Chapter I

Little Lord Fauntleroy

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

Cedric himself knew nothing whatever about it. It had never been
even mentioned to him. He knew that his papa had been an Englishman,
because his mamma had told him so; but then his papa had died when he
was so little a boy that he could not remember very much about him,
except that he was big, and had blue eyes and a long mustache, and
that it was a splendid thing to be carried around the room on his
shoulder. Since his papa's death, Cedric had found out that it was
best not to talk to his mamma about him. When his father was ill,
Cedric had been sent away, and when he had returned, everything was
over; and his mother, who had been very ill, too, was only just
beginning to sit in her chair by the window. She was pale and thin,
and all the dimples had gone from her pretty face, and her eyes
looked large and mournful, and she was dressed in black.

"Dearest," said Cedric (his papa had called her that always, and
so the little boy had learned to say it),--"dearest, is my papa
better?"

He felt her arms tremble, and so he turned his curly head and
looked in her face. There was something in it that made him feel
that he was going to cry.

"Dearest," he said, "is he well?"

Then suddenly his loving little heart told him that he'd better
put both his arms around her neck and kiss her again and again, and
keep his soft cheek close to hers; and he did so, and she laid her
face on his shoulder and cried bitterly, holding him as if she could
never let him go again.

"Yes, he is well," she sobbed; "he is quite, quite well, but
we--we have no one left but each other. No one at all."

Then, little as he was, he understood that his big, handsome
young papa would not come back any more; that he was dead, as he had
heard of other people being, although he could not comprehend exactly
what strange thing had brought all this sadness about. It was
because his mamma always cried when he spoke of his papa that he
secretly made up his mind it was better not to speak of him very
often to her, and he found out, too, that it was better not to let
her sit still and look into the fire or out of the window without
moving or talking. He and his mamma knew very few people, and lived
what might have been thought very lonely lives, although Cedric did
not know it was lonely until he grew older and heard why it was they
had no visitors. Then he was told that his mamma was an orphan, and
quite alone in the world when his papa had married her. She was very
pretty, and had been living as companion to a rich old lady who was
not kind to her, and one day Captain Cedric Errol, who was calling at
the house, saw her run up the stairs with tears on her eyelashes; and
she looked so sweet and innocent and sorrowful that the Captain could
not forget her. And after many strange things had happened, they
knew each other well and loved each other dearly, and were married,
although their marriage brought them the ill-will of several persons.
The one who was most angry of all, however, was the Captain's
father, who lived in England, and was a very rich and important old
nobleman, with a very bad temper and a very violent dislike to
America and Americans. He had two sons older than Captain Cedric;
and it was the law that the elder of these sons should inherit the
family title and estates, which were very rich and splendid; if the
eldest son died, the next one would be heir; so, though he was a
member of such a great family, there was little chance that Captain
Cedric would be very rich himself.

But it so happened that Nature had given to the youngest son
gifts which she had not bestowed upon his elder brothers. He had a
beautiful face and a fine, strong, graceful figure; he had a bright
smile and a sweet, gay voice; he was brave and generous, and had the
kindest heart in the world, and seemed to have the power to make
every one love him. And it was not so with his elder brothers;
neither of them was handsome, or very kind, or clever. When they
were boys at Eton, they were not popular; when they were at college,
they cared nothing for study, and wasted both time and money, and
made few real friends. The old Earl, their father, was constantly
disappointed and humiliated by them; his heir was no honor to his
noble name, and did not promise to end in being anything but a
selfish, wasteful, insignificant man, with no manly or noble
qualities. It was very bitter, the old Earl thought, that the son
who was only third, and would have only a very small fortune, should
be the one who had all the gifts, and all the charms, and all the
strength and beauty. Sometimes he almost hated the handsome young
man because he seemed to have the good things which should have gone
with the stately title and the magnificent estates; and yet, in the
depths of his proud, stubborn old heart, he could not help caring
very much for his youngest son. It was in one of his fits of
petulance that he sent him off to travel in America; he thought he
would send him away for a while, so that he should not be made angry
by constantly contrasting him with his brothers, who were at that
time giving him a great deal of trouble by their wild ways.

But, after about six months, he began to feel lonely, and longed
in secret to see his son again, so he wrote to Captain Cedric and
ordered him home. The letter he wrote crossed on its way a letter
the Captain had just written to his father, telling of his love for
the pretty American girl, and of his intended marriage; and when the
Earl received that letter he was furiously angry. Bad as his temper
was, he had never given way to it in his life as he gave way to it
when he read the Captain's letter. His valet, who was in the room
when it came, thought his lordship would have a fit of apoplexy, he
was so wild with anger. For an hour he raged like a tiger, and then
he sat down and wrote to his son, and ordered him never to come near
his old home, nor to write to his father or brothers again. He told
him he might live as he pleased, and die where he pleased, that he
should be cut off from his family forever, and that he need never
expect help from his father as long as he lived.

The Captain was very sad when he read the letter; he was very
fond of England, and he dearly loved the beautiful home where he had
been born; he had even loved his ill-tempered old father, and had
sympathized with him in his disappointments; but he knew he need
expect no kindness from him in the future. At first he scarcely knew
what to do; he had not been brought up to work, and had no business
experience, but he had courage and plenty of determination. So he
sold his commission in the English army, and after some trouble found
a situation in New York, and married. The change from his old life
in England was very great, but he was young and happy, and he hoped
that hard work would do great things for him in the future. He had a
small house on a quiet street, and his little boy was born there, and
everything was so gay and cheerful, in a simple way, that he was
never sorry for a moment that he had married the rich old lady's
pretty companion just because she was so sweet and he loved her and
she loved him. She was very sweet, indeed, and her little boy was
like both her and his father. Though he was born in so quiet and
cheap a little home, it seemed as if there never had been a more
fortunate baby. In the first place, he was always well, and so he
never gave any one trouble; in the second place, he had so sweet a
temper and ways so charming that he was a pleasure to every one; and
in the third place, he was so beautiful to look at that he was quite
a picture. Instead of being a bald-headed baby, he started in life
with a quantity of soft, fine, gold-colored hair, which curled up at
the ends, and went into loose rings by the time he was six months
old; he had big brown eyes and long eyelashes and a darling little
face; he had so strong a back and such splendid sturdy legs, that at
nine months he learned suddenly to walk; his manners were so good,
for a baby, that it was delightful to make his acquaintance. He
seemed to feel that every one was his friend, and when any one spoke
to him, when he was in his carriage in the street, he would give the
stranger one sweet, serious look with the brown eyes, and then follow
it with a lovely, friendly smile; and the consequence was, that there
was not a person in the neighborhood of the quiet street where he
lived--even to the groceryman at the corner, who was considered the
crossest creature alive--who was not pleased to see him and speak to
him. And every month of his life he grew handsomer and more
interesting.

When he was old enough to walk out with his nurse, dragging a
small wagon and wearing a short white kilt skirt, and a big white hat
set back on his curly yellow hair, he was so handsome and strong and
rosy that he attracted every one's attention, and his nurse would
come home and tell his mamma stories of the ladies who had stopped
their carriages to look at and speak to him, and of how pleased they
were when he talked to them in his cheerful little way, as if he had
known them always. His greatest charm was this cheerful, fearless,
quaint little way of making friends with people. I think it arose
from his having a very confiding nature, and a kind little heart that
sympathized with every one, and wished to make every one as
comfortable as he liked to be himself. It made him very quick to
understand the feelings of those about him. Perhaps this had grown
on him, too, because he had lived so much with his father and mother,
who were always loving and considerate and tender and well-bred. He
had never heard an unkind or uncourteous word spoken at home; he had
always been loved and caressed and treated tenderly, and so his
childish soul was full of kindness and innocent warm feeling. He had
always heard his mamma called by pretty, loving names, and so he used
them himself when he spoke to her; he had always seen that his papa
watched over her and took great care of her, and so he learned, too,
to be careful of her.

So when he knew his papa would come back no more, and saw how
very sad his mamma was, there gradually came into his kind little
heart the thought that he must do what he could to make her happy.
He was not much more than a baby, but that thought was in his mind
whenever he climbed upon her knee and kissed her and put his curly
head on her neck, and when he brought his toys and picture-books to
show her, and when he curled up quietly by her side as she used to
lie on the sofa. He was not old enough to know of anything else to
do, so he did what he could, and was more of a comfort to her than he
could have understood.

"Oh, Mary!" he heard her say once to her old servant; "I am sure
he is trying to help me in his innocent way--I know he is. He looks
at me sometimes with a loving, wondering little look, as if he were
sorry for me, and then he will come and pet me or show me something.
He is such a little man, I really think he knows."

As he grew older, he had a great many quaint little ways which
amused and interested people greatly. He was so much of a companion
for his mother that she scarcely cared for any other. They used to
walk together and talk together and play together. When he was quite
a little fellow, he learned to read; and after that he used to lie on
the hearth-rug, in the evening, and read aloud--sometimes stories,
and sometimes big books such as older people read, and sometimes even
the newspaper; and often at such times Mary, in the kitchen, would
hear Mrs. Errol laughing with delight at the quaint things he
said.

"And; indade," said Mary to the groceryman, "nobody cud help
laughin' at the quare little ways of him--and his ould-fashioned
sayin's! Didn't he come into my kitchen the noight the new Prisident
was nominated and shtand afore the fire, lookin' loike a pictur', wid
his hands in his shmall pockets, an' his innocent bit of a face as
sayrious as a jedge? An' sez he to me: `Mary,' sez he, `I'm very
much int'rusted in the 'lection,' sez he. `I'm a 'publican, an' so
is Dearest. Are you a 'publican, Mary?' `Sorra a bit,' sez I; `I'm
the bist o' dimmycrats!' An' he looks up at me wid a look that ud go
to yer heart, an' sez he: `Mary,' sez he, `the country will go to
ruin.' An' nivver a day since thin has he let go by widout argyin'
wid me to change me polytics."

Mary was very fond of him, and very proud of him, too. She had
been with his mother ever since he was born; and, after his father's
death, had been cook and housemaid and nurse and everything else.
She was proud of his graceful, strong little body and his pretty
manners, and especially proud of the bright curly hair which waved
over his forehead and fell in charming love-locks on his shoulders.
She was willing to work early and late to help his mamma make his
small suits and keep them in order.

"'Ristycratic, is it?" she would say. "Faith, an' I'd loike to
see the choild on Fifth Avey-noo as looks loike him an' shteps out as
handsome as himself. An' ivvery man, woman, and choild lookin'
afther him in his bit of a black velvet skirt made out of the
misthress's ould gownd; an' his little head up, an' his curly hair
flyin' an' shinin'. It's loike a young lord he looks."

Cedric did not know that he looked like a young lord; he did not
know what a lord was. His greatest friend was the groceryman at the
corner--the cross groceryman, who was never cross to him. His name
was Mr. Hobbs, and Cedric admired and respected him very much. He
thought him a very rich and powerful person, he had so many things in
his store,--prunes and figs and oranges and biscuits,--and he had a
horse and wagon. Cedric was fond of the milkman and the baker and
the apple-woman,, but he liked Mr.Hobbs best of all, and was on terms
of such intimacy with him that he went to see him every day, and
often sat with him quite a long time, discussing the topics of the
hour. It was quite surprising how many things they found to talk
about--the Fourth of July, for instance. When they began to talk
about the Fourth of July there really seemed no end to it. Mr. Hobbs
had a very bad opinion of "the British," and he told the whole story
of the Revolution, relating very wonderful and patriotic stories
about the villainy of the enemy and the bravery of the Revolutionary
heroes, and he even generously repeated part of the Declaration of
Independence.

Cedric was so excited that his eyes shone and his cheeks were
red and his curls were all rubbed and tumbled into a yellow mop. He
could hardly wait to eat his dinner after he went home, he was so
anxious to tell his mamma. It was, perhaps, Mr. Hobbs who gave him
his first interest in politics. Mr. Hobbs was fond of reading the
newspapers, and so Cedric heard a great deal about what was going on
in Washington; and Mr. Hobbs would tell him whether the President was
doing his duty or not. And once, when there was an election, he
found it all quite grand, and probably but for Mr. Hobbs and Cedric
the country might have been wrecked.

Mr. Hobbs took him to see a great torchlight procession, and
many of the men who carried torches remembered afterward a stout man
who stood near a lamp-post and held on his shoulder a handsome little
shouting boy, who waved his cap in the air.

It was not long after this election, when Cedric was between
seven and eight years old, that the very strange thing happened which
made so wonderful a change in his life. It was quite curious, too,
that the day it happened he had been talking to Mr. Hobbs about
England and the Queen, and Mr. Hobbs had said some very severe things
about the aristocracy, being specially indignant against earls and
marquises. It had been a hot morning; and after playing soldiers
with some friends of his, Cedric had gone into the store to rest, and
had found Mr. Hobbs looking very fierce over a piece of the
Illustrated London News, which contained a picture of some court
ceremony.

"Ah," he said, "that's the way they go on now; but they'll get
enough of it some day, when those they've trod on rise and blow 'em
up sky-high,--earls and marquises and all! It's coming, and they may
look out for it!"

Cedric had perched himself as usual on the high stool and pushed
his hat back, and put his hands in his pockets in delicate compliment
to Mr. Hobbs.

"Did you ever know many marquises, Mr. Hobbs?" Cedric
inquired,--"or earls?"

"No," answered Mr. Hobbs, with indignation; "I guess not. I'd
like to catch one of 'em inside here; that's all! I'll have no
grasping tyrants sittin' 'round on my cracker-barrels!"

And he was so proud of the sentiment that he looked around
proudly and mopped his forehead.

"Perhaps they wouldn't be earls if they knew any better," said
Cedric, feeling some vague sympathy for their unhappy condition.

"Wouldn't they!" said Mr. Hobbs. "They just glory in it! It's
in 'em. They're a bad lot."

They were in the midst of their conversation, when Mary
appeared.

Cedric thought she had come to buy some sugar, perhaps, but she
had not. She looked almost pale and as if she were excited about
something.

"Come home, darlint," she said; "the misthress is wantin'
yez."

Cedric slipped down from his stool.

"Does she want me to go out with her, Mary?" he asked.
"Good-morning, Mr. Hobbs. I'll see you again."

He was surprised to see Mary staring at him in a dumfounded
fashion, and he wondered why she kept shaking her head.

"What's the matter, Mary?" he said. "Is it the hot weather?"

"No," said Mary; "but there's strange things happenin' to
us."

"Has the sun given Dearest a headache?" he inquired
anxiously.

But it was not that. When he reached his own house there was a
coupe standing before the door. and some one was in the little
parlor talking to his mamma. Mary hurried him upstairs and put on
his best summer suit of cream-colored flannel, with the red scarf
around his waist, and combed out his curly locks.

"Lords, is it?" he heard her say. "An' the nobility an' gintry.
Och! bad cess to them! Lords, indade--worse luck."

It was really very puzzling, but he felt sure his mamma would
tell him what all the excitement meant, so he allowed Mary to bemoan
herself without asking many questions. When he was dressed, he ran
downstairs and went into the parlor. A tall, thin old gentleman
with a sharp face was sitting in an arm-chair. His mother was
standing near by with a pale face, and he saw that there were tears
in her eyes.

"Oh! Ceddie!" she cried out, and ran to her little boy and
caught him in her arms and kissed him in a frightened, troubled way.
"Oh! Ceddie, darling!"

The tall old gentleman rose from his chair and looked at Cedric
with his sharp eyes. He rubbed his thin chin with his bony hand as
he looked.

He seemed not at all displeased.

"And so," he said at last, slowly,--"and so this is little Lord
Fauntleroy."