reproaching Mr. Wycherly with the conduct of a nephew he had never seen.
Miss Esperance was out; Mr. Wycherly, as usual, reading in his room.
There Lady Alicia sought him and plunged at once into a history of the
"entanglement," as she called it, concluding with these words: "I told
her never to mention that young man to me again, and she never did, so
of course I concluded that, like a sensible girl, she had put the whole
thing out of her head: but the hussy has married him, _married_ him
without ever a wedding present or a single new gown, and what can I do?
A girl, too, who might have married anyone, by far the prettiest of the
four, and look how well the rest have married!"
"She must love him very much," Mr. Wycherly said dreamily. "Pretty
Margaret, so gentle always and so quiet. What strength, what tenacity
of purpose under that docile feminine exterior! Dear Lady Alicia, she
is more like you than any of your other daughters."
"Like _me_!" Lady Alicia almost shouted. "Do you mean to say _I_ could
have run away with any bottle-nosed vintner that ever tasted port--_I_,
forsooth!"
"But you told me yourself that he is a gentleman, young and
good-looking," Mr. Wycherly expostulated. "If I remember rightly, too,
something of a scholar--and Margaret loves him. She has proved that
beyond all question. God grant that he is worthy of her love. You
can't unmarry them, my dear old friend, and though you will be angry
with me, I must tell you that I think it is well you can't. You must
forgive them both."
"Never," said Lady Alicia with the greatest determination. "She has
chosen her vintner; let her stick to him."
"She will do that in any case," said Mr. Wycherly; "but she will love
her mother none the less, and her mother will, presently, love her all
the more."
"She will do nothing of the kind," Lady Alicia said with considerable
asperity. "You don't seem to realise what a disgraceful thing your
nephew has done in abducting my daughter in this fashion."
"I thought you said she went to him," Mr. Wycherly suggested
apologetically.
For answer Lady Alicia rose in her wrath and strode out of the room.
Mr. Wycherly hastened after her across the little landing and down the
curly staircase, but he was not in time to open the front door for her,
and she banged it in his face. Mr. Wycherly opened it, and stood on the
threshold just in time to hear the little gate at the bottom of the
garden give an angry click as it fell behind Lady Alicia's retreating
form. He did not attempt to follow her, but stood where he was, wrapped
in a reverie so absorbing that he started violently as the green gate
slammed again and Lady Alicia bustled up the path holding out her hand,
and saying:
"After all, it's not your fault, I don't know why I should scold you;
the only redeeming feature in the whole horrible affair is that he's
your nephew and therefore cannot be an utter scoundrel, but you must
confess it is very hard for me."
Mr. Wycherly took the extended hand and shook it. "You must forgive
her," he said gently, "she would never have done it if she hadn't been
your daughter; think of the courage and determination----"
"The headstrong folly and foolhardiness," Lady Alicia interrupted. "I
cannot imagine why you keep suggesting I could ever have done such a
disgraceful thing--I always had far too much----"
"Given the same circumstances, you would have behaved in exactly the
same way," Mr. Wycherly interrupted. "My dear Lady Alicia, you know you
would."
"You are a ridiculous and obstinate man," said Lady Alicia; "much
learning hath made you mad, and you know nothing whatever about women."
All the same she smiled, and she left her hand in Mr. Wycherly's. It
was not unpleasant to her to be considered capable of romance; her life
had been so safe and seemly always, a little monotonous and commonplace,
perhaps, but she had once been young.
"I don't know much," Mr. Wycherly answered humbly; "but surely character
is the same in man or woman, and given a certain character a certain
line of conduct is inevitable."
"And you think it is inevitable that I should forgive Margaret?"
"Assuredly," said Mr. Wycherly.
"As I said before"--here Lady Alicia thought fit to withdraw her
hand--"you are an ignorant man: but we won't quarrel. Time will show
whether you or I know most about me."
She turned to walk to the gate where her carriage was waiting. He
helped her in and shut the door upon her in absolute silence. Then, just
as the man was driving off, he asked: "What do you think they would like
for a wedding present?"
"Man, you are incorrigible," exclaimed Lady Alicia, but her brow was
smooth and her eyes smiling.
Mr. Wycherly stood at the green gate for some time, lost hi thought. As
he turned to walk up the path to the house he said aloud: "I should like
to know what that young man has done that he should be singled out by
the gods for such supreme good fortune."
When the days grew long once more Lady Alicia came back to the "big
house," but no fair-haired Margaret came to play with the little boys.
"Where is she?" asked Montagu of his tutor. "Why doesn't she come?"
"She is married," said Mr. Wycherly; "she has to stay with her husband."
"When I marry," said Montagu, "I shall marry somebody like Margaret;
then she'll stay with me and I shall never be lonely."
"When you marry," Mr. Wycherly said very seriously, "take care of just
one thing. Take care that she is kind."
"I'd like her to be beautiful, too," Montagu said eagerly, "beautiful
and tall, like Margaret."
"I hope she will be beautiful, but kindness comes first," and Mr.
Wycherly spoke with conviction, as one who knew.
"How can one tell if she is kind?" Montagu asked.
"Compare her with your aunt, Montagu: if she stands such comparison, she
is all your best desires need seek."
"I will remember," Montagu said solemnly, "kind _and_ beautiful--but the
kindness must come first. I wish Margaret hadn't been in such a hurry,
she would have done beautifully."
*CHAPTER X*
*THE SABBATH*
He ordered a' things late and air';
He ordered folk to stand at prayer
(Although I cannae just mind where
He gave the warnin').
An' pit pomatum on their hair
On Sabbath mornin'.
R.L.S.
The Sabbath day at Burnhead was a long, long day. A day wholly given up
to "the public and private exercises of God's worship."
For Montagu, indeed, the shadow of the Sabbath began to steal over the
horizon as early as Friday night: and it was only when he woke on Monday
morning secure in the consciousness that the first day of the week was
safely passed, that life assumed again its habitually cheerful aspect.
Miss Esperance was a staunch Presbyterian, and belonged to the strictest
sect of the so-called Free Kirk. Therefore did she consider it her duty
to take Montagu twice to church in addition to superintending his
instruction in Bible history and the shorter catechism.
Montagu liked the scripture lessons well enough and found it no hardship
to read the Bible aloud to his aunt for hours at a time; but nearly four
hours' church with only the blessed interval of dinner in between was a
heavy discipline for even a naturally quiet small boy, and sometimes
Montagu was, inwardly, very rebellious.
Mr. Wycherly begged him off the afternoon service as often as he could
as a companion for Edmund, volunteering to look after both children so
that Robina, as well as Elsa, could attend church. Mr. Wycherly was an
Episcopalian, and as there was no "English" church within walking
distance, he said he read the service to himself every Sunday morning.
When Edmund was four years old, Miss Esperance decided that it was time
he, too, should share the benefit of the Reverend Peter Gloag's
ministrations. Edmund appeared pleased at the suggestion, for it was,
like his knickerbockers, to a certain extent an acknowledgment that he
had arrived at boy's estate. Montagu went to church, and why not he? It
was evidently the correct thing to do, and although he could not
remember to have seen his brother particularly uplifted by his
privileges in that respect, nobody else seemed much exhilarated either.
Hitherto, he had spent his Sunday mornings largely in the society of Mr.
Wycherly, who, as all toys were locked up in a tall cupboard on Saturday
night, connived at all sorts of queer games, invented on the spur of the
moment by the ingenious Edmund.
"I'm goin' to kirk! I'm goin' to kirk!" Edmund chanted gaily on the
appointed day.
He wore a new white sailor suit with pockets, and in one pocket was a
penny to "pirle" in the plate: in the other a wee packet of
Wotherspoon's peppermints for refreshment during the sermon. His curly
hair was brushed till it shone like the brass knocker on the front door
when Elsa had newly cleaned it, and his round, rosy face was framed by a
large new sailor hat that looked like a substantial sort of halo. White
socks and neat black shoes with straps completed Edmund's toilet, and
his aunt thought that never yet had the Bethune family possessed a
worthier scion.
Mr. Wycherly assisted to direct Edmund's fat, pink fingers into a tight,
white cotton glove, and stood at the green gate watching the departure
of Miss Esperance and her great-nephews, till the small black figure,
with a little white sailor on either side, had vanished from his view.
He marvelled greatly at the temerity of Miss Esperance in taking Edmund
to church at this tender age, though it was not the age that mattered so
much as Edmund. What Miss Esperance called the "Bethune temperament"
was very marked in that sunny-haired small boy, and it was apt to
manifest itself unexpectedly, wholly regardless of time or place.
The house seemed queerly quiet and deserted as Mr. Wycherly returned to
his room. Mause followed him and thrust a cold, wet nose into his hand,
looking up at him from under her tangled hair with puzzled, pleading
eyes.
"Poor old lady," said Mr. Wycherly, "you are lonely, too, are you?
We'll go for a little walk when the bell stops."
The church was a bare, white-washed, barn-like edifice, where none of
the windows were ever opened, and the unchanged air was always redolent
of hair-oil and strong peppermint.
Edmund smiled and nodded at his friends as he pattered up the aisle to
his aunt's pew, and when Andrew Mowat, the precentor, looking unwontedly
stern and unapproachable, took his seat under the pulpit, the little boy
wondered what could have annoyed him that he looked so cross. On
week-days Andrew, who kept the little grocer's shop in the village, was
the most sociable and friendly of creatures, and always bestowed "a
twa-three acid-drops" on the little boys when they went with Robina to
his shop.
But to-day Andrew was far removed from worldly cares or enjoyments, and
Edmund listened to him in awed astonishment as he wailed out the tune of
the first psalm, "My heart not haughty is, O Lord," to be gradually
taken up more or less tunefully by the whole congregation.
For the first half-hour of service Edmund behaved beautifully. He held
a large Bible open upside down, with white cotton fingers spread well
out over the back. He hummed the tune diligently and not too loud
during the first psalm, and stood quite moderately still during the
first long prayers.
It was not until the minister said: "Let us read in God's word from the
fifteenth chapter of the Book of Kings, beginning at the fifth verse,"
that the troubles of Miss Esperance really began.
At the announcement of the chapter to be read, there was an
instantaneous fluttering and turning over of leaves among the
congregation to find their places, and Edmund, zealous to be no whit
behind the rest in this pious exercise, fluttered the leaves of his
Bible violently to and fro for some time after every one else had
settled into seemly silence to follow the reading. Such a noisy rustling
did he make that several of the congregation raised their heads and
glanced disapprovingly in the direction of Miss Bethune's pew. That
gentle lady laid a detaining hand over Edmund's Bible to close it, but
he pulled it violently away from her with both hands, opened it again,
and held it ostentatiously against his nose, leaning forward to look
over the top at Montagu, who sat on the other side of his aunt.
Then to the horror of Miss Esperance, he began to imitate the minister;
joining in the reading wherever the oft-repeated "And the rest of the
acts of," whoever it happened to be, "are they not written," etc., in
low but perfectly audible tones. Edmund evidently looked upon the
phrase as a sort of chorus, waited for it, seized upon it, and joined in
it gleefully, holding his Bible at arm's length as though he were
singing at a concert.
Poor Miss Esperance turned crimson and bent over the little boy,
whispering, "You must be _perfectly_ quiet, my dear, you must not say a
single word."
Edmund, still holding his Bible stiffly out in front of him, looked
reproachfully at his aunt and was quiet for a few minutes. Then came
"and the rest of the acts of Pekah and all that he did," which was too
many for him. The name was attractive: "Pekah! Pekah! Pekah!" he
whispered, then faster: "Pekah, Pekah, Pekah, Pekah, Pekah, Pekah,"
exactly as he was wont to repeat "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled
peppers," which the minister's wife herself had taught him.
His aunt laid a firm hand over his mouth and looked at him with all the
severity her sweet old face could achieve. He realised that she was not
to be trifled with, and set down his Bible on the book-board in front of
him with an angry thump, at the same time leaning forward to frown
reprovingly at Montagu.
"When will he stop?" he whispered to his aunt, pointing a scornful
finger at the minister, "he's making far more noise nor me."
"Hush," murmured Miss Esperance again. For three minutes he was
comparatively quiet, then it occurred to him to take off his gloves.
This he achieved by holding the end of each cotton finger in his teeth
and pulling violently. Then he blew into each one, as he had seen his
aunt do with hers, finally squeezing them into a tight ball and cramming
them into the tiny pocket of his blouse.
"Pocket" instantly suggested the pockets of his trousers. His penny had
been disposed of on entrance, 'twas but a fleeting joy. But the packet
of Wotherspoon's sweeties remained. The minister had now engaged in
prayer, the congregation was standing up; Edmund's doings were
comparatively inconspicuous, and Miss Esperance permitted her thoughts
to soar heavenward once more. Edmund arranged the contents of his
packet in a neat square on the top of his Bible on the book-board in
front of him, and proceeded to taste several of the little white
comfits, putting each one back in its place wet and sticky, when he had
savoured its sweetness for a minute or two. By accident he knocked one
of the unsucked sweeties off the Bible, and it rolled away gaily under
the seat. In a moment Edmund had dived after it. He squeezed behind his
aunt and could not resist giving one of Montagu's legs a sharp pinch as
he beheld those members and nothing more from his somewhat lowly and
darksome position. Montagu leapt into the air with a scarcely suppressed
yelp, that startled more than Miss Esperance, who, at the same moment,
felt an unwonted something shoving against her legs. She feared that
some dog had got into the pew, and opened her eyes only to find that one
great-nephew had disappeared from her side and was squirming under the
seat. She also beheld the neatly arranged rows of sweeties on the top
of the Bible.
It took but a moment to sweep these into the satin bag she always
carried, but it took considerably longer to restore Edmund to an upright
position, and when this was done, his face was streaked with dust and
his small, hot hands were black.
Edmund lolled; Edmund fidgeted; Edmund even infected Montagu so that he
fidgeted too. Every five minutes or so Edmund whispered, "Can we go home
now?" till at last peace descended upon poor Miss Esperance, for in the
middle of the sermon Edmund fell fast asleep with his head against her
shoulder.
Miss Esperance looked quite pale and exhausted as she took her place at
early dinner that day, but Edmund was rosy and cheerful, and greeted Mr.
Wycherly as "Dearie" with rapturous affection when that gentleman took
his place at the bottom of the table. He always had dinner with the
children on Sundays.
At first the small boys were so hungry that very little was said, but
presently when pudding came Mr. Wycherly asked: "Well, Edmund, how did
you get on at church?"
Edmund laid down his spoon: "I'm never going back," he said decidedly,
"it is a 'bomnable place."
"Edmund!" exclaimed Miss Esperance, "how can you say such a thing. You,
unfortunately, did not behave particularly well, though I forgive that,
as it was the first time--but, remember, you will go to the church every
Sunday, and you will learn to be a good boy when you're there."
"It is," Edmund repeated, unconvinced, "a 'bomnable place, a 'bomnation
of desolation place."
The phrase had occurred several times in the earlier part of the
minister's sermon before Edmund fell asleep, and commended itself to his
youthful imagination as being singularly forceful and expressive.
Miss Esperance sighed. She really felt incapable of further wrestling
with Edmund just then, and looked appealingly at Mr. Wycherly. But he
dropped his eyes and refused to meet her gaze.
"He," Edmund suddenly resumed, pointing with his spoon at Mr. Wycherly,
"never goes there. _He_"--with even more emphasis and the greatest
deliberation--"is a--very--wise--man."
Here the naughty boy wagged his curly head and spoke with such barefaced
and perfect mimicry of his aunt, that again catching Mr. Wycherly's eye,
she burst into laughter, in which that gentleman was thankful to join
her.
"More puddin', please!" Edmund exclaimed, seizing the propitious moment
to hand up his plate.
That afternoon neither of the little boys accompanied Miss Esperance to
church.
*CHAPTER XI*
*LOAVES AND FISHES*
I am no quaker at my food. I confess I am not indifferent to the kinds
of it.--CHARLES LAMB.
On the following Sabbath day Edmund was a-missing directly it was time
to get ready for church. He was to be found neither in house nor
garden, and Miss Esperance came to the sorrowful conclusion that the
Bethune temperament had again asserted itself, and that Edmund had, of
deliberate purpose, effaced himself so that he should not be made to go
to church. She was not on this occasion in the least perturbed by the
fact that the small boy was lost. She had no fears as to his safety,
but she was most grievously upset by this deliberate flying in the face
of authority, and set off for church, looking very grave and almost
stern, with only Montagu in attendance.
Mr. Wycherly had shut himself in his room during the hunt for Edmund.
He had a nervous dread of scenes of any kind, and when either of the
little boys was punished he suffered horribly. He fully recognised the
necessity for occasional correction, especially in the case of a small
boy so chock-full of original sin as Edmund. But none the less did he
undergo much mental anguish on the occasions when such punishment took
place. He could not altogether approve of certain of the methods of
Miss Esperance, although he reverenced her far too much to indulge in
any conscious criticism.
Remote had always been marked out from other houses by the immense
tranquillity of its chief inmates, to whom fret and fuss were unknown.
People were never scolded at Remote, unless by Elsa, when she was quite
sure Miss Esperance was out of hearing.
When Montagu and Edmund were naughty they were punished by Miss
Esperance, who always, and manifestly, suffered much more than the
delinquents.
A favourite mode of correction in days when Miss Esperance was young was
the substitution of bread and water for whatever meal happened to come
nearest the time of the offence: and for the little boys poignancy was
added to this dismal diet by the knowledge that their aunt tasted
nothing else at her own meal during such times of abstinence for them.
From such punishment, all suspicion of revenge--which, in the chastened
one, so often nullifies the desired result--was entirely eliminated; and
the children quite understood that they were being corrected for the
good of their souls, and not because their aunt required a vent for her
annoyance at their misdeeds.
Sunday dinner, however--the day on which by his own request Mr. Wycherly
took his mid-day meal with Miss Esperance and the children--had hitherto
been exempt from any such punitive mortification of the carnal
appetites. Indeed, Mr. Wycherly had imbued it with a certain Elizabethan
flavour of festivity and cheerfulness, and here, greatly to his
surprise, he was warmly seconded by Elsa, who grudged no extra cooking
to make the Sabbath-day dinner particularly appetising. From the time
that Mr. Wycherly had asserted his right to throw his all into the
common lot, things had been easier at Remote, and old Elsa did not
forget his enthusiastic eagerness to further her endeavours that her
mistress should have a peaceful and proper breakfast.
Therefore when it became the established custom for Mr. Wycherly to
carve the joint on Sundays, she was ever ready to fall in with any small
plans he might make for the benefit of the little boys.
And now Edmund had been naughty on the Sabbath, and Mr. Wycherly knew
what to expect.
Bread, watered by his tears, for Edmund. Bread, seasoned only by
sorrowful reflection, for Miss Esperance.
Banishment for hungry Edmund if he cried aloud, and there were ducks for
dinner, large fat ducks sent by Lady Alicia. Mr. Wycherly could smell
the stuffing even now. Who would believe that the smell of sage and
onions could bear so mournful a message?
The Greek characters of the Philebus he held in his hand danced before
his eyes. He could not give his mind to the philosophy of beauty or the
theory of pleasure. The doctrine of aesthetical, moral, and
intellectual harmonies, pleasing as it was to him on ordinary occasions,
failed to hold him just then, when all his mental vision was
concentrated on a chubby, tearful figure whose misdeeds would debar him
from duck for dinner.
Mr. Wycherly laid down his "Plato" and began to pace the room
restlessly, finally taking up his stand at the window looking out on the
garden. Where was that boy? Where had the monkey hidden himself? He
was not with Mause, for Mr. Wycherly could see the old dog lying in a
patch of sunshine on the little plot of grass.
He went back to his bookshelf for comfort: he wanted something human,
something warm and faulty and sympathetic, and his eye lighted on
"Tristram Shandy." "Tristram Shandy" was tight in the shelf--squeezed
in between the "Phaedo" and Hooker's "Ecclesiastical Polity"--Mr.
Wycherly was nervous and agitated, and he must have pulled it out
clumsily, for it fell to the ground with a thump.
As he stooped to recover it he caught sight of a plump brown leg
protruding from beneath his sofa. He went down on his knees to look
more closely, and there, cuddled up under the sofa, his curly head
pillowed on his arm, lay Edmund, fast asleep. Edmund possessed a
Wellingtonian capacity for falling asleep whenever he kept still. He
had hidden under the sofa in Mr. Wycherly's room just before that
gentleman took refuge there from the grieved annoyance of Miss Esperance
at her grand-nephew's defection. Mr. Wycherly had shut his door, and no
one dreamt of disturbing him to look there for the missing one.
Here was a pretty kettle of fish!
Although Mr. Wycherly knew that Miss Esperance would exonerate him from
any actual participation in Edmund's truancy, he was assuredly accessory
after the fact, and what was to be done?
"I hope he won't hit his head when he wakes up," Mr. Wycherly thought
concernedly. "What a beautiful child he is!" and he knelt on where he
was gazing admiringly at the slumbering cupid.
Stronger and stronger grew the savour of sage and onions throughout the
little house. It penetrated even to Mause in the garden, and she arose
from her patch of sunshine and sniffed inquisitively.