That Little Beggar Part 18

"Not that kind of soldier," I said, "but I know another kind of soldier that you can be."

"The Queen's soldier?" asked Chris eagerly.

"No, but the King's soldier," I replied. "You can be one of Christ's soldiers. Whenever you try hard to be good and obedient when you feel inclined to be naughty and wilful; whenever you try not to say the angry word, to think the unkind thought you would like to say, you would like to think; whenever you turn your back on what is mean and unmanly and follow what is true and n.o.ble; whenever you do this for His sake, then, Chris, you are fighting for Christ, you are Christ's soldier.

"But," I went on as I saw that I had gained his attention, "there is a great difference between these battles and the others that you were speaking of. In fighting for the Queen you have to be very brave and no coward, it is true. But you have the cheers of your countrymen to inspirit you. You know that your country is watching you, and that helps you to meet your enemies with courage. In these other battles, fought for Christ, there are no cheers to excite you, no one watching but G.o.d, and G.o.d only. For these fights must be fought silently, quite by yourself,--G.o.d your only Help,--or they are not worth the name of battles. But, by and by, on that silent battle-field, where so many struggles have been gone through, and so many hard victories won through the grace of G.o.d, the silence will at last be broken. It will be broken by a sound full of triumphant joy, too heavenly in its beauty for earthly ears to catch, but a sound that will make the angels in heaven rejoice, a sound of--"

I paused as I tried to find appropriate words for the thought that, half-formed, was in my mind, gazing as I did so, as if to seek inspiration, at the boughs of the elms near, swaying and bowing slowly to and fro in the wind.

"What?" said Chris, impatiently tugging at my dress. "What?"

"'The voice of a soul that goeth home'," I said, as the great poet's words came to me in all their beauty.

CHAPTER IX.

THE GOLDEN FARTHING.

"It's the best thing; I should not propose it unless I were fully convinced that it is so."

Uncle G.o.dfrey, standing on the hearth-rug in the drawing-room, his hands in his pockets, was speaking with his usual decision.

I, who had just entered, feeling that I was interrupting his conversation with Granny, turned to leave.

"Please, don't go, Miss Baggerley. We should like to have the benefit of your opinion," remarked Uncle G.o.dfrey.

"Yes, stay, my dear. I should be glad to know what you think," said Granny.

So I remained.

"You tell her what we are talking about, G.o.dfrey," she said.

"All right!" he answered. "Well, the subject under discussion is the advisability of sending Chris to be educated with my sister's little boy. She and her husband have just come home from India, and have taken a house for a time in Norfolk. In a letter my mother had from her this morning, she suggests the plan I have mentioned; in fact, she is most anxious that it should be arranged. I think myself that it is a capital idea, for it seems to me that it would do Chris all the good in the world to have the companions.h.i.+p of another child. He is a capital little chap, but I don't see how it can be good for him to have every whim and fancy attended to as he has at present, by my mother, by you, by everyone as far as I can see, except perhaps that excellent and depressing young woman, Briggs. Oh, I know what you would like to say; much that my mother has already said--that Chris is not easily spoilt, that he has such a good disposition, and so on. All of which I grant; but, nevertheless, I think it would be better for him in the end to have a little less attention given to him than he has at present. Besides, he would have the advantage of an excellent governess, who has been with my sister some time, and, according to her, is a paragon of a teacher. And that is not to be despised, it seems to me. Chris, of course, would always come to my mother for the holidays, so that she still would see a great deal of him. Now, frankly, don't you agree with my view of the case?"

"I suppose so," I answered, though I was conscious of speaking unwillingly, for I knew what it would cost Granny to give up the charge of her darling.

"Of course you do," he replied, "only you don't like to say so for the sake of my mother."

"The darling is very dear to me," said Granny, a little pathetically.

"I only desire what is best for him."

"I know that, my dear mother," Uncle G.o.dfrey said gently--he could speak very gently when he liked, in spite of all his decided ways,--"no one could doubt it."

No one spoke for a moment or two, and it was plain to see that a struggle was going on in Granny's mind.

"I don't want to persuade you against your judgment, mother," at last Uncle G.o.dfrey said, still speaking very gently, even tenderly, and then we were silent again.

Then Granny said with an effort--an effort that plainly cost her much:

"You are right, my son; yes, you are right. I am getting too old to have the entire responsibility of the child, and, doubtless, it would be good, it would be more cheerful for him, to be with a little companion of his own age. Yes, it is better that he should go to Louisa."

And then she got up and left the room, as if, for the time, she could say no more. It was a hard trial for her, because love for Chris was as part of her life, and to part with him would be a wrench that neither Uncle G.o.dfrey nor myself could fully comprehend, with all our desire to enter into her feelings. Yet I think that she had never loved him so truly as at that moment when she gave him up. For is not our love the greatest when it is the most unselfish, when it is purified by self-sacrifice, as "gold that is tried in the fire"?

It was such a bright morning when the little beggar left us; a cold, crisp day in the beginning of October, the slight frost sprinkling the ground with a white powder that sparkled and glistened like diamonds in the autumn sun.

Uncle G.o.dfrey had come up from Aldershot for the express purpose of taking him to his new home, which fact filled Chris with no little pride.

"Me and my Uncle G.o.dfrey are going a long way together," he kept informing everyone. "He has left all his soldiers to come and take me.

Isn't it kind of my Uncle G.o.dfrey?" in a tone of devotion.

I imagine that had it been anyone else but his Uncle G.o.dfrey it would have been a difficult matter to reconcile him to leave his Granny. As it was, he became inclined to be very tearful as the hour of departure drew near, and clung to her in a way that, whilst it touched and pleased her, made the thought of the parting more difficult to bear.

And now the little beggar, who for the last few minutes had been playing in a somewhat restless fas.h.i.+on with Uncle G.o.dfrey, returning between whiles to Granny's side, was sent upstairs to have his hat put on.

Five minutes pa.s.sed and he had not returned. Granny became impatient.

Poor Granny! who grudged losing even a minute of her darling's presence when she knew that she was about to lose it for so long.

"My dear," she said to me, "will you kindly go and see if he is ready?

The dog-cart will so soon be round."

Hastening upstairs, I went to the nursery to bring down the little beggar to rejoice her sight for the short period that remained before he left.

As I approached the open door I heard Briggs taking leave of him, and with more sentiment than was generally to be observed in the utterances of that dignified person.

"And you won't forget your Briggs?" she said, kissing him; "and you'll send her a letter sometimes?"

"A long, long letter; ever so long," promised Chris rashly. "And you've wroten down the place what you live at?"

"Yes, here it is," said Briggs, holding out an envelope and reading aloud as I entered:

"Miss AMELIA BRIGGS, 6 Balaclava Villas, Upper Touting, London."

"And you'll write me a nice letter, won't you, Master Chris?"

"Nicer than ever you can think," he replied, as she kissed him again with something like emotion, and bade him good-bye.

"I'm sorry to leave Briggs," he said, as we went downstairs hand in hand; "but I am dreffully, dreffully sorry to leave my Granny."

"Will I never come back to her again?" he asked, wistfully.

"Why, of course you will," I said, encouragingly.

"But I don't want to go 'way from her," he remarked sadly.