The lady turned quickly, shaded her eyes from the sun, and saw the poor little worn and travel-stained lad.

She screamed "Jack!" and in a moment more was beside him, warming him in her arms, caressing and soothing the little fellow, who sobbed out the anguish of that terrible night on her shoulder.

CHAPTER IX.--PARVA DOMUS, MAGNA QUIES.

"No, no, Jack; no, dear child; do not be alarmed, you shall never go back to that school. Did they dare to strike you? Cheer up, dear. I tell you that you shall never go there again, but shall always be with me. I will arrange a little room for you to-day, and you will see how nice it is to be in the country. We have cows and chickens, and that reminds me the poultry has not yet been fed. Lie down, dear, and rest a while. I will wake you at dinner-time, but first drink this soup. It is good, is it not? And to think that while I was calmly sleeping, you were alone in the cold and dark night. I must go. My chickens are calling me;" and with a loving kiss Ida went off on tiptoe, happy and bright, browned somewhat by the sun, and dressed with rather a theatrical idea of the proprieties. Her country costume had a great deal of black velvet about it, and she wore a wide-brimmed Leghorn hat, trimmed with poppies and wheat.

Jack could not sleep, but his bath and the soup prepared by Mere Archambauld, his mother's cook, had restored his strength to a very great degree, and he lay on the couch, looking about him with calm, satisfied eyes.

There was but little of the old luxury. The room he was in was large, furnished in the style of Louis XVI., all gray and white, without the least gilding. Outside, the rustling of the leaves, the cooing of the pigeons on the roof, and his mother's voice talking to her chickens, lulled him to repose.

One thing troubled him: D'Argenton's portrait hung at the foot of the bed, in a pretentious att.i.tude, his hand on an open book.

The child said to himself, "Where is he? Why have I not seen him?" Finally, annoyed by the eyes of the picture, which seemed to pursue him either with a question or a reproach, he rose and went down to his mother.

She was busy in the farm-yard; her gloves reached above her elbows, and her dress, looped on one side, showed her wide striped skirt and high heels.

Mere Archambauld laughed at her awkwardness. This woman was the wife of an employe in the government forests, who attended to the culinary department at Aulnettes, as the house was called where Jack's mother lived.

"Heavens! how pretty your boy is!" said the old woman, delighted by Jack's appearance.

"Is he not, Mere Archambauld? What did I tell you?"

"But he looks a good deal more like you, madame, than like his papa.

Good day, my dear! May I give you a kiss?"

At the word papa, Jack looked up quickly.

"Ah, well! if you can't sleep, let us go and look at the house," said his mother, who quickly wearied of every occupation. She shook down her skirts, and took the child over this most original house, which was situated a stone's throw from the village, and realized better than most poets' dreams those of D'Argenton. The house had been originally a shooting-box belonging to a distant chateau. A new tower had been added, and a weatherc.o.c.k, which last gave an aspect of intense respectability to the place. They visited the stable and the orchard, and finished their examination by a visit to the tower.

A winding staircase, lighted by a skylight of colored gla.s.s, led to a large, round room containing four windows, and furnished by a circular divan covered with some brilliant Eastern stuff. A couple of curious old oaken chests, a Venetian mirror, some antique hangings, and a high carved chair of the time of Henri II., drawn up in front of an enormous table covered with papers, composed the furniture of the apartment. A charming landscape was visible from the windows, a valley and a river, a fresh green wood, and some fair meadow-land.

"It is here that HE works," said his mother, in an awed tone.

Jack had no need to ask who this HE might be.

In a low voice, as if in a sanctuary, she continued, without looking at her son,--

"At present he is travelling. He will return in a few days, however. I shall write to him that you are here; he will be very glad, for he is very fond of you, and is the best of men, even if he does look a little severe sometimes. You must learn to love him, little Jack, or I shall be very unhappy."

As she spoke she looked at D'Argenton's picture hung at the end of this room, a picture of which the one in her room was a copy; in fact, a portrait of the poet was in every room, and a bronze bust in the entrance-hall, and it was a most significant fact that there was no other portrait than his in the whole house. "You promise me, Jack, that you will love him?"

Jack answered with much effort, "I promise, dear mamma."

This was the only cloud on that memorable day. The two were so happy in that quaint old drawing-room. They heard Mere Archambauld rattling her dishes in the kitchen. Outside of the house there was not a sound. Jack sat and admired his mother. She thought him much grown and very large for his age, and they laughed and kissed each other every few minutes.

In the evening they had some visitors. Pere Archambauld came for his wife, as he always did, for they lived in the depths of the forest. He took a seat in the dining-room.

"You will drink a gla.s.s of wine, Father Archambauld. Drink to the health of my little boy. Is he not nice? Will you take him with you sometimes into the forest?"

And as he drank his wine, this tawny giant, who was the terror of the poachers throughout the country, looked about the room with that restless glance acquired in his nightly watchings in the forest, and answered timidly,--

"That I will, Madame d'Argenton."

This name of D'Argenton, thus given to his mother, mystified our little friend. But as he had no very accurate idea of either the duties or dignities of life, he soon ceased to take any notice of his mother's new t.i.tle, and became absorbed in a rough game of play with the two dogs under the table. The old couple had just gone, when a carriage was heard at the door.

"Is it you, doctor?" cried Ida from within, in joyous greeting,

"Yes, madame; I come to learn something about your sick son, of whose arrival I have heard."

Jack looked inquisitively at the large, kindly face crowned by snowy locks. The doctor wore a coat down to his heels, and had a rolling walk, the result of twenty years of sea-life as a surgeon.

"Your boy is all right, madame. I was afraid, from what I heard through my servant, that he and you might require my services."

What good people these all were, and bow thankful little Jack felt that he had forever left that detestable school!

When the doctor left, the house was bolted and barred, and the mother and child went tranquilly to their bedroom.

There, while Jack slept, Ida wrote to D'Argenton a long letter, telling him of her son's arrival, and seeking to arouse his sympathy for the little lonely fellow, whose gentle, regular breathing she heard at her side. She was more at her ease when two days later came a reply from her poet.

Although full of reproaches and of allusions to her maternal weakness, and to the undisciplined nature of her child, the letter was less terrible than she had antic.i.p.ated. In fact, D'Argenton concluded that it was well to be relieved of the enormous expenses at the academy, and while disapproving of the escapade, he thought it no great misfortune, as the Inst.i.tution was rapidly running down. "Had he not left it?" As to the child's fixture, it should be his care, and when he returned a week later, they would consult together as to what plan to adopt.

Never did Jack, in his whole life, as child or man, pa.s.s such a week of utter happiness. His mother belonged to him alone. He had the dogs and the goat, the forest and the rabbits, and yet he did not leave his mother for many minutes at a time. He followed her wherever she went, laughed when she laughed without asking why, and was altogether content.

Another letter. "He will come to-morrow!"

Although D'Argenton had written kindly, Ida was still nervous, and wished to arrange the meeting in her own way. Consequently she refused to permit him to go with her to the station in the little carriage. She gave him several injunctions, painful to them both, as if they had each been guilty of some great fault, and to the boy inexpressibly mortifying.

"You will remain at the end of the garden," she said, "and do not come until I call you."

The child lingered an hour in expectation, and when he heard the grinding of the wheels, ran down the garden walk, and concealed himself behind the gooseberry bushes. He heard D'Argenton speak. His tone was harder, sterner than ever. He heard his mother's sweet voice answer gently, "Yes, my dear--no, my dear." Then a window in the tower opened.

"Come, Jack, I want you, my child!"

The boy's heart beat quickly as he mounted the stairs. D'Argenton was leaning back in the tall armchair, his light hair gleaming against the dark wood. Ida stood by his side, and did not even hold out her hand to the little fellow. The lecture he received was short and affectionate to a certain extent. "Jack," he said, in conclusion, "life is not a romance; you must work in earnest. I am willing to believe in your penitence; and if you behave well, I will certainly love you, and we three may live together happily. Now listen to what I propose. I am a very busy man.--I am, nevertheless, willing to devote two hours every day to your education. If you will study faithfully, I can make of you, frivolous as you are by nature, a man like myself."

"You hear, Jack," said his mother, alarmed at his silence, "and you understand the sacrifice that your friend is ready to make for you--"

"Yes, mamma," stammered Jack.

"Wait, Charlotte," interrupted D'Argenton; "he must decide for himself: I wish to force no one."

Jack, petrified at hearing his mother called Charlotte, and unable to find words to express his sense of such generosity, ended by saying nothing. Seeing the child's embarra.s.sment, his mother gently pushed him into the poet's arms, who pressed a theatrical kiss on his brow.

"Ah, dear, how good you are!" murmured the poor woman, while the child, dismissed by an imperative gesture, hastily ran down the stairs.

In reality Jack's installation in the house was a relief to the poet.