UNCLE AND NEPHEW.
COLONEL FERRERS and his nephew walked away together, the former with a
quick, military stride, the latter shambling, as lads do whose legs have
outgrown their understanding of them.
"Don't hunch, sir!" exclaimed the Colonel, throwing his broad shoulders
back and his chin to the position of "eyes front." "Put your chin in and
your chest out, and don't hunch! You have about as much carriage, my
nephew Jack, as a rheumatic camel. Well!" (as poor Jack straightened his
awkward length and tried to govern his prancing legs). "So Mrs. Grahame
is a connection, after all; and a very charming woman, too. And how
did you find the young lady, sir? Did she give you any points on
tree-climbing? Ho! ho! I was wrong, though, about her being a tomboy.
She hasn't the voice of one. Did you notice her voice, nephew? it is
very sweet and melodious. It reminded me of--of a voice I remember."
"I like her voice!" replied Jack Ferrers. By the way, his own voice was
a very pleasant one, a well-bred and good-tempered voice. "I couldn't
see her face very well. I can't talk to girls!" he added. "I don't know
what to say to them. Why did you tell them about mother, Uncle Tom?
There was no need of their knowing."
"Why did I tell them?" exclaimed Colonel Ferrers. "Harry Monmouth! I
told them, you young noodle, because I chose to tell them, and because
it was the truth, and a mighty lucky thing for you, too. What with your
poor mother's dying young, and your father's astonishing and
supernatural wrong-headedness, you have had no bringing up whatever, my
poor fellow! Talk of your going to college next year! why, you don't
know how to make a bow. I present you to two charming women, and you
double yourself up as if you had been run through the body, and then
stumble over your own legs and tumble over everything else. Shade of
Chesterfield! How am I to take you about, if this is the way you
behave?"
"It was dark," said poor Jack. "And--and I don't want to be taken about,
uncle, thank you. Can't I just keep quiet while I am here, and not see
people? I don't know how to talk, really I don't."
"Pooh! pooh! sir," roared the Colonel, smiting the earth with his stick.
"Have the goodness to hold your tongue! You know how to talk nonsense,
and I request you'll not do it to me. You are my brother's son, sir,
and I shall make it my business to teach you to walk, and to talk, and
to behave like a rational Christian, while you are under my roof. If
your father had the smallest atom of common sense in his composition--"
"Please don't say anything against father, Uncle Tom," cried the lad. "I
can't stand that!" and one felt in the dark the fiery flush that made
his cheeks tingle.
"Upon my soul!" cried Colonel Ferrers (who did not seem in the least
angry), "you are the most astounding young rascal it has ever been my
good fortune to meet. Are you aware, sir, that your father is my
brother? that I first made the acquaintance of Raymond Ferrers when he
was one hour old, a squeaking little scarlet wretch in a flannel
blanket? Are you aware of this, pray?"
"I suppose I am," answered the lad. "But that doesn't make any
difference. Nobody body must say anything against him, even if it is
his own brother."
"Who is saying anything against him?" demanded Colonel Ferrers,
fiercely. "He is an angel, sir; every idiot knows that. A combination of
angel and infant, Raymond Ferrers is, and always has been. But the
combination does not qualify him for bringing up children. Probatum est!
Here we are! Now let me see if you can open the gate without fumbling,
sir. If there is one thing I can_not_ endure, it is fumbling."
Thus adjured, Jack Ferrers opened the heavy wooden gate, and the two
passed through a garden which seemed, from the fragrance, to be full of
roses. The old house frowned dark and gloomy, with only one light
twinkling feebly in a lower window. When they had entered, and were
standing in the pleasant library, book-lined from floor to ceiling,
Colonel Ferrers turned suddenly to his nephew, who was in a brown
study, and dealt him a blow on the shoulder which sent him staggering
half-way across the room, unexpected as it was.
"You're right to stand up for your father, my lad," he said, with gruff
heartiness. "It was unnecessary in this case, for I would be cut into
inch pieces and served up on toast if it would do my brother Raymond any
good; but you are right all the same. If anybody else ever says he
hasn't common sense, knock him down, do you hear? A blow from the
shoulder, sir! that's the proper answer."
"Yes, uncle," said the boy demurely; but he looked up with a twinkle in
his eye. "It's lucky for me that I _don't_ have to knock you down, sir,"
he added. "You're awfully strong, aren't you? I wish I were!"
"You, sir!" rejoined the Colonel. "You have the frame of an ox, if you
had any flesh to cover it. Exercise is what you need, Nephew Jack!
Fencing is what you want, sir! Take that walking-stick! Harry Monmouth!
I'll give you a lesson, now. On guard! So! defend yourself! Ha! humph!"
The last exclamation was one of disgust, for at the Colonel's first
thrust, Jack's stick flew out of his hand, and knocked over a porcelain
vase, shattering it in pieces, Jack, meanwhile, standing rubbing his arm
and looking very foolish.
"Humph!" repeated Colonel Ferrers, looking rather disconcerted himself,
and all the more fierce therefore. "That comes of trying to instruct a
person who has not been taught to hold himself together. You are a
milksop, my poor fellow! a sad milksop! but we are going to change all
that. There! never mind about the pieces. Giuseppe will pick up the
pieces. Get your supper, and then go to bed."
"I don't care about supper, thank you, uncle," said the lad.
"Pooh! pooh! don't talk nonsense!" cried the Colonel. "You don't go to
bed without supper."
He led the way into the dining-room, a long, low room, panelled with
dark oak. Walls, table, sideboard, shone like mirrors, with the polish
of many years. Over the sideboard was the head of a gigantic moose, with
huge, spreading antlers. On the sideboard itself were some beautiful
pieces of old silver, shining with the peculiar blue lustre that comes
from long rubbing, and from that alone. A tray stood on the table, and
on it was a pitcher of milk, two glasses, and a plate of very
attractive-looking little cakes. The colonel filled Jack's glass, and
stood by with grim determination till he had drunk every drop.
"Now, a cake, sir," he added, sipping his own glass leisurely. "A plummy
cake, of Mrs. Beadle's best make. Down with it, I insist!" In the
matter of the plum cake, little insistence was necessary, and between
uncle and nephew both plate and pitcher were soon empty.
"There," said the good Colonel, as they returned to the library, "now
you have something to sleep on, my friend. No empty stomachs in this
house, to distract people's brains and make mooncalves of them. Ten
minutes' exercise with the Indian clubs--you have them in your
room?--and then to bed. Hand me the 'Worthies of England,' will you?
Bookcase on the right of the door, third shelf from the bottom, fifth
book from the left. Thomas Fuller. Yes, thank you. Good-night, my boy!
don't forget the clubs, and _don't_ poke your head forward like a
ritualist parson, because you are not otherwise cut out for one."
Leaving his uncle comfortably established with his book and
reading-lamp, Jack Ferrers took his way upstairs. It was not late, but
he had already found out that his uncle had nothing to say to him or any
one else after the frugal nine o'clock supper, and his own taste for
solitude prompted him to seek his room. As he passed along a dark
corridor, a gleam of light shot out from a half-open door.
"Are you awake, Biddy?" he asked.
"Yes, dear!" answered a kind, hearty voice. "Come in, Master Jack, if
you've a mind."
The room was so bright that Jack screwed up his eyes for a moment. The
lamp was bright, the carpet was bright, the curtains almost danced on
the wall from their own gayety, while the coloured prints, in shining
gilt frames, sang the whole gamut of colour up and down and round and
round. But brighter than all else in the gay little room was the gay
little woman who sat by the round table (which answered every purpose
of a mirror), piecing a rainbow-coloured quilt. Her face was as round
and rosy as a Gravenstein apple. She had bright yellow ribbons in her
lace cap, and her gown was of the most wonderful merino that ever was
seen, with palm-leaves three inches long curling on a crimson ground.
"How very bright you are in here, Biddy!" said Jack, sitting down on the
floor, with his long legs curled under him. "You positively make my eyes
ache."
"It's cheerful, dear," replied the good housekeeper. "I like to see
things cheerful, that I do. Will you have a drop of shrub, Master Jack?
there's some in the cupboard there, and 'twill warm you up, like, before
going to bed."
Then, as Jack declined the shrub with thanks, she continued, "And so you
have been to call on the ladies at Braeside, you and the Colonel. Ah!
and very sweet ladies, I'm told."
"Very likely!" said Jack absently. "Do you mind if I pull the cat's
tail, Biddy?"
He stretched out his hand toward a superb yellow Angora cat which lay
curled up on a scarlet cushion, fast asleep.
"Oh! my dear!" cried Mrs. Beadle. "Don't you do it! He's old, and his
temper not what it was. Poor old Sunshine! and why would you pull his
tail, you naughty boy?"
"Oh! well--no matter!" said Jack. "There's a fugue--that's a piece of
music, Biddy--that I am practising, called the 'Cat's Fugue,' and I
thought I would see if it really sounded like a cat, that's all."
"Indeed, that's not such music as I should like your uncle to hear!"
exclaimed Mrs. Beadle. "And what did you say to the young lady, Master
Jack?" she added, as she placed a scarlet block against a purple one.
"I'm glad enough you've found some young company, to make you gay, like.
You're too quiet for a young lad, that you are."
"Oh, bother!" responded Jack, shaking his shoulders. "Tell me about my
father, Biddy. I don't believe he liked g--company, any better than I
do. What was he like when he was a boy?"
"An angel!" said Mrs. Beadle fervently. "An angel with his head in his
pocket; that is what Mr. Raymond was like."
"Uncle Tom called him an angel, too!" said the lad. "Of course he is; a
combination of angel and--why did you say 'with his head in his pocket,'
Biddy?"
"Well, dear, it wasn't on his shoulders," replied the housekeeper. "He
was in a dream, like, all the time; oh, much worse than you are
yourself, Master Jack."
"Thank you!" muttered Jack.
"And forgetful! well! well! he needed to be tied to some one, Mr.
Raymond did. To see him come in for his luncheon, and then forget all
about it, and stand with a book in his hand, reading as if there was
nothing else in the world. And then Mr. Tom--dear! dear! would put his
head down and run and butt him right in the stomach, and down they would
go together and roll over and over; great big lads, like you, sir, and
their father would take the dog-whip and thrash 'em till they got up.
'Twas all in sport like, d'ye see; but Mr. Raymond never let go his
book, only beat Mr. Tom with it. Dear! dear! such lads!"
"Tell me about his running away," said Jack.
"After the fiddler, do you mean, dear? That was when he was a little
lad. Always mad after music he was, and playing on anything he could
get hold of, and singing like a serup, that boy. So one day there came
along an Italian, with a fiddle that he played on, and a little boy
along with him, that had a fiddle, too. Well, and if Mr. Raymond didn't
persuade that boy to change clothes with him, and he to stay here and
Mr. Raymond to go with the fiddler and learn to play. Of course the man
was a scamp, and had no business; and Mr. Raymond gave him his gold
piece to take him, and all! But when the old Squire--that's your
grandfather, dear!--when he came in and found that little black-eyed
fellow dressed in his son's clothes, and crying with fright, and not a
word of English--well, he was neither to hold nor to bind, as the saying
is. Luckily Mrs. Ferrers--that's your grandmother, dear! she came in
before the child was frightened into a fit, though very near it; and she
spoke the language, and with her quiet ways she got the child quiet,
and he told her all about it, and how the fiddler beat him, and showed
the great bruises. And when she told the Squire, he got black in the
face, like he used, and took his dog-whip and rode off on his big grey
horse like mad; and when he came back with Mr. Raymond in front of him,
the whip was all in pieces, and Mr. Raymond crying and holding the
little fiddle tight. And the Italian boy stayed, and the Squire made a
man of him, from being a Papist outlandish-man. And that's all the
story, Master Jack."
"And he is Giuseppe?" asked Jack.
"And he is Jew Seppy," Mrs. Beadle assented. "Though it seems a hard
name to give him, and no Jew blood in him that any one can prove, only
his eyes being black. But he won't hear to its being shortened. And now
it is getting to be night-cap time, Master Jack," said the good woman,
beginning to fold up her work, "and I hope you are going to bed, too,
like a good young gentleman. But if you don't, you'll shut the door
careful, won't you dear?"
"Never fear," said the boy, gathering himself up from the floor. "I'm
sleepy to-night, anyhow; I may go straight to bed. Good-night, Biddy.
You're quite sure you like me to call you 'Biddy'?"
"My dear, it makes me feel five-and-twenty years younger!" said the good
woman; "and I seem to see your dear father, coming in with his curls
a-shaking, calling his Biddy. Ah, well! Good-night, Master Jack, dear!
Don't forget to look in when you go by."
"Good-night, Biddy!"
The lad went off with his candle, fairly stumbling along the corridor
from sheer sleepiness; but when he reached his own room, which was
flooded with moonlight, the drowsiness seemed to take wings and
disappear. He sat down by the open window and looked out. Below lay the
garden, all black and silver in the intense white light. The smell of
the roses came up to him, exquisitely sweet. He leaned his head against
the window-frame, and felt as if he were floating away on the buoyant
fragrance--far, far away, to the South, where his home was, and where
the roses were in bloom so long that it seemed as if there were always
roses.
The silver-lit garden vanished from his sight, and he saw instead a
long, low room, half garret, half workshop, where a man stood beside a
long table, busily at work with some fine tools. The spare, stooping
figure, the long, delicate hands, the features carved as if in ivory,
the blue, near-sighted eyes peering anxiously at the work in his
hands,--all these were as actually present to the boy as if he could put
out his own hand and touch them. It was with a start that he came back
to the world of tangible surroundings, as a sudden breath of wind waved
the trees below him, and sent whisperings of leaf and blossom through
his room.
"Daddy!" he said half to himself; and he brushed away something which
had no possible place in the eyes of a youth who was to go to college
next year. Giving himself a violent shake, Jack Ferrers rose, and, going
to a cupboard, took out with great care a long, black, oblong box. This
he deposited on the bed; then took off his boots and put on a pair of
soft felt slippers. His coat, too, was taken off; and then, holding the
black box in his arms, as if it were a particularly delicate baby, he
left the room, and softly made his way to the stairs which led to the
attic. There was a door at the foot of the stairs, which he opened
noiselessly, and then he stopped to listen. All was still. He must have
been sitting for some time at the window, for the light in the hall was
extinguished, which was a sign that his uncle had gone to bed. In fact,
as he listened intently, his ear caught a faint, rhythmic sound, rising
and falling at regular intervals, like the distant murmur of surf on the
sea-shore; his uncle was asleep. Closing the door softly after him, and
clasping the black box firmly, Jack climbed the attic stairs and
disappeared in the darkness.