The Children's Portion Part 6

"Anything," said Rex. "Those papers all look like old things--quick!

I think I hear Jarvis coming. Sign the one in your hand. Just write Geoffrey Addison Barrington. It's only for fun, you know."

He caught up a dingy-looking doc.u.ment, opened it, and, thrusting the pen which was in his "ludship's" hand into the ink, he and the prisoner at the bar crowded up to see the signature which Charlie wrote as he had been told to do, in a distinct schoolboy's hand. He had barely crossed the "t" and dotted the last "i" when they heard a step, and scurrying into the cupboard, they saw Jarvis come in, take something from the desk, and go out without a glance in their direction. As the door closed behind him it opened again to admit Justice Barrington and Dr. Kingsley.

"Where are they?" asked Uncle Geof, peering about the dark room as if the boys might be hidden behind some table or chair.

"Boys," called the doctor, "where are you?"

Then they walked out--such a funny-looking trio! Rex's table-cover robe floated behind him, and the style of his wig was certainly unique.

Selwyn had brought away on his coat a goodly share of the dust of the cupboard. His brown hair stood on end, and his blue eyes were shining with excitement. But his "ludship" brought down the house. He came forth holding up his long gown on each side, his bands were almost under his left ear, his wig was on one side, and his gla.s.ses awry! The contrast between his magisterial garb and his round young face and merry hazel eyes was too much for the gravity of the two gentlemen.

With a glance at each other they burst into a long, hearty laugh, in which the boys joined.

A little later, the gown and wig having been restored to their proper places by the much scandalized Jarvis, the party returned to Portland Square. And none of the boys thought of mentioning that Charlie had signed a doc.u.ment with his uncle's name, which he had not read.

A few days after this Dr. Kingsley and his family left England for the Continent, taking Rex with them, and not until September did they return to London for a short visit before sailing for America.

"I have an account to settle with you, Master Charlie," said Uncle Geoffrey, the first evening, when they were all a.s.sembled in the drawing-room. "Do you recollect a certain visit to my chambers when you represented a judge of the Queen's Bench?"

Charlie, Selwyn and Rex looked at each other, laughed, and nodded.

"Do you remember signing a paper?" asked the justice.

"Yes," said Charlie; "but it was an old dingy-looking one--we didn't read it--I just signed it for fun."

"I told Charlie to put your name to it," broke in Rex, eagerly. "Is anything wrong, papa?"

"I will tell you the story and you shall judge for yourself," said the justice, smiling. "As it happened, the paper Charlie signed was not an old one. It was in reference to removing an orphan boy from one guardianship to another. He is about as old as Charlie, and it appears that the first guardian ill-treated the little fellow under the guise of kindness, being only intent on gain. When the paper which 'his ludship,'" with a deep bow in Charlie's direction--"signed arrived, the boy was delighted, and he thoroughly enjoys the excellent home he is now in. Imagine my surprise when a letter reached me thanking me for my wise decision. I could not understand it, as I thought I knew the paper in reference to it was lying on my desk waiting its turn. You may well laugh, you young rogues."

"How did you find out?" asked Charlie, divided between contrition and a desire to enjoy the joke.

"Jarvis and I traced it out. I paid a visit to Wales and put the signature of the original Barrington to the doc.u.ment. The present guardian of the boy declares the little fellow's disposition would have been completely ruined if he had remained much longer under his former guardian's care, and I am afraid, in the ordinary course of the law, which moves slowly, it would have been some time before the matter could have been attended to. So you have done that much good to a fellow-boy. Only be careful in the future, dear lad, to read a doc.u.ment before signing it, for carelessness in that direction might not always end as well as it has in this instance. What puzzles me is how you came to take that particular paper when so many others lay about; it was but one chance in a million."

"'A chance--the eternal G.o.d that chance did guide,'" quoted Dr.

Kingsley, in his quiet, gentle voice.

"What lots we'll have to tell Ned! O boys, do let's cheer!" cried Selwyn eagerly, springing to his feet. "Here goes--three cheers for Uncle Geof and dear papa, and a big, big 'tiger' for his 'ludship!'"

THE PIOUS CONSTANCE.

Once upon a time the Emperor of Rome had a beautiful daughter named Constance. She was so fair to look on, that far and wide, she was spoken of as "the beautiful princess." But, better than that, she was so good and so saintly that everybody in her father's dominions loved her, and often they forgot to call her "the beautiful princess," but called her instead, "Constance the good."

All the merchants who came thither to buy and sell goods, carried away to other countries accounts of Constance, her beauty, and her holiness.

One day there came to Rome some merchants from Syria, with shiploads of cloths of gold, and satins rich in hue, and all kinds of spicery, which they would sell in the Roman markets. While they abode here, the fame of Constance came to their ears, and they sometimes saw her lovely face as she went about the city among the poor and suffering, and were so pleased with the sight that they could talk of nothing else when they returned home; so that, after a while, their reports came to the ear of the Soldan of Syria, their ruler, and he sent to the merchants to hear from their lips all about the fair Roman maiden.

As soon as he heard this story, this Soldan began secretly to love the fair picture which his fancy painted of the good Constance, and he shut himself up to think off her, and to study how he could gain her for his own.

At length he sent to all his wise men, and called them together in council.

"You have heard," he said to them, "of the beauty and goodness of the Roman princess. I desire her for my wife. So cast about quickly for some way by which I may win her."

Then all the wise men were horrified; because Constance was a Christian, while the Syrians believed in Mohammed as their sacred prophet. One wise man thought the Soldan had been bewitched by some fatal love-charm brought from Rome. Another explained that some of the stars in the heavens were out of place, and had been making great mischief among the planets which governed the life of the Soldan. One had one explanation and one another, but to all the Soldan only answered,--"All these words avail nothing. I shall die if I may not have Constance for my wife."

One of the wise men then said plainly,--"But the Emperor of Rome will not give his daughter to any but a Christian."

When the Soldan heard that he cried joyfully: "O, if that is all, I will straight-way turn Christian, and all my kingdom with me."

So they sent an amba.s.sador to the Emperor to know if he would give his daughter to the Soldan of Syria, if he and all his people would turn Christian. And the Emperor, who was very devout, and thought he ought to use all means to spread his religion, answered that he would.

So poor little Constance, like a white lamb chosen for a sacrifice, was made ready to go to Syria. A fine ship was prepared, and with a treasure for her dowry, beautiful clothes, and hosts of attendants, she was put on board.

She herself was pale with grief and weeping at parting from her home and her own dear mother. But she was so pious and devoted that she was willing to go if it would make Syria a good Christian land. So, as cheerfully as she could, she set sail.

Now the Soldan had a very wicked mother, who was all the time angry in her heart that the Soldan had become a Christian. Before Constance arrived in Syria she called together all the lords in the kingdom whom she knew to be friendly to him. She told them of a plot she had made to kill the Soldan and all those who changed their religion with him, as soon as the bride bad come. They all agreed to this dreadful plot, and then the old Soldaness went smiling and bland, to the Soldan's palace.

"My dear son," she said, "at last I am resolved to become a Christian; I am surprised I have been blind so long to the beauty of this new faith. And, in token of our agreement about it, I pray you will honor me by attending with your bride at a great feast which I shall make for you."

The Soldan was overjoyed to see his mother so amiable. He knelt at her feet and kissed her hand, saying,--"Now, my dear mother, my happiness is full, since you are reconciled to this marriage. And Constance and I will gladly come to your feast."

Then the hideous old hag went away, nodding and mumbling,--"Aha!

Mistress Constance, white as they call you, you shall be dyed so red that all the water in your church font shall not wash you clean again!"

Constance came soon after, and there was great feasting and merry-making, and the Soldan was very happy.

Then the Soldaness gave her great feast, and while they sat at the table, her soldiers came in and killed the Soldan and all the lords who were friendly to him, and slaughtered so many that the banquet hall swam ankle deep in blood.

But they did not slay Constance. Instead, they bore her to the sea and put her on board her ship all alone, with provisions for a long journey, and then set her adrift on the wide waters.

So she sailed on, drifting past many sh.o.r.es, out into the limitless ocean, borne on by the billows, seeing the day dawn and the sun set, and never meeting living creature. All alone on a wide ocean! drifting down into soft southern seas where the warm winds always blew, then driving up into frozen waters where green, glittering icebergs sailed solemnly past the ship, so near, it seemed as if they would crush the frail bark to atoms.

So for three long years, day and night, winter and summer, this lonely ship went on, till at length the winds cast it on the English sh.o.r.es.

As soon as the ship stranded, the governor of the town, with his wife and a great crowd of people, came to see this strange vessel. They were all charmed with the sweet face of Constance, and Dame Hennegilde, the governor's wife, on the instant loved her as her life. So this n.o.ble couple took her home and made much of her. But Constance was so mazed with the peril she had pa.s.sed that she could scarcely remember who she was or whence she came, and could answer naught to all their questionings.

While she lived with the good Hennegilde, a young knight began to love her, and sued for her love in return. But he was so wicked that Constance would not heed him. This made him very angry. He swore in his heart that he would have revenge. He waited until one night when the governor was absent, and going into the room where Dame Hennegilde lay, with Constance sleeping in the same chamber, this wicked knight killed the good lady. Then he put the dripping knife into the hand of Constance, and smeared her face and clothes with blood, that it might appear she had done the deed.

When the governor returned and saw this dreadful sight, he knew not what to think. Yet, even then, he could not believe Constance was guilty. He carried her before the king to be judged. This king, Alla, was very tender and good, and when he saw Constance standing in the midst of the people, with her frightened eyes looking appealing from one to another like a wounded deer who is chased to its death, his heart was moved with pity.

The governor and all his people told how Constance had loved the murdered lady, and what holy words she had taught. All except the real murderer, who kept declaring she was the guilty one, believed her innocent.

The king asked her, "Have you any champion who could fight for you?"

At this Constance, falling on her knees, cried out that she had no champion but G.o.d, and prayed that He would defend her innocence.

"Now," cried the king, "bring the holy book which was brought from Brittany by my fathers, and let the knight swear upon it that the maiden is guilty."