"SHOWING OFF"
Cousin Becky had been nearly a week at Beaworthy when, one afternoon,
Mrs. Marsh called to see her. It was on a Saturday, and Polly and
Roger had gone for a walk as the weather was beautifully fine and dry,
so they were absent during their aunt's visit and were not told much
concerning it, though they would have liked to have known all that had
been said.
"I do wonder what Cousin Becky thinks of Aunt Janie," Polly said to her
brother. "I don't like to ask her, but I should dearly like to know."
But the old lady did not say what she thought of Mrs. Marsh, so Polly's
curiosity remained unsatisfied; nor, after the few hours she and Mrs.
Trent spent at the Rookery one afternoon of the following week, did she
have many remarks to make about the home of her well-to-do cousin, but
she expressed an interest in Edgar, with whom she had apparently been
somewhat favourably impressed. "He seems a manly little fellow," she
said, "and I hope his mother will not spoil him by over-indulgence."
"I fear she has done that already," Mrs. Trent replied gravely, "for he
is a very wayward and disobedient boy, and he is always making mischief
with the servants; he treats them in a most disrespectful manner, from
all accounts."
"And he tells stories," declared Polly. "Doesn't he, Roger?"
"Y-e-s," Roger answered reluctantly. "I don't think he means any harm
by it, and I don't know that he would tell a big lie, but he does tell
a lot of little fibs, and Aunt Janie knows it too, for the last time I
was at the Rookery she kept on saying to him, 'Oh, Edgar, dearie, I do
wish you would learn to speak the truth!'"
It was impossible not to smile as Roger imitated so exactly the
plaintive tone in which his aunt was in the habit of reproving her son;
but Cousin Becky became serious again almost immediately.
"It is a terrible thing to be untruthful," she said gravely, "and I
believe that, as a rule, one who tells little fibs, as Roger calls
them, will not hesitate to utter a big lie when occasion arises. Do you
see much of Edgar?" she inquired of Roger.
"Not much, Cousin Becky, and before we went to school I hardly ever had
anything to do with him. Sometimes he walks as far as the corner of the
street with me now, but I never ask him to come here, for he doesn't
like our house."
"It's not grand enough for him," said Polly, tossing her head, "and I'm
sure we don't want him here. I can't bear him."
"Oh, he's all right in his way, Polly," said her brother. "I think he's
rather nicer than he was at the beginning of the term; there's a lot of
fun in him, really. He said something yesterday about asking me to tea
at the Rookery on Saturday; he said he would speak to Aunt Janie about
it. I wonder if he will."
"Oh, I daresay!" Polly returned in a would-be indifferent tone as she
speculated whether an invitation would be extended to her too.
However, that was not to be the case, for when Saturday came Roger only
was asked to the Rookery, and the little girl found herself left out in
the cold. She was vastly indignant, though she would not for the world
have acknowledged as much; she felt she had been slighted, and, to make
the matter worse, her father condoled with her on having to remain at
home, whereupon Roger said carelessly:
"Oh, she doesn't mind, father! She doesn't like Edgar, so it wouldn't
be much fun for her, anyway."
Polly was on the brink of tears, for though she certainly did not like
her cousin, it would have been a great treat for her to have spent
a few hours at the Rookery; and she much desired to see the "winter
garden," as her uncle called the greenhouse where he grew hyacinths,
primulas, cyclamens, heaths, and various other flowers which flourish
under glass in early spring. She kept silence, however, and hoped no
one noticed her disappointment, for she was successful in blinking away
the tears which, against her will, had risen to her eyes.
When Roger arrived at the Rookery, he found that his aunt and uncle had
gone away to spend the day; but Edgar, who had been on the look-out for
him and met him at the front door, appeared to think they would have a
much more enjoyable time on that account, "for now we shall be able to
do exactly as we like," he said gleefully, adding that his mother had
given orders that they were to have whatever they pleased for tea.
It was a lovely February day with a touch of spring in the air, for the
weather, after a short spell of frost, had turned milder, so the boys
spent most of the afternoon in the gardens and outbuildings connected
with the house. Roger was charmed with the flowers in the winter garden
and would have liked to have remained longer to admire their manifold
beauties, but Edgar grew impatient and hurried him away. From thence
they visited the stable, where the visitor was allowed to smooth the
sleek sides of the pair of horses which he longed to be able to drive
and, much to the amusement of a groom who stood by chewing a straw, he
confessed his ambition to be a coachman when he should be grown-up. The
idea seemed to tickle the fancy of Edgar, for he laughed immoderately.
"Why, Roger, you'd have to wear livery if you were a coachman," he
reminded his cousin.
"Of course," Roger answered. "I shouldn't mind that. What are you
laughing at? I love horses, and—"
"And they love you, sir," interposed the groom good-naturedly; "animals
know those who like them. Look at that now!"
One of the horses had turned his head and was rubbing his nose against
Roger's sleeve.
The little boy was very reluctant to leave the stable; but Edgar
declared that he was hungry and wanted his tea, so they went into
the house, where they found a most tempting repast awaiting them in
the dining-room—a repast which, to the visitor, appeared all that
any reasonable person could desire, though Edgar did a great deal of
grumbling. There were two sorts of jam on the table, but the young host
was satisfied with neither and rang the bell, bidding the maid-servant
who answered his summons to bring another kind. Then he complained that
the cake was stale, and that the bread and butter was not cut thin
enough—Roger thought the cake was delicious, and the bread and butter,
if anything, too thin—and at length the servant grew exasperated and
told him he was a foolish boy to try to show off before his cousin, a
remark which made him very angry indeed.
"I shall tell mother how impertinent she's been and get her dismissed!"
he exclaimed as the young woman left the room. "She had no business to
speak to me in such a manner as that."
"I think you were trying to show off, though," Roger told him candidly,
"for really it's a beautiful cake, and the bread and butter is much
thinner than we ever have it at home, even if we have strangers to tea.
Yes, I'll have a little more strawberry jam, please. I'm making a very
good tea."
So was Edgar, though he would not admit it. He felt exceedingly
humiliated, for he had desired to make Roger believe that the servants
of the household were under his control, and he had certainly not
succeeded in his attempt. For a short while he looked extremely cross;
but he soon brightened up after tea, when he led the way into his
father's study, and exhibited to his companion a collection of coins,
and another of foreign stamps, both of which he represented to be his
own. As a matter-of-fact that was perfectly untrue, and he had no right
to show either the coins or the stamps without his father's permission.
Of course, Roger did not know that, and he began to look on his cousin
as a person of property.
"I wonder you don't sell some of those stamps if they're worth such
a heap of money as you say," he said, as he watched Edgar replace
the stamps in the cabinet from which he had taken them, "I am sure I
should."
"But, you see, I don't want the money," Edgar reminded him.
"No, I suppose not."
The coins were kept in the shallow drawers of another cabinet which
Edgar had unlocked with a key—one of a bunch he had taken from a desk
on the writing-table. He would not permit Roger to touch them, only to
look, and afterwards he locked the drawers and returned the keys to the
exact spot where he had found them. Then he took up a cigarette case
which he opened and offered to Roger.
"Have one?" he asked with an assumption of carelessness.
"No, thank you," Roger responded, laughing, for he had not taken the
offer seriously; "I don't smoke."
"I do," was the astounding reply, as Edgar selected a cigarette from
the case and proceeded to light it with a wax match he took from a
match-box which he produced from his pocket. Roger watched him take two
or three whiffs in silence, dumbfounded at the sight. At last he cried
wonderingly:
"Fancy Uncle John allowing you to smoke! Aren't you afraid of being
sick?"
"No; you see, I'm used to it," Edgar replied, a flush rising to his
cheeks. "You may as well try a cigarette, you'll enjoy it."
"No, thank you. Of course I know lots of the boys at the Grammar School
do smoke—on the sly; but father said he hoped I never would, and I
promised him I wouldn't."
"Oh, well, my father said something of the same kind, but I didn't
promise one way or the other. He's never found me out yet—"
"Then he doesn't know. Oh, Edgar, how wrong of you! How can you bear to
do it? Do put the cigarette down."
"Nonsense!" Edgar smoked on more out of a spirit of bravado than
because he was enjoying the cigarette. He did not indulge in a second,
however. "Look here, don't you go home and tell anyone I've been
smoking," he said as he noted the expression of disapproval on his
cousin's tell-tale countenance, "for you'll get me into a row if you
do. Father's awfully against boys smoking."
"Then do say you won't smoke again, Edgar. It's awfully wrong of you,
really."
"Oh, I shall be careful I'm not found out. I shouldn't smoke here if
mother and father were at home, but I often do in my own room. Why, you
look quite shocked! What a young innocent you are!"
"I'm no younger than you—that is, not much, only a few months. But, I
say, Edgar, you really oughtn't to smoke if Uncle John doesn't wish you
to; it's deceiving him;" and Roger spoke very seriously.
"Well, I daresay you deceive your father sometimes—"
"Indeed I don't."
"Because you're afraid of being found out!" Edgar cried scornfully. "I
never guessed before that you were such a coward!"
"I'm not a coward!" Roger retorted, growing red with indignation. "But
I wouldn't try to deceive father even if there was no fear of his
finding it out. God would know, anyway. Mother says we should never do
anything we wouldn't like Him to know. You have no right to call me a
coward—"
"I didn't really mean it, so don't let us quarrel," Edgar broke in
hastily. "Oh," he exclaimed as Roger suddenly declared it was time for
him to leave, "don't go yet! It is quite early."
"It's half-past six," Roger replied, glancing at the brass face of an
old-fashioned clock in a black oak case, which stood against the wall
near the writing-table, "and mother said I was to be back by seven. It
will take me quite half an hour to get home."
"You won't tell about my smoking, will you?" questioned Edgar anxiously
as he followed his cousin out of the room into the hall.
"No, of course I won't," was the reassuring response, "I wouldn't be
such a sneak as that. Good-bye, Edgar. Thank you for asking me to
tea—it was a jolly nice tea, too, and I enjoyed it awfully. Good-bye."
Edgar stood at the front door and watched his late companion out
of sight. He was growing to like Roger more than any of his other
school-fellows, and he had the sense to see that he had made no
favourable impression upon him by the manner in which he had set his
father's command at defiance, and he heartily wished he had not smoked
that cigarette. He was uneasily conscious that the other boy knew that
he had only been "showing off."