Zodiac Stories/Cancer
CANCER, THE CRAB
AUL MAY was a pale-faced, large-eyed boy of seven, very unlike the strong, red-cheeked troop of cousins with whom he had come down for a holiday in Cornwall. He was unlike them in his ways, too, for he was as quiet and shy as they were noisy and bold. And so it happened that while they romped and built sand-castles, Paul would wander off along the shore by himself.
He was never dull, for he had a bright mind under his brown curls, and quick, clear eyes which noticed everything about them.
He had loved to go to the big museums in London, and see the fine collections of minerals and shells there, and now he was planning to have a museum of his own. He begged an old tin box from his aunt, and took it with him on his walks, stopping every now and then to put in a new treasure. The latest thing, he had found was a hermit-crab. Did you ever see one? It is not a very nice-looking creature. It eats up some kinds of shell-fish, and then lives in the empty shell; and you are surprised to pick up a big, spiral whelk-shell, and find crab's claws coming out of it!
Paul was much pleased with his "find," but he was not sure about putting it into the tin box, because it was alive. He sat down on a bit of gray rock to think it over, and then, for the first time, he became aware that he was very, very hungry. Also, that he was a long way from home.
He gazed around him, and saw that this part of the beach was new to him. Walking on and on, with the tender touch of the warm wind on his cheek, and the lulling plash of the green baby-waves in his ear, his eyes bent on the sand,—he had not noticed how far he was straying. Now, he began to look serious—first, because it is never pleasant to feel hungry when no food is to be had; and secondly, because he was very tired. And thirdly, because his Uncle May was very strict about coming late to meals, and might not let him have any dinner when he got home.
Paul grew more and more sober, and he was so much absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not see that he was no longer alone on the wide reach of shore. An elderly gentleman, dressed in an old-fashioned black suit, was standing at a little distance, leaning on a gold-headed cane, and watching the boy with a smile on his lips.
Paul's musings ended in a conviction that the sooner he set out on his homeward way, the better, and he rose up to go,——and saw the old gentleman smiling at him.
Paul was generally shy of strangers, but he liked this particular stranger's face, with its kind gray eyes, so he went up to him without more delay, and asked, "Please—can you tell me the time?"
"The time," said his new acquaintance, drawing from the pocket of his silk waistcoat a thick gold watch with a bunch of seals hanging from it, "the time, little boy, is ten minutes of two."
Paul's face grew so long at this, that the owner of the watch asked in his turn,
"What time would you like it to be?"
"One o'clock," replied Paul instantly. "Luncheon-time, eh?" said the old gentleman with a twinkle in his eye. "Yes sir."
"And where do you come from, my young traveller?"
"From 'Beach House'—a long way off. At least, it must be a long way, though I did n't think so when I was walking."
"The way is apt to seem longer when we turn back," said the other. "But now, how will you manage? Can you get back to Beach House without having some refreshment first? Suppose—suppose now, little boy, that you come and lunch with me!"
Paul looked up at him in surprise.
"I mean it," said the old gentleman with a laugh which seemed to match his eyes. "Come now, are you not very late for luncheon at home?"
"Yes," murmured Paul, blushing.
"And won't you be scolded for that?"
"Yes," with a deeper blush.
"Perhaps not get much luncheon when the scolding is over, eh?"
Paul could not answer this question, but the old gentleman saw he had guessed aright.
"Well then, had you not better come in and take 'pot-luck' with me?"
Paul did not know what "pot-luck" was, but he felt very much inclined to accept his new friend's invitation. Still he hesitated.
"Ah! I see how it is!" cried the stranger, "You are afraid that if you stay away so long your mother will be anxious. That 's right, my boy, that 's quite right!"
Paul suddenly burst into tears.
"My mother is dead! She died last winter; and oh, I wish—I wish"
The old gentleman's silk waistcoat seemed to have come close to the weeping child, he did not know how; he could only lean against it and sob. And then he heard the old gentleman whispering huskily,—
"There—I'm sorry I said it! Don't cry, my dear, don't cry. Ah! me, it doesn't feel like fifty years since my mother died!"
He took out a large red silk handkerchief and wiped Paul's eyes gently.
"Then you'll take luncheon with me?" he said presently. "Your—your friends won't mind?"
"Oh no, they won't miss me. I 'm out on the beach alone nearly all the time. Only, Uncle is very strict about not being late!"
"Very well, then," said the stranger. "We have not far to go, and directly after luncheon I'll drive you over to Beach House."
Much cheered by this information, Paul put his small brown hand into the black-gloved hand of his companion, and trustfully followed him, away from the beach, up a few hundred yards of shady lane, and past some cottages, till they came to a large iron gate. Beyond the gate was an avenue, overarched by splendid trees, and the gentleman led Paul up the avenue and into the porch of a large house, so covered with vines that only a patch of its gray stone could be seen here and there through the green.
The porch opened into a lofty hall, with oak floor and walls and furniture; and old pictures of ladies and gentlemen in queer costumes; and stags' heads, and stuffed birds, and weapons, and armor,—but Paul could only get a passing glimpse of all these things, for the gentleman hurried him into a long, low—studded dining-room, where the big table was laid for one, and called to a man-servant, who looked as old as his master, "Another plate, William!"
That was a delightful luncheon. Between courses, Paul's host asked what he carried in his tin box? And Paul opened it, and spread all the contents on the white table-cloth, and proudly confided to this friendly listener his plan of a private museum.
"Upon my word!" said the old gentleman; and as Paul, growing enthusiastic, explained the peculiar value of each specimen, he repeated the exclamation several times very heartily. Paul was especially proud of the hermit-crab, and talked about it a great deal.
"To be sure—to be sure," said his host, watching the eager child-face kindly. Then he pulled out the big watch again, and bade Paul finish his sweet omelette, for it was nearly time for the carriage to come around.
They drove over to Beach House in a big yellow barouche drawn by a pair of grays, fat from little exercise and good feeding. As they rolled through the narrow streets, people came to their doors and looked after them, and said wonderingly—"There be Sir John Tremayne, but who 's the little lad?"
Dr. May was very polite to his visitor, and when Sir John said at parting—"I hope you will let your nephew pay me another visit very shortly—" he said he should be most delighted, and thanked him for his kindness with every sign of gratitude and respect. And Paul was not scolded.
Paul paid a great many visits to Sir John in the next month. Every time he saw the old Baronet he seemed to love him more. Paul had grown to know the place quite well now. He liked to peep into the great drawing-room furnished in yellow brocade, whose stiff chairs and sofas repeated themselves over and over in the full-length mirrors around the walls. There was an old, old harpsichord, in one part of the room whose keys he had once ventured to touch, and whose voice sounded sweet though cracked—like that of an old singer. The shades of this room were always drawn down, and the half-light was mysterious. The air was fragrant with the scent of rose-leaves and spices from a big blue china "pot-pourri."
But Paul liked best the old-fashioned garden, a delicious wilderness of clove-pinks and sweet-peas, and I know not what else, with mossy fruit-trees standing up here and there, their old limbs bending under ripening fruit.
Bees haunted this garden and butterflies and dusky moths. It was a place of many delights.
But now all these joys were drawing to an end, for the May family were going back to London.
They were to leave on the sixth of September, and on the fifth, Paul went to bid Sir John good-by.
The old house looked very peaceful in the golden afternoon light. Bevis, the aged mastiff, rose from the porch as he saw the boy coming, and advanced toward him, wagging his tail. Paul put one arm over the brown neck and they went on to the house together. Sir John met them in the porch. He had meant to seem very cheerful, but his eyes grew moist as they took in the two figures.
"Well, my dear!" he cried, "Come in! Mrs. Burton is just carrying tea into the blue parlor."
Mrs. Burton, the stout housekeeper, had a soft spot in her heart for the little boy, whom every one at the manor loved.
On this evening she had made him one of her famous plum-cakes, and garnished the table with moss-roses from the garden.
Sir John and his young guest made great efforts to laugh and talk as much as usual, but they did not succeed very well.
After tea, the old man laid his hand on the boy's shoulder and said:
"Come with me, I have something to show you."
He led Paul into a room which he had never seen before. It was rather small, panelled in white and gold, and had faded hangings of rose-colored satin.
Sir John shut the door softly.
"This was my mother's boudoir," he said.
Paul looked up into the old man's face with speaking eyes.
Sir John went forward and drew a silken veil from a picture on the wall.
It was the portrait of a young lady in a white frock fastened at the waist with a narrow rose-colored ribbon. She held in one slim hand three moss-roses like the ones from the manor garden. Her face was beautiful and smiling, and Paul thought her lively hazel eyes dwelt on him.
"That was my mother," said Sir John.
The little boy slipped his hand into the old man's fingers and pressed them silently. "It was painted eighty-five years ago," Sir John went on dreamily, almost as if speaking to himself. "Eighty-five years ago. She was seventeen then, and when she was twenty—she died. Ah, yes! It's hard to be a motherless boy—hard—hard."
He was silent for a moment or two. Then he drew the veil over the portrait again, locked the door of the little room, and led Paul out into the open air. They passed across the velvet lawn, where no careless feet ever pressed the turf, and into the dear old flower-garden.
They were sitting there when the great clock struck six—warning them that the time to say "good-by" had come.
Paul stood up and began to pull off the paper wrappings of a little parcel.
It was nothing less than a bottle of sea water, at the bottom of which lay the hermit-crab.
"I—I thought—perhaps—you 'd like it for a keepsake—after I 'm gone," said Paul.
He had meant to speak quietly, but he choked on the last words, thrust the bottle into Sir John's hand, and flung himself down among the sweet-peas in a passion of tears.
When Paul was fast asleep that evening at Beach House, Sir John and Dr. May were holding a consultation together. The Baronet had made the doctor an offer,—namely, to take Paul for his own adopted son and heir, he being without a relative in all the wide world.
It took several hours to talk it all over, and arrange everything, but I may tell you that when the sixth of September came, Paul had tea with Sir John in the blue parlor again, very gayly this time. And Mrs. Burton's cake was better than before. And Bevis wagged his tail very hard, as if to say in his language: "Welcome, the heir of Sir John Tremayne!"