Rex, the Black Sheep. A novel

Chapter I

' In punishment again, Rex ? The minister's voice had a little pained, tired sound in it, but it evidently made no impression upon the hardened culprit who stood in the corner with his face towards the wall, for he neither moved nor spoke. ' I believe this is the third time to-day. How is it that you cannot keep out of mischief like the others ? ' The brown, sunburnt fingers, locked together behind Rex's back, twitched nervously, and one sturdy leg moved in an uncomfortable, embarrassed sort of a way, but there was no answer. The Rector sat down in one of the worn leather dining room chairs, and surveyed, for a moment or two, the back of his boy's curly head, upon which the summer sunlight was playing. ' Rex, come to father, my son.' There was no need for a second invitation ; the boy turned suddenly round and displayed a flushed face and a pair of brilliant blue eyes.

He looked at his father for a A moment, and then sprang forward on to his knee, locking his strong little arms closely about the minister's neck. 'Tell me how it is you are so troublesome, Rex? Three times I have come into the room and found you in the corner. How is it that mamma is always having to punish you so ? ' Rex sighed, and gazed abstractedly down at what little pattern was left upon the carpet after ten years of sunlight and six pairs of little feet. ' The first time,' he commenced, twirling a button of his coat, which was conveniently loose, round and round like a teetotum ; ' the first time was — was because I was out too long.' ' What were you doing ? ' ' I followed the scissor-grinding man. Papa, I should like to be a scissor-grinder.' ' Never mind just now what you would like to be, Rex. / should like you to be a good, obedient boy, and a gentle man.

The second time?' ' The second time,' repeated Rex, contracting his smooth young brow. ' Whatever was I in the corner for ? Oh ! I know. Stan and I were playing out there by the pump. Stan hurt himself with the handle somehow, and began to roar. You know how Stan does roar, papa, if he hurts himself ever so little? Well, mamma came out and seized hold of me, though I hadn't done anything — mamma often does that, you know — brought me in here, and locked me in. Sometimes we are all just as naughty as one another, papa, but mamma punishes me for us all.' The Rector sighed. There was truth in this last state ment, and he knew it. ' Well, Rex ; and the third time ? ' he asked, ignoring those last words. ' Why — why — you see, papa, I was throwing stones, and two of them went clean over the bushes and hit the clothes drying in the laundry.

I didn't mean to send them over.' ' I have repeatedly told you not to throw stones, Rex — it is a most dangerous habit ; why don't you obey me ? ' ' I do try to obey you, papa — I do really — I can't bear you to be angry, papa, because you don't look angry, you look sad, and I don't like to see any one look sad — just as if they were going to cry, you know ; but grown-up people never cry, do they, daddie ? ' ' Grown-up people shed very bitter, bitter tears some times, my boy, far bitterer than you can understand.' 'I've never seen them,' said Rex. 'No — because they are shed in silence and alone.' ' Why ? ' demanded Rex, looking up into his father's face with profound interest. 'I can scarcely explain to you,' said the minister, strok ing the boy's tumbled curls. 'You will understand some day.' ' Why, do you think I shall cry when I'm a grown-up man, papa ? ' The Rector smiled sadly. 'God forbid, my son, God forbid,' he murmured under his breath.

Rex meditated for a few moments, his childish brain busy with all sorts of vague, indefinable thoughts. He could not quite grasp the idea of a grown person having sufficient trouble to make him weep ; a grown person who could have jam at every meal if he chose, who could go out and come REX, THE ELACK SHEEP. 4 in when he liked, who could always stay up to supper. The question was quite beyond him, so he put it on one side. ' Well, I should like to be a scissor-grinder,' he remarked at length, seeling perfectly certain of one thing, that a man who had such a delightful occupation as scissor-grinding at his finger ends could never have cause to shed a tear, or heave a sigh ; ' do you think I could, papa, when I grow up ? ' 'No, Rex, certainly not.' 'What shall I be, then?' asked Rex, in a desperate sort of way, as if all hope had been suddenly crushed within him. ' I think you will be a minister, like papa.' Rex dropped his elbows on his knees, and rested his face between his chubby hands. ' Should you like that ? ' asked the Rector gravely. 'Wouldn't you like to teach people the way to God?' Involuntarily the boy raised his big, wondering eyes towards the blue summer sky. ' Do you think I shall be good enough, papa ? ' he asked very seriously.

Something in the tone sent a faint thrill of apprehension through the minister's heart. ' Oh, yes, Rex, you must be good enough ; you must learn to be obedient and unselfish and forbearing (thank God you never told me a lie), and then you will be fit to guide and teach others. Oh, Rex, my son, you are going to be a good man, are you not ? You are going to keep yourself free from the evil taints of the world. You are going to be father's joy and comfort, Rex, so that, when he is old, and worn and feeble, he will have you to lean upon, you to finish the lessons which he has tried to teach, you to take his place at the church upon the hill-side when he is laid to rest.' ' I think when you are laid to rest, papa, I should like to be laid to rest too,' said Rex, with a profound sigh. ' I am afraid I shall always be a naughty boy ; mamma says I shall, it's born in me, she says.' The Rector shook his head. ' You will be what you make yourself by the grace of God, my son.

And now I have some letters to write, so run away ; I saw Maddie and the Squire's little daughter in the garden as I passed ; go and have a game with them.' Rex moved away reluctantly. 'I don't care about playing with girls," he observed, with some scorn. ' Nonsense. I generally notice that the little girls keep you out of mischief, they are gentle and quiet. Go and find them, Rex ; and never speak slightingly of a woman, my son.' The boy sauntered out of the room, and the Rector of Castleton, instead of commencing his letters, walked dreamily towards the window and stood looking out. He watched Rex's small figure wandering down the long, old-fashioned garden, flicking as he went with a small stick the bushes of sweet briar and wild roses, the tall hollyhocks and the dark cloves. A sweet, wild spot was the Rectory garden, with its winding, moss-grown paths, its shady dells, its little natural arbours, its leafy, untrained arches, its soft, velvety grassplot, and its delicious fragrance.

Sweeter still to the younger members of the family was the orchard which lay beyond, where were trees laden with rosy apples and luscious pears ; clusters of dusky, purple plums, and in the centre of all — - the crowning triumph — a mulberry tree, weighed down with rich, dark berries. Beyond the orchard again was a creaking, wooden gate, which opened into a paddock, where Donr the fat pony, spent the greater part of his calm, uneventful existence. Rex paused as he came to a division in the path, and after considering for a moment, struck out in a direction which was faintly suggestive of the orchard as a future destination. At his age an orchard or a sweet-stuff shop are the best antidotes for the ills that flesh is heir to. As he disappeared, the minister turned his eyes towards the other side of the large bay window.

Yes, there stood the church upon the hill-side — the church which was the object of so many hopes and fears and prayers. Next to his hopes of Heaven came the Rector's hopes for the well-being of that church. How clear and fair rose the tall steeple against the background of pale summer sky. How the fine little gilt cross on the top shone and glittered in the brilliant sunshine. How distinct were the white tombstones dotted round about, marking the spots where the dead lay so quietly, so unutterably quietly, whilst the birds sang, and the flowers bloomed, and footsteps came and went amongst the waving grass. Dead and living so near together, and yet divided by such impassable gulfs — such wells of un fathomable mystery. Beyond the church there stretched a smiling landscape — upland meadows, golden corn-fields, dark patches of pine forest, white winding roads, all dying away into a hazy distance of purple hills.

This was the view as the minister saw it from one of the back windows of the house, but from the front top windows of the Rectory could be seen, about three or four miles distant, a long streak of blue sea line, with white breakers upon the sur face, and in the dead of a winter's night could be heard the low continuous roar, the wild, weird melody, which is one of the ocean's many half-fearful and wholly-fascinating charms. It was a pretty white house, the Rectory, lying back some distance from the road, the hall door being ap proached by a winding path. One side of the back garden joined the grounds of the Hall, where dwelt Squire Haydn with his two motherless children, Muriel and Claude. Sundry gaps in the hedge testified to the fact that the young people from both houses were on the friendliest possible terms, but these means of intercourse were mostly patronised by the Squire's little folks, for the Rectory children felt more at ease and freer to do as they chose on patrimonial estate than they did in the well-kept, orderly grounds of the Hall, where a sedate gardener was always bound to appear at the most exciting juncture of ' hare and hounds,' or 'hide and seek' behind the rhododendrons.

The little Haydns seemed to fall in with these ideas, for it is a sure fact that they passed the greater part of their lives in some of the shady and somewhat spidery retreats, of which the Rectory garden boasted not a tew. Claude Haydn, a delicate boy with a lovely, refined face, and Rex Sutherland were sworn allies. Their friendship had commenced months ago, and had ripened principally in the church choir, where they had stood, two little, white robed figures, side by side Sunday after Sunday, till one terrible day only a month ago, when Claude had accident ally dropped a marble during the sermon, and Rex had tittered out loud. This put an end to many pleasant but unlawful little amusements in the choir stalls. Mr Haydn requested that Claude should have another seat appointed to him, as he was quite sure Rex had led him into mischief which he would otherwise never dream of.

Rex came in for the usual severe reprimanding, and was doomed in future to sit three seats away from Claude, where he could not even see his head without looking behind the other boys' backs, or bobbing unexpectedly in front of their faces. They made up for this lack of intercourse in church by still more frequent visits to the creaking wooden gate at the farther end of the orchard. On the top of that gate they would sit for hours, with a delicious sense of being far from the madding crowd, and within easy reach of refreshment in the shape of apples and pears. Rex climbed up the trees like a monkey, and came down with his knees pressed against the bark, and a blissful unconsciousness of damage done to stockings and knickerbockers during the perform ance. Claude was not strong enough to accomplish any of these feats, but he did not lose anything by his weakness ; the best and rosiest apples were always for him, and when he saw Rex climbing more than usually vigorously, he always knew that he had spied something particularly tempting, which would be for his special delectation.

To-day, as Rex sauntered dismally towards the favourite spot, he found Claude already stationed on the top bar of the gate talking to Don, and coaxing him across the pad dock with a piece of sugar. The friends exchanged no word of greeting on first seeing each other, but Rex clambered up on the gate, and he too began talking to the pony. Five or ten minutes passed in this way, and then Rex's restless spirit began to chafe for some new sort of amusement. He pulled his cap from off his curly fair hair, and commenced to toss it up in the air — it finally lodged in a tree ; then he got out his penknife, and cut the stick he was carrying into shreds ; afterwards, by way of exercise, he took a few flying leaps from the top of the gate, and, in the midst of this performance, suddenly asked, — ' Claude, what would you like to be when you grow up ? ' Claude meditated for a moment, but did not appear to come to any definite ideas on the point. ' I don't know.

What would you ? ' he inquired. ' A scissor-grinder,' said Rex, with much promptitude, taking a tremendous header and landing on his knees. ' I followed one to-day all down High Street, right away into West-Thorpe. I asked him to let me see if I could work the wheel ; he wouldn't, though, but he said he'd be " vewy " pleased to teach me the trade any time I'd like to learn.' ' Oh ! ' said Claude, ' I don't fancy I should much care about it myself; it must be so hot out in the sun all day. I think I would rather be a minister, like the Rector.' ' That's just what papa says,' said Rex, pausing for breath. ' It's a great pity you are not my papa's little boy, and I your papa's little boy.' ' But I don't think my papa would care much about his little boy being a scissor-grinder,' observed Claude, with a degree of instinctive pride to which Rex was an innocent stranger. ' Wouldn't he ?

Why ? ' 'Oh ! because gentlemen are never scissor-grinders.' ' Well, I'm sure ladies aren't,' retorted Rex. Claude looked puzzled, as if wondering how to make Rex understand. ' I mean, you know, men are scissor-grinders sometimes, but not gentlemen? Rex failed to see the distinction. ' Papa always says he hopes I shall be a true gentleman,' he remarked, hanging over the top of the gate and trying to touch the ground with his hands, in a manner which was strongly suggestive of concussion of the brain ; ' so I s'pose I shall have to be.' 'Here come the girls,' said Claude loftily; and at that moment Rex lost his balance, stood on his head for a moment, and then turned a complete somersault into the paddock. No one took any notice, and he lighted on his feet again just as two little girls appeared, coming in at the garden entrance to the orchard.

Two sweet little maidens, with big garden hats, and hair curling about their shoulders. Their arms were entwined about each other's waists, but in their disengaged hands one held a large picture book, the other a doll, with a great hole in the back of its head. It was Maddie Sutherland who held the book; it was Muriel Haydn who carried the decrepit old doll. They were whis pering together confidentially, and they passed the boys without so much as glancing at them, wandering on towards a patch of bare brown grass, where they seated themselves under the friendly shadow of a neighbouring apple tree. Muriel smoothed out her dress, glanced lovingly at her doll, and made it comfortable in her arms, saying, ' Shs, shs, shs/ as she did so. The boys on the gate mimicked her, but she did not deign to take any notice.

Maddie gave a series of shuffles, tossed back her curls first from one shoulder, then from the other, and finally spread out upon her lap the great picture book. ' That's Cain going to kill his brother Abel,' she explained in an undertone, glancing up somewhat timorously as she spoke at the boys, a little dreading a contemptuous smile from those young gentlemen. Muriel pored over the picture with intense interest, her eyes roving over every little detail, her eyebrows drawn together. Maddie did the same. Presently they both lifted their heads at precisely the same time, and Maddie turned to the next illustration. 'There's Joseph and his wicked brothers; they are going to put him into the pit.' The explanation came from Muriel this time, and she did not lower her voice at all. Evidently the boys on the gate were a matter of utter indifference to her. ' Oh, look, Maddie, look at poor Joseph ; they are going to put him down that dreadful hole !

Oh, I wish they wouldn't ! ' There was absolute pain in the child's voice, a depth of intense feeling in every feature of her little face. Rex's curiosity got the better of his contempt. ' Let's see,' he said ; but Maddie bent her body over the book, and clasped both her arms round it. ' No,' she cried ; ' mamma said you were to leave us alone.' 'Pooh! I don't want your old book,' said Rex, making a virtue of necessity. ' Poor Joseph ! ' went on Muriel. ' See, Maddie, he's got blue eyes and curly hair like Rex's.' Maddie bent lower over the book, and tried to trace the likeness. 'I don't think he's much like Rex,' she remarked. ' I hope poor Rex will never look unhappy like that,' said Muriel, who had a vague way of gazing out into the unknown future. Rex, hearing his name discussed, came back, and peered over their shoulders. 'What are they putting him down there for?' he inquired, not being particularly well up in Scripture history. ' Because they were jealous of him,' volunteered Maddie, proud of her knowledge. ' Muriel says he's like you, but I don't think he is.

Joseph was a good boy; that's why his brothers were jealous of him.' ' I don't think my brothers are jealous of me,' Rex said, somewhat sadly, as if his life was not a particularly desirable thing, and therefore not to be envied. ' There's his coat of many colours,' said Muriel. ' Where ? ' said Rex ; and the three heads were all close together now, and Claude came over from the distance and joined in the general discussion. So intent were they all upon the pictures that they did not notice Stan (another little Sutherland) come stalking into the orchard, with a miniature gun across his shoulder, and a martial tread. Seeing the group on the grass, he walked towards them, and, as luck would have it, the first thing he noticed was the hole in the back of Muriel's doll's head. It was the work of a moment for him to thrust the end of his gun through it, and hoist the doll up in the air.

In a second, all was consternation and confusion. Muriel, suddenly bereft of her treasured ' baby,' sprang to her feet, with a piercing cry. Stan tore off round the orchard, waving the doll in the air, twisting it about like a windmill, whilst Muriel darted hither and thither after him, stretching out a pair of yearning, supplicating arms. Now, it is doubtful whether Rex would not have amused himself in precisely the same way as Stan had he been tempted in a similar manner ; but he had rather chivalrous notions about protecting the Squire's gentle little daughter, who was not able to sight her battles like the Rectory children, so, after a momentary hesita tion, he made a terrific dash at his brother, and a fearful fight ensued. The doll, with a final whirl, fell to the ground, where Muriel rushed and picked it up, holding it fondly to her, as if to make up for the outrageous treatment it had received.

Stan and Rex fought on, till an unlucky hit from Rex's chubby fist set Stan's nose bleeding. This was enough ; he sank down, with a prolonged and unearthly howl, just as Rex was seized on the shoulder by a tall, stern-looking woman. ' To bed, Reginald. ' Oh ! but, mamma, I — ' ' To bed.' Without a word, he moved away. Poor, ill-fated Rex! It was ten o'clock that night when the Rector made his usual rounds to the bedsides of his children. Muriel stayed the night with Maddie, as she often did; the children were locked in each other's arms. Maddie slept profoundly, her breath coming and going at regular intervals, her eye lids immovable and fixed as a statue's ; but Muriel was more restless. She tossed her arms and spoke a few inarticuate words in her sleep, gave a little low moan and a heavy sigh, that active little brain of hers busy in her dreams.

The Rector stooped his tall form and kissed each little pure, white, stainless brow. The kiss fell unheeded upon Maddie's broad sorehead, but it half roused Muriel, light as it was. 'Good-bye, Maddie,' she murmured. 'Poor Rex, there's the coat of many colours, and Jacob is crying.' Mr Sutherland smiled faintly and passed on into the next room. There lay Rex — Rex, the scapegoat — Rex, the black sheep. He was fast asleep, his long brown eyelashes lying upon his flushed cheek, his damp, curly hair tossed about his sorehead, his red lips parted into a half smile. The minister's face grew strangely grave and tender, and presently he knelt beside the little bed, and bowed his head in his hands. Afterwards he rose and kissed the boy. Rex stretched out his arms and opened his blue eyes. ' Good-night, papa,' he said with a drowsy smile, turning round and settling himself contentedly to sleep again. 'Good-night, my son,' said the Rector, tucking him in cosily ; and then he stole quietly away, and these words came to him sharply and suddenly — ' Little lids now folded fast, Must ye learn to shed at last Out large and burning tears.'

Chapter II

Summer, winter, seed-time and harvest. Fifteen times the four seasons had visited the world since we last looked upon the Rectory. Fifteen times the church upon the hill-side had been decorated for Christmas. Fifteen times there had been a hearty harvest thanksgiving within its walls, and children who were not here when we left the Rector at his son's bedside now lifted up their voices, and praised God for their being. Fifteen years had passed over quiet, little, old-world Castleton, and had made but few perceptible changes. The roses still bloomed as of yore in the Rectory garden, and at eventide the sweet scent of the sleeping flowers gave fragrance to the air. But there were no toys about, no crippled dolls, no well-worn books ; the garden was neat and orderly as it had never been in bygone days, and yet it seemed as if, with the laughter and shouts of the children, half its freedom and freshness had departed.

Fifteen long years, but they had dealt kindly with the Rector, inasmuch that they had left him an unbroken circle. Mr Sutherland himself was the most sadly changed. His hair had grown quite white, and his footsteps were faltering >5 and weak. Not without seasons of pain, heart-sickness and disappointment was the minister's noble life drifting hence. The harvest had been gathered in. In place of the golden nodding corn, were rough, stubbly fields, and in the early morning the plough could be seen moving slowly to and fro across the furrowed earth. The harvest moon had waned and died away. Myriads of brown and yellow leaves formed a dreary covering to the ground, and at dusk white vapours settled about the Rectory garden. It was autumn — a Sunday afternoon — and in place of two demure little maidens learning collect and hymn, there stood within the dining-room two fair women.

One stood in front of the fire, her elbows on the mantelpiece and her face between her hands. In this attitude she scanned her reflection complacently in the mirror. She was rather short, scarcely medium height ; but there was an attractive originality about her appearance. She looked like an old picture after Sir Joshua Reynolds. The dress she wore was black velvet. It was made in some loose, careless style, scarcely according to the prevailing fashion of the day ; but it suited her splendidly, as did the amber sash which was slung about her waist. Even the face itself had an air of old-world beauty about it. The full lips, the clear, olive-tinted eyes, the highly-arched brows and the waving hair, dressed in some nondescript but becoming style, were all suggestive of a beauty which is rapidly becoming extinct.

People haggled about Madeline Sutherland's prettiness. They objected to that quaint, old-world air which pervaded her ; they found fault with her nose, it was too aquiline ; her forehead came in for a score of objections, on the grounds of its breadth and! squareness ; and the little, black ominous mole on her left cheek was condemned by one and all. Her manners were always bright, and she was fond of admiration. Madeline's character was undoubtedly seen to the best advantage in her home-life. Here she was all love and tenderness, a devoted daughter and a helpful sister — always industrious, always at wrork for the whole family. It was one of her characteristics that she was never idle, and that all her attempts were carried out with success. Those little hands of hers were skilful as they were beautiful ; and beautiful they certainly were, soft and warm always, with dimpled knuckles, like a baby's. On each second finger she wore an old-fashioned ring, and one could not imagine her without them ; they were part and parcel of herself.

Standing by the window was Madeline's companion — a tall, slender, ethereal-looking girl. She was attired in soft, clinging draperies of palest grey. The colour suited her, and seemed apiece, somehow, with the drooping figure and delicately-moulded face. She was not a strictly beauti ful woman, but there hovered about her every look and tone a nameless interest — a peculiar, indescribable charm. Men caught themselves watching her unawares. Women found themselves wishing they were like her, and possessed a share of her exquisite refinement. How grand the girl's dark eyes were under their thick black lashes — rich in grey-brown colouring and unfathomable depths of thought and dreams ! How ripe and red were the soft lips, giving a tone of warmth to the fair, white face ! The church-bells were ringing, the sun hung low and red in the midst of a misty autumn sky. i'. 'Reine, do you think life is worth living?' said Madeline at last, staring into her own eyes in the glass.

They had fallen into the habit of calling Muriel Haydn ' Reine.' Rex had commenced it. He had often said that she was like a queen, and from that he had dropped into the pretty French translation of the word, and the others had picked it up too. ' Because, if you think so, I don't. Take our household, now : Father's health is declining ; mother is, to say the least of it, cantankerous ; Stan thinks of nothing else but his approaching marriage ; Rex has nothing to do, as usual ; / am sick of everything. No ; under circumstances like these, life is not worth living — -I am blest if it is!' Madeline always ended her sentences in a very decided manner. When plain English was not strong enough, she called a little bit of modern slang to her aid, and felt much relieved by its use. ' I do envy you, Reine, sometimes,' she went on, as no answer came from her companion. ' No lack of money, carte blanche always to do exactly what you wish, a well-kept house to live in, and servants at your command, a father who adores you, and a brother who is the pink of perfection, and never so much as dreams of getting plucked at his exams, like poor old Rex.

I believe that last failure of his has pretty well broken the dad's heart.' Muriel lifted up her graceful head. She had been listening absently to Madeline's words. Now she came across the room and stood by her friend's side, towering three inches above her. ' It is not Rex's fault,' she said quietly. Maddie's voice REX, THE ELACK SHEEP. 19 was clear and silvery. Reine's was low and sweet, but it was full of a latent, concentrated passion. 'It is not Rex's fault ; he has ample capabilities, but no luck. Some people are always unfortunate. Ill-luck is born with them, and it follows them, and never leaves them a minute's peace until they die. It overrules all good things. It sometimes creeps along after a day's happiness and allows its victim to think for a time that he has at last shaken himself free ; and then, when he least expects it, another crushing blow comes to him, and he is obliged to acknowledge that he has fallen under the deadly influence once more.