It was strange to
see that child in such a place! He had on a scarlet shirt or blouse,
wide lace collar, and black knickerbockers and stockings; but it was
his face rather than his clothes that caused me to wonder. Rarely had I
seen a more beautiful child, such a delicate rose-coloured skin, and
fine features, eyes of such pure intense blue, and such shining golden
hair. How came this angelic little being in that poor remote cottage
with that bent and wrinkled old woman for a guardian?
He walked past me very slowly, a sprig of southernwood in his hand;
then after going by he stopped and turned, and approaching me in a shy
manner and without saying a word offered me the little pale green
feathery spray. I took it and thanked him, and we entered into
conversation, when I discovered that his little mind was as bright and
beautiful as his little person. He loved the flowers, both garden and
wild, but above everything he loved the birds; he watched them to find
their nests; there was nothing he liked better than to look at the
little spotted eggs in the nest. He could show me a nest if I wanted to
see one, only the little bird was sitting on her eggs. He was six years
old, and that cottage was his home - he knew no other; and the old bent
woman standing there in the road was his mother. They didn't keep a
pig, but they kept a yellow cat, only he was lost now; he had gone
away, and they didn't know where to find him. He went to school now - he
walked all the way there by himself and all the way back every day. It
was very hard at first, because the other boys laughed at and plagued
him. Then they hit him, but he hit them back as hard as he could. After
that they hurt him, but they couldn't make him cry. He never cried, and
always hit them back, and now they were beginning to leave him alone.
His father was named Mr. Job, and he worked at the farm, but he
couldn't do so much work now because he was such an old man. Sometimes
when he came home in the evening he sat in his chair and groaned as if
it hurt him. And he had two sisters; one was Susan; she was married and
had three big girls; and Jane was married too, but had no children.
They lived a great way off. So did his brother. His name was Jim, and
he was a great fat man and sometimes came from London, where he lived,
to see them. He didn't know much about Jim; he was very silent, but not
with mother. Those two would shut themselves up together and talk and
talk, but no one knew what they were talking about. He would write to
mother too; but she would always hide the letters and say to father:
"It's only from Jim; he says he's very well - that's all." But they were
very long letters, so he must have said more than that.
Thus he prattled, while I, to pay him for the southernwood, drew
figures of the birds he knew best on the leaves I tore from my note-
book and gave them to him. He thanked me very prettily and put them in
his pocket.
"And what is your name?" I asked.
He drew himself up before me and in a clear voice, pronouncing the
words in a slow measured manner, as if repeating a lesson, he answered:
"Edmund Jasper Donisthorpe Stanley Overington."
The name so astonished me that I remained silent for quite two minutes
during which I repeated it to myself many times to fix it in my memory.
"But why," said I at length, "do you call yourself Overington when your
father's name is Job?"
"Oh, that is because I have two fathers - Mr. Job, my very old father,
and Mr. Overington, who lives away from here. He comes to see me
sometimes, and he is my father too; but I have only one mother - there
she is out again looking at us."
I questioned him no further, and no further did I seek those mysteries
to disclose, and so we parted; but I never see a plant or sprig of
southernwood, nor inhale its cedarwood smell, which one does not know
whether to like or dislike, without recalling the memory of that
miraculous cottage child with a queer history and numerous names.
XXIV
IN PORTCHESTER CHURCHYARD
To the historically and archaeologically minded the castle and walls at
Portchester are of great importance. Romans, Britons, Saxons, Normans -
they all made use of this well-defended place for long centuries, and
it still stands, much of it well preserved, to be explored and admired
by many thousands of visitors every year. What most interested me was
the sight of two small boys playing in the churchyard. The village
church, as at Silchester, is inside the old Roman walls, in a corner,
the village itself being some distance away. After strolling round the
churchyard I sat down on a stone under the walls and began watching the
two boys - little fellows of the cottage class from the village who had
come, each with a pair of scissors, to trim the turf on two adjoining
mounds. The bigger of the two, who was about ten years old, was very
diligent and did his work neatly, trimming the grass evenly and giving
the mound a nice smooth appearance. The other boy was not so much
absorbed in his work; he kept looking up and making jeering remarks and
faces at the other, and at intervals his busy companion put down his
shears and went for him with tremendous spirit.
