He sprang to his feet and went to the window, and gazed out into the black and formless chaos beyond.

"Nina!" he called, "Nina!--Nina!" as if he would pierce the hollow distance with this passionate cry.

Alas! how could Nina answer? At this moment, over all the length and breadth of England, innumerable belfries had suddenly awakened from their sleep, and ten thousand bells were clanging their iron tongues, welcoming in the new-found year. Down in the valleys, where white mists lay along the slumbering rivers; far up on lonely moorlands, under the clear stars; out on the sea-coasts, where the small red points of the windows were face-to-face with the slow-moaning, inarticulate main; everywhere, over all the land, arose this clamor of joy-bells; and how could Nina respond to his appeal? If she had heard, if she had tried to answer, her piteous cry was swallowed up and lost; heart could not speak to heart, whatever message they might wish to send, through this universal, far-pulsating jangle and tumult.

But perhaps she had not heard at all? Perhaps there was something more impassable between her and him than even the wide, dark seas and the night?

He turned away from the window. He went back to the chair; he threw his arms on the table before him--and hid his face.


CHAPTER XIX.


ENTRAPPED.

There were two