friends from whose kindly questioning eyes he would fain have hidden.
Insensibly, too, he accustomed himself to dwell fondly upon the past,
that pleasant past once so full of success, of dignity, and of the
intellectual honours so dear to him; that happy time preceding those
dark years of weakness and shame and mental degradation.
Thus he found himself telling Montagu all about William of Wykeham of
pious memory: of the "Founder's Crozier" and the "Great West Window,"
and of the Warden's library at New College where they keep the Founder's
Jewel. Day by day Montagu would revert to these entrancing topics till
Oxford rivalled even Troy in his affections, and the knowledge that he
himself was destined one day to go and live in this wonderful place gave
an even greater zeal to his studies than before.
Moreover, pictures of this same Oxford were found in boxes stored away,
and were brought forth and, at Montagu's request, hung up, till what
with books and what with engravings there was hardly an inch of
drab-coloured wall to be seen.
As to the matter of breakfast--Elsa was so piteous in her account of how
that meal was neglected by Mr. Wycherly, and he proclaimed his
loneliness in such moving terms, that Miss Esperance came to the
conclusion that he was really far more in need of her supervision than
the little boys, and it ended in their breakfasting together in his room
at eight o'clock, and Mr. Wycherly, on the morning that initiated this
new arrangement, was as nervous and excited as an undergraduate who
expects "ladies to lunch" in his rooms for the first time.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*EDMUND RECHRISTENS MR. WYCHERLY*
"Time was," the golden head
Irrevocably said;
"But time which none can bind,
While flowing fast away, leaves love behind."
R.L.S.
"It is just a year to-day since the children came," said Miss Esperance,
smiling across the table at Mr. Wycherly, as they sat together at
breakfast in his room.
"In some ways," he replied thoughtfully, "it seems as though they must
always have been here: it is impossible to conceive of life without
them--now. In others, the time has gone so fast that it might be but
yesterday they came."
"When I was younger," Miss Esperance went on in her gentle, old voice,
"I used to look forward with such dread to a lonely old age. I used to
think 'what would life be if my father and my brothers died?'; and one
by one they were all taken from me, and Archie was the last of our
family--and he is dead. But the Lord has been very merciful. First he
sent you to me, and then the children to us both: 'Goodness and mercy
all my life have surely followed me.'"
Miss Esperance paused, still smiling in the happy confidence of the
peace that wrapped her round.
If Mr. Wycherly did not answer it was not because he did not agree with
Miss Esperance as to the wonderful workings of Providence. But speech on
such subjects was to him almost impossible; and she, looking wistfully
into his face, partly realised this. But she was not quite satisfied.
Religion was, for her, so entirely the mainspring of her every impulse,
her every action, that it was impossible for her in any way to separate
it from the most ordinary daily doings; and to her it was as easy and as
natural to confess her faith and her deepest feelings with regard to
these matters as it was impossible to him. This inability on his part
formed to a certain extent a barrier between them: a barrier which can
only be broken down by mutual consent; and while he would have done, as
in very truth he did, anything in the world to give her pleasure and
peace of mind: this thing which she would have valued most, he could not
give her. He could not talk about his religious views.
In the silence that followed it is possible that there recurred to the
minds of both an incident not wholly without bearing on their future
intercourse. One Sabbath evening, shortly after he had gone to live
with Miss Esperance at Remote, she asked him to "engage in prayer" at
family worship--the "family" consisting of herself and Elsa.
Mr. Wycherly complied readily enough, for he knew plenty of prayers: but
when he prayed, he prayed for "the bishops and curates and all
congregations committed to their charge"; he prayed for the "good estate
of the Catholic Church here upon earth"; and, worst of all--it being the
collect for the day--he prayed that "as thy Holy Angels always do thee
service in heaven, so by thy appointment they may succour and defend us
on earth." Never was such a scandal in a strictly Presbyterian
household. Elsa proclaimed throughout the village that Miss Esperance
had been induced to harbour an undoubted Puseyite, and it would not have
surprised her in the least if he had prayed for the Pope himself.
And Miss Esperance, knowing the length and strength of Elsa's tongue,
felt herself constrained to explain (she did it with considerable
humour) to the Reverend Peter Gloag what had really happened. Whereupon
the minister dismissed Mr. Wycherly and all his works as being "fettered
by formula?": and to the great relief of this prisoner in the chains of
ecclesiasticism he was never again asked to conduct family worship. He
innocently wondered why, for he imagined with some complacency that he
had acquitted himself gracefully in what had been rather a trying
ordeal.
The tender smile of Miss Esperance, as she reflected upon her many
mercies, had changed to a smile of no less tender amusement as she
recalled those by-gone days, and Mr. Wycherly, ever quick to notice any
change in the dear old face he loved so well, felt that he might now
venture upon more familiar ground.
"You look amused," he remarked; "would it be a safe conjecture to say
that you are probably thinking of Edmund?"
"That reminds me," Miss Esperance exclaimed, without committing herself.
"I do wish that we could induce that dear little boy not to call you
'man.' It is so disrespectful."
It had never struck Mr. Wycherly in that light. In fact he had found
considerable secret comfort in the fact that Edmund, at all events, had
from the very first considered him deserving of that epithet. Mr.
Wycherly was sensitive, and he knew perfectly well in what sort of
estimation most of the inhabitants of Burnhead held him.
"Do you think it matters?" he asked mildly, "what such a baby calls me?"
"Not to you, certainly," Miss Esperance replied promptly; "but I do
think it matters for him. He is three now, and it's time he knew
better."
"Surely three is not a very great age?" Mr. Wycherly pleaded.
"It is old enough for Edmund to want his own way, and generally to take
it," Miss Esperance rejoined as she rose from the table; "and it is old
enough for him to learn that he must be dutiful and obedient."
As Mr. Wycherly held the door open for her to go out, he remarked
deferentially, "But, don't you think, dear Miss Esperance, that either
'Mr.' or 'Sir' is a somewhat formal mode of address to exact from such a
baby?"
"I called my honoured father 'Sir' from the time I could speak at all,
and when I was young it would never for one moment have been permitted
to us to address any grown-up person otherwise than with respect," Miss
Esperance continued, as she paused in the doorway. "I will see what I
can do about it this very day. I feel sure that if we reason with that
dear child, we can induce him to find some more suitable way of
addressing you."
When Miss Esperance had gone, and Mr. Wycherly had shut his door, he
shook his head and laughed. Two or three times lately he had tried a
fall with Edmund, and that lusty infant invariably came off an easy
victor.
It was the daily custom for both the little boys to visit Mr. Wycherly
for a few minutes after breakfast, when biscuits were doled out and
there was much cheery good-fellowship. Mr. Wycherly himself made
periodical visits to Edinburgh to purchase these biscuits, which were
adorned with pink and white sugar, and were of a delectable flavour.
Once the biscuits were consumed--they had three each--Montagu settled
down to his lessons, and Edmund, ever unwillingly, departed with Robina.
Through the open window that morning there floated an imperative baby
voice. "See man," it insisted, "me go and see man."
Mr. Wycherly looked out and Edmund looked up. He stretched out his fat
arms, balancing himself first on one foot and then on the other, as
though poised for flight, while in the thrush-like tones that were
always irresistible to Mr. Wycherly he gave his usual cry of "Uppie!
Uppie! _deah_ man."
When Edmund called him "deah man" there was nothing on earth that Mr.
Wycherly could withhold. "Bring Edmund up, Montagu," he said, leaning
out of the window. "We'll have a holiday to-day, it's a kind of
birthday. Just a year since you came."
But the gentle voice of Miss Esperance interposed. "Edmund must say
'Please, Mr. Wycherly,' or 'please, sir,' then he can go up."
"See man, me go and see man," Edmund persisted, absolutely ignoring his
aunt's admonition and jumping up and down as though he could reach Mr.
Wycherly that way.
"No, Edmund," Miss Esperance said firmly; "you _must_ say, 'Please, Mr.
Wycherly."
Edmund looked at his aunt and his round chubby face expressed the utmost
defiance. "I _sall_ say man, and I will go to man," he announced loudly
and distinctly, "he's my man, and I 'ove him--I don't 'ove _you_," he
added emphatically.
"Edmund, my son, come here." There was no resisting the resolution in
that very gentle voice. Miss Esperance seated herself on the garden
seat under Mr. Wycherly's window, and Edmund came at her bidding, to
stand in front of her, square and sturdy and rebellious.
Mr. Wycherly had withdrawn from the window when Miss Esperance first
began her expostulation with Edmund. Now it struck him as rather shabby
to leave her to wrestle with that young sinner alone over a matter which
certainly referred to himself; so he hastened downstairs and joined her
in the garden.
On his appearance Edmund began his dance again, and his petition of
"Uppie! Uppie!"
Mr. Wycherly went and sat on the seat beside Miss Esperance, trying hard
to look stern and judicial, and failing signally, while the chubby
culprit made ineffectual attempts to climb upon his knee.
"Edmund must say 'Please, Mr. Wycherly,' or 'Please, sir,'" Miss
Esperance repeated.
"Peese, Mittah Chahley," echoed Edmund in tones that would have melted a
heart of stone.
Now if "man" was a disrespectful and familiar mode of address, "Chahlee"
seemed a singularly inappropriate pseudonym for Mr. Wycherly.
Even Montagu giggled.
The matutinal service of biscuits was long overdue, Edmund grew
impatient, and the corners of his rosy mouth drooped. "I've said
'Chahley,'" he announced reproachfully, "and you don't take me."
Mr. Wycherly looked beseechingly at Miss Esperance. "I think he has
done his best," he said in deprecating tones, "it is a difficult name
for a baby."
"Chahlee! Chahlee!" chirped Edmund, beginning to dance again. "Uppie!
Uppie!" then turning to his aunt--"I've said 'im."
"You haven't said it right--but perhaps--" Miss Esperance wavered.
Edmund marched up to his aunt, placed both his dimpled elbows on her
knees, and gazing earnestly into her face with bunches of unshed tears
still hanging on his lashes, remarked vindictively: "I wis a gate bid
ball would come and bounce at you."
Miss Esperance burst out laughing and stooped to kiss the red, indignant
baby-face. "All the same, my dear son, you must learn to do what you are
told."
"Me go wiv--Chahlee," Edmund announced triumphantly, as Mr. Wycherly
lifted him up.
"Am I to call you Charlie, too?" asked Montagu, who was rather jealous
where his tutor's favour was concerned.
"Pray, don't!" exclaimed that gentleman hastily.
"Chahlee, Chahlee," crowed Edmund from the safe vantage ground of Mr.
Wycherly's arms as he was carried upstairs. "Deah man, Chahlee."
Miss Esperance sat on where she was. Her interference had certainly not
improved matters, and she was really perturbed. That she should in any
way, however inadvertently and innocently, have rendered Mr. Wycherly in
the smallest degree ridiculous was most distressing to her.
Had the baby done his best, or was it but one more instance of his
supreme subtlety in the avoidance of doing what he was told?
Miss Esperance adored Edmund. He was a Bethune from the top curl of his
fair hair to his small, straight, pink toes. Handsome, ruddy, with very
blue eyes; eyes that changed in colour with his every emotion, even as
the sea so many of his forbears had served changes with the passing
hours; he was the image of Archie Bethune, his father. He was like her
brother, whose name he bore, and still stronger was his likeness to the
admiral, her father, that generous and choleric sailor whose memory she
so revered.
Yet no one knew better than Miss Esperance the faults of the Bethune
temperament. Had she not suffered from them herself in the past? And
she was painfully anxious to keep in check the wilful impulsiveness so
strongly marked in her great-nephew--that taking of their own way, no
matter at what cost in tribulation to themselves or suffering to others.
How many Bethunes had it ruined in the past! And yet if she rebuked him
now it might confuse the baby: and above all, Miss Esperance desired to
be just in her dealings with these small creatures committed to her
charge.
As she sat in the sunshine, with the children's voices borne to her on
the soft winds of early summer, she prayed for guidance.
Suddenly the children's voices ceased, for Mr. Wycherly was reading
aloud. It was his habit to read to them odd scraps of anything that had
happened to please himself, while they munched their biscuits.
Sometimes they, or at all events Montagu, understood; as often they did
not: but both found some sort of pleasure in the fine English gracefully
read. Miss Esperance listened, and as if in answer to her prayer she
heard, in Mr. Wycherly's gentle, cultivated tones, these words: "Love is
fitter than fear, gentleness better than beating, to bring up a child
rightly in learning."
So for a while Baby Edmund was allowed to call Mr. Wycherly very much
what he pleased. He occasionally conceded something to convention by
addressing him as "Mittah man" or "Mittah Chahlee"--but as a rule he
took his own way; finally adopting for Mr. Wycherly Elsa's usual style
of address toward himself, namely, "Dearie."
It had never occurred to Mr. Wycherly as possible that anyone should
address him as "Dearie," and this particular term of endearment did
sound somewhat of an anachronism.
But he liked it, he liked it amazingly: and seeing this, Miss Esperance
interfered no more.
In the end, however, it was Montagu who found a pet name for Mr.
Wycherly. "What are you to me?" the little boy asked one day. "Are you
an uncle?"
"No," said Mr. Wycherly, "I am your guardian."
"What's a guardian?"
"Someone who takes care of a child who has lost his parents."
"May I call you guardian?"
"Certainly, if you wish it."
"May Edmund?"
"Assuredly."
"Then we will--it's more friendlier than 'Mr.,' don't you think?"
And it ended in Guardian being abbreviated into 'Guardie,' so that Mr.
Wycherly was, after all, the only member of the household who was
permitted a diminutive.
*CHAPTER IX*
*CUPID ABROAD*
"Cupid abroad was lated in the night,
His wings were wet with ranging in the rain;
Harbour he sought, to me he took his flight,
To dry his plumes," I heard the boy complain;
"I ope'd the door, and granted his desire.
I rose myself, and made the wag a fire."
Everyone in the neighbourhood of Burnhead called Lady Alicia's youngest
daughter "Bonnie Margaret," so full of charm and gaiety and gentleness
was she. Not all the year was Lady Alicia at the "big hoose": since the
death of her husband--worthy David Carruthers, late Advocate--she always
wintered in Edinburgh; but with May, Bonnie Margaret came back to
Burnhead, unless, indeed, as had happened lately, she spent that month
in London with one of her married sisters. But at all events some part
of the summer saw her back at Burnhead, and the sun seemed to shine the
brighter for her coming.
Like everyone else, she was very fond of Miss Esperance, and she often
came to Remote to play with the little boys who whole-heartedly approved
of her. Mr. Wycherly, too, was fond of Bonnie Margaret, and somehow,
recently, she had seemed to come across him very often during his walks
with Montagu. She would join them, and sometimes spend a whole long
afternoon in the little copse sitting beside Mr. Wycherly at the foot of
his favourite tree, while Montagu played at the brook.
Very shyly and with many most becoming blushes, Margaret confided to Mr.
Wycherly that she had met a nephew of his during her visits to her
sister. Mr. Wycherly was not in the least interested in his nephew, but
he was interested in anything Bonnie Margaret chose to talk about, and
the nephew acquired a fictitious importance for this reason.
This nephew was, Margaret carefully explained, an exceedingly clever
young man, who had taken a good degree--but he didn't want to take
orders, and he hated school-mastering--he had tried it--and now he had
gone into a friend's business as a wine merchant, and his people were
very much annoyed. What was Mr. Wycherly's opinion on the subject? And
didn't he think it was very noble of this young man to earn his bread in
this particular fashion? It had taken many meetings and much elaborate
and roundabout explanation upon Margaret's part before this final
statement of the situation was reached; and Mr. Wycherly, having in the
meantime heard complaints that Bonnie Margaret was very ill to please in
the matter of a husband, began to put two and two together. Many swains
had sighed at Margaret's shrine, and she had received what her mother
called "several quite good offers," but she would have nothing to say to
any of them. She was in character fully as decided as Lady Alicia
herself. But she was demure and gentle in manner, and instead of
fighting for her own way, as is the custom of the strenuous, simply took
it quietly, and without vehement declaration of any kind.
When appealed to as to his opinion of the nobility of his nephew's
conduct in thus plunging into trade, Margaret and Mr. Wycherly were
sitting on a low wall, watching Edmund and Mause and Montagu disport
themselves in the hay-field it bordered.
The summer sun was warm, and Margaret wore a floppy leghorn hat which
threw a most becoming shade over her serious grey eyes; eyes with long
black lashes in somewhat startling contrast to her very fair hair. Mr.
Wycherly particularly admired her Greek profile, her short upper lip,
the lovely oval of her cheek and chin. Still more did he appreciate her
sweet consideration and gentleness; and for the first time since he came
to live in Scotland he found himself wishing that he knew something of
this nephew who so plainly occupied a prominent position in the thoughts
of this kind and beautiful girl.
"Of course," Mr. Wycherly remarked guardedly, "he is perfectly right to
earn his own living in the way that seems best to him, though whether it
was absolutely necessary to run counter to the prejudices of his
relatives in order to do so is not quite clear."
"But you would not, would you, look down on anyone just because he
happened to be in trade? If he is a cultured gentleman already, his
being in trade can't make him less of a cultured gentleman, can it?"
"Of course not," Mr. Wycherly agreed, "but I think I can understand,
perhaps, some slight reason for annoyance on the part of his people. You
see, had he announced earlier this extreme desire to go into business,
it is hardly likely that they would have given him an expensive
education at the University. He was, you tell me, five years at
Oxford?"
"He didn't waste his time there," Margaret answered eagerly, "he took
all sorts of honours: but he loathes teaching--" Margaret stopped, for
Mr. Wycherly was looking at her with a curiously amused expression which
seemed to say, "How is it that you are so remarkably conversant with the
likes and dislikes of this young man?"
She leant over the wall to gather some of the big horse gowans that grew
in the field, so that her face was hidden from Mr. Wycherly. She
fastened a little bunch of them into her waistband; then she said in the
detached tone of one who seeks for information merely from curiosity:
"Don't you think that at some time or other one has to settle what to do
with one's life, regardless of whether it is pleasing to other people or
not--I mean in very big and important things?"
Mr. Wycherly, who thought she was still referring to his nephew,
cordially agreed that for most of us such a course at some time or other
is a necessity.
As it happened, however, Bonnie Margaret was not talking of his nephew,
but of herself. Mr. Wycherly remembered this in the following October
when, Lady Alicia having removed her household to Edinburgh, a startling
rumour shook the village to its very foundations--a rumour to the effect
that Bonnie Margaret had one night "taken the train" and was married
next morning to somebody in the south of England.
Miss Esperance was much shocked and perturbed, the more so that she felt
it devolved upon her, and her alone, to break this agitating
intelligence to Mr. Wycherly. For was not a relative of his own the
chief culprit? Miss Esperance could never understand Mr. Wycherly's
indifference toward everything that concerned his relations.
She had heard the news just before supper, but she waited until that
meal was finished lest her communication might spoil his appetite.
It was their pleasant custom to sit and chat for a while every evening
while Mr. Wycherly drank his single glass of port, and cracked some
nuts, which he generally bestowed next morning upon the little boys.
He held up his glass of wine to the light, and even in the midst of her
uneasiness Miss Esperance noted with pleasure how steady was the long,
slender hand that held the glass.
"I have heard," Miss Esperance began with a deep sigh, "some most
distressing news to-day about certain good friends of yours."
"Is Mrs. Gloag worse?" Mr. Wycherly asked anxiously, for the minister's
wife was very delicate, and was often quite seriously ill.
"No, no, nobody is ill; but I fear that our good friend, Lady Alicia, is
in very great trouble. Margaret----"
"Has married against her mother's wish?" Mr. Wycherly interrupted
quickly.
"That's just what she has done--but how did you guess?"
"And she has married," Mr. Wycherly continued, "a nephew of mine. If I
mistake not, Margaret was twenty-one only the other day."
"It seems," Miss Esperance went on, much astonished at the calmness with
which Mr. Wycherly received these grievous tidings, "that this young man
proposed to Margaret some time ago; but that Lady Alicia wouldn't hear
of any engagement. He asked for Margaret again this summer, and was
again refused: though Margaret told her mother that she intended to
marry him and considered herself engaged to him in spite of everything.
And, as you say, directly she came of age she has done it."
Mr. Wycherly had laid down his glass of port untasted, when Miss
Esperance first began to speak. Now he lifted the decanter and poured
out another, offering it to Miss Esperance. "My dear friend," he
exclaimed eagerly, "they are married. Nothing can alter that. Let us
drink pretty Margaret's health, and wish her all prosperity and
happiness, and may the man she has chosen try to be worthy of her!"
Miss Esperance demurred: but Mr. Wycherly continued to lean across the
table with the glass of wine held out toward her, and he looked so
pleading, and she so loved to gratify him, that at last, though a little
under protest, she consented to drink this toast, and took one sip from
the proffered glass of port.
"I wish I could feel that it will turn out well," she said wistfully.
"She must love him right well," Mr. Wycherly said thoughtfully, "and she
is not a foolish girl. She has judgment and discretion."
"Where love is concerned," said Miss Esperance, "judgment and discretion
generally go to the wall."
And Mr. Wycherly could find no arguments in disproof of this statement.