THE SECOND ACT.
COLONEL FERRERS was taking his afternoon stroll in the garden. Dinner
was over; for at Roseholme, as at Braeside, country hours were kept,
with early dinner, and seven o'clock tea, the pleasantest of all meals.
With a fragrant Manilla cigar between his lips, and his good stick in
his hand, the Colonel paced up and down the well-kept gravel paths, at
peace with all mankind. The garden was all ablaze with geranium and
verbena, heliotrope and larkspur. The pansies spread a gold and purple
mantle in their own corner, while poppies were scattered all about in
well-planned confusion. All this was Giuseppe's work,--good, faithful
Giuseppe, who never rested, and never spoke, save to say "Subito,
Signor!" when his master called him. He was at work now in a corner of
the garden, setting out chrysanthemums; but no one would have known it,
so noiseless were his motions, so silent his coming and going.
The Colonel, though pleasantly conscious of the lovely pomp spread out
for his delight, was thinking of other things than flowers. He was
thinking how his nephew Jack had improved in the last two months.
Positively, thought the Colonel, the boy was developing, was coming out
of the animal kingdom, and becoming quite human. Partly due to the
Indian clubs, no doubt, and to his, the Colonel's, wholesome discipline
and instructions; but largely, sir, largely to feminine influence. Daily
intercourse with women like Mrs. Grahame and her daughter would civilise
a gorilla, let alone a well-intentioned giraffe who played the fiddle.
He puffed meditatively at his cigar, and dwelt on a pleasant picture
that his mind called up: Hildegarde as he had seen her yesterday,
sitting with a dozen little girls about her, and telling them stories
while they sewed, under her careful supervision, at patchwork and dolls'
clothes. How sweet she looked! how bright her face was, as she told the
merry tale of the "Midsummer Night's Dream." "Harry Monmouth, sir! she
was telling 'em Shakespeare! And they were drinking it in as if it had
been Mother Goose." The Colonel paused, and sighed heavily. "If Hester
had lived," he said, "if my little Hester had lived--" and then he drew
a long whiff of the fragrant Manilla, and walked on.
As he turned the corner by the great canna plant, he came suddenly upon
Mrs. Beadle, who was apparently waiting to speak to him. The good
housekeeper was in her state dress of black silk, with embroidered apron
and lace mitts, and a truly wonderful cap; and Colonel Ferrers, if he
had been observant of details, might have known that this portended
something of a serious nature. Being such as he was, he merely raised
his hat with his grave courtesy, and said: "Good-afternoon, Mrs. Beadle.
Is it about the yellow pickles? The same quantity as usual, ma'am, or
perhaps a few more jars, as I wish to send some to Mrs. Grahame at
Braeside."
Mrs. Beadle shivered a little. She had made the yellow pickles at
Roseholme for five and twenty years; and now,--"No, sir," she said
faintly. "It is not the pickles." She plucked at the fringe of her
shawl, and Colonel Ferrers waited, though with a kindling eye. Women
were admirable, but some of their ways were hard to bear.
Finally Mrs. Beadle made a desperate effort, and said, "Do you think,
sir, that you could find some one to take my place?"
Colonel Ferrers fixed a look of keen inquiry on her, and instantly felt
her pulse. "Rapid!" he said, "and fluttering; Elizabeth Beadle, are you
losing your mind?"
"I have found my little boy, sir," cried Mrs. Beadle, bursting into
tears. "My dear niece Martha's own child, Colonel Ferrers. He is in the
hands of heathen reprobates, if I do say it, and it is my duty to make a
home for him. I never thought to leave Roseholme while work I could, but
you see how it is, sir."
"I--see how it is?" cried the Colonel, with a sudden explosion. Then
controlling himself by a great effort, he said with forced calmness,
"I will walk over to the end of the garden, Elizabeth Beadle, and
when I return I shall expect a sensible and coherent--do you
understand?--_coherent_ account of this folderol. See how it is,
indeed!"
The Colonel strode off, muttering to himself, and poor Mrs. Beadle wiped
her eyes, and smoothed down her apron with trembling hands, and made up
her mind that she would not cry, if she should die for it.
When the grim-frowning Colonel returned, she told her story with
tolerable plainness, and concluded by begging that her kind friend and
master would not be angry, but would allow her to retire to a cottage,
where she could "see to" her niece's child, and bring him up in a
Christian way.
"Pooh! pooh! my good Beadle!" cried the Colonel. "Stuff and nonsense, my
good soul! I am delighted that you have found the child; delighted, I
assure you. We will get him away from those people, never fear for that!
and we will send him to school. A good school, ma'am, is the place for
the boy. None of your Hardhacks, but a school where he will be happy and
well-treated. In vacation time--hum! ha!--you might take a little trip
with him now and then, perhaps. But as to disturbing your position
here-- Pooh! pooh! stuff and nonsense! Don't let me hear of it again!"
Mrs. Beadle trembled, but remained firm. "No school, sir!" she said.
"What the child needs is a home, Colonel Ferrers; and there's nobody but
me to make one for him. No, sir! never, if I gave my life to it, could I
thank you as should be for your kindness since first I set foot in this
dear house, as no other place will ever be home to me! but go I must,
Colonel, and the sooner the better."
Then the Colonel exploded. His face became purple; his eyes flashed
fire, and, leaning upon his stick, he poured out volley upon volley of
reproach, exhortation, argument. Higher and higher rose his voice, till
the very leaves quivered upon the trees; till the object of his wrath
shook like an aspen, and even Giuseppe, in the north corner of the
garden, quailed, and murmured "Santa Maria!" over his chrysanthemums.
How much more frightened, since theirs was the blame of all the
mischief, were two guilty creatures who at this moment crouched,
concealed behind a great laurel-bush, listening with all their ears!
Jack and Hildegarde exchanged terrified glances. They had known that the
Colonel would be angry, but they had no idea of anything like this. He
was in a white heat of rage, and was hurling polysyllabic wrath at the
devoted woman before him, who stood speechless but unshaken, meekly
receiving the torrent of invective.
Suddenly, there was a movement among the bushes; and the next moment a
small form emerged from the shade, and stood in front of the furious old
gentleman. "Is your name Saul?" asked Hugh quietly.
The two conspirators had forgotten the child. They had brought him with
them, with some faint idea of letting the Colonel see him as if by
accident, hoping that his quaint grace might make a favourable
impression; but in the stress of the occasion they had wholly forgotten
his presence, and now--now matters were taken out of their hands.
Hildegarde clutched her parasol tight; Jack clasped his violin, and both
listened and looked with all their souls.
"Is your name Saul?" repeated the boy, as the Colonel, astonishment
choking for an instant the torrent of his rage, paused speechless.
"Because if it is, the evil spirit from God is upon you, and you should
have some one play with his hand."
"What--what is this?" gasped the Colonel. "Who are you, boy?"
"I am my great-aunt's little nephew," said Hugh. "But no matter for me.
You must sit down when the evil spirit is upon you. You might hurt some
one. Why do you look so at me, great-aunt? Why don't you help Mr. Saul?"
"Come away, Hughie, love!" cried Mrs. Beadle, in an agony of terror.
"Come, dear, and don't ever speak to the Colonel so again. He's only a
babe, sir, as doesn't know what he is saying."
"Go away yourself!" roared the Colonel, recovering the power of speech.
"Depart, do you hear? Remove yourself from my presence, or--" he moved
forward. Mrs. Beadle turned and fled. "Now," he said, turning to the
child, "what do you mean, child, by what you said just now? I--I will
sit down."
He sank heavily on a garden seat and motioned the child before him.
"What do you mean, about Saul--eh?"
"But you know," said Hugh, opening wide eyes of wonder,--"are you so
old that you forget?--how the evil spirit from God came upon King Saul,
and they sent for David, and he played with his hand till the evil
spirit went away. Now you remember?" He nodded confidently, and sat down
beside the Colonel, who, though still heaving and panting from his
recent outburst, made no motion to repel him. "I said _Mr._ Saul," Hugh
continued, "because you are not a king, you see, and I suppose just
'Saul' would not be polite when a person is as old as you are. And
_what_ do you think?" he cried joyously, as a sudden thought struck him.
"The ostrich gentleman plays most _beautifully_ with his hand. His name
isn't David, but that doesn't matter. I am going to find him."
"Play, Jack," whispered Hildegarde. "Play, _quick_! Something old and
simple. Play 'Annie Laurie.'"
Obeying the girl's fleeting look, Jack laid fiddle to bow, and the old
love tune rose from behind the laurel-bush and floated over the garden,
so sweet, so sweet, the very air seemed to thrill with tenderness and
gentle melody.
Colonel Ferrers sank back on the seat. "Hester's song," he murmured.
"Hester's song. Is it Hester, or an angel?"
The notes rose, swelled into the pathetic refrain,--
"And for bonny Annie Laurie,
I'd lay me down and die."
Then they sank away, and left the silence still throbbing, as the hearts
of the listeners throbbed.
"_I_ thought it was an angel," cried Hugh, "when I first heard him, Mr.
Saul. But it isn't. It is the ostrich gentleman, and he has to play up
in the attic generally, because his uncle is a poor person who doesn't
know how to like music. I am _so_ sorry for his uncle, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Colonel Ferrers gruffly. "Yes, I am. Very sorry."
A pause followed. Then Hugh asked cautiously: "How do you feel now, Mr.
Saul? Do you feel as if the evil spirit were going away?"
"I've got him," said the Colonel, in whose eyes the fire of anger was
giving place to something suspiciously like a twinkle. "I've got
him--bottled up. Now, youngster, who told you all that?"
"All what?" asked Hugh, whose thoughts were beginning to wander as he
gazed around the garden. "About the poor person who doesn't know how
to--"
"No, no," said the Colonel hastily, "not that. About Saul and David, and
all that. Who put you up to it? Hey?"
His keen eyes gazed intently into the clear blue ones of the child. Hugh
stared at him a moment, then answered gently, with a note of
indulgence, as if he were speaking to a much younger child: "It is in
the Bible. It is a pity that you do not know it. But perhaps there are
no pictures in your Bible. There was a big one where I lived, all _full_
of pictures, so I learned to read that way. And I always liked the Saul
pictures," he added, his eyes kindling, "because David was beautiful,
you know, and of a ruddy countenance; and King Saul was all hunched up
against the tent-post, with his eyes glaring just as yours were when you
roared, only he was uglier. You are not at all ugly now, but then you
looked as if you were going to burst. If a person _should_ burst--"
Colonel Ferrers rose, and paced up and down the path, going a few steps
each way, and glancing frequently at the boy from under his bushy
eyebrows. Hugh fell into a short reverie, and woke to say cheerfully:--
"This place fills me with heavenly joys. Does it fill you?"
"Humph!" growled the Colonel. "If you lived here, you would break all
the flowers off, I suppose, and pull 'em to pieces to see how they grow;
eh?"
Hugh contemplated him dreamily. "Is that what you did when you were a
little boy?" he answered. "I love flowers. I don't like to pick them,
for it takes their life. I don't care how they grow, as long as they
_do_ grow."
"And you would take all the birds' eggs," continued the Colonel, "and
throw stones at the birds, and trample the flower-beds, and bring mud
into the house, and tie fire-crackers to the cat's tail, and upset the
ink. _I_ know you!"
[Illustration: HUGH AND COLONEL FERRERS.]
Hugh rose with dignity, and fixed his eyes on the Colonel with grave
disapproval. "You do _not_ know me!" he said. "And--and if that is the
kind of boy you were, it is no wonder that the evil spirit comes upon
you. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you did burst some day. Good-by,
Mr. Saul! I am going away now."
"Hold on!" cried the Colonel peremptorily. "I beg your pardon! Do you
hear? Shake hands!"
Hugh beamed forgiveness, and extended a small brown paw, which was
shaken with right good will.
"That's right!" said Colonel Ferrers, with gruff heartiness. "Now go
into the house and find your great-aunt, and tell her to give you some
jam. Do you like jam?" The boy nodded with all the rapture of seven
years. "Give you some jam, and a picture-book, and make up a bed in the
little red room. Can you remember all that?"
"Yes, Mr. Saul!" cried Hugh, dancing about a little. "Nice Mr. Saul!
Shall I bring you some jam? What kind of jam shall I say?"
"What kind do you like best?"
"Damson."
"Damson it is! Off with you now!"
When the boy was gone, the Colonel walked up and down for a few moments,
frowning heavily, his hands holding his stick behind him. Then he said
quietly, "Jack!"
Jack came forward and stood before him, looking half-proud,
half-sheepish, with his fiddle under his arm.
The Colonel contemplated him for a moment in silence. Then, "Why in the
name of all that is cacophonous, didn't you play me a tune at first,
instead of an infernal German exercise? Hey?"
Jack blushed and stammered. He had played for his uncle once only, a
fugue by Hummel, of which his mind had happened to be full; he felt that
it had not been a judicious choice.
"Can you play 'The Harp of Tara'?" demanded the Colonel; and Jack
played, with exquisite feeling, the lovely old tune, the Colonel
listening with bent head, and marking the time with his stick. "Harry
Monmouth!" he said, when it was over. "Because a man doesn't like to
attend the violent ward of a cats' lunatic asylum, it doesn't follow
that he doesn't care for music. Music, sir, is melody, that's what it
is!"
Jack shuddered slightly, and did silent homage to the shade of Wagner,
but knew enough to keep silence.
"And--and where did you pick up this child?" his uncle continued. "I
take it back about his having been put up to what he did. He is true
blue, that child; I shouldn't wonder if you were, too, in milksop
fashion. Hey?"
"Skim-milk is blue, you know, uncle," said Jack, smiling. "But I didn't
discover Hugh. Isn't he a wonderful child, sir? Hildegarde discovered
him, of course. I believe Hildegarde does everything, except what her
mother does. Come here, Hildegarde! Come and tell Uncle Tom about your
finding Hugh."
But Hildegarde was gone.