For a moment Gaston stood quite still, looking down without uttering a word. He was abased, but not ashamed, and, strange as it may seem, the feeling that he was abased in Andrew’s sight acted as a stimulus to his self-love.
As some horses, at the touch of the spur, make straight for the winning-post, so Gaston, in that moment of humiliation—a humiliation which was all the more bitter, because it had trodden so quickly on the heels of his short-lived triumph—Gaston vowed within himself, that come what might, he would show Andrew yet that the “king of muffs” was less of a “mamselle” than himself.
“Well, are we all going to stand here till midnight?” asked Phil, presently. “Here, Hubert, shut up bellowing, and thank Gaston for making a man of you, by giving you your first black eye. My goodness, how the girls will stare when they see it.”
“Yes, let’s come on to the Common now,” said Jack; “you can come too, Gaston, if you’ll promise not to slobber me,” and Jack made a very comical grimace.
Without answering, Gaston turned away, disappearing into the orchard, where Phoena ran up against him, some twenty minutes later. Believing that he would be safe there, Gaston had had a hearty cry, but at sight of Phoena, he had fled through the orchard hedge to the copse beyond. Flinging himself down there, amongst the tall, thick bracken, Gaston had sobbed and muttered, muttered and sobbed, in a fashion quite peculiar to himself.
Poor little lonely creature. He was very like a fledgeling, pushed suddenly over the edge of his nest, with no parent bird to teach him that he had wings, much less how to use them.
“Oh, maman, maman, ma mère, ma mère!” he cried, and even as the echo of his bitter cry came back to him, borne on the still summer afternoon breeze, there came with it another sound, a sound of words spoken long, long ago. “Pray, pray, my child, never forget to pray, and your good angel will carry your prayers to Him Who cares for the little children.” And, kneeling upright, amidst the high bracken, Gaston, who never forgot to say the prayers that his mother had taught him, crossed himself reverently, as was his wont, and poured out the sorrows of his heavy heart, praying to be made brave.
But why, oh! why, he wondered, rising from his knees, had the good God seen fit to make him that strange and terrible thing, a French boy?
CHAPTER XXI.
“A VERY SAD LITTLE BOY.”
OF course, Hubert’s black eye created an immense sensation, not only amongst his immediate circle, but throughout the whole establishment, from old Mr. Busson down to the smallest boy-labourer on the farm.