THE SHADOW OF A SHADE.
"The world would lose its finest joys
Without its little girls and boys;
Their careless glee and simple ruth,
And innocence and trust and truth;
Ah! what would your poor poet do
Without such little folk as you?"
Locker.
"Well, anyhow," observed Mr. Nicholas Swan, the gardener, when the
children came home and told him how Peter had cried--"anyhow, there's
one less on you now to run over my borders. He was as meek as Moses,
that child was, when first he came, but you soon made him as audacious
as any of you."
"So they did, Nicholas dear," said one of the twins, a tall, dark haired
child.
"Oh, it's Nicholas _dear_, is it, Miss Barbara? Well, now, what next?"
"Why, the key of the fruit-house--we want the key."
"Key, indeed! Now, there's where it is. Make a wry path through your
fields, and still you'll walk in it! I never ought to ha' got in the
habit of lending you that key. What's the good of a key if a man can
never keep it in his pocket? When I lived up at Mr. Daniel Mortimer's,
the children never had my key--never."
"Well, come with us, then, and give us out the pears yourself. We won't
take one."
Nicholas, with a twin on each side, and the other children bringing up
the rear, was now walked off to the fruit-house, grumbling as he went.
"I left Mr. Mortimer's, I did, because I couldn't stand the children;
and now the world's a deal fuller of 'em than it was then. No, Miss
Gladys, I'm not a-going any faster; I wouldn't run, if it was ever so.
When the contrac' was signed of my wages, it was never wrote down that I
had to run at any time."
And having now reached the fruit-house, he was just pulling out his big
key, when something almost like shame showed itself in his ruddy face,
as a decided and somewhat mocking voice addressed him.
"Well, Nicholas, I'm just amazed at ye! I've lived upward of sixty years
in this island, Scotland and England both, and never did I see a man got
over so by children in my life! Talking of my niece's children, are
ye--Mrs. Daniel Mortimer's? I wonder at ye--they were just nothing to
these."
Here Mr. Swan, having unlocked the door, dived into the fruit-house, and
occupied himself for some moments in recovering his self-possession and
making his selection; then emerging with an armful of pears, he shouted
after Miss Christie Grant, who had got a good way down the walk by this
time.
"I don't deny, ma'am, that these air aggravating now and then, but
anyhow they haven't painted my palings pink and my door pea-green."
Miss Christie returned. She seldom took the part of any children,
excepting for the sake of argument or for family reasons; and she felt
at that moment that the Daniel Mortimers were related to her, and that
these, though they called her "aunt," were not.
"Ye should remember," she observed, with severity, "that ye had already
left your house when they painted it."
"Remember it!" exclaimed the gardener, straightening himself; "ay, ay, I
remember it--coming along the lane that my garden sloped down to, so
that every inch of it could be seen. It had been all raked over, and
there, just out of the ground, growing up in mustard-and-cress letters
as long as my arm, I saw '_This genteel residence to let, lately
occupied by N. Swan, Esq._' I took my hob-nailed boots to them last
words, and I promise you I made the mustard-and-cress fly."
"Well, ye see," observed Miss Christie, who was perfectly serious,
"there is great truth in your saying that those children did too much as
they pleased; but ye must consider that Mr. Mortimer didn't like to
touch any of them, because they were not his own."
"That's just it, ma'am, and Mrs. Mortimer didn't like to touch any of
them because they _were her own;_ so between the two they got to be, I
don't say as bad as these, but--" Here he shook his head, and leaning his
back to the fruit-house door, began diligently to peel the fruit for an
assembly, silent, because eating. "As for Master Giles," he went on,
more to torment the old lady than to disparage the gentleman in
question, "before ever he went to school, he chalked a picture that he
called my arms on the tool house-door, three turnips as natural as life,
and a mad kind of bird flourishing its wings about, that he said was a
swan displayed. Underneath, for a _morter_, was wrote, 'All our geese
air swans.' Now what do you call that for ten years old?"
"Well, well," said Aunt Christie, "that's nearly twenty years ago."
Then the fruit being all finished, N. Swan, Esq., shut up his
clasp-knife, and the story being also finished, his audience ran away,
excepting Miss Christie, to whom he said--
"But I was fond of those children, you'll understand, though they were
powerful plagues."
"Swan," said the old lady, "ye'll never be respectit by children. You're
just what ye often call yourself, _soft_."
"And what's the good of being rough with 'em, ma'am? I can no more make
'em sober and sensible than I could straighten out their bushes of curly
hair. No, not though I was to take my best rake to it. They're powerful
plagues, bless 'em! but so far as I can see, we're in this world mainly
to bring them forrard in it. I remember when my Joey was a very little
chap, he was playing by me with a tin sword that he was proud of. I was
sticking peas in my own garden, and a great hulking sergeant came by,
and stopped a minute to ask his road. 'Don't you be afraid of me,' says
Joey, very kind. 'I won't hurt 'e.' That man laughed, but the water
stood in his eyes. He'd lost such a one, he said. Children air
expensive, but it's very cutting to lose 'em. I've never seen any of the
Mortimers in that trouble yet, though."
"And you've been many a long year with them too," observed Miss
Christie.
"Ay, ma'am. Some folks air allers for change, but I've known when I was
well off and they've known when they were well off." Mr. Swan said this
in a somewhat pragmatical tone, and continued, "There's nothing but a
long course of just dealing and respect o' both sides as can buy such
digging as this here family gets out of my spade."
"Very true," said Miss Christie, who did not appear to see anything
peculiar in this self-eulogy.
"But some folks forget," continued Mr. Swan, "that transplanted trees
won't grow the first year, and others want too much for their money, and
too good of its kind; but fair and softly, thinks I; you can't buy five
shillings with threepence-halfpenny in any shop that I ever heerd of;
and when you've earned half-a-crown you can't be paid it in gold."
The next morning, while Peter sat at breakfast revolving in his mind the
delights he had lost, and wondering what Janie and Bertie and Hugh and
Nancy were about, these staunch little friends of his were
unconsciously doing the greatest damage to his future prospects--to
their most important part, as he understood them, namely, his chance of
coming to see the Mortimers again.
Miss Christie Grant always presided over the school-room breakfast, and
John Mortimer, unless he had other visitors, breakfasted alone,
generally coming down just after his children's meal was over, and
having a selection of them with him morning by morning.
On this occasion, just as he came down, his children darted out of the
window, exclaiming, "Oh, there's Mr. Brandon down the garden--Mr.
Brandon's come."
John walked to the window, and looked out with a certain scrutinising
interest; for it was but a few weeks since a somewhat important visitor
had left old Daniel Mortimer's house--one concerning whom the
neighbourhood had decided that she certainly ought to become Mrs. Giles
Brandon, and that it would be an odd thing if Mr. Brandon did not think
so. If he did, there was every appearance that she did not, for she had
gone away all but engaged to his young brother Valentine.
"He looks dull, decidedly dull, since Miss Graham left them,"
soliloquised John Mortimer. "I thought so the last time I saw him, and
now I am sure of it. Poor fellow," he continued with a half smile. "I
can hardly fancy him a lover, but, if he does care for that graceful
little sea-nymph, it is hard on him that such a shallow-pated boy as
Valentine should stand in his light;" and he stepped out to meet his
guest, who was advancing in the midst of the children, while at the same
time they shouted up at the open schoolroom window that Nancy must come
down directly and see her godfather.
The grand lady-governess looked out in a becoming morning costume.
"A fine young man," she remarked to Miss Christie Grant.
"Yes, that's my oldest nephew, St. George they call him. Giles Brandon
is his name, but his mother aye disliked the name of Giles, thought it
was only fit for a ploughman. So she called him St. George, and that's
what he is now, and will be."
Miss Christie Grant said this with a certain severity of manner, but she
hardly knew how to combine a snubbing to the lady for her betrayal of
interest in all the bachelors round, with her desire to boast of this
relative. So she presently went on in a more agreeable tone. "His mother
married Mr. Daniel Mortimer; he is an excellent young man. Has no debts
and has been a great traveller. In short a year and a half ago he was
shipwrecked, and as nearly lost his life as possible. He was picked up
by Captain Graham, whose grand-daughter (no, I think Miss Graham is the
old gentleman's niece) has been staying this summer with Mr. Daniel
Mortimer. Mr. Brandon, ye'll understand, is only half-brother to
Valentine Mortimer, whom ye frequently see."
Valentine was too young to interest the grand lady, but when by a
combined carelessness of manner with judicious questioning she had
discovered that the so-called St. George had a moderate independence,
and prospects besides, she felt a longing wish to carry down little
Anastasia herself to see her godfather, and was hardly restrained from
doing so by that sense of propriety which never forsook her. In the mean
time Brandon passed out of view into the room where breakfast was spread
and the little Anastasia, so named because her birth had taken place on
Easter day, was brought down smiling in her sister Barbara's arms.
Peter's little love, a fair and dimpled creature, was forthwith
accommodated with a chair close to her godfather, while the twins
withdrew to practise their duets, and more viands were placed on the
table.
The children then began to wait on their father and his guest, and
during a short conversation which ensued concerning Mrs. Peter Melcombe
and her boy, they were quite silent, till a pause took place and the
little Anastasia lifted up her small voice and distinguished herself by
saying--
"Fader, Peter's dot a dhost in his darden."
"Got a ghost!" exclaimed John Mortimer, with a look of dismay; for
ghosts were the last things he wished his children to hear anything
about.
"Yes," said the youngest boy Hugh, "he says he's going to be rather a
grand gentleman when he's grown up, but he wishes he hadn't got a
ghost."
"Then why doesn't he sell it, Huey?" asked the guest with perfect
gravity.
The little fellow opened his blue eyes wider. "I don't think you know
what ghosts are," he remarked.
"Oh yes, I do," answered Brandon. "I've often read about them. Some
people think a good deal of them, but I never could see the fun of
having them myself, and," he continued, "I never noticed any about your
premises, John."
"No," answered John Mortimer, following his lead; "they would be no use
for the children to play with."
"Do they scratch, then?" inquired the little Anastasia.
"No, my beauty bright, but I'm told they only wake up when it's too dark
for children to play."
"Peter's ghost doesn't," observed Master Bertram. "He came in the
morning."
"Did he steal anything?" inquired Brandon, still desirous, it seemed, to
throw dirt at the great idea.
"Oh no, he didn't steal," said the other little boy, "that's not what
they're for."
"What did he say then?"
"He gave a deep sigh, but he didn't say _nothink_."
"Ghosts," said Bertie, following up his brother's speech as one who had
full information--"ghosts are not birds, they don't come to lay eggs for
you, or to be of any use at all. They come for you to be afraid of.
Didn't you know that, father?"
John was too much vexed to answer, and Peter's chance from that moment
of ever entering those doors again was not worth a rush.
"But you needn't mind, father dear," said Janie, the eldest child
present, "Peter's ghost won't come here. It doesn't belong to 'grand,'
or to any of us. Its name was Melcombe, and it came from the sea, that
they might know it was dead." John and Brandon looked at one another.
The information was far too circumstantial to be forgotten by the
children, who continued their confidences now without any more
irreverent interruptions. "Mrs. Melcombe gave Peter four half-crowns to
give to nurse, and he had to say 'Thank you, nurse, for your kindness to
me;' but nurse wasn't kind, she didn't like Peter, and she slapped him
several times."
"And Mrs. Melcombe gave some more shillings to Maria," said Bertie.
"Like the garden slug," observed Brandon, "leaving a trail of silver
behind her."
The said Maria, who was their little nursemaid, now came in to fetch
away the children.
"Isn't this provoking," exclaimed John Mortimer, when they were gone. "I
had no notion that child had been neglected and left to pick up these
pernicious superstitions, though I never liked his mother from the first
moment I set my eyes on her."
"Why did you ask her to stay at your house then?" said Brandon,
laughing.
"Giles, you know as well as I do."
Thereupon, having finished their breakfast, they set forth to walk to
the town, arguing together on some subject that interested them till
they reached the bank.
Behind it, in a comfortable room fitted up with library tables, leather
chairs, and cases for books and papers, sat old Augustus Mortimer.
"Grand," as he was always called by his descendants, that being easier
to say than his full title of grandfather; and if John Mortimer had not
taken Brandon into this room to see him, the talk about the ghost might
have faded away altogether from the mind of the latter.
As it was, Grand asked after the little ones, and Brandon, standing on
the rug and looking down on the fine stern features and white head,
began to give him a graphic account of what little Peter Melcombe had
been teaching them, John Mortimer, while he unlocked his desk and sorted
out certain papers, now and then adding a touch or two in mimicry of his
children's little voices.
Old Augustus said nothing, but Brandon, to his great surprise, noticed
that as the narrative went on it produced a marked effect upon him; he
listened with suppressed eagerness, and then with a cogitative air as if
he was turning the thing over in his mind.
The conclusion of the story, how Janie had said the name of the ghost
was Melcombe, John Mortimer related, for Brandon by that time was keenly
alive to the certainty that they were disturbing the old man much.
A short silence followed. John was still arranging his papers, then his
father said deliberately,--
"This is the first hint I ever received of any presence being supposed
to haunt the place."
The ghost itself had never produced the slightest effect on John
Mortimer. All he thought of was the consequence of the tale on the minds
of his children.
"I shall take care that little monkey does not come here again in a
hurry," he remarked, at the same time proceeding to mend a quill pen;
his father watching him rather keenly, Brandon thought, from under his
bushy, white eyebrows.
"Now, of all men," thought Brandon, "I never could have supposed that
Grand was superstitious. I don't believe he is either; what does it
mean?" and as there was still silence, he became so certain that Grand
would fain ask some more questions but did not like to do so, that he
said, in a careless tone, "That was all the children told us;" and
thereupon, being satisfied and willing to change the subject, as Brandon
thought, the old man said,--
"Does my brother dine at home to-day, St. George?"
"Yes, uncle; shall I tell him you will come over to dinner?"
"Well, my dear fellow, if you are sure it will be convenient to have
me--it is a good while since I saw him--so you may."
"He will be delighted; shall I tell him you will stay the night?"
"Yes."
"Well done, father," said John, looking up. "I am glad you are getting
over the notion that you cannot sleep away from home. I'll come over to
breakfast, St. George, and drive my father in."
"Do," said Brandon, taking his leave; and as he walked to the railway
that was to take him home, he could not help still pondering on the
effect produced by the mention of the ghost. He little supposed,
however, that the ghost was at the bottom of this visit to his
stepfather; but it was.