"I am so glad," said Fergus with a sigh of relief. "How beautiful it must have been to feel the sea-wind again, and see the waves dancing in the sunshine! Do you know, Gratian, I was just a little afraid at the end that you were going to say that Quiver had grown so good that he went 'up, up, up,' straight into heaven. I shouldn't have liked that--at least not till he had lived happily by the sea first. And then," Fergus began to get a little confused, "I don't know about that. _Do_ gulls go to heaven, mother? You don't mind my thinking dogs do."

The lady smiled. She had not said anything yet; she seemed to be thinking seriously. But now she drew Gratian to her and kissed his forehead.

"Thank you, dear boy," she said. "I am so glad to have heard one of your stories."

CHAPTER XI.

DRAWN TWO WAYS

"When Love wants this, and Pain wants that, And all our hearts want t.i.t for Tat."

MATTHEW BROWNE

Gratian almost danced along the moor path on his way home that evening; he felt so happy. Never had he loved Fergus and his mother so much--he could not now understand how he had ever lived without them, and like a child he did not think of how he ever _could_ do so. He let the future take care of itself.

It was cold of course. He rather fancied that White-wings was not far off, and once or twice he stood still to listen. It was some little time now since he had heard anything of his friends. But at first nothing met his ear, and he ran on.

Suddenly a breath--a waft rather of soft air blew over his face. It was not White-wings, and most certainly not Gray-wings. Gratian looked up in surprise--he could hardly expect the soft western sister on such a cold night.

"Yes, it is I," she said; "you can hardly believe it, can you? I am only pa.s.sing by--no one else will know I have been here. I don't generally come when you are in such merry spirits--I don't feel that you need me then. But as I was not so very far off, I thought I'd give you a kiss on my way. So you told them the sea-gull's story--I am glad they liked it."

"Yes," said Gratian, "they did, indeed. But, Green-wings, I'm glad you've come, for I wanted to ask you, if they ask me if I made it all up myself, what can I say? I'm so afraid of telling what isn't true; but you know I couldn't explain about you and the others. I couldn't if I tried."

"You are not meant to do so," replied she quickly. "What have you said when Fergus has asked you about other stories?"

"I have said I couldn't explain how I knew them--that sometimes they were a sort of dream. I didn't want to say I had made them all myself, though I have _partly_ made them--you know I have, Green-wings."

"Certainly--it was not I for instance, who told you the very remarkable fact of natural history that you related at the end of the story?" said Green-wings with her soft laugh. "You may quite take the credit of that.

But I won't laugh at you, dear. It is true that they are your stories, and yet a sort of dream. No one but you could hear them--no one would say that the whispers of the wind talking language to you, are anything but the reflection of your own pretty fancies. It will be all right--you will see. But I must go," and she gave a little sigh.

"Green-wings, darling, you seem a little sad to-night," said Gratian.

"Why is it? Is it that the winter has come?"

"I am never very merry, as you know. But I am a little sadder than usual to-night. I foresee--I foresee sorrows"--and her voice breathed out the words with such an exquisite plaintiveness that they sounded like the dying away notes of a dirge. "But keep up your heart, my darling, and trust us all--all four. We only wish your good, though we may show it in different ways. And wherever I am I can always be with you to comfort you, if it be but for a moment. No distance can separate us from our child."

"And I am most _your_ child, am I not, dear Green-wings?" asked Gratian.

"I knew you the first, and I think I love you the most."

"My darling, good-night," whispered Green-wings, and with a soft flutter she was gone.

There was no mother waiting at the open door for Gratian's return that evening.

"It is too cold for standing outside now," he said to himself as he went in, adding aloud, "Here I am, mother. Did you think I was late?"

Mrs. Conyfer was sitting by the fire. Her knitting lay on her knee, but her hands were idle. She looked up as Gratian came in.

"I am glad you have come, dear," she said; but her voice sounded tired, and when he was close to her he saw that her face seemed tired also.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Are you not well, mother?" he said gently.]

"Are you not well, mother?" he said gently.

Mrs. Conyfer looked a little surprised but pleased too. It was new to her either to think of how she was or to be asked about it. For though her husband was kind and good, he was plain and even a little rough, as are the moorland people in general. Gratian had never been rough, but he had not had the habit of much noticing those about him. Since he had been so often with Fergus and the lady he had learnt to be more observant of others, especially of his mother, and more tender in his manner.

"Are you not well, mother dear?" he repeated.

"I'm only a bit tired, my boy," she said. "I'm getting old, I suppose, and I've worked pretty hard in my way--not to say as if I'd been a poor man's wife of course, but a farmer's wife has a deal on her mind."

"And you do everything so well, mother," said Gratian admiringly. "I'm getting old enough now to see how different things are here from what they are in many houses. Fergus does so like to hear about the dairy and the c.o.c.ks and hens, and about the girdle cakes and all the nice things you make."

"He's really a nice little gentleman!" said Mrs. Conyfer, well pleased, "I _am_ glad to hear he's getting so much better. I'm sure his mother deserves he should--such a sweet lady as she is."

For now and then on a Sunday the two boys' mothers had spoken to each other.

"Yes, he's _much_ better," said Gratian. "To-day he walked six times up and down the terrace with only my arm."

"They weren't afraid to let him out, and it so cold to-day?" said Mrs.

Conyfer.

"It wasn't so very cold--you usedn't to mind the cold, mother," said the boy.

"Maybe not so much as now," she replied. "I think I'm getting rheumatic like my father and mother before me, for I can't move about so quick, and then one feels the cold more."

"What makes people have rheumatics?" asked Gratian.

"Folk don't have it so much hereabout," his mother answered; "but I don't belong to the moor country, you know. My home was some way from this, down in the valley, where it's milder but much damper--and damp is worst of anything for rheumatism. Dear me, I remember my old grandmother a perfect sight with it--all doubled up--you wondered how she got about.

But she was a marvel of patience, and so cheery too. I only hope I shall be like her in that, if I live so long, for it's a sore trial to an active nature to become so nearly helpless."

"Had she n.o.body to be kind to her when she got so ill?" asked Gratian.

"Oh yes; her children were all good to her, so far as they could be. But they were all married and about in the world, and busy with their own families. She was a good deal alone, poor old grandmother."

"Mother," said Gratian quickly. "If you ever got to be like that, I would never marry or go about in the world. I'd stay at home to be a comfort to you. I'd run all your messages and do everything I could for you. Mother, I wish you'd let me be more use to you now already, even though you're not so ill."

Mrs. Conyfer smiled, but there was more pleasure than amus.e.m.e.nt in her smile.

"I do think being at the Big House has done you good, Gratian. You never used to notice or think of things so much before you went there," she said. "And you're getting very handy, there's no doubt. I hope I shall never be so laid aside, but I'm sure you'd do your best, my dear. Now I think I shall go to bed, and you must be off too. Father's out still--he and Jonas have so much to see to these cold nights, seeing that all the creatures are warm and sheltered. There's snow not far off, they were saying. The wind's in the north."

Gratian's dreams were very grotesque that night. He dreamt that his mother was turned into a sea-gull, all except her face, which remained the same. And she could neither walk nor fly, she was so lame and stiff, or else it was that her wings were cut--he was not sure which.

Then he heard Green-wings's voice saying, "She only wants a sight of the sea to make her well. Gratian, you should take her to the sea; call the c.o.c.ks and hens to help you;" and with that he thought he opened his eyes and found himself on the terrace where he had been walking with Fergus, and there was a beautiful little carriage drawn by about a dozen c.o.c.ks and hens; but when he would have got in, Fergus seemed to push him back, saying, "Not yet, not yet, your mother first," and Fergus kept looking for Mrs. Conyfer as if he did not know that she was the poor sea-gull, standing there looking very funny with the little red knitted shawl on that Gratian's mother wore when it was a chilly morning. And just then there came flying down from above, Gratian's four friends. n.o.body seemed to see them but himself, and the c.o.c.ks and hens began making such a noise that he felt quite confused.

"Oh, do take poor mother," he called out--for there was no use trying to make any one else understand--"Green-wings and all of you, do take poor mother."

"Not without you, Gratian," replied Gray-wings's sharp voice. "It's your place to look after your mother," and as she spoke she stooped towards him and he felt her cold breath, and with the start it gave him he awoke.