The World's Greatest Books - Volume 5 Part 5

"Come, boys!" said I. "Then I'll call with the carriage to-morrow at three, Miss Mayton. Good-evening."

That night I wrote to my sister to inform her that the scales had fallen from my eyes--I saw clearly that my nephews were angels. And I begged to refer her to Alice Mayton for collateral evidence.

_IV.--The Fruit of My Visit_

A few days later I had a letter from my sister to say she had been recalling a fortnight's experience they once had of courts.h.i.+p in a boarding-house, so had determined to cut short her visit and hurry home.

Friday morning they intended to arrive--blessings on their thoughtful hearts! And this was Friday. I hurried into the boys' room and shouted, "Toddie! Budge! Who do you think is coming to see you this morning?"

"Who?" asked Budge.

"Organ-grinder?" queried Toddie.

"No; your papa and mamma."

Budge looked like an angel at once, but Toddie murmured mournfully, "I fought it wash an organ-grinder."

"Oh, Uncle Harry," said Budge, in a perfect delirium of delight, "I believe if my papa and mamma had stayed away any longer I believe I would _die_. I've been so lonesome for them that I haven't known what to do. I've cried whole pillowsful about it, right here in the dark."

"Why, my poor old fellow," said I, picking him up and kissing him. "Why didn't you come and tell Uncle Harry, and let him try to comfort you?"

"I couldn't," said Budge. "When I gets lonesome, it feels as if my mouth was all tied up, and a big, great stone was right in here." And Budge put his hand on his chest.

"If a big tone wash ins.h.i.+de of me," said Toddie, "I'd take it out and frow it at the s.h.i.+ckens."

"Toddie," I said, "aren't you glad papa and mamma are coming?"

"Yesh," said Toddie. "Mamma always bwings me candy fen she goes anyfere."

During the hour which pa.s.sed before it was time to start for the depot, my sole attention was devoted to keeping the children from soiling their clothes, but my success was so little, I lost my temper utterly.

"Harness the horse, Mike," I shouted.

"An' the goat, too," added Budge.

Five minutes later I was seated in the carriage.

"Are you all ready, boys?" I asked.

"In a minute," said Budge; "soon as I fix this. Now," he continued, getting into his seat and seizing the reins and whip, "go ahead!"

"Wait a minute, Budge. Put down that whip, and don't touch the goat with it once. I'm going to drive very slowly; all you need do is to hold the reins."

"All right," said Budge; "but I like to look like mans when I drive."

The horses went at a gentle trot, and the goat followed very closely.

When within a minute of the depot the train swept in. I gave the horses the whip, looked, and saw the boys close behind me. Nothing but the sharpest of turns saved me from a severe accident. As it was, I heard two hard thumps upon the wooden wall, and two frightful howls, and saw both my nephews mixed up on the platform, while the driver of the stage growled in my ear, "What in thunder did you let 'em hitch that goat to your axletree for?"

How the goat's head and shoulders maintained their normal connection during the last minute of my drive, I leave naturalists to explain.

Fortunately, the children had struck on their heads, and the Lawrence- Burton skull is a marvel of solidity. I set them on their feet, promised them all the candy they could eat for a week, and hurried them to the other side of the depot. Budge rushed at Tom, exclaiming, "See my goat, papa?"

Helen was somewhat concerned about the children, but found time to look at me with so much of sympathy, humour, affection, and condescension that I really felt relieved when we reached the house. And how gloriously the rest of the day pa.s.sed off! We had a delightful little lunch, and Tom brought up a bottle of Roederer, and we drank to "her and her mother." Then Helen proposed, "The makers of the match--Budge and Toddie," which was honoured with b.u.mpers. The gentlemen toasted did not respond, but stared so curiously I sprang from my chair and kissed them soundly, while Helen and Tom exchanged significant glances.

Young as they are, I find frequent reason to be jealous of them, but artifice alone can prevent them monopolising the time of an adorable being of whose society I cannot possibly have too much. She insists that, when the ceremony takes place in December, they shall officiate as groomsmen, and I have no doubt she will carry her point In fact, when I retire for the night without first seeking their room, and putting a grateful kiss on their unconscious lips, my conscience upbraids me with base ingrat.i.tude. To think I might yet be a hopeless bachelor had it not been for them, is to overflow with grat.i.tude to the Giver of Helen's Babies.

LUDOVIC HALEVY

The Abbe Constantin

Ludovic Halevy, born in Paris on January 1, 1834, was a nephew of Jacques Francois Halevy, the famous operatic composer.

Beginning life in the Civil Service, he himself achieved considerable distinction as a dramatic author, "Frou-Frou,"

written in collaboration with Meilhac, being one of the greatest theatrical successes of his century. He soon, however, forsook the drama for fiction. His first novel, "Monsieur and Madame Cardinal," published in 1873, gave ample promise of the inventive genius and gift of characterisation that were fully realised nine years later in "L'Abbe Constantin." The tale, an exquisite study of French provincial life, came as a distinct revelation of French life and character to English readers. It has reached 240 editions, and has been translated into all European languages. In 1886 Halevy was elected to the French Academy. He died on May 8, 1908.

_I.--"The Good Days Are Gone"_

With footstep firm and strong, despite his weight of years, an old priest was walking along a dusty country road one sunny day in May 1881.

It was more than thirty years since the Abbe Constantin had first become _cure_ of the little village sleeping there in the sunny plain of France, beside a dainty stream called the Lizotte. He had been walking for a quarter of an hour along the wall of the Chateau de Longueval. As he reached the ma.s.sive entrance gates he stopped and gazed sadly at two immense bills pasted on the pillars. They announced the sale by auction that day of the Longueval estate, divided into four lots: (1) The castle, with all its grounds and parks; (2) the farm of Blanche-Couronne, 700 acres; (3) the farm of Rozeraie, 500 acres; (4) the forest and woods of Mionne, 900 acres. The reserve prices totalled the respectable sum of 2,050,000 francs!

So that magnificent estate, which for two centuries had pa.s.sed intact from father to son in the Longueval family, was to be divided. The bills announced, it was true, that after the preliminary sale of the four lots the highest bidder might bid for the whole estate. But it was an enormous sum, and no purchaser was likely to present himself.

The Marquise de Longueval, dying six months since, had left three heirs, her grandchildren, two of whom were under age, so that the estate had to be put up for sale. Pierre, the eldest, an extravagant young man of twenty-three, had foolishly squandered half his money, and was quite unable to re-purchase Longueval.

It was twelve o'clock. In an hour the chateau would have a new master.

Who would he be? Who could take the place of the marquise, the old friend of the country cure, and the kindly friend of all the villagers.

The old priest walked on, thinking sadly of the habits of thirty years suddenly interrupted. Every Thursday and every Sunday he had dined at the chateau. How much had they made of him! Cure of Longueval! All his life he had been that, had dreamed of nothing else. He loved his little church, the little village, and his little vicarage.

Still in pensive mood, he was pa.s.sing the park of Lavardens when he heard some one calling him. Looking up, he saw the Countess of Lavardens and her son Paul. She was a widow; her son a handsome young man, who had made a bad start in the world and now contented himself by spending some months in Paris every year, when he dissipated the annual allowance from his mother, and returned home for the rest of the year to loaf about in idleness or in pursuit of stupid sports.

"Where are you off to, Monsieur le Cure?" asked the countess.

"To Souvigny, to learn the result of the sale."

"Stay here with us. M. de Larnac is there, and will hasten back with the news. But I can tell you who are the new owners of the castle."

At this the abbe turned into the gates of the countess's grounds, and joined that lady and her son on the terrace of their house. The new owners, it appeared, were to be M. de Larnac, M. Gallard, a rich Paris banker, and the countess herself, for the three had agreed to purchase it between them.

"It is all settled," the lady a.s.sured him. But presently M. de Larnac arrived with the news that they had been unable to buy it, as some American had paid an enormous sum for the entire estate. The person who was now to be the great lady of Longueval was named Madame Scott.

M. de Larnac had some further particulars to add. He had heard that the Scotts were great upstarts, and that the new owner of the castle had actually been a beggar in New York. A great lawsuit had resulted in favour of her and her husband, making them the owners of a silver-mine.