Part 40 (1/2)
The Pearl-rimmed Locket
BY
M. B. MANWELL
March came in with a roar that year. The elms of Old Studley creaked and groaned loudly as the wild wind tossed them about like toys.
”I'm frighted to go to bed,” wailed little Jinty Ransom, burying her face in Mrs. Barbara's lap, when she had finished saying her prayers.
”Ah, dear, 'taint for we to be frightened at anything G.o.d sends! Do'ent He hold the storms in the hollow of His hand? And thou, dear maid, what's wind and tempest that's only 'fulfilling His word' compared wi'
life's storms that will gather over thy sunny head one day, sure as sure?” Mrs. Barbara, the professor's ancient housekeeper, laid her knotted hand on the golden curls on her lap.
But ”thou, dear maid” could not look ahead so far. It was more than enough for Jinty that Nature's waves and storms were pa.s.sing over her at the moment.
”Sit beside my bed, and talk me to sleep, please, Mrs. Barbara, dear!”
entreated the little girl, clutching tightly at the old lady's skirts.
So Mrs. Barbara seated herself, knitting in hand, by the little white bed, and Jinty listened to the stories she loved best of all, those of the days when her father was a little boy and played under the great elms of Old Studley with Mike, the ancient raven, that some people declared was a hundred years old at least. He was little more than a dream-father, for he had been for most of Jinty's little life away in far-off China in the diplomatic service. Her sweet, young, gentle mother Jinty did not remember at all, for she dwelt in a land that is far-and-away farther off than China, a land:
”Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through In G.o.d's most holy sight.”
”And, really and truly, Mrs. Barbara, was it the very same Mike and not another raven that pecked at father's little legs same's he pecks at mine?” Jinty inquired sleepily.
”The very self-same. Thief that he is and was!” wrathfully said Mrs.
Barbara, who detested the venerable raven, a bird that gave himself the airs of being one of the family of Old Studley, and stirred up more mischief than a dozen human boys even.
”Why,” grumbled on the old lady, ”there's poor Sally Bent, the henwife, she's driven distracted with Mike's thievish tricks. This week only he stole seven eggs, three on 'em turkey's eggs no less. He set himself on the watch, he did, and as soon as an egg was laid he nipped it up warm, and away with it! If 'twasn't for master's anger I'd strangle that evil bird, I should. Why, bless her! The little maid's asleep, she is!”
And Mrs. Barbara crept away to see after her other helpless charge, the good old professor who lived so far back in the musty-fusty past that he would never remember to feed his body, so busy was he in feasting his mind on the dead languages.
Next morning the tearing winds had departed, the stately elms were motionless at rest, and the sun beat down with a fierce radiance, upon the red brick walls of Old Studley.
Jinty Ransom leaned out of her latticed window and smiled contentedly back at the genial sun.
”Ah, thou maid, come down and count over the crocus flowers!” called up Mrs. Barbara from the green lawn below. ”I fear me that thief Mike has nipped off the heads of a few dozens, out o' pure wicked mischief.”
Presently Jinty was flas.h.i.+ng like a sunbeam in and out of the old house.
”I must go round and scold Mike, then I'll come, back for breakfast, Mrs. Barbara. Grandpapa's not down yet.”
[Sidenote: Mike on the War-path]
But scolding's a game two can play at. Mike charged at Jinty with a volley of angry chatter and fierce flappings of his heavy black wings.
It was no good trying to get in a word about the headless crocus plants or the seven stolen eggs.
”Anybody would think that I was the thief who stole them, not you!”
indignantly said Jinty. Then Mike craned suddenly forward to give the straight little legs a wicked nip, and Jinty fled with shrieks, to the proud ecstasy of the raven, who ”hirpled” at her heels into the dining-room, into the learned presence of the old professor, by whom the mischievous Mike was welcomed as if he were a prince of the blood.
The raven knew, none better, that he had the freedom of the city, and at once set to work to abuse it. A sorry breakfast-table it was in less than five minutes. Here and there over the white tablecloth Mike scuttled and scrambled. His beak plunged into the cream-jug, then deep into the b.u.t.ter, next aimed a dab at the marmalade, and then he uttered a wrathful shriek became the bacon was too hot for his taste.