CHAPTER VII

THE PIRATE'S HOME

CHARLIE was delighted with his packages and wrote a little note thanking them, but he was not allowed out of his bedroom yet, and for the time the little girls had to be content to play without him.

Sir George arrived one morning, wanting to carry off the children to lunch with his wife, but Miss Vale was very stern and would not let lessons be interfered with. So he deferred his invitation to the afternoon, and then they went to tea with Lady Melville instead. As before, Charity and Hope went off with Sir George to see his books and horses, and Faith stayed to talk to Lady Melville. Of course she told her of their new friend, the Pirate, and Lady Melville knew all about him.

"I wish he would come and see us oftener; but he is rather unsociable, and he does not lead a natural life. He is a devoted son, but a man ought not to be a sick nurse; that is a woman's vocation."

Then Lady Melville smiled at Faith's puzzled face.

"I always forget I am talking to a child," she said. "You seem like a grown-up person sometimes, little Faith."

"I don't feel like one," said Faith, smiling. "Is old Mr. Cardwell very dreadful? Everybody says he is. If we go to tea there, shall we have to see him?"

"I don't think you will. He is the last person in the world to have children about him. Poor old man! He has always rebelled against his fate, and as he gets older seems to grow more bitter and angry. He used to hunt a great deal, but he has been stretched helpless on a bed for nearly ten years, and I don't think he is able to raise his hand to his mouth. It is very, very sad, and no one seems able to help him."

Faith was silent, but her thoughts were busy.

Then Lady Melville began to talk about Charlie Evans. He was a more cheerful subject of conversation, and Faith chattered away, telling of all their games. She was quite sorry when her sisters came back into the drawing-room. When they were present, Faith grew silent.

They had a very nice tea, and as they were going away, Lady Melville said:

"My boys come home next week for the Easter holidays. I wish they were not quite so big, for they would be better companions for you, but we must try and get some young people in the neighbourhood together one day and then you must all come too."

As the little girls walked home, Charity said:

"Sir George told me that in the summer holidays, there would be picnics, and garden parties, and all kinds of nice things, but he says his boys don't do much but fish when they come home now. I think we have come to a lovely place to live. We never had such treats in London."

"We sometimes went out to tea," said Hope; "but it makes such a difference when there are big gardens to play in."

Faith skipped gaily along the road.

"I like going out to tea anywhere," she said; "I like having tea with Timothy, and he has no garden."

"I believe I know why we enjoy ourselves better in the country," said Charity thoughtfully. "Grownup people are kinder to us here. They have time to talk to us, and they have no time in London. They are always so busy there, and in such a rush!"

Hope nodded.

"Yes, when Aunt Alice's friends came to see her they always said, 'I've no time to stay, I don't know how to get through!' Why do people rush about so in London?"

"They always shop so much," said Charity; "and there are no shops here; and then I suppose the crowds of people make a difference, they have so many friends to see."

"Well," said Faith, "we have friends here. I have Timothy, and Charlie, and Sir George and Lady Melville, and the Pirate, that's five, and perhaps we may have more."

"Timothy doesn't count," said Charity scornfully; "and the Pirate is almost a stranger. We may never see him again."

"He is going to have us to tea," said Faith eagerly.

But Charity tossed her head unbelievingly.

"He has forgotten all about it," she said.

Faith knew better, and three days after, as they were doing their lessons in the tiny best parlour which had been turned into their schoolroom, they saw through the window, the Pirate ride up to the gate on a big brown horse. Aunt Alice went out to speak to him, and she had quite a long conversation at the gate.

Miss Vale, seeing how this distracted her pupils' attention from their lessons, and how each of the little girls would stare out of the window, promptly stepped across the room and drew down the blind. Charity was the only one who was brave enough to offer an objection:

"You should control your curiosity," said Miss Vale cheerfully. "You are very poor things, if you always let that get the better of you. And your eyes must be on your lesson books, don't let them run off anywhere else. Whilst you are little, you must learn to be masters of your members. Do you understand what I mean?"

The children shook their heads.

"Your eyes must not look away from what you are doing. If your brain insists that they do not, you are the master of your members, and the same with your hands and your feet. Charity need not let her feet kick the legs of her chair when she is impatient, nor need Hope bite her finger nails, nor Faith slip her feet in and out of her shoes. Don't say, 'I can't help it,' for that is letting your hands and feet manage you, instead of you managing them!"

Miss Vale had successfully captured their attention now. It was a new idea to all of them, that they had to manage their hands and feet as well as their eyes and the other parts of their body.

Lessons went on very quietly after that, but when Miss Vale had gone, they rushed off to find their Aunt Alice.

"Well," she said, "I expect you have guessed already. Mr. Cardwell is coming to-morrow to drive you over to the Towers to spend the afternoon."

"Our dear Pirate, how lovely!" exclaimed Charity.

Faith got pink with pleasure.

"All of us are to go?" questioned Hope.

"Yes. I think it is remarkably good of him to be troubled with you," said Aunt Alice laughing.

The next afternoon at three o'clock a very high and smart dogcart stopped at the gate, and the children walked out most importantly to meet it.

"If only Mrs. Cox could see us!" said Hope.

They packed themselves in with glee.

"We don't feel a bit frightened of going with you now," said Charity; "but we were rather nervous the other day, when you played pirate and pretended you were going to take us prisoners. Even when you said you'd lead us to the treasure, we suspected treachery."

"You are quite sure I'm to be trusted now?"

"Oh, yes, because you've seen Aunt Alice!"

They had the most delightful drive, and the Pirate was most amusing.

"You seem to understand very well," said Hope, when he had been condoling with them about the unhappiness of monotony.

"Ah," he said, "I remember when I was a boy how I loved all unexpected events, I didn't care how grown-up people were inconvenienced. If a cistern burst, and the water came pouring downstairs, if the wind blew a tree down and smashed an open casement window, if a cook ran off, and left us without any dinner, or any other domestic disaster came upon us, how delighted and excited I was!"

"Yes," chuckled Charity. "I think disasters are more exciting than pleasures. I almost wish we could have some at the Cottage. Mrs. Cox used to have a lot happen to her, but we never did!"

"Would you like to be tossed by a furious bull? We have one in a field by himself, he's a bad-tempered brute."

"Oh, no," cried Faith. "I don't like disasters at all; we have come out to enjoy ourselves. It's when we're very dull, we wish for accidents and things of that sort."

"I'll do my best to prevent you feeling dull," the Pirate said.

The Towers was a bigger house than Sir George's, but the children all agreed it was a gloomy looking place. The shrubberies and evergreen oaks round it overshadowed it, ivy crept up the stone walls, but no climbing roses or jessamine or any sweet scented creeper. In front of the house was a tiled garden with fountains and stone vases; the weeds grew apace everywhere, and there were only flowering shrubs, no bright flower beds.

Still it was lovely to explore, there were so many winding paths and walled gardens.

For an hour the little girls were absolutely happy, rambling about the grounds and seeing all that the Pirate could show them. Then he took them into the house, through a big stone hall, into a very comfortable smoking-room, where, he told them, he always lived, and where tea was now laid out on a square table.

"What a lot of rooms you have," said Charity; "don't you use them all?"

"No, most of them are shut up. It's a barrack of a place, and wants a large family to occupy it."

"You've got too big a house," said Hope thoughtfully, "and we have too little a one. We're dreadfully crowded. We have to be so tidy, that it takes up all our time putting our things away!"

"I wish I could cut off a slice of this house and stick it on to yours," said the Pirate.

"Wouldn't it be fun if you could!" said Charity. "I see you've a lot of books but not so many as Sir George. I mean to have a house full of books when I grow up; a very big house I shall have, and an enormous library!"

They chattered on and made a very good tea; in fact, there were so many biscuits and cakes that Charity said she did not consider it a war tea. When it was over, the Pirate took Charity and Hope upstairs to a big picture gallery. He left them there looking at the pictures, whilst he asked Faith to follow him along a wide passage to a room at the end of it.

"Now," he said, "come in and see my father. Remember he is a poor sick old gentleman, and talk to him as you did to me the other day, and tell him how he can be happy."

Faith shrank back, then fighting with her fears she took hold of the Pirate's hand.

"I'm very afraid," she said, "and p'raps he won't like to see me. And I can't talk to him like I do to you."

"Never mind, just talk to him about anything."

And then the Pirate opened the door of a large sunny room; there were four big windows in a row, and drawn up to one of them, which was wide open, was a big couch. The invalid was lying on it, but he did not turn his head when they, came in.

An elderly man-servant was standing by his couch; he was just taking away a small tray of tea which stood on a table by the side of it, and old Mr. Cardwell was thundering out:

"You clumsy fool! Can't you do your duties without shaking the whole room with your heavy tread? And pull down the blind—that confounded sun is—"

He stopped short, for he had caught sight of Faith. She was promptly introduced:

"A little friend of mine, father, whom I am going to leave with you for a short time."

Without waiting for a response, the Pirate hurried away, the servant following him as quickly as he could.

Faith found herself standing by the couch, facing an angry old man.

Faith's greatest friends always said her extreme gentleness was her chief attraction. With her small heart beating violently, she had self-control enough to place her soft little hand on the old helpless wrinkled hand that was restlessly moving to and fro.

"I hope I shan't disturb you," she said.

Old Mr. Cardwell looked at her tiny face with its earnest eyes, and pointed chin, and sensitive little mouth, and was speechless.

Her soft lisping voice, for most of Faith's "s's" sounded like "th's," and her still softer touch made him say with a short laugh:

"Disturb me! You've alighted in my room like a butterfly or moth—a little grey moth, that's what you are!"

Faith wore a grey hat and coat, and the simile was apt.

"Now, what the d—ahem!—dickens, does Fred mean by landing you here and leaving you here?"

Faith did not speak.

"Are you tongue tied, child?"

"No, I'm—a little afraid of you—not very much, for you look a little like my dearest friend."

"And who is he?"

"Timothy his name is. He isn't ill like you, but he has a beard, and his eyes are blue. I think I came to see you to tell you about him."

"Sit down in that chair, little Miss Moth. Now tell me about yourself, not about this old bearded Timothy."

Faith smiled all over her face.

"I do love it when people give me names. Sir George calls me Curly, and Charlie calls me Ben. My real name is Faith. Will you always call me Miss Moth?"

"Is there going to be an always? Have you come into my house prepared to take root and stay?"

"Oh, no, we're going home very soon, we've come to tea with the Pirate. May I tell you?"

So the whole story was poured out, and the lonely, irritable old man listened, and felt a faint interest in the little speaker.

"Well," he said, when she had finished, "I'm a miserable old man, a living, helpless log; and Fred, who poses to you children as a gallant pirate, is my gaoler, and he hates his job and I don't wonder at it!"

Faith looked at him with her great eyes. Then she bent forward eagerly:

"Why don't you have Somebody I know come and live with you? He would make you so very happy."

"Happy! That's a strange word to use, Miss Moth."

"Oh, it's all true!"

Faith threw off her shyness, she began to speak eagerly:

"I've only been hearing about Him lately. Timothy told me. Mrs. Cox used to say the world was an unhappy place—a weary world she called it; she said we were born to trouble—but she didn't know what I do. Nobody, not a single person, need be unhappy, they've only got to send for the Comforter. He's waiting, He wants to comfort, He goes all over the world finding out the sad.

"Hasn't He ever come to you? It's what He stays in the world for. Jesus sent Him when He went away from us. Do you know about Him? You couldn't possibly be unhappy if you have Him staying with you. Timothy told me thousands of people have died in agonies of pain—they were burnt alive, lots of them—and they only smiled because the Comforter put His Arms round them and held them tight. It's what I ask Him to do to me, to hold me so tight that I only feel Him and nothing else. He wipes away tears, and tells us it is all right, and He knows and He loves us. And I'm getting to love Him so much since I've known about Him. It's Timothy who teaches me. Oh, I wish you could hear how he tells about it. He says if anybody is sick the Comforter is ready to go to them at once."

She stopped. Old Mr. Cardwell gazed at her as if he had never seen or heard a child talk before.

"Well, I'm dashed!" he said. "There, that's a harmless exclamation! Where on earth do you get your gift of eloquence from? You little insignificant grey moth, talking of personalities that doctors of divinity are chary of mentioning! So you think I could be made content and happy. Will you take me in hand?"

Faith looked puzzled.

"Go on," he said, "talk away. I like to hear you. Perhaps you had better describe this wonderful Timothy to me. Is he a spirit, or is he flesh and blood?"

"Timothy is a shepherd. He has a dog and a little cottage. He lives close to us. I sit on a stool by his fire, and he sits in a big wooden chair and he smokes a pipe—oh, I wish you knew Timothy. Would you like him to come and see you?"

"Indeed I would not!"

There was a grim smile on the invalid's lips, the first that had lingered there for many a long day.

Half an hour later the Pirate came into the room, and found Faith with a happy face chattering to his father as if she had known him all her life.

He told her the trap was at the door, and Faith rose at once and shook hands with the invalid.

"Good-bye, and thank you for talking to me," she said.

Mr. Cardwell looked at his son.

"I congratulate you on your discovery," he said. "She can come again if she likes. I'll never shut my door upon her."

The Pirate knew how many times his father's door had been shut upon unwelcome visitors, and he took Faith away with a glad heart.

Then the children were driven home, and chattered all the evening to their Granny and Aunt, telling of all that they had seen and done.