TEACHING JACKY TO SWIM.
"Tell you a story? What shall it be about? I thought you were tired of stories." Granny spoke a trifle drowsily. It was very warm that September afternoon—an afternoon that made you feel more inclined to sleep than to tell stories.
But Chris was not to be denied.
"I want a story very much," he said; "very much indeed."
"Perhaps Miss Baggerley would tell you one," suggested Granny. "I am sure it would be a more interesting one than any I could think of."
"I don't want anyone to tell me a story but you," answered the little tyrant wilfully; "only you, my Granny."
"Then I will, my darling," she replied, plainly gratified at this preference so strongly expressed. "But you must wait a moment," she went on, "I shall have to think."
She closed her eyes as she spoke, and there was silence, broken only by the sounds of the world without carried through the open windows—the lazy hum of the bees amongst the flowers, the gentle, monotonous cooing of the wood-pigeons in the trees, the far-off voices of children at play.
Presently the little beggar became impatient.
"Why don't you begin, Granny?" he asked, pulling her sleeve as he leant against her knee.
She started from a slight doze into which she had fallen.
"Let me see," she said with a start; "I had just thought of a very nice story, but I was trying to recollect the end. I think I remember it now."
"There was once a very beautiful Newfoundland dog," she began hurriedly. "Yes, he was a very beautiful dog indeed."
"How beautiful?" interrupted Chris, with his usual aptitude for asking questions. "As beautiful as Jacky?"
"I think more beautiful," she replied, without pausing to consider.
"Then he was a nasty dog," he said, with vehemence. "I don't like a dog what is more beautiful than my Jacky."
"He was such a different kind of dog," she said deprecatingly. "A Newfoundland dog cannot very well be compared with a fox-terrier, my pet."
"What was his name?" asked the little beggar, accepting Granny's explanation and letting the matter pass.
"Rover; that was what he was called," she replied. "His little mistress loved him dearly," she continued.
"Did he belong to a girl?" Chris inquired, with some contempt on the substantive.
"Yes; and they always used to go out for pleasant walks together," she went on. "But never near the river, for she had said many a time, 'Don't go near the river, my darling, for it is not safe; not for a little girl like you'."
"Who said that?" he asked, speaking with some impatience. "The little girl—or what?"
"The little girl's mother," replied Granny, a trifle drowsily.
"You're going to sleep again!" Chris exclaimed reproachfully. "Oh, Granny, how can you tell me a story when you're asleep?"
"Asleep! Oh no, my darling," she said opening her eyes. "Well, one day, I am sorry, very sorry to say, Eliza—"
"Was that the little girl's name?" inquired Chris.
"Yes," she answered. "Didn't I tell you her name was Eliza? Dear, dear, how forgetful of me! As I was saying, Eliza thought, in spite of her father's and mother's command, she would go to the river, for she wished to pick some of the water-lilies which grew there in such profusion."
"How naughty of Eliza!" exclaimed Chris, with virtuous indignation.
"Yes, very naughty; very naughty indeed," agreed Granny, her voice again becoming sleepy. "It was sadly disobedient."
There was another pause, during which Chris listened expectantly, and the old lady once more closed her eyes.
"Oh, Granny! do go on," said the anxious little listener fervently.
"She picked several which grew near the river's brink," the old lady continued with an effort, "and at first all went well. But at last she saw a beautiful—a remarkably beautiful one that grew just out of her reach. It was a most dangerous thing to attempt to pick it, but she did not think of that, for she was very, very thoughtless as well as disobedient. Bending forward, heedless of her father's warning call, and her poor dear mother's sorrowful cry, she lost her balance, and—fell—right—into—the—river."
The last few words were uttered in a whisper, Granny's sleepiness having once more overtaken her, bravely as she struggled against it.
"How drefful!" said Chris, with wide-open eyes. "Was poor Eliza drownded? Oh, I hope she wasn't! Did she get out? Oh, say yes, Granny! And where did her father and mother call to her from? Right from the house? 'Cause I thought you said she was alone."
But the only answer to his torrent of questions was a gentle snore. The time he had occupied in pouring forth these queries had sufficed to send Eliza's historian asleep.
Chris's little face fell.
"My Granny has gone quite asleep," he remarked with much disappointment. "Now I shall never know if Eliza was drownded or not. P'r'aps she's only pretending. I'll see if her eyes are fast-shut," he added, preparing to put Granny to the test by lifting one of her eyelids.
"Don't do that, Chris," I said hastily. "Come here, I'll tell you the rest of the story."
"Do you know it?" he asked doubtfully.
"I can guess it," I replied, as he crossed the room to my side.
"Then what happened to poor Eliza?" he inquired anxiously; "and did Rover help her? Oh! I do hope he did."
"Well," I started, taking up the story at the point at which Granny had dozed off, "when her father and mother—who were near enough to see what had occurred—realized the danger their little daughter was in, they were filled with horror. It seemed as if they were going to see her die before their eyes; for they were so far off that it looked as if it were not possible to get to her before she sunk. And this is just what would have taken place had not help been at hand. Eliza, her water-lilies, and her disobedient, little heart would have sunk to the bottom of the river for ever, had it not been for—what do you think Chris?"
"I know, I know!" he cried, clapping his hands. "It was Rover; the good dog. He swam after her."
"You are right," I said. "There was a plunge, and there was Rover swimming to the help of his little mistress. For a minute it appeared as if the current was carrying her away, and as if he would not reach her in time. How, then, shall I describe her father and her mother's joy when they saw him succeed in doing so, and, seizing her by the dress, bring her safely to the river's bank! No," as Chris looked at me with inquiring eyes, "she was not hurt; only very wet, and very frightened."
"I 'spect she was very, very frightened," Chris said, loudly and eagerly; "and I 'spect she never, never went near the river again,—never again. Did she?"
"No, my darling," Granny said, awakened by his loud and eager tones in time to hear his last question, and sitting up and rubbing her eyes; "she was never such a naughty little girl again. She expressed great sorrow for what had occurred, and she learnt to be more obedient for the future. Indeed, she became so remarkable for her obedience, my pet, that they always called her by the name of 'the obedient little Eliza'."
"Now nice!" Chris remarked with unction. "You've been fast asleep, my Granny," he informed her, with a laugh—pitying and amused.
"Dear, dear, is it possible?" she said.
"Yes, and Miss Beggarley had to finish the story," he continued.
"I'm much obliged to you, my dear, I'm sure," Granny said gratefully.
"I hope I told it as you intended it to be told," I said laughing.
"You told it just as it should have been, I am fully convinced," she answered with gentle politeness; "much better than I should have myself."
"But she never told me what happened to Rover afterwards," put in Chris.
"He lived to a great age," answered Granny, adjusting her spectacles and resuming her knitting, "and was loved and honoured by all. And when he died he was beautifully stuffed and put into a glass case."
"I wish he hadn't died, my Granny," said the little beggar mournfully, unconsoled by the honour paid to Rover's remains. Then, with a sudden change of thought: "Can Jack swim like he did, I wonder."
"That I can't say, my darling," Granny replied, intent on her work.
"I think I had better teach him," the little beggar said, looking very wise; "'cause if you, or Miss Beggarley, or me, or Briggs felled into the water like Eliza, Jacky could bring us out, and save us from being drownded."
"Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine," murmured Granny, busy counting the stitches on her sock, and too much occupied to pay attention to what Chris said. "Twenty-nine! Now, how have I gone wrong? Miss Baggerley, my dear, would you be so kind as to see if you can find out my mistake?"
"I know!" exclaimed Chris, as Granny handed me her work; "I know very well what I will do. I'll—," and he stopped short.
"What will you do, my pet?" asked Granny, a little absently, watching me as I put her knitting right.
But Chris shook his head. "A surprise!" he said, and closed his lips firmly.
I felt that it would be safer for the interests of all to probe the matter further, and was about to do so, when there was a tap at the door, and Briggs entered.
"Master Chris," she said, "it's time for your walk."
Now, generally the little beggar murmured much and loudly when he was interrupted by Briggs. On this occasion, however, he showed no disinclination to go with her, but on the contrary went with alacrity.
"I think he is really becoming fond of her," Granny remarked with some satisfaction when they had gone. "Perhaps, after all, I shall not have to send her away at Christmas, as I feared I should have to if she and Chris did not understand each other better. I shall be very glad if I can let her stay, for although she has an unsympathetic manner—yes, I must say that she strikes me as being extremely unsympathetic to the darling at times; don't you think so, my dear?—yet I know that she is thoroughly reliable and trustworthy."
"I wonder if Chris's readiness to go with her had anything to do with his 'surprise'," I answered. "It looks to me a little suspicious, I must own. I hope he has not any mischievous idea in his little head."
"Oh, no, my dear!" she replied, almost reproachfully; "the darling is as good as gold. There never was a better child when he likes. No, no, he is not at all inclined to be troublesome to-day; I think you are mistaken."
I kept silence, for I saw that dear old Granny was not altogether pleased at my suggestion. Nevertheless, in spite of her reassuring words, I did not feel convinced that the little beggar was not going to give us some fresh proof of his remarkable powers for getting into mischief. And further events justified my fears.
I will tell you how this happened.
About half an hour later I was taking a stroll in the garden, when, turning my steps in the direction of the pond, I suddenly came upon Chris, accompanied by Briggs. That something was amiss was at once evident. Briggs was walking along, with her air of greatest dignity—and that, I assure you, was very great indeed,—whilst Chris, by her side, was also making his little attempt at being dignified.
But it was the sorriest attempt you can imagine!
Dripping from head to foot, water running in little rivulets from his large straw hat upon his face, water dripping from his clothes soaked through and through, and making little pools on the garden-path as he pursued his way—a more forlorn, miserable-looking little object it was impossible to conceive.
In spite of this, however, he would not let go of that attempt at dignity. With his hands in his pockets, and his head thrown back, he whistled as he walked along, with the most defiant expression he could assume upon that naughty little face of his.
And the procession was brought up by Jack, with his tail between his legs, also dripping and shivering violently.
Directly Chris saw me the defiant expression instantly vanished, and running to me, he buried his face in my dress and wept at the top of his voice.
"What is the matter, Chris?" I asked. "What has happened? What have you been doing?"
"What hasn't happened, and what hasn't he been doing?" said Briggs, coming up and speaking very angrily. "And what will happen next? That's what I ask."
"What has happened now?" I repeated.
"One of Master Chris's tricks again, that's all," she said, still angrily, as we all walked on to the house.
"I was—teach-teach—teaching J-J-Jack to—to swim—like Ro-Ro—Rover," the little beggar said between violent sobs, and bringing out the last word with a great gasp.
"Teaching Jack to swim like Rover!" I repeated.
"Yes," exclaimed Briggs, with much sarcasm; "and it was a mighty clever thing for Master Chris to do, seeing as how he can't swim himself.
"It was just like this, mum," she explained, as she hastened her steps, "(I think we had better hurry a bit if Master Chris isn't to take his death of cold. He'll be in bed to-morrow unless I'm much mistaken!) I was just speaking to one of the gardeners about a pot of musk we wanted in the nursery. I hadn't turned my back two minutes before I hear a splash and Master Chris crying out at the top of his voice, and when I look around there he is struggling nearly up to his neck in water, and Jacky struggling along by his side. Well, here we are back; we'll see what my mistress thinks of it all. I'll be bound she won't be over and above pleased. As for me, I can only say I am more than thankful it was at the shallow part of the pond; if it had been at the deep end, there's no saying if he wouldn't have been lying there now stiff and stark."
At this woeful picture of himself, Chris's grief, which had become slightly subdued, burst forth afresh, and as we entered the hall he sobbed more loudly and more violently than before. So loudly and so violently that the sound of his grief penetrated to the library where Granny was sitting, and brought her out into the hall, frightened and anxious to know what was wrong.
"He nearly drowned himself, that's what is the matter, mum," answered Briggs, with a certain gloomy satisfaction, in reply to the old lady's anxious questions. "It's nothing but a chance he isn't at the bottom of the deepest end of the pond at this very same minute that I speak to you!"
At this startling, not to say overwhelming statement, Granny became quite white, and, holding on to a chair near at hand, did not speak.
"There is nothing for you to alarm yourself about, Mrs. Wyndham," I said quietly.—"Chris, stop crying; you are frightening Granny.—He managed to fall into the pond, trying to teach Jack to swim, but it was at the shallow end, so there was no danger."
Thus reassured, Granny looked at me with relief.
"Thank God!" she said earnestly, as she kissed the little beggar thankfully, all wet and tear-stained as he was.
Then, with an attempt to control her emotion, but speaking in a voice that trembled in spite of herself:
"Come, come," she said to Briggs, "we must not waste time in talking. We must put Master Chris to bed at once, and get him warm. See how he shivers. Yes, come upstairs at once, my darling, and I will hear all about it by and by."
And, together with Briggs and the cause of all the confusion, she went upstairs to take precautions for the prevention of the ill consequences likely to follow upon his rash deed. It was some time before she came downstairs again, and when she did so she looked worried.
"I am afraid, very much afraid, he has caught a chill," she remarked. "He so easily does that."
"Perhaps you may have prevented it," I said hopefully.
"I wish I could think so," she replied, shaking her head; "but I much fear that it cannot be altogether prevented. He is not strong, you see, my dear."
"And to think," she went on admiringly; "to think the darling ran that risk all because of his loving little heart; because he feared that some day we might be in danger of being drowned, and that if Jack could swim we should be rescued. Isn't it just like the pet to think of it?"
"It is," I agreed with conviction; adding cautiously, "It would have been better, I think, if he had told you of his idea before trying to put it into effect. It would have given everyone less trouble."
"He wished to surprise us all by showing us he had by himself taught Jack to swim," Granny returned, quick to defend her darling. "No, no, I see how it happened; he was thoughtless but not naughty. Indeed, I take what blame there is to myself. I should have considered, before I told him the story of Eliza and her dog Rover, the effect it was likely to have upon an active, quick little brain like his."
I smiled. It was quite plain that dear old Granny in her loving way wished to take all the blame upon her own willing shoulders, and to spare that incorrigible little beggar....
It was some three days after this, and I was sitting in the nursery by Chris's crib, trying to amuse him and wile away the time until Briggs came back with the lamp, when it would be the hour for him to say good-night and go to sleep. The bright September afternoon was drawing to a close, and twilight was beginning to fall.
In spite of all Granny's precautions he had not escaped from the consequences of his tumble into the pond, but had caught a severe chill, and so had had to stay in bed for these last three days. He was very sweet and gentle in his weakness, that poor little beggar; partly, I think, because he felt too tired to be mischievous, and also, I am glad to say, because he loved his Granny very dearly and was truly sorry for the fright he had given her. I had been telling him stories for the last half-hour, but having now come to the end of my resources, for the moment we were quiet.
With his hand in mine, Chris lay looking out through the window at the stars as they came out slowly, slowly in the gathering darkness.
Presently he asked:
"Do you like the stars? I like them very much."
"Yes, Chris," I answered; "so do I."
"I think they are the most beautifullest things," he remarked with enthusiasm.
"Yes, they are," I replied. "They are like the great and loving deeds of God, falling in a bright shower from heaven upon the earth beneath."
"When I go to heaven, will God give me some stars if I ask Him very much?" Chris inquired, most seriously. "P'r'aps if I ask Him every day in my prayers till I'm dead He will then."
I smiled a little.
"No, darling," I said, smoothing his hair gently; "the stars are not the little things they seem to you. You see, they are worlds like our world. It is only because they are such thousands and thousands of miles away that they look to you so small."
Chris pondered over this for a moment or two, then he said thoughtfully:
"Miss Beggarley, I want to ask you, when the good man got to the top of the hill, did he see that the stars were big worlds and not little, tiny things?"
"Yes," I replied, half to him, half to myself; "he saw then that those things which, at the foot of the hill, had seemed to him so small and so far away he had given them but little consideration, were in reality great, and beautiful, and worlds in their importance. And he saw, too, that the things which in the valley beneath had appeared to him of such infinite value were by comparison poor and valueless, not worthy the thought he had given them or the pain they had so often caused him...."
I heard a footstep, and looking round, saw that Briggs had come back.
"I must go now," I said to Chris, kissing him. "It is time for you to sleep. Good-night, dear!"
"Good-night!" he said, then turned his head towards the window and lay still, gazing solemnly with big, sleepy eyes at the stars that shone without.