Part 38 (1/2)

”They put another instead,” said the boy, a little puzzled, but too young to make his story consistent. ”And he was an elf--a cross spiteful elf, that was always vexing folk. And they stole him again every seven years. Yes--that was it--they stole him every seven years.”

”Whom, Phil; I don't understand--the boy or the elf?” she said, half-diverted, even while shocked at the old story coming up in such a form.

”The elf, I think,” he said, bending his brows; ”he comes back, and then they steal him again. Yes; and at last they stole him quite-- quite away--but it is seven years, and Goody Dearlove says he is to be seen again!”

”No!” exclaimed Anne, with an irrepressible start of dismay. ”Has any one seen him, or fancied so?” she added, though feeling that her chance of maintaining her rational incredulity was gone.

”Goody Dearlove's Jenny did,” was the answer. ”She saw him stand out on the beach at night by moonlight, and when she screamed out, he was gone like the snuff of a candle.”

”Saw him? What was he like?” said Anne, struggling for the dispa.s.sionate tone of the governess, and recollecting that Jenny Dearlove was a maid at Portchester Rectory.

”A little bit of a man, all twisty on one side, and a feather sticking out. Ralph said they always were like that;” and Phil's imitation, with his lithe, graceful little figure, of Ralph's clumsy mimicry was sufficient to show that there was some foundation for this story, and she did not answer at once, so that he added, ”I am seven, Nana; do you think they will get me?”

”Oh no, no, Phil, there's no fear at all of that. I don't believe fairies steal anybody, but even old women like Goody Dearlove only say they steal little tiny babies if they are left alone before they are christened.”

The boy drew a long breath, but still asked, ”Was Penny Grim a little baby?”

”So they said,” returned Anne, by no means interfering with the name, and with a quailing heart as she thought of the child's ever knowing what concern his father had in that disappearance. She was by no means sorry to have the conversation broken off by Sir Philip's appearance, booted and buskined, prepared for an expedition to visit a flock of sheep and their lambs under the shelter of Portsdown Hill, and in a moment his little namesake was frisking round eager to go with grandpapa.

”Well, 'tis a brisk frost. Is it too far for him, think you, Mistress Anne?”

”Oh no, sir; he is a strong little man and a walk will only be good for him, if he does not stand still too long and get chilled. Run, Phil, and ask nurse for your thick coat and stout shoes and leggings.”

”His grandmother only half trusts me with him,” said Sir Philip, laughing. ”I tell her she was not nearly so careful of his father.

I remember him coming in crusted all over with ice, so that he could hardly get his clothes off, but she fancies the boy may have some of his poor mother's weakliness about him.”

”I see no tokens of it, sir.”

”Grand-dames will be anxious, specially over one chick. Heigho!

Winter travelling must be hard in Germany, and posts do not come.

How now, my man! Are you rolled up like a very Russian bear? The poor ewes will think you are come to eat up their lambs.”

”I'll growl at them,” said Master Philip, uttering a sound sufficient to disturb the nerves of any sheep if he were permitted to make it, and off went grandfather and grandson together, Sir Philip only pausing at the door to say--

”My lady wants you, Anne; she is fretting over the delay. I fear, though I tell her it bodes well.”

Anne watched for a moment the hale old gentleman briskly walking on, the merry child frolicking hither and thither round him, and the st.u.r.dy body-servant Ralph, without whom he never stirred, plodding after, while Keeper, the only dog allowed to follow to the sheepfolds, marched decorously along, proud of the distinction.

Then she went up to Lady Archfield, who could not be perfectly easy as to the precious grandchild being left to his own devices in the cold, while Sir Philip was sure to run into a discussion with the shepherd over the turnips, which were too much of a novelty to be approved by the Hamps.h.i.+re mind. It was quite true that she could not watch that little adventurous spirit with the same absence of anxiety as she had felt for her own son in her younger days, and Anne had to devote herself to soothing and diverting her mind, till Dr. Woodford knocked at the door to read and converse with her.

The one o'clock dinner waited for the grandfather and grandson, and when they came at last, little Philip looked somewhat blue with cold and more subdued than usual, and his grandfather observed severely that he had been a naughty boy, running into dangerous places, sliding where he ought not, and then muttered under his breath that Sedley ought to have known better than to have let him go there.

Discipline did not permit even a darling like little Phil to speak at dinner-time; but he fidgeted, and the tears came into his eyes, and Anne hearing a little grunt behind Sir Philip's chair, looked up, and was aware that old Ralph was mumbling what to her ears sounded like: 'Knew too well.' But his master, being slightly deaf, did not hear, and went on to talk of his lambs and of how Sedley had joined them on the road, but had not come back to dinner.

Phil was certainly quieter than usual that afternoon, and sat at Anne's feet by the fire, filling little sacks with bran to be loaded on his toy cart to go to the mill, but not chattering as usual. She thought him tired, and hearing a sort of sigh took him on her knee, when he rested his fair little head on her shoulder, and presently said in a low voice--

”I've seen him.”

”Who? Not your father? Oh, my child!” cried Anne, in a sudden horror.