The Kings Sons | Page 8

his surprise, he came suddenly upon Osburga, his mother, seated alone by her embroidery-frame, her needle and silk in her hands, but not at work.
She was sitting back thinking, with the tears slowly trickling down her cheeks.
Alfred felt that this was a most miserable day, and, with his heart feeling more sore than ever, he crept softly behind his mother's chair and, quite unobserved, sank down upon his knees to lay his brown and ruddy cheek against her hand.
The Queen started slightly, and then, raising her hand, she laid it upon Alfred's fair, curly locks and began to smoothe them.
"Why are you crying, mother?" whispered the boy at last, as he felt that he must say something, although he knew perfectly well the reason of his mother's sorrow.
"I am crying, Fred," she said, in a deep sad voice, "because the days go by and no messenger comes to tell me how the King your father fares; and more tears came, my boy, because now that I am in such pain and sorrow I find that my sons, instead of trying to be wise and thoughtful of their duties, grow more wild and wilful every day."
Alfred drew a deep catching breath which was first cousin to a sob, and the Queen went on:
"I want them to grow up wise and good, and I find that not only do they think of nothing except their own selfish ends, but they behave ill to one of the gentlest, kindest, and best of men--one who is as wise and learned as he is modest and womanly at heart. It makes mine sore, my son, at such a time as this, for there is nothing better nor greater than wisdom, my boy, and he who possesses it leads a double life whose pleasures are without end. But I am in no mood to scold and reproach you, Fred. You are the youngest and least to blame. Still, I had looked for better things of you all than that I should hear that you openly defy Father Swythe, and have made him come to me to say that he can do no more, and to ask to be dismissed. There, Fred, leave me now. I will talk to your brothers when they return from the chase."
Alfred's lips were apart, ready to utter words of repentance; but they seemed to stick on the way, leaving him dumb.
Feeling more miserable than ever, he stole out, looking guilty and wretched, and went straight into the garden for a reason of his own.
But it was not to pick flowers or to gather fruit. He wanted to see the gentle old monk; for he felt as if he could say to him what he could not utter to the Queen. But there was another disappointment awaiting him. Swythe was not there, and the boy stamped his foot angrily.
"Oh," he said, half aloud and angrily, "how unlucky I am!"
Just then there came as if out of one of the low windows looking upon the garden a deep-toned sound such as might have been made by a very big and musical bee, and the boy's face brightened as he turned and made for the door, crossed the hall, and then went down a stone passage, to stop at a door, whose latch he lifted gently, and looked in, letting out at once the full deep tones he had heard in the garden floating out of the open window.
There was Swythe sitting at a low table beneath the window with his back to him, singing a portion of a chant whose sweet deep tones seemed to chain the boy to the spot, as he listened with a very pleasurable sensation, and watched the monk busily turning a big flattened pebble stone round and round as if grinding something black upon a square of smoothly-polished slab.
Alfred watched eagerly, and his eyes wandered about the cell-like room devoted to Swythe--a very plain and homely place, with a stool or two and a large table beneath the window, while one side was taken up by the simple pallet upon which the monk slept.
All at once the chanting ceased, the grinding came to an end, and, as if conscious of someone being in the room, the monk turned his head, saw Alfred watching him, and smiled sadly.
"Ah, my son," he said; "back from the chase so soon?"
"No," said Alfred huskily. "I did not go."
"Not go?" said the monk, in surprise. "How was that? Ah! I see," he continued, for the boy was silent, "you and Ethelbald have quarrelled."
"No, indeed," cried Alfred, and then he stopped. The monk went on without looking, passing the pebble slowly round and round upon the slab, grinding up what looked like thin glistening black paste.
"Then why did you stay behind?" said the monk