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      The Old Castle and Other Stories

      THE OLD CASTLE

      How pleasant the parlour looked on the evening of "Flaxy's" birthday. To be sure it was November, and the wind was setting the poor dying leaves in a miserable shiver with some dreadful story of an iceberg he had just been visiting. But what cared Dicky and Prue, or Dudley and Flaxy, or all the rest sitting cosily around that charming fire, which glowed as if some kind fairy had filled up the little black grate with carbuncles and rubies? Over the mantle-piece were branches of pretty white sperm candles, whose light fell softly on the heavy red curtains and the roses in the carpet, and danced in the eyes of the happy children.

      They, the children, had been having a "splendid time." They had played games, and put together dissected maps, and tried puzzles, and read in Flaxy's wonderful books; and since tea they had had a grand romp at "fox and geese," even such big boys as Bernard and Dudley joining in; and now they were resting with pretty red cheeks and parted mouths.

      "Well, what shall we do now?" cried little Prue, who could not bear that a minute of the precious time should be wasted in mere sitting still.

      "Why, isn't it a good time for some one else to tell his story?" asked Flaxy.

      "Just the thing," was the unanimous response. "Another story! a story!" and then a voice cried, "And let Dudley Wylde tell it."

      "Well," said Dudley, slowly, "if I must tell a true story about myself, I'm afraid it won't be much to my credit, but as Flaxy wasn't a coward about it, I'll try to be as brave as a girl. Shall I tell you something that happened to Bernard and me when we lived over in England?"

      "Oh, please don't tell that story, Dud," pleaded Bernard with reddening cheeks, but all the rest cried, "Oh, yes, go on, go on," and Dudley began.

      "You all know that Bernard and I were both left orphans when we were almost little babies, and Uncle Wylde sent for us to come and live with him—me first, and Bernard about a year afterwards. I was only six years old when Bernard came, but I remember I was very angry about it. Old Joe, the coachman, and I, had had a quarrel that morning, and he told me uncle 'would never care for me any more after Cousin Bernard came, for he was a much finer boy than I, and looked like a young English lord, with his blue eyes and white skin, but I was a little, dark, ill-tempered foreigner (my mother was Italian, you know), and he wondered how uncle could like me at all.'"

      "But uncle did love you dearly, you know," broke in Bernard.

      "A great deal better than I deserved, that's certain," said Dudley, "but I almost worshipped him, and I couldn't bear the thoughts of his loving any one better than me. So all the day that Bernard was expected I stood sulkily by the window, and would not play, nor eat, nor even speak when Uncle Wylde came and took me in his lap.

      "'Poor child,' said uncle, at last, 'he needs some one of his own age to play with. I hope the little cousins will be fine company for each other.'

      "Just then the carriage drove up, and uncle ran out and took such a lovely little boy in his arms; but when I heard him say, almost with a sob, 'Darling child, you are just the image of your dear, dear mother,' then I thought, 'There, it is all true what Joe said, uncle loves him the best already;' and I bit my fingers so that when uncle bade me hold out my hand to my cousin, he was frightened to see it covered with blood, and drew back with a shiver; and then I grew angry about that, too, and called him 'proud,' and went and hid away every plaything I could find.

      "Well, I won't have time to tell you every little thing, only that as Bernard and I grew up together, I did not love him any better. He was almost always kind and good."

      "Now Dud, you must not say so," said Bernard, blushing. "I did everything to tease you."

      "You must not interrupt," cried Dudley. "This is my story, remember. You never teased me much, but the great thing I couldn't forgive you was that uncle loved you best."

      "No, I'm sure he didn't," cried Bernard.

      "No more interruptions," said all the children, and Dudley went on.

      "Well, you see I was very suspicious and miserable, and I always thought Bernard wanted to make fun of me. When he first began to call me 'Dud,' for short, I thought he meant that I was like the old rags that Joe used to clean the carriages with, for he always used to call them 'old duds.' And then sometimes when I came in from riding on Lightfoot's bare back, with my hair blown every sort of a way, if he said, 'Shall we have our lessons now, uncle? here comes Wylde,' I always thought he was trying to make uncle think I was wild like those horrid Indians we used to read about, while he, Bernard, was always neat and smooth like a little gentleman. So you see there was nothing that Bernard could do or say, that I did not twist around to make myself miserable.

      "One day, when I had been playing with my dog Sambo half the morning, and riding Lightfoot the rest of the time, I was called on to recite Latin to uncle, and didn't know one word. But Bernard recited like a book, and when it was over, uncle did not scold me, he never did, but just gave Bernard the pretty picture I had long been wanting, of the boy climbing up over crag and ice, shouting 'Excelsior.'

      "That very afternoon we had planned to take a walk together to an old ruined castle, but I was so cross and sullen I wonder Bernard did not slip away and go alone. I can't begin to tell you how envious and unhappy I felt, and I quarrelled so with him about every little thing, that at last he scarcely opened his mouth."

      "I don't believe this story is true," said Flaxy indignantly. "I'm sure the Dudley Wylde we know was never so bad and quarrelsome."

      Dudley smiled, while Bettine whispered softly, "But he's different now, Flaxy. Do you know his uncle says he is trying to be a Christian?"

      Flaxy looked up with a bright tear of sympathy, as Dudley continued.

      "At last we reached the castle, where we had often been before, and for a while I was more good-natured, for there was nothing I liked better than climbing up and down the broken stairway, which wound round and round like a great screw, or looking into every queer little room hid away in the thick walls, or climbing to the turrets to wave my handkerchief like the flag of a conquering hero.

      "But this afternoon there was something new to see. In the great hall just under the stairs, the floor had lately caved away, and you could see down into a deep vault. Bernard and I lay down with our faces just over the edge, and tried to see the bottom, but it was dark as pitch, and we couldn't make out anything.

      "'I shouldn't wonder if they buried dead people there, a great while ago,' said Bernard, with a little shiver; and when we both got up, feeling very sober, he said, just to raise our spirits,—

      "'Let's have a race up the steps, and see which will get to the roof first.'

      "Off we started. I could generally climb like a wild cat, but in some way I stumbled and hurt my knee, and Bernard gained very fast. I felt my quick temper rising again. 'Shall he beat me in everything?' I said to myself, and with a great spring I caught up to him, and seized his jacket. Then began a struggle. Bernard cried 'Fair play,' and tried to throw me off; but I was very angry, and strong as a young tiger, and all of a sudden—for I didn't know what I was about—I just flung him with all my might right over the edge, where the railing was half broken down!"

      "Oh dear! oh dear!" cried little Prue, bursting into tears, "did it kill him?"

      A merry laugh from Bernard, followed by a hearty chorus from the rest, restored bewildered little Prue to her senses. But Dudley went on very soberly.

      "Bernard screamed as he went over, and with that scream all my anger died in a minute, and I sat down on the stairs, shaking from head to foot. Then I listened, but I didn't hear a sound. I don't know how long I sat there, but at last I got up very slowly, and began to come down just like an old man. It was so dreadfully still in the old castle, that I felt in a queer way, as if I must be very careful, too, and I stepped on my tip-toes, and held my breath. When I got to the foot, I felt as if a big hand held my heart tight, and when I tried to walk towards the spot where I thought Bernard must have fallen, I could not move a step. But after a great while—it seemed like a year—I managed to drag myself

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