CHAPTER I.
The first time I saw Captain Knowlton, we were living in lodgings at Acacia Road, Saint John's Wood. My Aunt Marion had breakfasted in bed, and I, having nothing better to do, wandered downstairs to what our landlady called the 'hall,' where I stood watching Jane as she dipped a piece of flannel into her pail, and smacked it down noisily on to the oilcloth, until there was a loud ringing of the street-door bell.
As Jane rose from her knees, rubbing her red hands on her apron, I edged along the passage, keeping touch of the wall, and staring unabashed at the tall, well-dressed, distinguished-looking visitor.
'Does Miss Everard live here?' he inquired.
'Yes, sir,' answered Jane.
'I should like to see her.'
'Master Jack!' cried Jane, 'do you know if your aunt has come down yet?'
But as I was on the point of running upstairs to find out, the visitor called me back.
'Half a second,' he said. 'Are you young Everard?'
'Yes,' I replied; and fixing an eyeglass in his left eye, he looked at me with considerable curiosity.
'Tell your aunt,' he continued, 'that Captain Knowlton wishes to see her.'
And upon that I ran off, shouting, 'Aunt Marion! Aunt Marion!' at the top of my voice. 'Aunt Marion,' I repeated, entering the sitting-room, 'Captain Knowlton is downstairs, and he wants to speak to you.'
'Captain Knowlton!' she murmured.
'Shall I bring him up?' I asked.
Rising from the sofa, and laying down the newspaper which she had been reading, Aunt Marion walked towards the door. She must have been near her thirty-fifth year at that time, about the same age as our visitor. She was tall, fair, and nice-looking, good-tempered, and perhaps a little careless. That morning she was wearing a light blue dressing-gown, although it was past eleven o'clock.
'Yes, bring Captain Knowlton up,' she answered, and ask him to wait a few minutes.'
As she went to the bedroom, I returned to the street door, where Captain Knowlton stood gazing at Jane as she continued to smack the oilcloth with her wet flannel.
'You are to come upstairs,' I cried, and following me to the sitting-room, he sat down and began to stare afresh.
'So you are poor Frank Everard's boy!' he said.
'Did you know my father?' I demanded, for I had no recollection of either parent, or of any relative with the exception of Aunt Marion, under whose charge I had moved about from lodging-house to lodging-house since I was four years of age.
'Well,' said Captain Knowlton, 'if I had not known him, I should not be here to-day.'
He became silent for a few moments, and then added, as he took my hand and drew me against his knee, 'Your father once saved my life, Jack. How old are you?' he asked.
'Eleven next month,' I replied, and, somewhat to my disappointment, Aunt Marion entered the room as I spoke, wearing the dress in which she went to church on Sundays.
'I have often heard of you, Captain Knowlton,' she said, as he rose from his chair, 'although I have never seen you before.'
'Oh, well,' he answered, 'I have been in India the last five years! I came home last week, and from a few words I heard at the club, I gathered that poor Frank Everard's boy——'
Aunt Marion's cheeks flushed, and she held her head a little further back.
'I have done the best I could for him,' she exclaimed.
'I am certain of that,' he continued; 'but, anyhow, I made inquiries, and, after some difficulty, succeeded in discovering your address. Perhaps,' he added, glancing in my direction, 'you would not mind sparing me a few minutes alone.'
To my great disgust, she told me to run away, so that I returned to the damp passage, which was now deserted by Jane. After waiting there what seemed a long time, I saw Captain Knowlton on the stairs. After bidding me good-bye, he let himself out of the house.
'Aunt Marion!' I cried, before there was time to reach the sitting-room, 'he says that Father saved his life!'
'Well, Jack, he said what was quite true.'
'But,' I continued, 'why did Captain Knowlton call father "poor Frank Everard?" Was he really poor?'
Aunt Marion sighed before she answered.
'Goodness knows, he ought not to have been,' she said. 'Your father had a lot of money when he came of age, but he was foolish enough to spend it all, and the consequence was that nothing remained for your mother, or for you when she died.'
'Hasn't Captain Knowlton any money either?' I asked.
'He has lately come into a large fortune,' she said; and then she told me that he had promised to come again at the same hour to-morrow morning, and take me out with him.
Captain Knowlton seemed so satisfactory in every way that the mere prospect of walking in the street by his side was enticing. I lay awake that night a long time, wondering where he would take me.
When I awoke the next morning, Aunt Marion said I was to put on my best clothes (which were nothing to boast of), and insisted on washing me herself, putting a quantity of soap into my eyes, oiling my hair, and, in short, doing her best in readiness for Captain Knowlton's arrival.
'Well, Jack, are you ready?' he asked, as he entered our room.
'Rather!' I answered.
'Have you got a handkerchief?' said Aunt Marion, and I drew it from my jacket as proof.
'Come along, then,' cried Captain Knowlton, and I rejoiced to see that he had kept his hansom at the door.
The first stoppage on that eventful morning was at the hair-dresser's, where I sat in a high chair, enveloped in a loose cotton wrapper, while Captain Knowlton smoked a cigarette and a man cut my hair, after which we went to a tailor's, where I was measured for two suits of clothes. Having visited a hatter's and a hosier's in turn, we entered a large restaurant, sitting down one on each side of a small table, Captain Knowlton leaning across it and reading the bill of fare aloud for my benefit.
'I think I will have roast turkey,' I said, after prolonged consideration, and I accordingly had it, with the accompaniment of sausage and bread sauce, to say nothing of the sweets and the ice which followed. But even what Captain Knowlton described as luncheon, and what I regarded as a kind of king of dinners, was eclipsed by what came afterwards, for we were driven to a theatre, where a comic opera was being played; and at seven o'clock that evening a very tired and sleepy boy, with his right hand tightly clenched on a half-sovereign in his jacket pocket, was deposited on the steps of the house in Acacia Road.
During the next few weeks Captain Knowlton was a frequent visitor, while, for my own part, I wished that he would come every day. One afternoon he arrived in the rain and stayed to tea.
'Now, Jack,' he said, setting down his empty cup, 'I should like to hear you read.'
But as I was bringing one of our small collection of books from the sideboard, he called me away.
'No, none of that,' he cried, with a laugh; 'something you have never seen before. Try the newspaper.'
Although I appeared to win approval by my reading of the extremely uninteresting leading article, he shook his head at the sight of my handwriting, whilst he seemed to be astounded by my total ignorance of Latin and French.
'The fact is,' he said, 'it is high time you went to boarding-school!'
Before he left the house that afternoon he had another private conversation with Aunt Marion, and a week or two later he arrived with the announcement that 'everything had been arranged.'
'Windlesham has been very strongly recommended to me,' he explained. 'The Reverend Matthew Windlesham, to give him his full title.'
'Has he a living?' inquired Aunt Marion.
'No, but he has a capital house, with a large garden and a meadow, at a place called Castlemore.'
'Where is that?'
'About a hundred miles from London. Windlesham has a wife and five daughters, and at present there are only six or seven pupils. As Jack is rather backward, it will suit him better than a larger school.'
So everything was decided, and I fancy that Aunt Marion looked forward to my departure with a satisfaction equal to my own—it could scarcely have been greater. Boys and girls were at that time an unknown quantity to us, as were most of their sports and pastimes.
It was true that there were scarcely enough of us at Ascot House for football or cricket; nevertheless we did our best in the meadow at the bottom of the garden, our scanty numbers being eked out by Mr. and Mrs. Windlesham's five girls. They were nice, kind people, and, when the first shyness had worn off, I settled down happily at Castlemore. During the next three uneventful years I received occasional visits from Captain Knowlton, while I grew greatly in stature, and, it is to be hoped, in knowledge.
The holidays were, for the most part, spent with Aunt Marion, sometimes in boarding-houses at the seaside, sometimes in London, and I had no anticipation of troubles ahead until shortly after I passed my fourteenth birthday.
"'Does Miss Everard live here?' he inquired."
"His grandfather lay gagged and bound on the floor."
THE CASTLE LIGHT.
'I wish you would tell me, Grandfather, how it was you first thought of building a lighthouse tower.'
'Well, Conrad, if you will know, you shall hear the story,' and Sir Matthew Cairns, as he said these words, looked kindly down into the bright young face uplifted to his own.
'It was twenty years ago that the thought first came to me that Cairns Castle might serve as a beacon to those far out at sea. The reason for this was that on a certain winter's night a vessel was wrecked on these shores, solely on account of there being no light to warn her of her peril. More than a hundred souls went to their doom, to the joy, it is said, of the wreckers, who made a fine harvest on the coast at daybreak.'
'Oh, Grandfather,' Conrad said with a shudder, 'how awful! Surely we have no such people about now?'
His grandfather sighed, and, to turn the subject, proceeded to explain to the little lad his method of lighting the lamp.
Cairns Castle was an ancient building which overlooked the sea, its isolated position rendering it a very lonely dwelling-place. Sir Matthew, its present possessor, though by no means a wealthy man, had spent a considerable sum of money in adding a lighthouse tower to the castle. From the window-panes shone forth a gleam so clear and brilliant, that many a gallant seaman was guided safely home thereby.
'Let me light the lamp to-night, Grandfather,' said Conrad, after listening intently to all Sir Matthew's instructions. 'Perhaps it will guide Father and Mother on their way home from India.'
'Aye, laddie, perhaps it will; the good ship Benares should be nearing our coast by this time,' was the reply.
'Then may I, Grandfather?' said Conrad.
'Yes, my boy, and I will look on to see that you do it properly.'
Ah! little did Sir Matthew think, as he said these words, of the incidents which would take place, ere the castle light should next fling its friendly rays across the sea.
The November afternoon was creeping on apace, and Sir Matthew, absorbed in thought, drew long whiffs from his pipe, as he sat over the dining-room fire. The wind was wild and stormy, and dashed against the window-pane with angry force.
Conrad, who was busy preparing his lessons for his tutor next morning, looked up anxiously. But the words he was about to say were checked by the entrance of a rough-looking man of the fisher type.
It was William Forrest, or Black Bill as he was called by his neighbours, partly on account of his swarthy appearance, and partly because of his evil deeds.
The baronet rose in surprise, wondering at his entering the room unannounced.
'Good evening, Forrest,' he said.
'Evening, master,' was the sullen reply; 'I have come on business, and I want to see you alone.'
Sir Matthew bade Conrad take his lessons into the library, whilst he spoke to his visitor. The boy obeyed, unwillingly enough, for instinctively he felt that Black Bill meant no good to his dearly loved grandfather.
Somehow he could not give his mind to his lessons, and at length, thinking the interview must be ended, he returned to the dining-room. The sight which there met his eyes made his heart stand still with terror and alarm. His grandfather lay gagged and bound upon the floor.
It was the work of a few moments to remove the gag, and when Sir Matthew could find voice, he told the story of his attack.
Black Bill, who was in reality a wrecker, for some evil reason of his own, had endeavoured to extract from the baronet a promise not to light the lamp that night. Upon Sir Matthew's indignant refusal, he, with the aid of two colleagues who were waiting near, had next proceeded to render him helpless. They had already gagged and bound the three old servants of the castle. So massive were the walls and lengthy the passages that not a sound had reached Conrad's ears; and the men had apparently forgotten his presence in the castle.
The boy, in terrible distress of mind, tried to unloose the cords which bound his grandfather hand and foot.
'Never mind the cords, Conrad,' said the old man at last, 'they are more than you can manage. Go and light the lamp, for it is already past the hour, and may Heaven protect you.'
Conrad, sick at heart, turned to obey.
'I will do it, Grandfather,' he replied, looking fearfully around lest Black Bill and his colleagues should be listening. 'Then I will come back and help you,' he added bravely.
With light, fleet footsteps, the little ten-year-old laddie made his way along the passage, towards the staircase. Presently sounds fell on his ears which sent all the colour from his face. Black Bill and his comrades were talking together in a room close by, the door of which was open; and to reach the lighthouse staircase he must pass that very room. For a few minutes he crouched in shadow, too panic-stricken to move. He thought of his promise to his grandfather and of the homeward-bound Benares battling with wind and wave; then like an inspiration came the thought of Him Who stilled the waters of Galilee, and Who at this moment was watching over him.
The lad hesitated no more. On he sped past the open door, towards his goal. But, alas! Black Bill had noted his light footsteps.
'Stop, boy!' he shouted, 'or it will be the worse for you.'
But never once paused Conrad.
Then the men gave chase, and despair filled the brave young heart.
Mercifully in the darkness the men took a wrong turn, and the boy mounted quickly up, up, up, until he was safe in the shelter of the lighthouse tower.
It took him but a few seconds to turn the key in the lock, and to slip the heavy bolts. Then he was safe from his pursuers.
Meanwhile the good ship Benares was tossing on the angry sea, out of its course and in sore peril, with no castle light to guide it home.
Then, almost at the moment of its extremity, shot forth a brilliant gleam, and the gallant vessel was saved—saved by a little lad's courage and daring.
Black Bill, after hammering vainly at the door, at length turned away, muttering threats of vengeance.
An hour crept by on leaden wings, and at last, to Conrad's joy, he heard his grandfather's voice calling him by name. In a very short space of time they were face to face, and Conrad heard how that one man, more tender-hearted than the rest, had secretly returned to the castle (after Black Bill's departure) and freed Sir Matthew from his bonds.
Cairns Castle is now falling into decay, and its light no longer exists. But on the coast near by stands a magnificent lighthouse, which sends forth its life-saving gleam across the sea. Conrad has left boyhood far behind him, and has now little lads and lasses of his own. Many are the stories which their parents have to tell of the once stately home of the Cairns family, but the story the children like best to hear is how Father lit the Castle Light.
M. I. Hurrell.
THE INDIAN CHIEF AND THE BISHOP.
Bishop Whipple, who did so much work among the Indians of North America, tells how a great Indian chief became a Christian. 'One day,' he writes, 'the chief came to see me, and said that he wished to be a Christian; that he knew he must die some day, but he had been told of the new life into which Christians entered after death, and that he also would like to enter that life.'
'Shall I cut your hair?' asked the Bishop.
This strange question was understood perfectly well by the chief. It meant that he must cut off the bad old habit of going on the war-path.
'No, I cannot allow you to cut my hair,' he answered, reluctantly, for he was not ready to give up going on the war-path.
'Well, you cannot become a Christian unless you cut your hair,' said the Bishop, sorrowfully.
The chief went away, but he still attended the services which the Bishop held, and after some months came again to the Bishop.
'I want to be sure of that life after death,' he said. 'Please make me a Christian.'
'Shall I cut your hair?' asked the Bishop again.
'Yes; do whatever you like with me so long as you make me a Christian,' answered the chief.
Thus the chief eventually became a Christian, and many of his tribe followed his example.
THE NAUGHTY KITTENS.
ook at old Puss,' the Kittens said,
'He's fast asleep, he nods his head;
How dull and stupid it must be
To be as slow and old as he!
He lies and sleeps there in the sun,
And does not try to play or run;
Creep up and gives him just a pat—
He ought to run, he gets so fat!'
But Puss awoke. 'Hullo,' said he,
'You think to play your tricks on me?
I know I'm old, I'm glad I'm fat—
My dear, kind mistress sees to that;
I scare the birds while lying here—
They dare not come when I am near,
To steal my mistress's nice fruit;
My time to some good use is put.
'But you! what have you done to-day,
Except to romp and run and play?'
The Kittens, looking quite subdued,
Said, 'We are sorry we were rude.'
'Well then, this time I let you go,'
Old Puss replied, 'for now you know
That older folk are wiser far
Than silly little kittens are.'
With this remark Puss walked away
And left the Kittens to their play.
I'm glad to say they ne'er forgot
The lesson that they had been taught,
And from that day tried hard to be
From naughty, idle ways quite free;
In fact they now behave so well
That I have nothing more to tell.
C. D. B.
THE BEST LESSON.
A good man once had a serious illness, during which his life was several times despaired of. On his becoming convalescent, a friend said to him, 'It will be a long time before you are able to collect your thoughts to preach again, or to think of material for your sermons.'
'You are mistaken, friend,' was the answer. 'This illness has taught me more than all the books and learning I have studied in the whole of my life before.'
He had been not far from death, and had learnt more fully than any books could teach him, that there is something greater than mere human wisdom.
A MONKEY'S MEMORY.
A French lady on one occasion saw an organ-grinder ill-treating his monkey. She was moved with pity, and bought it. It became her chief pet, and used to follow her about everywhere. Once she invited a party of guests to a concert. The monkey was allowed to watch; but instead of staying where she had put it, it took the hat of one of the guests, and made a collection, much to the delight of the audience, and then emptied the contents into the player's lap. It had not forgotten its old habits.
