الفصل الفصل 1 · 第1章

Cedric himself knew nothing whatever about it. It had never been even

mentioned to him. He knew that his papa had been an Englishman, because

his mamma had told him so; but then his papa had died when he was so

little a boy that he could not remember very much about him, except that

he was big, and had blue eyes and a long mustache, and that it was a

splendid thing to be carried around the room on his shoulder. Since his

papa's death, Cedric had found out that it was best not to talk to his

mamma about him. When his father was ill, Cedric had been sent away, and

when he had returned, everything was over; and his mother, who had

been very ill, too, was only just beginning to sit in her chair by the

window. She was pale and thin, and all the dimples had gone from her

pretty face, and her eyes looked large and mournful, and she was dressed

in black.

“Dearest,” said Cedric (his papa had called her that always, and so the

little boy had learned to say it),--“dearest, is my papa better?”

He felt her arms tremble, and so he turned his curly head and looked in

her face. There was something in it that made him feel that he was going

to cry.

“Dearest,” he said, “is he well?”

Then suddenly his loving little heart told him that he'd better put both

his arms around her neck and kiss her again and again, and keep his

soft cheek close to hers; and he did so, and she laid her face on his

shoulder and cried bitterly, holding him as if she could never let him

go again.

“Yes, he is well,” she sobbed; “he is quite, quite well, but we--we have

no one left but each other. No one at all.”

Then, little as he was, he understood that his big, handsome young papa

would not come back any more; that he was dead, as he had heard of other

people being, although he could not comprehend exactly what strange

thing had brought all this sadness about. It was because his mamma

always cried when he spoke of his papa that he secretly made up his mind

it was better not to speak of him very often to her, and he found out,

too, that it was better not to let her sit still and look into the fire

or out of the window without moving or talking. He and his mamma knew

very few people, and lived what might have been thought very lonely

lives, although Cedric did not know it was lonely until he grew older

and heard why it was they had no visitors. Then he was told that his

mamma was an orphan, and quite alone in the world when his papa had

married her. She was very pretty, and had been living as companion to a

rich old lady who was not kind to her, and one day Captain Cedric Errol,

who was calling at the house, saw her run up the stairs with tears on

her eyelashes; and she looked so sweet and innocent and sorrowful that

the Captain could not forget her. And after many strange things had

happened, they knew each other well and loved each other dearly, and

were married, although their marriage brought them the ill-will of

several persons. The one who was most angry of all, however, was

the Captain's father, who lived in England, and was a very rich and

important old nobleman, with a very bad temper and a very violent

dislike to America and Americans. He had two sons older than Captain

Cedric; and it was the law that the elder of these sons should inherit

the family title and estates, which were very rich and splendid; if the

eldest son died, the next one would be heir; so, though he was a member

of such a great family, there was little chance that Captain Cedric

would be very rich himself.

But it so happened that Nature had given to the youngest son gifts which

she had not bestowed upon his elder brothers. He had a beautiful face

and a fine, strong, graceful figure; he had a bright smile and a sweet,

gay voice; he was brave and generous, and had the kindest heart in the

world, and seemed to have the power to make every one love him. And it

was not so with his elder brothers; neither of them was handsome,

or very kind, or clever. When they were boys at Eton, they were not

popular; when they were at college, they cared nothing for study, and

wasted both time and money, and made few real friends. The old Earl,

their father, was constantly disappointed and humiliated by them; his

heir was no honor to his noble name, and did not promise to end in being

anything but a selfish, wasteful, insignificant man, with no manly or

noble qualities. It was very bitter, the old Earl thought, that the son

who was only third, and would have only a very small fortune, should be

the one who had all the gifts, and all the charms, and all the strength

and beauty. Sometimes he almost hated the handsome young man because he

seemed to have the good things which should have gone with the stately

title and the magnificent estates; and yet, in the depths of his proud,

stubborn old heart, he could not help caring very much for his youngest

son. It was in one of his fits of petulance that he sent him off to

travel in America; he thought he would send him away for a while, so

that he should not be made angry by constantly contrasting him with his

brothers, who were at that time giving him a great deal of trouble by

their wild ways.

But, after about six months, he began to feel lonely, and longed in

secret to see his son again, so he wrote to Captain Cedric and ordered

him home. The letter he wrote crossed on its way a letter the Captain

had just written to his father, telling of his love for the pretty

American girl, and of his intended marriage; and when the Earl received

that letter he was furiously angry. Bad as his temper was, he had

never given way to it in his life as he gave way to it when he read the

Captain's letter. His valet, who was in the room when it came, thought

his lordship would have a fit of apoplexy, he was so wild with anger.

For an hour he raged like a tiger, and then he sat down and wrote to his

son, and ordered him never to come near his old home, nor to write to

his father or brothers again. He told him he might live as he pleased,

and die where he pleased, that he should be cut off from his family

forever, and that he need never expect help from his father as long as

he lived.

The Captain was very sad when he read the letter; he was very fond of

England, and he dearly loved the beautiful home where he had been born;

he had even loved his ill-tempered old father, and had sympathized with

him in his disappointments; but he knew he need expect no kindness from

him in the future. At first he scarcely knew what to do; he had not been

brought up to work, and had no business experience, but he had courage

and plenty of determination. So he sold his commission in the English

army, and after some trouble found a situation in New York, and married.

The change from his old life in England was very great, but he was young

and happy, and he hoped that hard work would do great things for him in

the future. He had a small house on a quiet street, and his little boy

was born there, and everything was so gay and cheerful, in a simple way,

that he was never sorry for a moment that he had married the rich old

lady's pretty companion just because she was so sweet and he loved her

and she loved him. She was very sweet, indeed, and her little boy was

like both her and his father. Though he was born in so quiet and cheap a

little home, it seemed as if there never had been a more fortunate baby.

In the first place, he was always well, and so he never gave any one

trouble; in the second place, he had so sweet a temper and ways so

charming that he was a pleasure to every one; and in the third place,

he was so beautiful to look at that he was quite a picture. Instead of

being a bald-headed baby, he started in life with a quantity of soft,

fine, gold-colored hair, which curled up at the ends, and went into

loose rings by the time he was six months old; he had big brown eyes and

long eyelashes and a darling little face; he had so strong a back and

such splendid sturdy legs, that at nine months he learned suddenly to

walk; his manners were so good, for a baby, that it was delightful to

make his acquaintance. He seemed to feel that every one was his friend,

and when any one spoke to him, when he was in his carriage in the

street, he would give the stranger one sweet, serious look with the

brown eyes, and then follow it with a lovely, friendly smile; and the

consequence was, that there was not a person in the neighborhood of the

quiet street where he lived--even to the groceryman at the corner, who

was considered the crossest creature alive--who was not pleased to see

him and speak to him. And every month of his life he grew handsomer and

more interesting.

When he was old enough to walk out with his nurse, dragging a small

wagon and wearing a short white kilt skirt, and a big white hat set back

on his curly yellow hair, he was so handsome and strong and rosy that he

attracted every one's attention, and his nurse would come home and tell

his mamma stories of the ladies who had stopped their carriages to look

at and speak to him, and of how pleased they were when he talked to them

in his cheerful little way, as if he had known them always. His greatest

charm was this cheerful, fearless, quaint little way of making friends

with people. I think it arose from his having a very confiding nature,

and a kind little heart that sympathized with every one, and wished to

make every one as comfortable as he liked to be himself. It made him

very quick to understand the feelings of those about him. Perhaps this

had grown on him, too, because he had lived so much with his father and

mother, who were always loving and considerate and tender and well-bred.

He had never heard an unkind or uncourteous word spoken at home; he had

always been loved and caressed and treated tenderly, and so his childish

soul was full of kindness and innocent warm feeling. He had always heard

his mamma called by pretty, loving names, and so he used them himself

when he spoke to her; he had always seen that his papa watched over her

and took great care of her, and so he learned, too, to be careful of

her.

So when he knew his papa would come back no more, and saw how very

sad his mamma was, there gradually came into his kind little heart the

thought that he must do what he could to make her happy. He was not much

more than a baby, but that thought was in his mind whenever he climbed

upon her knee and kissed her and put his curly head on her neck, and

when he brought his toys and picture-books to show her, and when he

curled up quietly by her side as she used to lie on the sofa. He was not

old enough to know of anything else to do, so he did what he could, and

was more of a comfort to her than he could have understood.

“Oh, Mary!” he heard her say once to her old servant; “I am sure he

is trying to help me in his innocent way--I know he is. He looks at me

sometimes with a loving, wondering little look, as if he were sorry for

me, and then he will come and pet me or show me something. He is such a

little man, I really think he knows.”

As he grew older, he had a great many quaint little ways which amused

and interested people greatly. He was so much of a companion for his

mother that she scarcely cared for any other. They used to walk together

and talk together and play together. When he was quite a little fellow,

he learned to read; and after that he used to lie on the hearth-rug, in

the evening, and read aloud--sometimes stories, and sometimes big books

such as older people read, and sometimes even the newspaper; and often

at such times Mary, in the kitchen, would hear Mrs. Errol laughing with

delight at the quaint things he said.

“And, indade,” said Mary to the groceryman, “nobody cud help laughin' at

the quare little ways of him--and his ould-fashioned sayin's! Didn't

he come into my kitchen the noight the new Prisident was nominated and

shtand afore the fire, lookin' loike a pictur', wid his hands in his

shmall pockets, an' his innocent bit of a face as sayrious as a jedge?

An' sez he to me: 'Mary,' sez he, 'I'm very much int'rusted in the

'lection,' sez he. 'I'm a 'publican, an' so is Dearest. Are you a

'publican, Mary?' 'Sorra a bit,' sez I; 'I'm the bist o' dimmycrats!'

An' he looks up at me wid a look that ud go to yer heart, an' sez he:

'Mary,' sez he, 'the country will go to ruin.' An' nivver a day since

thin has he let go by widout argyin' wid me to change me polytics.”

Mary was very fond of him, and very proud of him, too. She had been with

his mother ever since he was born; and, after his father's death, had

been cook and housemaid and nurse and everything else. She was proud of

his graceful, strong little body and his pretty manners, and especially

proud of the bright curly hair which waved over his forehead and fell in

charming love-locks on his shoulders. She was willing to work early and

late to help his mamma make his small suits and keep them in order.

“'Ristycratic, is it?” she would say. “Faith, an' I'd loike to see the

choild on Fifth Avey-NOO as looks loike him an' shteps out as handsome

as himself. An' ivvery man, woman, and choild lookin' afther him in his

bit of a black velvet skirt made out of the misthress's ould gownd; an'

his little head up, an' his curly hair flyin' an' shinin'. It's loike a

young lord he looks.”

Cedric did not know that he looked like a young lord; he did not

know what a lord was. His greatest friend was the groceryman at the

corner--the cross groceryman, who was never cross to him. His name was

Mr. Hobbs, and Cedric admired and respected him very much. He thought

him a very rich and powerful person, he had so many things in his

store,--prunes and figs and oranges and biscuits,--and he had a

horse and wagon. Cedric was fond of the milkman and the baker and the

apple-woman, but he liked Mr. Hobbs best of all, and was on terms of

such intimacy with him that he went to see him every day, and often sat

with him quite a long time, discussing the topics of the hour. It was

quite surprising how many things they found to talk about--the Fourth

of July, for instance. When they began to talk about the Fourth of July

there really seemed no end to it. Mr. Hobbs had a very bad opinion of

“the British,” and he told the whole story of the Revolution, relating

very wonderful and patriotic stories about the villainy of the enemy and

the bravery of the Revolutionary heroes, and he even generously repeated

part of the Declaration of Independence.

Cedric was so excited that his eyes shone and his cheeks were red and

his curls were all rubbed and tumbled into a yellow mop. He could hardly

wait to eat his dinner after he went home, he was so anxious to tell

his mamma. It was, perhaps, Mr. Hobbs who gave him his first interest

in politics. Mr. Hobbs was fond of reading the newspapers, and so Cedric

heard a great deal about what was going on in Washington; and Mr. Hobbs

would tell him whether the President was doing his duty or not. And

once, when there was an election, he found it all quite grand, and

probably but for Mr. Hobbs and Cedric the country might have been

wrecked.

Mr. Hobbs took him to see a great torchlight procession, and many of the

men who carried torches remembered afterward a stout man who stood near

a lamp-post and held on his shoulder a handsome little shouting boy, who

waved his cap in the air.

It was not long after this election, when Cedric was between seven and

eight years old, that the very strange thing happened which made so

wonderful a change in his life. It was quite curious, too, that the

day it happened he had been talking to Mr. Hobbs about England and

the Queen, and Mr. Hobbs had said some very severe things about the

aristocracy, being specially indignant against earls and marquises. It

had been a hot morning; and after playing soldiers with some friends

of his, Cedric had gone into the store to rest, and had found Mr. Hobbs

looking very fierce over a piece of the Illustrated London News, which

contained a picture of some court ceremony.

“Ah,” he said, “that's the way they go on now; but they'll get enough

of it some day, when those they've trod on rise and blow 'em up

sky-high,--earls and marquises and all! It's coming, and they may look

out for it!”

Cedric had perched himself as usual on the high stool and pushed his

hat back, and put his hands in his pockets in delicate compliment to Mr.

Hobbs.

“Did you ever know many marquises, Mr. Hobbs?” Cedric inquired,--“or

earls?”

“No,” answered Mr. Hobbs, with indignation; “I guess not. I'd like to

catch one of 'em inside here; that's all! I'll have no grasping tyrants

sittin' 'round on my cracker-barrels!”

And he was so proud of the sentiment that he looked around proudly and

mopped his forehead.

“Perhaps they wouldn't be earls if they knew any better,” said Cedric,

feeling some vague sympathy for their unhappy condition.

“Wouldn't they!” said Mr. Hobbs. “They just glory in it! It's in 'em.

They're a bad lot.”

They were in the midst of their conversation, when Mary appeared.

Cedric thought she had come to buy some sugar, perhaps, but she had not.

She looked almost pale and as if she were excited about something.

“Come home, darlint,” she said; “the misthress is wantin' yez.”

Cedric slipped down from his stool.

“Does she want me to go out with her, Mary?” he asked. “Good-morning,

Mr. Hobbs. I'll see you again.”

He was surprised to see Mary staring at him in a dumfounded fashion, and

he wondered why she kept shaking her head.

“What's the matter, Mary?” he said. “Is it the hot weather?”

“No,” said Mary; “but there's strange things happenin' to us.”

“Has the sun given Dearest a headache?” he inquired anxiously.

But it was not that. When he reached his own house there was a coupe

standing before the door and some one was in the little parlor talking

to his mamma. Mary hurried him upstairs and put on his best summer

suit of cream-colored flannel, with the red scarf around his waist, and

combed out his curly locks.

“Lords, is it?” he heard her say. “An' the nobility an' gintry. Och! bad

cess to them! Lords, indade--worse luck.”

It was really very puzzling, but he felt sure his mamma would tell him

what all the excitement meant, so he allowed Mary to bemoan herself

without asking many questions. When he was dressed, he ran downstairs

and went into the parlor. A tall, thin old gentleman with a sharp face

was sitting in an arm-chair. His mother was standing near by with a pale

face, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh! Ceddie!” she cried out, and ran to her little boy and caught him

in her arms and kissed him in a frightened, troubled way. “Oh! Ceddie,

darling!”

The tall old gentleman rose from his chair and looked at Cedric with his

sharp eyes. He rubbed his thin chin with his bony hand as he looked.

He seemed not at all displeased.

“And so,” he said at last, slowly,--“and so this is little Lord

Fauntleroy.”