Produced by Al Haines.
*MISS ESPERANCE AND
MR WYCHERLY*
BY
L. ALLEN HARKER
AUTHOR OF "A ROMANCE OF THE NURSERY," "CONCERNING
PAUL AND FIAMMETTA," "HIS FIRST LEAVE," ETC.
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1908
COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published September, 1908
*BOOKS BY L. ALLEN HARKER*
PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Miss Esperance and Mr. Wycherly
His First Leave
Concerning Paul and Fiammetta
A Romance of the Nursery
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. Which Introduces Them
II. The Coming of the Children
III. The Education of Mr. Wycherly
IV. The Secretiveness of Mause
V. Robina
VI. The Awakening of Mr. Wycherly
VII. Elsa Drives the Nail Home
VIII. Edmund Rechristens Mr. Wycherly
IX. Cupid Abroad
X. The Sabbath
XI. Loaves and Fishes
XII. The Village
XIII. A Meeting
XIV. A Parting
XV. The Bethune Temperament
XVI. The Coming of the Colonel
XVII. Mr. Wycherly Goes Into Society
XVIII. Montagu and His Aunt
XIX. The Fond Adventure
XX. A Question of Theology
XXI. In which Mr. Wycherly Hangs Up His College Arms
XXII. Vale
"_Love is an excellent thing, a great good indeed, which alone maketh
light all that is burthensome and equally bears all that is unequal.
For it carrieth a burthen without being burthened and maketh all that
which is bitter sweet and savoury._"
*MISS ESPERANCE AND
MR. WYCHERLY*
*CHAPTER I*
*WHICH INTRODUCES THEM*
And the kingdom of heaven is of the child-like, of those who are easy to
please, who love and who give pleasure.--R.L.S.
Just as a Royal Princess is known only by her Christian name, so "Miss
Esperance" was known to her many friends by hers. It would have seemed
an impertinence to add anything more: there was only one Miss Esperance,
and even quite commonplace people, deficient in imagination and
generally prosaic in their estimate of their acquaintance, acknowledged,
perhaps unconsciously, that in Miss Esperance was to be found in marked
degree "that hardy and high serenity," distinguishing quality of the
truly great.
A little, old lady, her abundant white hair demurely parted under the
species of white muslin cap known in the North country as a "mutch,"
with beautiful, kind eyes, and a fresh pink-and-white complexion, having
a slim, long-waisted figure, always attired in garments something of a
cross between those of a Quakeress and a Sister-of-Mercy; a little, old
lady, who walked delicately and talked deliberately the English of Mr.
Addison; who lived in a small, square house set in a big, homely garden,
on an incredibly small income; and out of that income helped innumerable
people poorer than herself, to say nothing of much greater
responsibilities undertaken at an age when most of us look for rest and
a quiet life.
Long before there was a village of Burnhead at all, that small stone
house had stood four-square to all the winds of heaven, and winds are
boisterous in that cold North. So lonely had it been--that little
house--that far back, beyond the memory of even hearsay it had been
called "Remote." Now the village had crept up round it, but still it
stood just a little aloof, alone in its green garden at the end of the
straggling village street. And it seemed a singularly suitable setting
for Miss Esperance who, also, by reason of her breeding and her
dignified, dainty ways, moved wholly unconsciously and gracefully on a
somewhat different plane from that of the homely folk amongst whom she
spent her simple days.
Such was Miss Esperance; regarded by the inhabitants of her own village,
and those of the big town on whose outskirts it lay, with something of
the possessive pride with which they looked upon their famous Castle.
And then there was Mr. Wycherly.
For some years he had lived with Miss Esperance, occupying two rooms on
the first floor. A very learned man was he, absorbed in the many books
which lined his little sitting-room. Something of a collector, too,
with a discriminating affection for first editions and a knowledge
concerning them excelling that of Mr. Donaldson himself, the great
second-hand dealer.
The attitude of Miss Esperance toward Mr. Wycherly somewhat resembled
that of Miss Betsy Trotwood to Mr. Dick, with this difference--that Mr.
Wycherly's lapses from a condition of erudite repose were only
occasional. He had what Miss Esperance tenderly called "one foible." On
occasion, particularly at such times as he left the safe shelter of the
village on a book-hunting expedition in the neighbouring town, "he
exceeded"--again to quote Miss Esperance--the temperate tumbler of toddy
and single glass of port which she accorded him; and would return in a
state of boisterous hilarity, which caused Elsa, the serving-woman, to
shake her head and mutter something about "haverals" on his first
wavering appearance at the far end of the garden path which led to the
front door.
Then would she march upstairs and sternly "turn down" his bed;
descending hastily again and, in spite of his protests, trundle him up
the staircase, divest him of his boots, nor leave him till he was safe
between the sheets. There he continued to sing lustily till he fell
asleep.
He was never otherwise than courteous in his cups; but at such times his
usually austere manner would unbend, and he would compare Elsa--who was
older than Miss Esperance and extremely hard-favoured--to sundry heathen
goddesses, eulogising her eyes and her complexion, and interspersing his
compliments with sonorous Latin quotations; for, like Mr. Addison, "his
knowledge of the Latin poets, from Lucretius and Catullus down to
Claudian and Prudentius, was singularly exact and profound."
Even when most mirthful he sang only two songs, "Here's a Health Unto
His Majesty" and "Down Among the Dead Men." In his more sober moments
he professed entire ignorance of music.
There were people who said that he was a descendant of the Mr. Wycherly
who wrote plays, but he was never heard to claim any such relationship.
When he first came to live with Miss Esperance his family and hers
almost despaired of him, and even talked of putting him "in a home"; for
his "foible" had become a habit, and health and brain were both
seriously affected. Then Miss Esperance suggested that he should come
to her, and he and his relatives were only too glad to fall in with the
suggestion. What he could pay would make things easier for her, and
she, if any one in the world, might reclaim him. But if his friends
thought to make things more comfortable for Miss Esperance by the
quarterly payments they made for his board and lodging, they were very
far wrong. She deducted a few shillings for his rooms, but the rest was
most religiously expended upon Mr. Wycherly; and as his health improved
and the fine, keen, scholarly brain reasserted itself, he was only too
glad to leave everything to Miss Esperance, never concerning himself so
much as to order a pair of boots unless she accompanied him to be
measured.
He "exceeded" less and less; his vocal exercises were confined to some
four times in the year, and Miss Esperance rejoiced over him as a
book-lover rejoices over some rare folio rescued from the huckster's
stall to play an honoured part among "the chosen and the mighty of every
place and time."
"It is of inestimable advantage to me to be able to listen daily to the
instructive conversation of so cultivated a man as my good friend Mr.
Wycherly," Miss Esperance would say. "He seems to comprise in his own
person the trained intelligence of the ages."
And no matter to whomsoever she said it, he would bow gravely and look
impressed. It was surprising what beautiful manners quite uncouth
people developed in the society of Miss Esperance.
She had many relations in high places, and all who crossed her threshold
were her life-long friends, eager to serve her, but she would accept
pecuniary assistance from none of them.
She and Elsa, the faithful servant and friend of some fifty years,
cooked and washed and gardened, caught and groomed the shaggy pony in
the little paddock, and cleaned the queer little carriage in which Miss
Esperance used to drive into Edinburgh, with a shawl pinned over her
bonnet, on cold days, to protect her ears.
She and Elsa seldom tasted meat except on Sundays. "A man, my dear, is
different," she would say, when chops were frizzling for Mr. Wycherly;
but she always had a meal for a friend, and a good and daintily served
meal it was!
When you stayed with Miss Esperance, Elsa would put her head into your
bedroom--it seemed in the small hours--demanding loudly, "Will ye tak' a
herring or an egg to your breakfast?" And you were wise if you chose
the herring, for herrings "brandered" by Elsa were of a succulence
unknown to ordinary mortals.
It fell upon a time during Mr. Wycherly's sojourn that one Archie, a
young nephew of Miss Esperance, came to visit them, and in no time the
jolly young middy, whose ship was anchored at Leith, had made a conquest
of them, all three, with his youth, and good looks, and kindly, cheery
ways.
Mr. Wycherly heard that a first edition of "Beaumont and Fletcher" was
to be seen at some bookseller's in the new town, and set forth early
with five pounds in his pocket, to see if he could secure such a find.
The day waned, and still no Mr. Wycherly returned triumphant to display
his treasure before the admiring eyes of Miss Esperance and "that vastly
agreeable youth," as he styled Archie.
Miss Esperance visibly grew more and more anxious, and Archie, who was
quite ignorant of Mr. Wycherly's "foible," wondered why his aunt should
concern herself that a dignified middle-aged gentleman had not returned
by five o'clock on a spring afternoon. So perturbed did she become that
Archie volunteered to go and look for him.
His aunt hesitated, then said slowly, "Dear Archie, I am not sure
whether it would be right to let you go. You are very young, and poor
dear Mr. Wycherly----"
"Hoots, Miss Esperance," interrupted Elsa from the half-open door, where
she had been listening in the most barefaced fashion, "just let the
laddie gang: he is better suited to see after yon puir drucken body than
you are yersel'!"
With that blessed reticence which characterises all honest and
well-disposed boys, Archie asked no questions. The whole situation
"jumped to the eye"; so, kissing his aunt, he seized his jaunty cap and
was gone before Miss Esperance recovered from her wonder and indignation
at Elsa's "meddling."
Archie walked smartly, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left till he
reached the outskirts of the town: but he met nobody other than an
occasional drover.
Presently he became aware of a little crowd which surrounded some one
who was apparently sitting on the curbstone and singing.
The group of rough lads and fisher-girls joined derisively in the chorus
of the song, marking the time by means of various missiles more
calculated to soil than to injure their target.
With a sense of foreboding curiosity as the discordant "Fal-la-la, la,
la la, la" smote upon his ears, Archie squeezed himself into the press
under the arms of its taller members, and to his dismay discovered Mr.
Wycherly--hatless, almost coatless, dirty and dishevelled--endeavouring
to sing "Here's a Health Unto His Majesty" in very adverse
circumstances.
Archie pushed through to his side, saying haughtily, "Don't you see that
the gentleman is drunk? Be off, and let me take him home."
But the lads and lassies by no means saw it in that light, and in less
time than it takes to write the sentence Archie was engaged
single-handed in a free fight with all and sundry, and there seemed
every likelihood of his getting decidedly the worst of it.
Fortune favours the brave, however, and a big collier lad, who had been
the first to point out Mr. Wycherly's peculiarities of gait and costume
to his companions, suddenly sided with Archie, and not only did he
succeed in dispersing his quondam friends, but he fetched a "hackney
coach" and lifted Mr. Wycherly bodily into it.
The "Beaumont and Fletcher" had proved to be a reprint, and Mr. Wycherly
had drowned his sorrows in the flowing bowl.
* * * * *
At twenty-two, with nothing but his pay to live upon, Archie married a
pretty girl whose face was her sole fortune. Two charming little boys
were born to them in the next seven years, then Archie and his wife both
died of typhoid fever at Portsmouth.
There were no living near relatives on either side, but kindly strangers
forwarded a letter, written by Archie a week before his death, to Miss
Esperance.
She was then nearly seventy years old, but in this matter she did not
even consult Mr. Wycherly. She merely informed him of what had
occurred, and announced her speedy departure for Portsmouth "to fetch
dear Archie's children home."
She had not left her own house for a single night in fifteen years.
Mr. Wycherly took her frail, beautiful old hand in his and raised it to
his lips. As he laid it down, he said beseechingly, "You will let me
act as joint guardian with you to Archie's children? I will undertake
the education of those boys myself--it will be a great interest for me."
"They will indeed be fortunate boys!" said Miss Esperance, and she
raised such beautiful, trustful eyes to her old friend that he was fain
to kiss her hand again and hasten from the room.
Shortly afterward he left the house and might have been seen hurrying
along the road in the direction of Edinburgh, with a large and seemingly
heavy parcel under his arm.
He was not long away, and he walked steady and straight, but all the
same he sang softly under his breath, "and he that will this health
deny," as he shut the garden gate with a clang and hurried toward the
house.
Miss Esperance was standing in the little hall dressed for driving,
looking pale and perturbed. She, too, had a parcel, a small square
parcel, and Elsa was evidently remonstrating, for Mr. Wycherly heard her
say as he came up: "It's just fair redeeklus, and onny o' them would be
just prood to be askit--an' me wi' all yon wages lyin' idle i' the bank
these thirty year!"
She paused abruptly as Mr. Wycherly appeared in the open door. Elsa had
sharp ears in spite of her years, and the last "let him lie" sent her up
the staircase as fast as her old legs would carry her.
"Miss Esperance," said Mr. Wycherly, "we start this afternoon. See, I
have bought the tickets," and he waved them triumphantly. "I have made
all our arrangements. We shall reach Portsmouth about midday to-morrow,
and there is plenty of money for present expenses, so please--" he took
the little square parcel from her very gently, and reached it up to
Elsa, who stood on the top step of the curly staircase. Through the
paper he felt it was the little leather jewel-case that had been her
mother's. "We could not allow that, Miss Esperance!" he continued.
"Journeys are a man's business."
Miss Esperance sat down on the only chair in the hall and began to cry.
Next day, when they were far away, and Elsa was dusting Mr. Wycherly's
books--he took them out and dusted them himself three times a week;
there were no glass doors, for he said he could not bear "to see his
friends through a window"--she came on several gaps in the well-filled
shelves. "The right edition of Gerard" was nowhere to be seen. The
long row of "kind-hearted play-books" was loose in the shelf, for
"Philip Massinger" was a-missing. And in the sacred place devoted to
"first folios" there was a yawning chasm.
Elsa paused, duster in hand. "She maun never ken," she whispered.
"They buiks was more to him than her braws is tae a woman. She maun
never ken."
*CHAPTER II*
*THE COMING OF THE CHILDREN*
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall;
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall.
LONGFELLOW.
Elsa had barely finished dusting Mr. Wycherly's books when Lady Alicia
Carruthers walked over from the "big hoose" to see if she could be of
any use. People found Elsa more approachable in this respect than Miss
Esperance, and often seized such times as they had seen the mistress
pass in her little pony carriage to tackle the maid, as to whether
anything could be done to increase the old lady's comfort, without her
knowledge.
And now that the news of her journey, and its reason, had flamed through
the village with all the wonder of a torchlight procession, it was only
what Miss Esperance herself would have described as "fitting" that the
chief lady in it should be first in the field to offer her services.
Very managing was Lady Alicia, strong, kind-hearted, dictatorial; mother
of many children and inclined to regard all the rest of the world as
being equally in need of supervision.
"What on earth will she do with two wee things like that?" she cried to
Elsa, as that worthy met her in the passage. "One's but a baby, isn't
he?"
"Two years and one month," answered Elsa cheerfully; "he'll be walkin'
onnyway."
"You know the little room leading from Miss Esperance's into the
passage, you must put them both there," said Lady Alicia decidedly.
"Have you got any beds? But of course you haven't. I'll send a bed for
the older boy and a crib for the baby, and bedding, and sheets, and I've
found the very girl to look after them--Robina Tod, a good douce
lassie--you'll remember her mother, Elsa?"
"I ken her fine," said Elsa slowly. "But yer Leddyship, d'ye think Miss
Esperance will consent? And where would the lassie sleep?"
"Miss Esperance just must consent. Robina will be thankful to come to
get trained and for her food, and she must come at six in the morning,
and go home at night to sleep, after they are bedded. You must manage
Miss Esperance in this, Elsa--she will be so bewildered at having
children here at all at first, that you'll find it easier than you
expect. What does she know of the wants of little children? Just you
tell her that you made arrangements because she hadn't time."
Elsa stood fingering her apron, and made no answer, nor did she look at
Lady Alicia, who was looking hard at her.
"Come, now, Elsa, you know there's nothing for it but to give in
gracefully. They must sleep somewhere, poor lambs, and you can't put an
infant in a four-post bed."
"I'm thinkin'," said Elsa slowly, "that Master Montagu will have to
sleep in the big bed, for yon room will never hold three beds, and Miss
Esperance would never part wi' yon that's in there."
"Very well, then, I will only send the crib, and a bath, and Robina,
and--anything else that comes into my head. You understand, Elsa?"
"I'll no promise Miss Esperance'll keep onny o' it, but you'll jest see.
If it pleases ye to send the bits o' things, it's no for me to say ye
nay."
Here Elsa raised her head and looked straight at Lady Alicia, and they
understood one another perfectly.
When, later in the afternoon, Robina, a rosy-cheeked lass of sixteen,
appeared in a spring cart along with the crib and a variety of other
useful things, Elsa received her with but grudging courtesy, and might
have been heard to mutter as she went about the house, "There's some
folk that simply canna keep their fingers out o' other folk's business,
and the worst o't is, that one must just thole't."
* * * * *
It is one of the eternal verities that no man knows what he can do till
he tries. Mr. Wycherly suddenly developed a "handiness" with regard to
babies that surprised himself, and caused Miss Esperance to regard him
with almost worshipful astonishment.
Montagu, the elder boy, fitted into his new surroundings at once. He
was a thoughtful, dreamy child, gentle and biddable, with an inborn love
of books that immediately endeared him to Mr. Wycherly. But the baby,
Edmund, was a strenuous person of inquiring mind, who toddled and
crawled and tumbled into every corner of the little house; who poked his
fat fingers into the mustard, the ink, and the mangle, impartially; who
pulled Mr. Wycherly's heaviest books out of the shelves, and built a
tower with them, which fell upon and almost buried him in the ruins,
whence, howling dismally, he was rescued by Mr. Wycherly himself, only
consenting to be comforted when that gentleman "gappled" with him round
the garden, Edmund sitting enthroned upon his shoulders, and admonishing
him to "gee up."
"Walking" indeed! I should think he was walking--swarming, climbing,
crawling, tumbling in every unimaginable direction, and celebrating his
innumerable accidents by vociferous outcries which invariably brought
the whole household to his assistance. Robina, who in spite of Elsa's
fears had been retained as the children's attendant, declared that
Master Edmund was "ayont her," but Elsa, manifesting a wholly unexpected
toleration for mischief of all kinds, declared him to be a "wee, stumpin
stoozie" after her own heart.
Lady Alicia proved to be right. Miss Esperance on her return with the
children expressed no objection to any of the preparations they had made
for her. Furthermore, she accepted gratefully, and with a dignified
humility very affecting to those who knew her, the offers of "help with
the children" that poured in upon her from all sides.
"For myself it was only fitting that I should be somewhat reserved," she
gently explained to Elsa when that honest woman exclaimed in surprise at
her meek acceptance of so much neighbourly "interference," "but dear
Archie's children are different, I have no right to refuse kindness
toward them: and my good friends have been so wonderfully kind--and as
for you, Elsa, you are the most wonderful of all--look how little Edmund
loves you!"
Elsa exclaimed, "tuts havers!" and hastened back to the kitchen, where
she relieved her feelings by making more of the gingerbread "pussies"
beloved of Baby Edmund.
Mr. Wycherly found his learned leisure considerably curtailed by the new
arrivals. Both Montagu and Edmund (it was curiously characteristic of
the household that the children were "Montagu" and "Edmund" from the
very first, never "Monty" or "Baby") infinitely preferred his society to
that of Robina, even though she was so much nearer their own age.
Children are very quick to see where they may tyrannise, and gentle,
scholarly Mr. Wycherly, who had loved few people, and those few so
dearly, fell an easy victim to "dear Archie's boys."
Montagu was called after him, but if on this score the elder boy may
seem to have had more claim on his attention than Baby Edmund, the
little brother made up in what Montagu called "demandliness," what he
may have lacked in legitimate pretension.
Even in a very large house it is impossible to conceal the presence of
children. They are of all human creatures the most ubiquitous, the
least repressible. Wherever they are they betray themselves in a
thousand ways no foresight can presage. Their very belongings seem
possessed of their own all-pervading spirit, and toys and small shed
garments have a way of turning up in the most unlikely places.
When, three days after the little boys arrived at Remote, Mr. Wycherly
discovered an absurd small glove, with holes in every finger, shut
inside the "Third Satire of Horace," he remembered to have heard Elsa
loudly rebuking the lass, Robina, for having suffered it to get lost. He
took it out and looked at it, fingering it with wistful wonder and
tenderness: then, almost guiltily he put it back again and closed the
book, apologising to himself with the reflection that it really was
quite worn out.
The spare bedroom with the four-post bed was next to Mr. Wycherly's
bedroom, and as it was the only room in Remote that was possible as a
night nursery, he heard in the early morning all sorts of mysterious
sounds connected with the toilet of the two small boys. The little high
voices: Baby Edmund's bubbling laugh that was exactly like the beginning
of a thrush's song: equally often, Baby Edmund's noisy outcries when
things displeased him: Robina's pleadings, and the gentle counsels of
Miss Esperance--all these things smote upon the ears of Mr. Wycherly as
he lay in bed waiting for the big can of hot water which, every morning,
Elsa dumped down outside his door that he might take the chill off his
bath. This matutinal bath being something of a grievance with Elsa, who
considered it as a part of Mr. Wycherly's general "fushionlessness" that
he should require so much more washing than other folk.
Thus did she always set down the can with a thump, and perform a species
of tattoo on Mr. Wycherly's door, exclaiming loudly, "Here's yer bawth
watter--sir." The "sir" always following after a pause, for it was only
added out of deference to continual admonishment on the part of Miss
Esperance, who thought that Elsa's manner to Mr. Wycherly was frequently
lacking in respect, as indeed it was. She could never be got to look
upon him as other than a poor, silly pensioner of her mistress.
A few days after the children arrived, Mr. Wycherly was awakened by the
voice of Edmund in the next room, vociferously demanding "man." Mr.
Wycherly sat up in bed and listened.
"Want man, want to see man."
Murmured remonstrances from Robina, laboured explanations as to the
impossibility of beholding any man when he was still in his bed.
"Want man, want to see man," in tones ever growing louder and more
decided from Baby Edmund.
This went on for about half an hour, while all the time Mr. Wycherly lay
awake listening and longing to get up and join the little person who
showed so flattering a desire for his society; but that he dared not do
till Elsa brought his hot water. At last it came: dumped down as usual
with a resounding impact with the floor, while Elsa knocked loudly with
her wonted vibrant announcement.
Mr. Wycherly was just preparing to get up when there were new and
strange sounds outside his door: rustlings and whisperings and curious
uncertain fumblings with the handle. Suddenly the door was pushed open
to show the children standing on the threshold behind the hot-water can.
"Man! Man'! Me see man in bed," cried Edmund, jumping up and down
gleefully. He made a plunge forward to reach Mr. Wycherly, and of
course fell up against the can, which upset, while the baby capsized on
to the top of it. The water was hot and the baby was very frightened.
So was Mr. Wycherly. As loud wails rent the air he leaped out of bed to
rush to the rescue, only to skip back again with even greater haste as
he heard Elsa and Robina on the stairs. Edmund was picked up and
carried off, Robina volubly explaining how she had only left them for a
minute. Mr. Wycherly's door was banged to, indignantly, as though he
was entirely to blame, and the hot water continued to stream gaily over
the carpet.
Mr. Wycherly stood in great awe of Elsa. Here was a most tremendous
mess, and so long as he was in bed no one could or would come to his
assistance. He arose hastily, arrested the flow of the stream in one
direction with his big bath sponge, sopped up the water as well as he
could, and concluded the operation by the employment of all his towels.
Presently there came a new thump on his door. "Have ye moppet it up?"
asked Elsa anxiously.
"As well as I could," Mr. Wycherly replied humbly. "I don't think it
will soak through to the room below."
"Pit oot the can an' I'll bring ye some mair hot watter--sir." Standing
well behind the door Mr. Wycherly opened it gingerly and handed out the
can. It was brought back full in no time, and again he heard Elsa's
voice thus adjuring him, "Ye'd better mak a steer or yer breakfast will
be ruined--sir."
Poor Mr. Wycherly did his best to "mak a steer," but his towels were a
sodden mass, and it is not easy to dry one's self, even with a selection
of the very largest handkerchiefs. His toilet was assuredly less
careful than usual, for he was very anxious about little Edmund,
although the sounds of woe had ceased in a very short time after the
catastrophe of the hot-water can. Mr. Wycherly's sitting-room was
across the landing from his bedroom, but before he went to breakfast he
hastened downstairs to ask after Edmund's welfare.
He knocked at the parlour door, and on being bidden to enter discovered
that lusty infant jumping up and down on the horse-hair sofa, while Miss
Esperance sat on its very edge to make sure that he should not take a
sudden dive on to the floor.
"I do hope he was not hurt--" Mr. Wycherly began.
"Man, man, me go to man!" Edmund cried before his aunt could answer; and
scrambling off the sofa he raced across the room to Mr. Wycherly; he
held up his arms exclaiming, "Uppee, uppee!" and of course was lifted
up. "Ta, ta," he remarked, smiling benignly upon Miss Esperance from
this eminence, "Me go wiv man."
He waved a fat hand to his aunt, and kicked Mr. Wycherly in the
waistcoat to hasten their departure. Mr. Wycherly wavered.
"No, Edmund," said Miss Esperance, "you cannot go with Mr. Wycherly now,
he is going to his breakfast."
"Bretfus," echoed Edmund in joyful tones, "me go bretfus too, wiv man."
"I would like to come, too," Montagu interpolated, hastily clutching at
Mr. Wycherly's coat.
"May I take them?" that gentleman pleaded. "It would be very agreeable
to have their society at breakfast."
"I doubt it," said Miss Esperance, "but since you are so very kind--for
this once--and if you find them too much, just ring."
The joyful procession was already mounting the steep, curly staircase,
and "Bretfus--man" resounded cheerily in the distance till Mr.
Wycherly's door was shut.
Miss Esperance sat where she was on the edge of the sofa. She was very
tired, for she had been up since five o'clock; moreover, her own
breakfast had been of the slightest, so busy was she superintending that
of the children. Her head felt swimmy and the familiar room seemed
unreal and strange. The sudden silence after the ceaseless and noisy
activity of Baby Edmund was restful and consoling. Elsa and Robina were
upstairs busy making beds and emptying baths.
Miss Esperance felt so exhausted that she even folded her hands in her
lap and closed her eyes; a thing she never did in the day except
sometimes on a Sabbath afternoon. She did not lean back, for she
belonged to that vanished school of old ladies who considered that to
loll was akin to something positively disreputable: bed was the only
place where it was proper to repose. Sofas were for the invalid or the
indolent, and easy-chairs for men folk and such-like feeble spirits as
were indulgent to the frailties of the flesh.
"As thy days so shall thy strength be," whispered Miss Esperance. The
precepts and promises by which she had ruled her gentle life did not
fail her now in her need: "They that wait upon the Lord shall renew
their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run
and not be weary; and they shall walk and not faint."
She opened her eyes. Once more the room looked homely and familiar; the
pictures on the walls had ceased to chase each other in a giddy round.
She unclasped her hands and rose. "I'd better go and see what those
bairns are doing," she thought to herself, "it's not fair to leave them
with him for long."
She mounted the steep stairs and paused on the landing to listen. The
only sound to be heard was a sort of munching. Then, in Edmund's
decisive voice, "Maw toas'."
Another pause. "Bacon all dawn," in tones of sorrowful conviction.
Silence again for a minute, then, "Maw mink."
A gurgle, and a hasty movement, evidently on the part of Mr. Wycherly.
"He always pours it down his chin if he holds it himself," said Montagu,
in a slightly reproving voice.
A sound of rubbing.
"Toas' all dawn," mournfully, from Edmund.
Miss Esperance opened the door. The two children were sitting on either
side of Mr. Wycherly at his round table. Edmund's chubby face was
liberally besmeared with bacon fat, and the board had been cleared of
every sort of eatable except a small "heel" of loaf and a pot of
marmalade, which neither of the children liked. It was Oxford marmalade
and very bitter.
"Have they been good?" Miss Esperance inquired anxiously.
Mr. Wycherly looked somewhat flushed and perturbed, but he hastened to
reply, "They have been model children--but--" here he hesitated, "do you
think they had enough to eat downstairs? They seemed so exceedingly
hungry, and it would be so dreadful----"
"Hungry?" Miss Esperance repeated incredulously. "Hungry? They had
each a large bowl of porridge and milk, and bread and jam after that."
"Maw dam," Edmund immediately struck in; "'at nasty dam," and he pointed
a scornful fat finger at the pot of marmalade.
Here Robina appeared opportunely to take them for a walk. Edmund roared
at the top of his voice at being reft from his beloved man. But Miss
Esperance was firm.
When Elsa had cleared away Mr. Wycherly's breakfast, he found it
unusually difficult to concentrate his mind upon his great work dealing
with Aristotle's Nikomachean Ethics. Like Miss Esperance, he had had
very little breakfast. Two rashers of bacon had Elsa provided, and the
usual four pieces of toast. Each little boy had had a rasher. Edmund
had eaten three pieces of toast and Montagu the fourth. Edmund also
drank all the milk that he did not spill. Mr. Wycherly was fain to
content himself with a cup of exceedingly black tea, and one small piece
of bread. But he was quite unconscious that he had eaten less than
usual. So shaken was he out of his customary dreamy calm that he decided
to go for a walk. He did not confess to himself that he hoped he might
meet the children while he was out.
*CHAPTER III*
*THE EDUCATION OF MR. WYCHERLY*
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
LONGFELLOW.
For several days Mr. Wycherly's privacy was not again invaded before
breakfast, though he heard through the wall continual and loudly
expressed demands to visit "man" from his friend of the curly pate and
strap shoes. One morning, however, Robina's suspicions as to Edmund's
propensity for roving were lulled into security by particularly
exemplary conduct on his part during the time of dressing; and she
slipped downstairs to give a hand with the breakfast, leaving the
children safety shut in their nursery.
No sooner had she departed than Montagu, of whom people expected better
things, suggested that they should go and visit Mr. Wycherly next door.
The morning hours had been so unusually quiet that that gentleman was
still dozing, although Elsa had already brought his hot water. When he
heard the now unmistakable fumbling with the door handle, which always
proclaimed the advent of the children, he called out--"Come in, but for
heaven's sake mind the hot-water can."
In they came without accident of any kind, as Elsa had taken the
precaution of placing the can well on the hinge side of the door. Very
fresh and spick and span did the two little boys look in clean, blue
pinafores, and shining morning faces. Edmund made a dash for Mr.
Wycherly, with his usual joyful cry of "Uppee! Uppee!" Montagu hastily
banged the door after him to keep Robina out, and he, too, climbed up on
Mr. Wycherly's bed. The soft, indescribable fragrance of clean children
was supremely pleasurable to Mr. Wycherly, and excited strange,
unfamiliar stirrings of recollections, long buried but by no means dead,
of his own nursery days in the old house in Shropshire where he and his
brothers were brought up.
But there was no time to indulge in retrospect, for Edmund had already
settled the programme. "Sing!" he commanded. "Sing, man!"
"I fear," Mr. Wycherly said, somewhat breathlessly, for Edmund was
sitting upon that portion of his body known in sporting circles as "the
wind," "that I cannot sing, for I don't know any songs."
"Say, zen, say, man," Edmund cried, jumping up and down upon poor Mr.
Wycherly's yielding frame.
"He means you to say him a poem," Montagu explained.
Now of poetry Mr. Wycherly knew plenty, both in Greek and Latin and
English, but none of it seemed particularly suitable to the present
circumstances. The only lines that came willingly to his call were--
Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste,
which he felt would meet with but scant approval from his present
audience.
"Say 'ime, say 'ime, man!" cried Edmund, with an ominous droop of the
corners of his mouth.
"Say 'Hickory, dickory, dock," Montagu suggested kindly, "he likes
that--and you tickle him where it runs up, and where it runs down, and
at the end, you know."
"But I don't know any poem called 'Hickory, dickory, dock," Mr. Wycherly
protested despairingly.
"Say 'ime, man! Say dock!" Edmund persisted, punching Mr. Wycherly in
the chest to emphasise his wishes. "Say dock. Quit."
"I'll whisper it to you," murmured the helpful Montagu, "it goes like
this--'Hickory, dickory, dock."
"Hickory, dickory, dock," Mr. Wycherly repeated dutifully and
distinctly.
"The mouse ran up the clock," Montagu continued.
"The mouse ran up the clock----"
"But you didn't tickle him," Montagu interrupted.
Mr. Wycherly looked at Edmund, and Edmund looked with eager expectation
at Mr. Wycherly.
Now to tickle any one appeared to Mr. Wycherly a most unwarrantable
liberty. Such a mode of procedure had never entered into his scheme of
life at all. He was not even sure how he ought to set about it. He
decided that tickling was altogether out of his province, and he would
not experiment, even upon Edmund.
He cleared his throat nervously. "Ahem," said Mr. Wycherly, "Hickory,
dickory, dock, the mouse ran up the clock----"
"No! No!" shouted Edmund. "'E mouse 'an down."
"The mouse ran down the clock," echoed the obedient Mr. Wycherly.
"No, No," cried both the little boys. "The clock struck one." Here
Edmund gave a most tremendous bounce that really hurt Mr. Wycherly.
"Ve mouse 'an down," he continued, scrabbling with his fingers all over
Mr. Wycherly's face, and seizing him by the collar of his night shirt to
burrow in his neck.
"Hickory, dickory, dock," Montagu concluded in a joyful chant. "Now you
know it, only you must run up and down, you know."
"Oh, I really cannot do that," Mr. Wycherly expostulated, "not before I
am dressed."
Montagu looked puzzled. "You ought to tickle us, you know, like Edmund
did, and with your fingers; it's quite easy, really."
"Adain!" Edmund commanded, squirming and jumping all over the very
softest portions of Mr. Wycherly's person, and causing that patient
gentleman acute agony. "Adain!"
"Let us all say it together," Mr. Wycherly gasped, painfully drawing
himself a little higher up in the bed, "and do you think you could sit a
little more to one side, or a little further forward, or a little lower
down, or anywhere except just where you are at present?"
"Edmund heavy boy," that youth remarked proudly.
"He is," Mr. Wycherly fervently agreed, "a very heavy boy--ah, that's
better now."
"Hickory, dickory, dock" was now performed in chorus, and if one of the
trio made any mistakes, his companions were making such a row that they
did not detect him. At the conclusion of the verse the little boys gave
Mr. Wycherly a practical demonstration as to what they meant by
tickling.
It was only when the racket had somewhat subsided that they heard
Robina's timid voice outside the door bidding the children come at once
to their breakfast.
"Det up, man," Edmund directed, "and take me to 'Obina."
"You are perfectly able to trot across to the door," said Mr. Wycherly,
mildly remonstrant and much exhausted.
"Come in," shouted Edmund, "come and fesh me."
"No, don't do anything of the kind," cried Mr. Wycherly,
horror-stricken; "he can quite well come to you."
"I'll surely no come in," said Robina in a slightly offended voice.
"They're to come oot at once, the mistress is waitin' breakfast."
"Me tiahed," Edmund announced, languidly lying down beside Mr. Wycherly.
"Me tay heah."
Robina knocked sharply. "Come at once," she cried. "Please, sir, make
them come, or the mistress will be rale vexed."
"Go, Montagu," said Mr. Wycherly firmly. "I suppose I must carry
this--myself."
Robina, outside, heard much gurgling and giggling on the part of Edmund,
as Mr. Wycherly arose and hastily donned his dressing-gown. He carried
the struggling baby across to the door, which he had to open widely in
order to give his charge into his nurse's arms. Montagu departed with
his little brother, but not one moment sooner.
Mr. Wycherly shut and locked his door, only to remember that he had left
his hot water outside. When he had secured it and again made the door
fast, he sank upon his bed: "I must certainly lock my door overnight,"
he reflected; "to be tickled is a truly dreadful experience."
He dressed to the rhythm of "Hickory, dickory, dock," and although the
two things had no sort of connection he found himself thinking of the
forget-me-nots on the banks of the Cherwell; they were exactly the
colour of Baby Edmund's eyes.
It had already become a matter of course that the children should spend
half an hour in Mr. Wycherly's study before they went to bed.
They were left in his charge while Robina got things ready for the
night, and he strove to make the time pass pleasantly for them by every
means in his power. Edmund's requests were occasionally a little
difficult to understand, as although his speech was fluent and his
vocabulary singularly large for his age, he had a habit of omitting any
consonant that was troublesome to pronounce. Both "l" and "r" were of
this number. He did not attempt to provide a substitute but simply left
the letter out, and nothing delighted old Elsa more than to hear him
repeat after her--"'ound the 'ugged 'ock the 'adical 'ascals 'an."
Mr. Wycherly did his best to correct this defect in Edmund's speech, and
on this particular evening was showing him a picture book of coloured
animals.
"Poor little Edmund can't say lion," he said sadly, apropos of a picture
of the king of beasts.
"He can say tigah," that infant rejoined cheerfully; "no maw pitchers.
Man, make a 'abbit," and Edmund scrambled off Mr. Wycherly's knee the
better to behold the feat in question.
Mr. Wycherly shook his head hopelessly while Montagu shyly explained:
"He means a rabbit out of a handkerchief, you know. Daddie always did
it, and it ran up his arm and jumped so. _Do_ make one!"
Mr. Wycherly almost groaned. He hadn't the faintest notion how to make
a rabbit, and felt that he had lived in vain. He proposed building a
tower with some bricks that the children had brought with them, but
Edmund would have none of such well-worn devices. He persisted in his
demands for "a 'abbit," growing more and more vociferous, till his
wishes culminated in a roar that brought Robina to the rescue and to Mr.
Wycherly's door, whence she bore Edmund away, wailing dismally.
Mr. Wycherly, helpless and distressed, looked appealingly at Montagu,
who only said rather reproachfully, "You might learn to make a rabbit,
you know," and followed Robina.
Almost unconsciously the student's eyes sought the book-shelves where
generally was to be found any information that he wanted; but among the
familiar calf-bound backs there was not one that seemed to promise any
information about the manufacture of rabbits, and for the first time Mr.
Wycherly felt dissatisfied with a scholarship that seemed to ignore so
many possible contingencies in a man's life. Of what use was the utmost
familiarity with Aristotle's Politics if an indignant baby could put one
so wholly out of countenance? For a few minutes he moved restlessly
about the room, then he took his hat and went out.
He had a vaguely formulated plan in his head that he would knock at the
door of every house in the village till he found somebody capable of
instructing him in the art of making rabbits; for learn he would, even
if he had to advertise in the "Scottish Press" for a teacher.
As he walked down the road leading to the village he met the minister,
who immediately remarked that something or other was amiss. Whether
Edmund had ruffled Mr. Wycherly's hair and neck-cloth as well as his
equanimity we are not told, but it is certain that the Reverend Peter
Gloag thought him looking less "Oxfordish" than usual, and stopped him
to ask kindly, "Nothing wrong up at the house I hope?"
"No, I thank you," said Mr. Wycherly, stopping in his turn. "At
least--I wonder now if you happen to know of any one who can make
rabbits out of handkerchiefs?"
The minister stared at Mr. Wycherly as though for a moment he feared for
his reason, then he looked as though he were about to laugh, when quite
suddenly his face changed, and the eyes under his bushy eyebrows were
wonderfully kind and gentle as he said, "You'll hardly believe it, but I
can do something in that sort myself. I used often to make them when
the bairns were wee."
"My dear friend," Mr. Wycherly exclaimed delightedly, "can you really?
But of course you can, you have children of your own. Why didn't I
think of you at the very first? Are you pressed for time at present?
Could you return with me now, at once?"
For answer the minister turned and walked with Mr. Wycherly toward
Remote, and not only did he teach him how to make the most lively and
enchanting of rabbits, but he also instructed him how to originate one
"Sandy," who sat on the manipulator's hand, whose arms were worked by
his fingers, a creature of infinite jest and dexterity. Mr. Wycherly
was not half so elated when he got the Newdigate as when he achieved
this latter feat.
But Oh, dear me, Mr. Wycherly had a tremendous deal to learn! Every day
was he confronted with new deficiencies in his education. The constant
demand for songs was most embarrassing: even Miss Esperance seemed to
fail the children here, for although she knew innumerable psalms and
hymns and spiritual songs, and endless and delightful Scottish ballads,
yet her repertoire of purely nursery ditties was but small. It was
heartrending to Mr. Wycherly, when, during their first days at Remote,
Edmund would remark reproachfully anent his inability to sing some
hitherto unheard-of nursery song, "Mamma singed it." And the eyes of
Miss Esperance would fill with tears at the thought of these two little
ones bereft of their young parents, who seemed to have been so
light-hearted, so ready to sing upon every possible occasion. No books
of nursery rhymes had come with the children from Portsmouth. Perhaps
they were forgotten in the hurry of their departure. Perhaps they did
not exist: where was the need, with a girl-mother whose store of such
ditties seemed inexhaustible? It did not occur either to Miss Esperance
or Mr. Wycherly that such books could be purchased. It is true that the
latter received many catalogues, but they mostly concerned learned works
dealing with the more obscure of the Latin authors.
Miss Esperance possessed a whole shelf of little "Gilt-Books," which had
belonged to her mother and herself, and Mr. Wycherly feverishly rummaged
among these to find some childish lore suitable for the little boys:
with the result that he became exceedingly interested in the books from
an antiquarian point of view, and forgot his original quest. They were
most of them published by John Newbery, the philanthropic bookseller in
Saint Paul's Churchyard, who bought the MS. of the "Vicar of Wakefield"
for sixty pounds and kept it two years before he published it. One
find, however, he did make, a tiny two-inch "Cries of London, as they
are Exhibited in the Streets, With an Epigram in verse adapted to Each,
embellished with sixty-two elegant Cuts." Some of these epigrams found
much favour with the children, as, "My old Soul, will you buy a Bowl?"
"Who Buys my Pig and Plumb Sauce," or--
Who liveth so merry in all this land,
As doth the poor Widow that selleth the Sand?
And ever she singeth, as I can guess,
"Will you buy any Sand, any Sand, Mistress?"
He also discovered among the verses of that most genial and child-like
of poets, Robert Herrick, many rhymes that delighted the children, a
special favourite being the old watch rhyme--
From noise of scare fires rest ye free,
From murders, Benedicite.
From all mischances that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night,
Mercy secure ye all and keep
The Goblin from ye while ye sleep.
Past one o'clock and almost two,
My masters all, Good day to you.
Mr. Wycherly was a little put to it to explain the "Goblin," as he would
not for the world have told the children anything that might frighten
them. He passed it over lightly as "a bad dream," and when Montagu
further demanded what that was, Mr. Wycherly felt inexpressibly
comforted at the child's ignorance; he had dreamed so many evil dreams
himself.