“Tha’—tha’ hasn’t
got a crooked back?” he said hoarsely.
“No!” shouted Colin.
“Tha’—tha’ hasn’t
got crooked legs?” quavered Ben more hoarsely
yet.
It was too much. The strength which Colin usually
threw into his tantrums rushed through him now in
a new way. Never yet had he been accused of crooked
legs—even in whispers—and the
perfectly simple belief in their existence which was
revealed by Ben Weatherstaff’s voice was more
than Rajah flesh and blood could endure. His anger
and insulted pride made him forget everything but
this one moment and filled him with a power he had
never known before, an almost unnatural strength.
“Come here!” he shouted to Dickon, and
he actually began to tear the coverings off his lower
limbs and disentangle himself. “Come here!
Come here! This minute!”
Dickon was by his side in a second. Mary caught
her breath in a short gasp and felt herself turn pale.
“He can do it! He can do it! He can
do it! He can!” she gabbled over to herself
under her breath as fast as ever she could.
There was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed
on to the ground, Dickon held Colin’s arm, the
thin legs were out, the thin feet were on the grass.
Colin was standing upright—upright—as
straight as an arrow and looking strangely tall—his
head thrown back and his strange eyes flashing lightning.
“Look at me!” he flung up at Ben Weatherstaff.
“Just look at me—you! Just look
at me!”
“He’s as straight as I am!” cried
Dickon. “He’s as straight as any lad
i’ Yorkshire!”
What Ben Weatherstaff did Mary thought queer beyond
measure. He choked and gulped and suddenly tears
ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck
his old hands together.
“Eh!” he burst forth, “th’
lies folk tells! Tha’rt as thin as a lath
an’ as white as a wraith, but there’s
not a knob on thee. Tha’lt make a mon yet.
God bless thee!”
Dickon held Colin’s arm strongly but the boy
had not begun to falter. He stood straighter
and straighter and looked Ben Weatherstaff in the face.
“I’m your master,” he said, “when
my father is away. And you are to obey me.
This is my garden. Don’t dare to say a word
about it! You get down from that ladder and go
out to the Long Walk and Miss Mary will meet you and
bring you here. I want to talk to you. We
did not want you, but now you will have to be in the
secret. Be quick!”
Ben Weatherstaff’s crabbed old face was still
wet with that one queer rush of tears. It seemed
as if he could not take his eyes from thin straight
Colin standing on his feet with his head thrown back.
“Eh! lad,” he almost whispered. “Eh!
my lad!” And then remembering himself he suddenly
touched his hat gardener fashion and said, “Yes,
sir! Yes, sir!” and obediently disappeared
as he descended the ladder.
