"The night was now pitmirk; the wind soughed amid the
headstones and railings of the gentry (for we all must die),
and the black corbies in the steeple-holes cackled and
crawed in a fearsome manner."
MANSIE WAUGH.
Bill was early at the night-school. No other of his class had arrived,
so he took the corner by the fire sacred to first-comers, and watched
the gradual gathering of the school. Presently Master Arthur appeared,
and close behind him came his friend. Mr. Bartram Lindsay looked more
attractive now than he had done in the garden. When standing, he was
an elegant though plain-looking young man, neat in his dress, and with
an admirable figure. He was apt to stand very still and silent for a
length of time, and had a habit of holding his chin up in the air,
which led some people to say that he "held himself very high." This
was the opinion that Bill had formed, and he was rather alarmed by
hearing Master Arthur pressing his friend to take his class instead of
the more backward one, over which the gardener usually presided; and
he was proportionably relieved when Mr. Bartram steadily declined.
"To say the truth, Bartram," said the young gentleman, "I am much
obliged to you, for I am used to my own boys, and prefer them."
Then up came the schoolmaster.
"Mr. Lindsay going to take John's class? Thank you, Sir. I've put out
the books; if you want anything else, Sir, p'raps you'll mention it.
When they have done reading, perhaps, Sir, you will kindly draft them
off for writing, and take the upper classes in arithmetic, if you
don't object, Sir."
Mr. Lindsay did not object.
"If you have a picture or two," he said. "Thank you. Know their
letters? All right. Different stages of progression. Very good. I've
no doubt we shall get on together."
"Between ourselves, Bartram," whispered Master Arthur into his
friend's ear, "the class is composed of boys who ought to have been to
school, and haven't; or who have been, and are none the better for it.
Some of them can what they call 'read in the Testament,' and all of
them confound b and d when they meet with them. They are at one point
of general information--namely, they all know what you have just told
them, and will none of them know it by next time. I call it the
rag-tag and bob-tail class. John says they are like forced tulips.
They won't blossom simultaneously. He can't get them all to one
standard of reading."
Mr. Lindsay laughed and said--
"He had better read less, and try a little general oral instruction.
Perhaps they don't remember because they can't understand;"--and the
Rector coming in at that moment, the business of the evening
commenced.
Having afterwards to cross the school for something, Bill passed the
new teacher and his class, and came to the conclusion that they did
"get on together," and very well too. The rag-tag and bob-tail shone
that night, and afterwards were loud in praises of the lesson. "It was
so clear," and "He was so patient." Indeed, patience was one great
secret of Mr. Lindsay's teaching; he waited so long for an answer that
he generally got it. His pupils were obliged to exert themselves when
there was no hope of being passed over, and everybody was waiting.
Finally, Bill's share of the arithmetic lesson converted him to Master
Arthur's friend. He _was_ a clever young gentleman, and a kind one
too.
The lesson had been so interesting--the clever young gentleman,
standing (without his eye-glass) by the blackboard, had been so strict
and yet so entertaining, was so obviously competent, and so pleasantly
kind, that Bill, who liked arithmetic, and (like all intelligent
children) appreciated good teaching, had had no time to think of the
Yew-lane Ghost till the lesson was ended. It was not till the hymn
began (they always ended the night-school with singing), then he
remembered it. Then, while he was shouting with all his might Bishop
Ken's glorious old lines--
"Keep me, oh keep me, King of kings,"
he caught Mr. Lindsay's eyes fixed on him, and back came the thoughts
of his terrible fright, with a little shame too at his own timidity.
Which of us trusts as we should do in the "defence of the Most High?"
Bill lingered as he had done the last time, and went out with the
"grown-ups." It had been raining, and the ground was wet and sludgy,
though it was fair overhead. The wind was cold, too, and Mr. Lindsay
began to cough so violently, that Bill felt rather ashamed of taking
him so far out of his way, through the damp chilly lane, and began to
wonder whether he could not summon up courage to go alone. The result
was, that with some effort he said--
"Please, Mr. Lindsay, Sir, I think you won't like to come so far this
cold night. I'll try and manage, if you like."
Mr. Lindsay laid one hand on Bill's shoulder, and said quietly--
"No, thank you, my boy, we'll come with you, Thank you, all the same."
"Nevertheless, Bartram," said Master Arthur, "I wish you could keep
that cough of yours quiet--it will spoil everything. A boy was eating
peppermints in the shade of his copy-book this very night. I did box
his ears; but I wish I had seized the goodies, they might have kept
you quiet."
"Thank you," was the reply, "I abhor peppermint; but I have got some
lozenges, if that will satisfy you. And when I smell ghosts, I can
smother myself in my pocket-handkerchief."
Master Arthur laughed boisterously.
"We shall smell one if brimstone will do it. I hope he won't set
himself on fire, or the scenic effect will be stronger than we
bargained for."
This was the beginning of a desultory conversation carried on at
intervals between the two young gentlemen, of which, though Bill heard
every sentence, he couldn't understand one. He made one effort to
discover what Master Arthur was alluding to, but with no satisfactory
result, as we shall see.
"Please, Master Arthur," he said desperately, "you don't think
there'll be two ghosts, do you, Sir?"
"I should say," said Master Arthur, so slowly and with such gravity
that Bill felt sure he was making fun of him, "I should say, Bill,
that if a place is haunted at all there is no limit to the number of
ghosts--fifty quite as likely as one. What do you say, Bartram?"
"Quite so," said Bartram.
Bill made no further attempts to understand the mystery. He listened,
but only grew more and more bewildered at the dark hints he heard, and
never understood what it all meant until the end came; when (as is not
uncommon) he wondered how he could have been so stupid, and why he had
not seen it all from the very first.
They had now reached the turning-point, and as they passed into the
dark lane, where the wind was shuddering and shivering among the
trees, Bill shuddered and shivered too, and felt very glad that the
young gentlemen were with him, after all.
Mr. Lindsay pulled out his watch.
"Well?" said his friend.
"Ten minutes to nine."
Then they walked on in silence, Master Arthur with one arm through his
friend's, and the one-legged donkey under the other; and Mr. Lindsay
with his hand on Bill's shoulder.
"I _should_ like a pipe!" said Master Arthur presently; "it's so
abominably damp."
"What a fellow you are," said Mr. Lindsay. "Out of the question! With
the wind setting down the lane too! you talk of my cough--which is
better, by-the-bye."
"What a fellow _you_ are!" retorted the other. "Bartram, you are the
oddest creature I know. What ever you take up, you do drive at so. Now
I have hardly got a lark afloat before I'm sick of it. I wish you'd
tell me two things--first, why are you so grave to-night? and,
secondly, what made you take up our young friend's cause so warmly?"
"One answer will serve both questions," said Mr. Lindsay. "The truth
is, old fellow, our young friend--[and Bill felt certain that the
'young friend' was himself]--has a look of a little chap I was chum
with at school--Regy Gordon. I don't talk about it often, for I can't
very well; but he was killed--think of it, man!--_killed_ by such a
piece of bullying as this! When they found him, he was quite stiff and
speechless; he lived a few hours, but he only said two words--my name,
and amen."
"Amen?" said Master Arthur, inquiringly.
"Well, you see when the surgeon said it was no go, they telegraphed
for his friends; but they were a long way off, and he was sinking
rapidly; and the old Doctor was in the room, half heart-broken, and he
saw Gordon move his hands together, and he said, 'If any boy knows
what prayers Gordon minor has been used to say, let him come and say
them by him;' and I did. So I knelt by his bed and said them, the old
Doctor kneeling too and sobbing like a child; and when I had done,
Regy moved his lips and said 'Amen;' and then he said 'Lindsay!' and
smiled, and then--"
Master Arthur squeezed his friend's arm tightly, but said nothing, and
both the young men were silent; but Bill could not restrain his tears.
It seemed the saddest story he had ever heard, and Mr. Lindsay's hand
upon his shoulder shook so intolerably whilst he was speaking, that he
had taken it away, which made Bill worse, and he fairly sobbed.
"What are you blubbering about, young 'un?" said Mr. Lindsay. "He is
better off than any of us, and if you are a good boy you will see him
some day;" and the young gentleman put his hand back again, which was
steady now.
"What became of the other fellow?" said Master Arthur.
"He was taken away, of course. Sent abroad, I believe. It was hushed
up. And now you know," added Mr. Lindsay, "why my native indolence has
roused itself to get this cad taught a lesson, which many a time I
wished to GOD when wishes were too late, that that other bully had
been taught _in time_. But no one could thrash him; and no one durst
complain. However, let's change the subject, old fellow! I've got over
it long since: though sometimes I think the wish to see Regy again
helps to keep me a decent sort of fellow. But when I saw the likeness
this morning, it startled me; and then to hear the story, it seemed
like a dream--the Gordon affair over again. I suppose rustic nerves
are tougher; however, your village blackguard shan't have the chance
of committing murder if we can cure him!"
"I believe you half wanted to undertake the cure yourself," said
Master Arthur.
Mr. Lindsay laughed.
"I did for a minute. Fancy your father's feelings if I had come home
with a black eye from an encounter with a pot-house bully! You know I
put my foot into a tender secret of your man's, by offering to be the
performer!"
"How?"
Mr. Lindsay lowered his voice, but not so that Bill could not hear
what he said, and recognize the imitation of John Gardener.
"He said, 'I'd rather do it, if _you_ please, Sir. The fact is, I'm
partial to the young woman myself!' After that, I could but leave John
to defend his young woman's belongings."
"Gently!" exclaimed Master Arthur. "There is the Yew Walk."
From this moment the conversation was carried on in whispers, to
Bill's further mystification. The young gentlemen recovered their
spirits, and kept exploding in smothered chuckles of laughter.
"Cold work for him if he's been waiting long!" whispered one.
"Don't know. His head's under cover, remember!" said the other: and
they laughed.
"Bet you sixpence he's been smearing his hand with brimstone for the
last half hour."
"Don't smell him yet, though."
"He'll be a patent aphis-destroyer in the rose-garden for months to
come."
"Sharp work for the eyelids if it gets under the sheet."
They were now close by the Yews, out of which the wind came with a
peculiar chill, as if it had been passing through a vault. Mr. Bartram
Lindsay stooped down, and whispered in Bill's ear. "Listen, my lad. We
can't go down the lane with you, for we want to see the ghost, but we
don't want the ghost to see us. Don't be frightened, but go just as
usual. And mind--when you see the white figure, point with your own
arm _towards the Church_, and scream as loud as you like. Can you do
this?"
"Yes, Sir," whispered Bill.
"Then off with you. We shall creep quietly on behind the trees; and
you shan't be hurt, I promise you."
Bill summoned his courage, and plunged into the shadows. What could be
the meaning of Mr. Lindsay's strange orders? Should he ever have
courage to lift his arm towards the church in the face of that awful
apparition of the murdered man? And if he did, would the unquiet
spirit take the hint, and go back into the grave, which Bill knew was
at that very corner to which he must point? Left alone, his terrors
began to return; and he listened eagerly to see if, amid the
ceaseless soughing of the wind among the long yew branches, he could
hear the rustle of the young men's footsteps as they crept behind. But
he could distinguish nothing. The hish-wishing of the thin leaves was
so incessant, the wind was so dexterous and tormenting in the tricks
it played and the sounds it produced, that the whole place seemed
alive with phantom rustlings and footsteps; and Bill felt as if Master
Arthur was right, and that there was "no limit" to the number of
ghosts!
At last he could see the end of the avenue. There among the few last
trees was the place where the ghost had appeared. There beyond lay the
white road, the churchyard corner, and the tall grey tomb-stone
glimmering in the moonlight. A few steps more, and slowly from among
the yews came the ghost as before, and raised its long white arm. Bill
determined that, if he died for it, he would do as he had been told;
and lifting his own hand he pointed towards the tomb-stone, and gave a
shout. As he pointed, the ghost turned round, and then--rising from
behind the tomb-stone, and gliding slowly to the edge of the wall,
which separated the churchyard from the lower level of the road--there
appeared a sight so awful, that Bill's shout merged into a prolonged
scream of terror.
Truly Master Arthur's anticipations of a "scenic effect" were amply
realized. The walls and buttresses of the old Church stood out dark
against the sky; the white clouds sailed slowly by the moon, which
reflected itself on the damp grass, and shone upon the flat wet
tomb-stones till they looked like pieces of water. It was not less
bright upon the upright ones, upon quaint crosses, short headstones,
and upon the huge ungainly memorial of the murdered Ephraim Garnett.
But _the_ sight on which it shone that night was the figure now
standing by Ephraim Garnett's grave, and looking over the wall. An
awful figure, of gigantic height, with ghostly white garments clinging
round its headless body, and carrying under its left arm the head that
should have been upon its shoulders. On this there was neither flesh
nor hair. It seemed to be a bare skull, with fire gleaming through the
hollow eye-sockets and the grinning teeth. The right hand of the
figure was outstretched as if in warning; and from the palms to the
tips of the fingers was a mass of lambent flame. When Bill saw this
fearful apparition he screamed with hearty good will; but the noise he
made was nothing to the yell of terror that came from beneath the
shroud of the Yew-lane Ghost, who, on catching sight of the rival
spectre, fled wildly up the lane, kicking the white sheet off as he
went, and finally displaying, to Bill's amazement, the form and
features of Bully Tom. But this was not all. No sooner had the first
ghost started, than the second (not to be behind-hand) jumped nimbly
over the wall, and gave chase. But fear had put wings on to Bully
Tom's feet; and the second ghost being somewhat encumbered by his
costume, judged it wisdom to stop; and then taking the fiery skull in
its flaming hands, shied it with such dexterity, that it hit Bully Tom
in the middle of his back, and falling on to the wet ground, went out
with a hiss. This blow was an unexpected shock to the Bully, who
thought the ghost must have come up to him with supernatural rapidity,
and falling on his knees in the mud, began to roar most lustily:
"Lord, have mercy upon me! I'll never do it no more!"
Mr. Lindsay was not likely to alter his opinion on the subject of
bullies. This one, like others, was a mortal coward. Like other men,
who have no fear of GOD before their eyes, he made up for it by having
a very hearty fear of sickness, death, departed souls, and one or two
other things, which the most self-willed sinner knows well enough to
be in the hands of a Power which he cannot see, and does not wish to
believe in. Bully Tom had spoken the truth when he said that if he
thought there was a ghost in Yew-lane he wouldn't go near it. If he
had believed the stories with which he had alarmed poor Bill, the
lad's evening walk would never have been disturbed, as far as he was
concerned. Nothing but his spite against Bessy would have made him
take so much trouble to vex the peace, and stop the schooling, of her
pet brother; and as it was, the standing alone by the churchyard at
night was a position so little to his taste, that he had drunk pretty
heavily in the public-house for half an hour beforehand, to keep up
his spirits. And now he had been paid back in his own coin, and lay
grovelling in the mud, and calling profanely on the Lord, Whose mercy
such men always cry for in their trouble, if they never ask it for
their sins. He was so confused and blinded by drink and fright, that
he did not see the second ghost divest himself of his encumbrances, or
know that it was John Gardener, till that rosy-cheeked worthy, his
clenched hands still flaming with brimstone, danced round him, and
shouted scornfully, and with that vehemence of aspiration, in which he
was apt to indulge when excited:
"Get hup, yer great cowardly booby, will yer? So you thought you was
coming hout to frighten a little lad, did ye? And you met with one of
your hown size, did ye? Now _will_ ye get hup and take it like a man,
or shall I give it you as ye lie there?"
Bully Tom chose the least of two evils, and staggering to his feet
with an oath, rushed upon John. But in his present condition he was no
match for the active little gardener, inspired with just wrath, and
thoughts of Bessy; and he then and there received such a sound
thrashing as he had not known since he first arrogated the character
of village bully. He was roaring loudly for mercy, and John Gardener
was giving him a harmless roll in the mud by way of conclusion, when
he caught sight of the two young gentlemen in the lane--Master Arthur
in fits of laughter at the absurd position of the ex-Yew-lane Ghost
and Mr. Lindsay standing still and silent, with folded arms, set lips,
and the gold eye-glass on his nose. As soon as he saw them, he began
to shout, "Murder! help!" at the top of his voice.
"I see myself," said Master Arthur, driving his hands contemptuously
into his pockets--"I see myself helping a great lout who came out to
frighten a child, and can neither defend his own eyes and nose, nor
take a licking with a good grace when he deserves it!"
Bully Tom appealed to Mr. Lindsay.
"Yah! yah!" he howled: "will you see a man killed for want of help?"
But the clever young gentleman seemed even less inclined to give his
assistance.
"Killed!" he said contemptuously; "I _have_ seen a lad killed on such
a night as this, by such a piece of bullying! Be thankful you have
been stopped in time! I wouldn't raise my little finger to save you
from twice such a thrashing. It has been fairly earned! Give the ghost
his shroud, Gardener, and let him go; and recommend him not to haunt
Yew-lane in future."
John did so, with a few words of parting advice on his own account.
"Be hoff with you," he said. "Master Lindsay, he speaks like a book.
You're a disgrace to your hage and sect, you are! I'd as soon fight
with an old charwoman. Though, bless you, young gentlemen," he added,
as Bully Tom slunk off muttering, "he _is_ the biggest blackguard in
the place; and what the Rector'll say, when he comes to know as you've
been mingled up with him, passes me."
"He'll forgive us, I dare say," said Master Arthur. "I only wish he
could have seen you emerge from behind that stone! It was a sight for
a century! I wonder what the youngster thought of it! Hi, Willie,
here, Sir! What did you think of the second ghost?"
Bill had some doubts as to the light in which he ought to regard that
apparition; but he decided on the simple truth.
"I thought it looked very horrid, Sir."
"I should hope it did! The afternoon's work of three able-bodied men
has been marvellously wasted if it didn't. However, I must say you
halloed out loud enough!"
Bill coloured, the more so as Mr. Lindsay was looking hard at him over
the top of his spectacles.
"Don't you feel rather ashamed of all your fright, now you've seen the
ghosts without their sheets?" inquired the clever young gentleman.
"Yes, Sir," said Bill, hanging his head. "I shall never believe in
ghosts again, Sir, though."
Mr. Bartram Lindsay took off his glasses, and twiddled them in his
fingers.
"Well, well," he said in a low hurried voice; "I'm not the parson, and
I don't pretend to say what you should believe and what you shouldn't.
We know precious little as to how much the spirits of the dead see and
know of what they have left behind. But I think you may venture to
assure yourself that when a poor soul has passed the waves of this
troublesome world, by whatever means, it doesn't come back kicking
about under a white sheet in dark lanes, to frighten little boys from
going to school."
"And that's very true, Sir," said John Gardener, admiringly.
"So it is," said Master Arthur. "I couldn't have explained that
myself, Willie; but those are my sentiments and I beg you'll attend to
what Mr. Lindsay has told you."
"Yes, Sir," said Bill.
Mr. Lindsay laughed, though not quite merrily, and said--
"I could tell him something more, Arthur, though he's too young to
understand it: namely, that if he lives, the day will come, when he
would be only too happy if the dead might come back and hold out their
hands to us, anywhere, and for however short a time."
The young gentleman stopped abruptly; and the gardener heaved a
sympathetic sigh.
"I tell you what it is, Bartram," muttered Master Arthur, "I suppose
I'm too young, too, for I've had quite enough of the melancholies for
one night. As to you, you're as old as the hills; but it's time you
came home; and if I'd known before what you told me to night, old
fellow, you shouldn't have come out on this expedition. Now, for you,
Willie," added the young gentleman, whirling sharply round, "if you're
not a pattern Solomon henceforth, it won't be the fault of your
friends. And if wisdom doesn't bring you to school after this, I shall
try the argument of the one-legged donkey."
"I don't think I shall miss next time, Sir."
"I hope you won't. Now, John, as you've come so far, you may as well
see the lad safe home; but don't shake hands with the family in the
present state of your fists, or you might throw somebody into a fit.
Good-night!"
Yew-lane echoed a round of "Good-nights;" and Bill and the gardener
went off in high spirits. As they crossed the road, Bill looked round,
and under the trees saw the young gentlemen strolling back to the
Rectory, arm in arm. Mr. Bartram Lindsay with his chin high in the
air, and Master Arthur vehemently exhorting him on some topic, of
which he was pointing the moral with flourishes of the one-legged
donkey.
* * * * *
For those who like to know "what became of" everybody, these facts are
added:
The young gentlemen got safely home; and Master Arthur gave such a
comical account of their adventure, that the Rector laughed too much
to scold them, even if he had wished.
Beauty Bill went up and down Yew-lane on many a moonlight night after
this one, but he never saw another ghost, or felt any more fears in
connection with Ephraim Garnett. To make matters more entirely
comfortable, however, John kindly took to the custom of walking home
with the lad after night-school was ended. In return for this
attention, Bill's family were apt to ask him in for an hour; and by
their fire-side he told the story of the two ghosts so often--from the
manufacture in the Rectory barn to the final apparition at the
cross-roads--that the whole family declare they feel just as if they
had seen it.
Bessy, under the hands of the cheerful doctor, got quite well, and
eventually married. As her cottage boasts the finest window plants in
the village, it is shrewdly surmised that her husband is a gardener.
Bully Tom talked very loudly for some time of "having the law of" the
rival ghost; but finding, perhaps, that the story did not redound to
his credit, was unwilling to give it further publicity, and changed
his mind.
Winter and summer, day and night, sunshine and moonlight, have passed
over the lane and the churchyard, and the wind has had many a ghostly
howl among the yews, since poor Bill learnt the story of the murder;
but he knows now that the true Ephraim Garnett has never been seen on
the cross-roads since a hundred years ago, and will not be till the
Great Day.
In the ditch by the side of Yew-lane shortly after the events I have
been describing, a little lad found a large turnip, in which someone
had cut eyes, nose, and mouth, and put bits of stick for teeth. The
turnip was hollow, and inside it was fixed a bit of wax candle. He
lighted it up, and the effect was so splendid, that he made a show of
it to his companions at the price of a marble each, who were well
satisfied. And this was the last of the Yew-lane Ghosts.
A BAD HABIT.
CHAPTER I.
"Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live."
SHAKESPEARE.
My godmother, Lady Elizabeth, used to say, "Most things are matters of
habit. Good habits and bad habits." And she generally added, "_Your_
bad habit, Selina, is a habit of grumbling."
I was always accustomed to seeing great respect paid to anything my
godmother said or did. In the first place, she was what Mrs. Arthur
James Johnson called "a fine lady," and what the maids called "a real
lady." She was an old friend and, I think, a relative of my father,
who had married a little below his own rank--my mother being the
daughter of a rich manufacturer. My father had died before I can
remember things, and Joseph and I lived with our mother and her
friends. At least, we were with our mother when she could bear the
noise; and for the rest of our time, when we were tired of playing
games together, we sat with the maids.
"That is where you learned your little _toss_ and your trick of
grumbling, my dear," my godmother said, planting her gold eye-glasses
on her high nose; "and that is why your mouth is growing out of shape,
and your forehead getting puckered, and your chin poked, and--and your
boots bulged crooked."
"_My boots_, godmother?"
"Your boots, my dear. No boots will keep in shape if you shake your
hips and kick with your heels like a servant out Sunday walking. When
little girls flounce on the high road, it only looks ridiculous; but
when you grow up, you'll never have a clean petticoat, or be known for
a well-bred woman behind your back, unless you learn to walk as if
your legs and your feelings were under your own control. That is why
the sergeant is coming to-morrow and every week-day morning to drill
you and Joseph from ten to eleven whilst you remain here."
And my godmother pressed the leaves of the journal on her lap, and cut
them quite straight and very decisively with a heavy ivory
paper-knife.
I had never been taught that it is bad manners to mutter--nurse
always talked to herself when she was "put out"--and, as I stood in
much awe of Lady Elizabeth, I did not like to complain aloud of her
arrangements. So I turned my doll with a sharp flounce in my arms, and
muttered behind her tarlatan skirts that "I did think we were to have
had whole holidays out visiting."
I believe my godmother heard me; but she only looked at me for a
moment over the top of her gold eye-glasses, and then went on reading
the paper through them.
After a few moments, she laid it down on her lap with her left hand,
and with her right hand took off her eye-glasses and held them between
her fingers.
"I shall be sorry if you don't grow up nice-looking, Selina," she
said. "It's a great advantage to a woman--indeed, to anyone--to be
good-looking. Your mother was a pretty woman, too; and your father--"
Lady Elizabeth stopped, and then, seeming suddenly to see that I was
watching her and waiting, put her glasses before her eyes again, and
continued--
"Your father was a very good-looking gentleman, with a fine face and a
fine figure, beautiful eyes and mouth, very attractive hands, and most
fascinating manners. It will be a pity if you don't grow up
nice-looking."
I grew crimson, partly with mortification and partly with
astonishment. I had a strong natural desire to be pretty, but I felt
sure I had been taught somehow that it was much more meritorious not
to care about it. It certainly did not please me when (if I had
offended them) the maids said I should never be as pretty as Maud Mary
Ibbetson, my bosom friend; but when nurse took the good looking-glass
out of the nursery, and hung up the wavy one which used to be in her
room instead, to keep me from growing vain, I did not dispute her
statement that "the less little girls looked in the glass the better."
And when I went to see Maud Mary (who was the only child of rich
parents, and had a cheval-glass in her own bed-room), it was a just
satisfaction to me to feel that if she was prettier, and could see
herself full length, she was probably vainer than I.
It was very mortifying, therefore, to find that my godmother not only
thought me plain, but gave me no credit for not minding it. I grew
redder and redder, and my eyes filled with tears.
Lady Elizabeth was very nice in one way--she treated us with as much
courtesy and consideration as if we were grown up. People do not think
about being polite to children, but my godmother was very polite.
"My dear child," she said, holding out her hand, "I am very sorry if I
have hurt your feelings. I beg your pardon."
I put my hot and rather dirty little paw among her cool fingers and
diamond rings. I could not mutter to her face, but I said rather under
my sobs that "it seemed such a thing" to be blamed for not being
pretty.
"My dear Selina, I never said anything about your being pretty. I said
I should be sorry if you did not grow up nice-looking, which is quite
another thing. It will depend on yourself whether you are nice-looking
or not."
I began to feel comforted, but I bridled my chin in an aggrieved
manner, which I know I had caught from Mrs. Marsden, the charwoman,
when she took tea in the nursery and told long tales to nurse; and I
said I "was sure it wasn't for want of speaking to" nurse that my hair
did not wave like Maud Mary's, but that when I asked her to crimp it,
she only said, "Handsome is that handsome does, and that ought to be
enough for you, Miss Selina, without _my_ slaving to damp-plait your
hair every night."
I repeated nurse's speech pretty volubly, and with her sharp accent
and accompanying toss. My godmother heard me out, and then she said--
"Nurse quoted a very good proverb, which is even truer than it is
allowed to be. Those who do well grow to look well. My little
goddaughter, that soft child's face of yours can be pinched and pulled
into a nice shape or an ugly shape, very much as you pull and pinch
that gutta-percha head I gave you, and, one way or another, it is
being shaped all along."
"But people can't give themselves beautiful figures, and eyes, and
mouths, and hands, as you said papa had, unless they are born so," I
objected.
"Your father's figure, my dear," said Lady Elizabeth, "was beautiful
with the grace and power which comes of training. He was a military
man, and you have only to look at a dozen common men in a marching
regiment and compare them with a dozen of the same class of men who go
on plodding to work and loafing at play in their native villages, to
see what people can do for their own figures. His eyes, Selina, were
bright with intelligence and trained powers of observation; and they
were beautiful with kindliness, and with the well-bred habit of giving
complete attention to other people and their affairs when he talked
with them. He had a rare smile, which you may not inherit, but the
real beauty of such mouths as his comes from the lips being restrained
into firm and sensitive lines, through years of self-control and fine
sympathies."
I do not quite understand. "Do you mean that I can practise my mouth
into a nice shape?" I asked.
"Certainly not, my dear, any more than you can pinch your nose into
shape with your finger and thumb; but your lips, and all the lines of
your face, will take shape of themselves, according to your temper and
habits.
"There are two things," my godmother continued, after turning round to
look at me for a minute, "there are two things, Selina, against your
growing up good-looking. One is that you have caught so many little
vulgarisms from the servants; and the other is your little bad habit
of grumbling, which, for that matter, is a very ill-bred habit as
well, and would spoil the prettiest eyes, nose, mouth, and chin that
ever were inherited. Under-bred and ill-educated women are, as a
general rule, much less good-looking than well-bred and
highly-educated ones, especially in middle life; not because good
features and pretty complexions belong to one class more than to
another, but because nicer personal habits and stricter discipline of
the mind do. A girl who was never taught to brush her teeth, to
breathe through the nostrils instead of the lips, and to chew with the
back teeth instead of the front, has a very poor chance of growing up
with a pretty mouth, as anyone may see who has observed a middle-aged
woman of that class munching a meat pie at a railway-station. And if,
into the bargain, she has nothing to talk about but her own and her
neighbour's everyday affairs, and nothing to think about to keep her
from continually talking, life, my dear child, is so full of little
rubs, that constant chatter of this kind must almost certainly be
constant grumbling. And constant grumbling, Selina, makes an ugly
under-lip, a forehead wrinkled with frowning, and dull eyes that see
nothing but grievances. There is a book in the library with some
pictures of faces that I must show you. Do you draw at all, my dear?"
"Mamma gave me a drawing-slate on my birthday," I replied, "but Joseph
bothered me to lend it to him, and now he's broken the glass. It _is_
so tiresome! But it's always the way if you lend things."
"What makes you think that it is always the way if you lend things?"
my godmother gently inquired.
"It seems as if it was, I'm sure," was my answer. "It was just the
same with the fish-kettle when cook lent it to the Browns. They kept
it a fortnight, and let it rust, and the first time cook put a drop of
water into it it leaked; and she said it always _was_ the way; you
might lend everything you had, and people had no conscience, but if
it came to borrowing a pepperpot--"
My godmother put up both her long hands with an impatient gesture.
"That will do, my dear. I don't care to hear all that your mother's
cook said about the fish-kettle."
I felt uncomfortable, and was glad that Lady Elizabeth went on
talking.
"Have you and Joseph any collections? When I was your age, I remember
I made a nice collection of wafers. They were quite as pretty as
modern monograms."
"Joseph collected feathers out of the pillows once," I said, laughing.
"He got a great many different sorts, but nurse burned them, and he
cried."
"I'm sorry nurse burned them. I daresay they made him very happy. I
advise you to begin a collection, Selina. It is a capital cure for
discontent. Anything will do. A collection of buttons, for instance.
There are a great many kinds; and if ever some travelled friend crowns
your collection with a mandarin's button, for one day at least you
won't feel a grievance worth speaking of."
I was feeling very much aggrieved as Lady Elizabeth spoke, and
thinking to myself that "it seemed so hard to be scolded out visiting,
and when one had not got into any scrape." But I only said that
"nobody at home ever said that I grumbled so much;" and that I "didn't
know that our servants complained more than other people's."
"I do not suppose they do," said my godmother. "I have told you
already that I consider it a foible of ill-educated people, whose
interests are very limited, and whose feelings are not disciplined.
You know James, the butler, Selina, do you not?"
"Oh, yes, godmamma!"
I knew James well. He was very kind to me, and always liberal when, by
Lady Elizabeth's orders, he helped me to almonds and raisins at
dessert.
"My mother died young," said Lady Elizabeth, "and at sixteen I was
head of my father's household. I had been well trained, and I tried to
do my duty. Amid all the details of providing for and entertaining
many people, my duty was to think of everything, and never to seem as
if I had anything on my mind. I should have been fairly trained _for a
kitchen-maid_, Selina, if I had done what I was told when it was
bawled at me, and had talked and seemed more overwhelmed with work
than the Prime Minister. Well, most of our servants had known me from
babyhood, and it was not a light matter to have the needful authority
over them without hurting the feelings of such old and faithful
friends. But, on the whole, they respected my efforts, and were proud
of my self-possession. I had more trouble with the younger ones, who
were too young to help me, and whom I was too young to overawe. I was
busy one morning writing necessary letters, when James--who was then
seventeen, and the under-footman--came to the drawing room and wished
to speak to me. When he had wasted a good deal of my time in
describing his unwillingness to disturb me, and the years his father
had lived in my father's service, I said, 'James, I have important
letters to write, and very little time to spare. If you have any
complaint to make, will you kindly put it as shortly as you can?' 'I'm
sure, my lady, I have no wish to complain,' was James's reply; and
thereon his complaints poured forth in a continuous stream. I took out
my watch (unseen by James, for I never insult people), and gave him
five minutes for his grievances. He got on pretty fast with them. He
had mentioned the stone floor of his bed-room, a draught in the pantry,
the overbearingness of the butler, the potatoes for the servants' hall
being under-boiled when the cook was out of temper, the inferior
quality of the new plate-powder, the insinuations against his father's
honesty by servants who were upstarts by comparison, his hat having
been spoilt by the rain, and that he never was so miserable in his
life--when the five minutes expired, and I said 'Then, James, you want
to go?' He coloured, and I really think tears stood in his eyes. He
was a good-hearted lad.
"When he began to say that he could never regard any other place as he
looked on this, and that he felt towards his lordship and me as he
could feel towards no other master and mistress, I gave him another
five minutes for what he was pleased with. To do him justice, the list
was quite as long as that of his grievances. No people were like us,
and he had never been so happy in his life. So I said, 'Then, James,
you want to stay?'
"James began a fresh statement, in which his grievances and his
satisfactions came alternately, and I cut this short by saying, 'Well,
James, the difficulty seems to be that you have not made up your mind
what you do want. I have no time to balance matters for you, so you
had better go downstairs and think it well over, and let me know what
you decide.'
"He went accordingly, and when he was driven to think for himself by
being stopped from talking to me, I suppose he was wise enough to
perceive that it is easier to find crosses in one's lot than to feel
quite sure that one could change it for a better. I have no doubt that
he had _not_ got all he might lawfully have wished for, but, different
as our positions were, no more had I, and we both had to do our duty
and make the best of life as we found it. It's a very good thing, dear
child, to get into the habit of saying to oneself, 'One can't have
everything.' I suppose James learned to say it, for he has lived with
me ever since."
At this moment Joseph called to me through the open window which led
into the garden--
"Oh, Selina! I am so sorry; but when I got to the shop I couldn't
remember whether it was a quarter of a yard of ribbon or
three-quarters that you wanted for the doll's hat."
Joseph was always doing stupid things like this. It vexed me very
much, and I jumped up and hastily seized my doll to go out and speak
to him, saying, as I did so, that "boys were enough to drive one wild,
and one might as well ask the poodle to do anything as Joseph." And it
was not till I had flounced out of the drawing-room that I felt rather
hot and uncomfortable to remember that I had tossed my head, and
knitted my brows, and jerked my chin, and pouted my lips, and shaken
my skirts, and kicked up my heels, as I did so, and that my godmother
had probably been observing me through her gold eye-glasses.
CHAPTER II.
"It is easier to prevent ill habits than to break them."--OLD
PROVERB.
I must say that Joseph _was_ rather a stupid boy. He was only a year
younger than me, but I never could make him understand exactly what I
wanted him to do when we played together; and he was always saying,
"Oh, I say, look here, Selina!" and proposing some silly plan of his
own. But he was very good-natured, and when we were alone I let him be
uncle to the dolls. When we spent the day with Maud Mary, however, we
never let him play with the baby-house; but we allowed him to be the
postman and the baker, and people of that sort, who knock and ring,
and we sent him messages.
During the first week of our visit to Lady Elizabeth, the weather was
so fine that Joseph and I played all day long in the garden. Then it
became rainy, and we quarrelled over the old swing and the imperfect
backgammon board in the lumber-room, where we were allowed to amuse
ourselves. But one morning when we went to our play-room, after
drilling with Sergeant Walker, Joseph found a model fortress and
wooden soldiers and cannon in one corner of the room; and I found a
Dutch market, with all kinds of wooden booths, and little tables to
have tea at in another. They were presents from my godmother; and
they were far the best kind of toys we had ever had, you could do so
many things with them.
Joseph was so happy with his soldiers that he never came near the
Dutch fair; and at other times he was always bothering to be allowed
to play with the dolls. At first I was very glad, for I was afraid he
would be coming and saying, "Oh, I say, Selina," and suggesting
things; and I wanted to arrange the shops my own way. But when they
were done, and I was taking the dolls from one booth to another to
shop, I did think it seemed very odd that Joseph should not even want
to walk through the fair. And when I gave him leave to be a
shopkeeper, and to stand in front of each booth in turn, he did not
seem at all anxious to come; and he would bring a cannon with him, and
hide it behind his back when I came to buy vegetables for the dolls'
dinners.
We quarrelled about the cannon. I said no one ever heard of a
greengrocer with a cannon in his shop; and Joseph said it couldn't
matter if the greengrocer stood in front of the cannon so as to hide
it. So I said I wouldn't have a cannon in my fair at all; and Joseph
said he didn't want to come to my fair, for he liked his fortress much
better, and he rattled out, dragging his cannon behind him, and
knocked down Adelaide Augusta, the gutta-percha doll, who was leaning
against the fishmonger's slab, with her chin on the salmon.
It was very hard, and I said so; and then Joseph said there were
plenty of times when I wouldn't let him play with the dolls; and I
said that was just it--when I didn't want him to he wanted, and when I
wanted him to he wouldn't, and that he was very selfish.
So at last he put away his cannon, and came and played at shops; but
he was very stupid, and would look over his shoulder at the fortress
when he ought to have been pretending to sell; and once, when I had
left the fair, he got his cannon back and shot peas out of it, so that
all the fowls fell off the real hooks in the poulterer's shop, and
said he was bombarding the city.
I was very angry, and said, "I shall go straight down, and complain to
godmamma," and I went.
The worst of it was that only that very morning Lady Elizabeth had
said to me, "Remember one thing, my dear. I will listen to no
complaints whatever. No grumbles either from you or from Joseph. If
you want anything that you have not got, and will ask for it, I will
do my best for you, as my little guests; and if it is right and
reasonable, and fair to both, you shall have what you want. But you
must know your own mind when you ask, and make the best of what I can
do for you. I will hear no general complaints whatever."
Remembering this, I felt a little nervous when I was fairly in the
drawing-room, and Lady Elizabeth had laid down her glasses to hear
what I had to say.
"Do you want anything, my dear?" said she.
I began to complain--that Joseph was so stupid; that it seemed so
provoking; that I did think it was very unkind of him, etc.; but Lady
Elizabeth put up her hand.
"My dear Selina, you have forgotten what I told you. If there is
anything that an old woman like me can do to make your father's child
happy, do not be afraid to ask for it, but I will not have grumbling
in the drawing-room. By all means make up your mind as to what you
want, and don't be afraid to ask your old godmother. But if she thinks
it right to refuse, or you do not think it right to ask, you must make
the best of matters as they stand, and keep your good humour and your
good manners like a lady."
I felt puzzled. When I complained to nurse that Joseph "was so
tiresome," she grumbled back again that "she never knew such
children," and so forth. It is always easy to meet grievance with
grievance, but I found that it was not so easy to make up my mind and
pluck up my courage to ask in so many words for what I wanted.
"Shall I ask Joseph to put away his cannon and come and play at your
game for an hour now, my dear? I will certainly forbid him to fire
into your shop."
This did not quite satisfy me. As a matter of fact, Joseph had left
his fortress to play with me; and I did not really think he would
discharge his cannon at the poulterer's again. But I thought myself
hardly used, and I wanted my godmother to think so too, and to scold
Joseph. What else I wanted, I did not feel quite sure.
"I wish you would speak to Joseph," I said. "He would attend to you if
you told him how selfish and stupid he is."
"My dear, I never offered to complain to Joseph, but I will order him
not to molest you, and I will ask him to play with you."
"I'm sure I don't want him to play with me, unless he can play nicely,
and invent things for the dolls to say, as Maud Mary would," was my
reply; for I was getting thoroughly vexed.
"Then I will tell him that unless he can play your game as you wish
it, he had better amuse himself with his own toys. Is there anything
else that you want, my dear?"
I could not speak, for I was crying, but I sobbed out that "I missed
Maud Mary so."
"Who is Maud Mary, Selina?"
"Maud Mary Ibbetson, my particular friend--my _very_ particular
friend," I explained.
I spoke warmly, for at that moment the memory of Maud Mary seemed
adorable, and I longed to pour my complaints into her sympathetic ear.
Besides, I had another reason for regretting that she was not with me.
When we were together, it was she, as a rule, who had new and handsome
toys to exhibit, whilst I played the humbler part of admirer. But if
she had been with me, then, what would not have been my triumph in
displaying the Dutch fair! The longer I thought of her the faster my
tears fell, but they did not help me to think of anything definite to
ask for; and when Lady Elizabeth said, "would you like to go home, my
dear? or do you want me to ask your friend to stay with you?" I had
the grace to feel ashamed of my peevishness, and to thank my godmother
for her kindness, and to protest against wanting anything more. I only
added, amid my subsiding sobs, that "it did seem such a thing," when I
had got a Dutch fair to play at dolls in, that Joseph should be so
stupid, and that dear Maud Mary, who would have enjoyed it so much,
should not be able to see it.
CHAPTER III.
"Nous aurons aussi la fête dans notre rue."--RUSSIAN
PROVERB.
Next day, when our drill in the long corridor was over, Lady Elizabeth
told Joseph to bring his fortress, guns, and soldiers into the
library, and to play at the Thirty Years' War in the bay-window from a
large book with pictures of sieges and battles, which she lent him.
To me my godmother turned very kindly and said, "I have invited your
little friend Maud to come and stay here for a week. I hope she will
arrive to-day, so you had better prepare your dolls and your shops for
company."
Maud Mary coming! I danced for joy, and kissed my godmother, and
expressed my delight again and again. I should have liked to talk
about it to Joseph, but he had plunged into the Thirty Years' War, and
had no attention to give me.
It was a custom in the neighbourhood where my mother lived to call
people by double Christian names, John Thomas, William Edward, and so
forth; but my godmother never called Maud Mary anything but Maud.
It was possible that my darling friend might arrive by the twelve
o'clock train, and the carriage was sent to meet her, whilst I danced
up and down the big hall with impatience. When it came back without
her my disappointment knew no bounds. I felt sure that the Ibbetsons'
coachman had been unpunctual, or dear Maud Mary's nurse had been
cross, as usual, and had not tried to get her things packed. I rushed
into the library full of my forebodings, but my godmother only said,
"No grumbling, my dear!" and Joseph called out, "Oh, I say, Selina, I
wish you wouldn't swing the doors so: you've knocked down Wallenstein,
and he's fallen on the top of Gustavus Adolphus;" and I had to compose
myself as best I could till the five o'clock train.
Then she came. Darling Maud Mary!
Perhaps it was because I crushed her new feather in kissing her (and
Maud Mary was very particular about her clothes); perhaps it was
because she was tired with travelling, which I forgot; or perhaps it
was because she would rather have had tea first, that Maud Mary was
not quite so nice about the Dutch fair as I should have liked her to
be.
She said she rather wondered that Lady Elizabeth had not given me a
big dolls' house like hers instead; that she had come away in such a
hurry that she forgot to lock hers up, and she should not be the least
surprised if the kitten got into it and broke something, but "it did
seem rather odd" to be invited in such a very hurried way; that just
when she _was_ going to a big house to pay a grand visit, of course
the dressmaker "disappointed" Mrs. Ibbetson, but "that was the way
things always did happen;" that the last time Mr. Ibbetson was in
Paris he offered to bring her a dolls' railway train, with real
first-class carriages really stuffed, but she said she would rather
have a locket, and that was the very one which was hanging round her
neck, and which was much handsomer than Lucy Jane Smith's, which cost
five pounds in London.
Maud Mary's inattention to the fair and the dolls was so obvious that
I followed my godmother's advice, and "made the best of it" by saying,
"I'm afraid you're very much tired, darling?"
Maud Mary tossed her chin and frowned.
It was "enough to tire anybody," she said, to travel on that
particular line. The railway of which her papa was a director was very
differently managed.
I think my godmother's courtesy to us, and her thoughtful kindness,
had fixed her repeated hints about self-control and good manners
rather firmly in my head. I distinctly remember making an effort to
forget my toys and think of Maud Mary's comfort.
I said, "Will you come and take off your things, darling?" and she
said, "Yes, darling;" and then we had tea.
But next day, when she was quite rested, and had really nothing to
complain of, I did think she might have praised the Dutch fair.
She said it "seemed such a funny thing" to have to play in an old
garret; but she need not have wanted to alter the arrangement of all
the shops, and have everything her own way, as she always had at home,
because, if her dolls' house was hers, my Dutch fair was mine. I did
think, for a moment, of getting my godmother to speak to her, but I
knew it would be of no use to complain unless I had something to ask
for. When I came to think of it, I found that what I wanted was that
Maud Mary should let me manage my own toys and direct the game, and I
resolved to ask her myself.
"Look here, darling," said I, "when I come and play with you, I always
play dolls as you like, because the dolls' house is yours; I wish you
would play my game to-day, as the Dutch fair is mine."
Maud Mary flounced to her feet, and bridled with her wavy head, and
said she was sure she did not want to play if I didn't like her way of
playing; and as to my Dutch fair, her papa could buy her one any day
for her very own.
I was nettled, for Maud Mary was a little apt to flourish Mr.
Ibbetson's money in my face; but if her father was rich, my godmother
was a lady of rank, and I said that "my godmother, Lady Elizabeth,
said it was very vulgar to flounce and toss one's head if one was put
out."
Maud Mary crimsoned, and, exclaiming that she did not care what Lady
Elizabeth or Lady Anybody Else said, she whisked over three shops with
the ends of her sash, and kicked the wax off Josephine Esmeralda's
nose with the heel of her Balmoral boot.
I don't like confessing it, but I did push Maud Mary, and Maud Mary
slapped me.
And when we both looked up, my godmother was standing before us, with
her gold spectacles on her nose.
* * * * *
Lady Elizabeth was very kind, and even then I knew that she was very
right.
When she said, "I have asked your friend for a week, and for that
week, my dear, she is your guest, and you must try to please, and
_make the best of it_," I not only did not dispute it; I felt a spirit
of self-suppression and hospitable pride awake within me to do as she
had said.
I think the hardest part of it was that, whatever I did and whatever I
gave up, Maud Mary recognized no effort on my part. What she got she
took as her due, and what she did not get she grumbled about.
I sometimes think that it was partly because, in all that long week,
she never ceased grumbling, that I did; I hope for life.
Only once I said, "O godmamma! how glad I shall be when I am alone
with Joseph again!" And with sudden remorse, I added, "But I beg your
pardon, that's grumbling; and you _have_ been so kind!"
Lady Elizabeth took off her eye-glasses, and held out her hands for
mine.
"Is it grumbling, little woman?" she said. "Well, I'm not sure."
"_I'm_ not sure," I said, smiling; "for you know I only said I should
be so _glad_ to be alone with Joseph, and to try to be good to him;
for he is a very kind boy, and if he is a little awkward with the
dolls, I mean to make the best of it. _One can't have everything_," I
added, laughing.
Lady Elizabeth drew my head towards her, and stroked and kissed it.
"GOD bless you, child," she said. "You _have_ inherited your
father's smile."
* * * * *
"But, I say, Selina," whispered Joseph, when I went to look at his
fortress in the bay-window. "Do you suppose it's because he's dead
that she cried behind her spectacles when she said you had got his
smile?"
A HAPPY FAMILY.
CHAPTER I.
"If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies.
* * * * *
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And peace begins at home."
COTTON.
The family--our family, not the Happy Family--consisted of me and my
brothers and sisters. I have a father and mother, of course.
I am the eldest, as I remind my brothers; and of the more worthy
gender, which my sisters sometimes forget. Though we live in the
village, my father is a gentleman, as I shall be when I am grown up. I
have told the village boys so more than once. One feels mean in
boasting that one is better born than they are; but if I did not tell
them, I am not sure that they would always know.
Our house is old, and we have a ghost--the ghost of my
great-great-great-great-great-aunt.
She "crossed her father's will," nurse says, and he threatened to flog
her with his dog-whip, and she ran away, and was never heard of more.
He would not let the pond be dragged, but he never went near it again;
and the villagers do not like to go near it now. They say you may meet
her there, after sunset, flying along the path among the trees, with
her hair half down, and a knot of ribbon fluttering from it, and
parted lips, and terror in her eyes.
The men of our family (my father's family, my mother is Irish) have
always had strong wills. I have a strong will myself.
People say I am like the picture of my great-grandfather (the
great-great-great-nephew of the ghost). He must have been a wonderful
old gentleman by all accounts. Sometimes nurse says to us, "Have your
own way, and you'll live the longer," and it always makes me think of
great-grandfather, who had so much of his own way, and lived to be
nearly a hundred.
I remember my father telling us how his sisters had to visit their old
granny for months at a time, and how he shut the shutters at three
o'clock on summer afternoons, and made them play dummy whist by candle
light.
"Didn't you and your brothers go?" asked Uncle Patrick, across the
dinner-table. My father laughed.
"Not we! My mother got us there once--but never again."
"And did your sisters like it?"
"Like it? They used to cry their hearts out. I really believe it
killed poor Jane. She was consumptive and chilly, but always craving
for fresh air; and granny never would have open windows, for fear of
draughts on his bald head; and yet the girls had no fires in their
room, because young people shouldn't be pampered."
"And ye never-r offer-r-ed--neither of ye--to go in the stead of
them?"
When Uncle Patrick rolls his R's in a discussion, my mother becomes
nervous.
"One can't expect boys to consider things," she said. "Boys will be
boys, you know."
"And what would you have 'em be?" said my father. Uncle Patrick turned
to my mother.
"Too true, Geraldine. Ye don't expect it. Worse luck! I assure ye, I'd
be aghast at the brutes we men can be, if I wasn't more amazed that
we're as good as we are, when the best and gentlest of your sex--the
moulders of our childhood, the desire of our manhood--demand so little
for all that you alone can give. There were conceivable uses in women
preferring the biggest brutes of barbarous times, but it's not so now;
and boys will be civilised boys, and men will be civilised men, sweet
sister, when you _do_ expect it, and when your grace and favours are
the rewards of nobleness, and not the easy prize of selfishness and
savagery."
My father spoke fairly.
"There's some truth in what you say, Pat."
"And small grace in my saying it. Forgive me, John."
That's the way Uncle Patrick flares up and cools down, like a straw
bonfire. But my father makes allowances for him; first, because he is
an Irishman, and, secondly, because he's a cripple.
* * * * *
I love my mother dearly, and I can do anything I like with her. I
always could. When I was a baby, I would not go to sleep unless she
walked about with me, so (though walking was bad for her) I got my own
way, and had it afterwards.
With one exception. She would never tell me about my godfather. I
asked once, and she was so distressed that I was glad to promise never
to speak of him again. But I only thought of him the more, though all
I knew about him was his portrait--such a fine fellow--and that he
had the same swaggering, ridiculous name as mine.
How my father allowed me to be christened Bayard I cannot imagine. But
I was rather proud of it at one time--in the days when I wore long
curls, and was so accustomed to hearing myself called "a perfect
picture," and to having my little sayings quoted by my mother and her
friends, that it made me miserable if grown-up people took the liberty
of attending to anything but me. I remember wriggling myself off my
mother's knee when I wanted change, and how she gave me her watch to
keep me quiet, and stroked my curls, and called me her fair-haired
knight, and her little Bayard; though, remembering also, how
lingeringly I used just not to do her bidding, ate the sugar when she
wasn't looking, tried to bawl myself into fits, kicked the
nurse-girl's shins, and dared not go upstairs by myself after dark--I
must confess that a young chimpanzee would have as good claims as I
had to represent that model of self-conquest and true chivalry, "the
Knight without fear and without reproach."
However, the vanity of it did not last long. I wonder if that
grand-faced godfather of mine suffered as I suffered when he went to
school and said his name was Bayard? I owe a day in harvest to the
young wag who turned it into Backyard. I gave in my name as Backyard
to every subsequent inquirer, and Backyard I modestly remained.
CHAPTER II.
"The lady with the gay macaw."
LONGFELLOW.
My sisters are much like other fellows' sisters, excepting Lettice.
That child is like no one but herself.
I used to tease the other girls for fun, but I teased Lettice on
principle--to knock the nonsense out of her. She was only eight, and
very small, but, from the top row of her tight little curls to the
rosettes on her best shoes, she seemed to me a mass of affectation.
Strangers always liked Lettice. I believe she was born with a company
voice in her mouth; and she would flit like a butterfly from one
grown-up person to another, chit-chattering, whilst some of us stood
pounding our knuckles in our pockets, and tying our legs into knots,
as we wished the drawing-room carpet would open and let us through
into the cellar to play at catacombs.
That was how Cocky came. Lettice's airs and graces bewitched the old
lady who called in the yellow chariot, and was so like a cockatoo
herself--a cockatoo in a citron velvet bonnet, with a bird of Paradise
feather. When that old lady put up her eye-glass, she would have
frightened a yard-dog; but Lettice stood on tip-toes and stroked the
feather, saying, "What a love-e-ly bird!" And next day came
Cocky--perch and all complete--_for the little girl who loves birds_.
Lettice was proud of Cocky, but Edward really loved him, and took
trouble with him.
Edward is a good boy. My mother called him after the Black Prince.
He and I disgraced ourselves in the eyes of the Cockatoo lady, and it
cost the family thirty thousand pounds, which we can ill afford to
lose. It was unlucky that she came to luncheon the very day that
Edward and I had settled to dress up as Early Britons, in blue woad,
and dine off earth-nuts in the shrubbery. As we slipped out at the
side door, the yellow chariot drove up to the front. We had doormats
on, as well as powder-blue, but the old lady was terribly shocked, and
drove straight away, and did not return. Nurse says she is my father's
godmother, and has thirty thousand pounds, which she would have
bequeathed to us if we had not offended her. I take the blame
entirely, because I always made the others play as I pleased.
We used to play at all kinds of things--concerts, circuses,
theatricals, and sometimes conjuring. Uncle Patrick had not been to
see us for a long time, when one day we heard that he was coming, and
I made up my mind at once that I would have a perfectly new
entertainment for him.
We like having entertainments for Uncle Patrick, because he is such a
very good audience. He laughs, and cries, and claps, and thumps with
his crutch, and if things go badly, he amuses the rest.
Ever since I can remember anything, I remember an old print, called
"The Happy Family," over our nursery fire-place, and how I used to
wonder at that immovable cat, with sparrows on her back, sitting
between an owl and a magpie. And it was when I saw Edward sitting with
Benjamin the cat, and two sparrows he had brought up by hand,
struggling and laughing because Cocky would push itself, crest first,
under his waistcoat, and come out at the top to kiss him--that an idea
struck me; and I resolved to have a Happy Family for Uncle Patrick,
and to act Showman myself.
Edward can do anything with beasts. He was absolutely necessary as
confederate, but it was possible Lettice might want to show off with
Cocky, and I did not want a girl on the stage, so I said very little
to her. But I told Edward to have in the yard-dog, and practise him in
being happy with the rest of the family pets. Fred, the farm-boy,
promised to look out for an owl. Benjamin, the cat, could have got
mice enough; but he would have eaten them before Edward had had time
to teach him better, so I set a trap. I knew a village-boy with a
magpie, ready tamed.
Bernard, the yard-dog, is a lumbering old fellow, with no tricks. We
have tried. We took him out once, into a snow-drift, with a lantern
round his neck, but he rescued nothing, and lost the lantern--and then
he lost himself, for it was dark.
But he is very handsome and good, and I knew, if I put him in the
middle, he would let anything sit upon him. He would not feel it, or
mind if he did. He takes no notice of Cocky.
Benjamin never quarrels with Cocky, but he dare not forget that Cocky
is there. And Cocky sometimes looks at Benjamin's yellow eyes as if it
were thinking how very easily they would come out. But they are quite
sufficiently happy together for a Happy Family.
The mice gave more trouble than all the rest, so I settled that
Lettice should wind up the mechanical mouse, and run that on as the
curtain rose.
CHAPTER III.
"Memor esto majorum."
OLD MOTTO.
" . . . .
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!"
LONGFELLOW.
Do you wish to avoid vexations? Then never have a Happy Family! Mine
were countless.
Fred could not get me an owl. Lettice _did_ want to show off with
Cocky. I had my own way, but she looked sulky and spiteful. I got Tom
Smith's magpie; but I had to have him, too. However, my costume as
Showman was gorgeous, and Edward kept our Happy Family well together.
We arranged that Tom should put Mag on at the left wing, and then run
round behind, and call Mag softly from the right. Then she would hop
across the stage to him, and show off well. Lettice was to let mother
know when the spectators might take their places, and to tell the
gardener when to raise the curtain.
I really think one magpie must be "a sign of sorrow," as nurse says;
but what made Bernard take it into his beautiful foolish head to give
trouble I cannot imagine. He wouldn't lie down, and when he did, it
was with a _grump_ of protest that seemed to forbode failure. However,
he let Cocky scold him and pull his hair, which was a safety-valve for
Cocky. Benjamin dozed with dignity. He knew Cocky wasn't watching for
his yellow eyes.
I don't think Lettice meant mischief when she summoned the spectators,
for time was up. But her warning the curtain to rise when it did was
simple malice and revenge.
I never can forget the catastrophe, but I do not clearly remember how
Tom Smith and I _began_ to quarrel. He was excessively impudent, and
seemed to think we couldn't have had a Happy Family without him and
his chattering senseless magpie.
When I told him to remember he was speaking to a gentleman, he grinned
at me.
"A gentleman? Nay, my sakes! Ye're not civil enough by half. More like
a new policeman, if ye weren't such a Guy Fawkes in that finery."
"Be off," said I, "and take your bird with you."
"What if I won't go?"
"I'll make you!"
"Ye darsen't touch me."
"Daren't I?"
"Ye darsen't."
"I dare."
"Try."
"_Are_ you going?"
"Noa."
I only pushed him. He struck first. He's bigger than me, but he's a
bigger coward, and I'd got him down in the middle of the stage, and
had given him something to bawl about, before I became conscious that
the curtain was up. I only realised it then, because civil, stupid
Fred, arrived at the left wing, panting and gasping--
"Measter Bayard! Here's a young wood-owl for ye."
As he spoke, it escaped him, fluff and feathers flying in the effort,
and squawking, plunging, and fluttering, made wildly for the darkest
corner of the stage, just as Lettice ran on the mechanical mouse in
front.
Bernard rose, and shook off everything, and Cocky went into screaming
hysterics; above which I now heard the thud of Uncle Patrick's crutch,
and the peals upon peals of laughter with which our audience greeted
my long-planned spectacle of a Happy Family!
* * * * *
Our Irish uncle is not always nice. He teases and mocks, and has an
uncertain temper. But one goes to him in trouble. I went next morning
to pour out my woes, and defend myself, and complain of the others.
I spoke seriously about Lettice. It is not pleasant for a fellow to
have a sister who grows up peculiar, as I believe Lettice will. Only
the Sunday before, I told her she would be just the sort of woman men
hate, and she said she didn't care; and I said she ought to, for women
were made for men, and the Bible says so; and she said grandmamma said
that every soul was made for GOD and its own final good. She
was in a high-falutin mood, and said she wished she had been
christened Joan instead of Lettice, and that I would be a true Bayard;
and that we could ride about the world together, dressed in armour,
and fighting for the right. And she would say all through the list of
her favourite heroines, and asked me if I minded _their_ being
peculiar, and I said of course not, why should you mind what women do
who don't belong to you? So she said she could not see that; and I
said that was because girls can't see reason; and so we quarrelled,
and I gave her a regular lecture, which I repeated to Uncle Patrick.
He listened quite quietly till my mother came in, and got fidgetty,
and told me not to argue with my uncle. Then he said--
"Ah! let the boy talk, Geraldine, and let me hear what he has to say
for himself. There's a sublime audacity about his notions, I tell ye.
Upon me conscience, I believe he thinks his grandmother was created
for his particular convenience."
That's how he mocks, and I suppose he meant my Irish grandmother. He
thinks there's nobody like her in the wide world, and my father says
she is the handsomest and wittiest old lady in the British Isles. But
I did not mind. I said,
"Well, Uncle Patrick, you're a man, and I believe you agree with me,
though you mock me."
"Agree with ye?" He started up, and pegged about the room. "Faith! if
the life we live is like the globe we inhabit--if it revolves on its
own axis, _and you're that axis_--there's not a flaw in your
philosophy; but IF--Now perish my impetuosity! I've frightened your
dear mother away. May I ask, by the bye, if _she_ has the good fortune
to please ye, since the Maker of all souls made her, for all eternity,
with the particular object of mothering you in this brief patch of
time?"
He had stopped under the portrait--my godfather's portrait. All his
Irish rhodomontade went straight out of my head, and I ran to him.
"Uncle, you know I adore her! But there's one thing she won't do, and,
oh, I wish you would! It's years since she told me never to ask, and
I've been on honour, and I've never even asked nurse; but I don't
think it's wrong to ask you. Who is that man behind you, who looks
such a wonderfully fine fellow? My Godfather Bayard."
I had experienced a shock the night before, but nothing to the shock
of seeing Uncle Patrick's face then, and hearing him sob out his
words, instead of their flowing like a stream.
"Is it possible? Ye don't know? She can't speak of him yet? Poor
Geraldine!"
He controlled himself, and turned to the picture, leaning on his
crutch. I stood by him and gazed too, and I do not think, to save my
life, I could have helped asking--
"Who is he?"
"Your uncle. Our only brother. Oh, Bayard, Bayard!"
"Is he dead?"
He nodded, speechless; but somehow I could not forbear.
"What did he die of?"
"Of unselfishness. He died--for others."
"Then he _was_ a hero? That's what he looks like. I am glad he is my
godfather. Dear Uncle Pat, do tell me all about it."
"Not now--hereafter. Nephew, any man--with the heart of man and not
of a mouse--is more likely than not to behave well at a pinch; but no
man who is habitually selfish can be _sure_ that he will, when the
choice comes sharp between his own life and the lives of others. The
impulse of a supreme moment only focusses the habits and customs of a
man's soul. The supreme moment may never come, but habits and customs
mould us from the cradle to the grave. His were early disciplined by
our dear mother, and he bettered her teaching. Strong for the weak,
wise for the foolish--tender for the hard--gracious for the
surly--good for the evil. Oh, my brother, without fear and without
reproach! Speak across the grave, and tell your sister's son that vice
and cowardice become alike impossible to a man who has never--cradled
in selfishness, and made callous by custom--learned to pamper himself
at the expense of others!"
I waited a little before I asked--
"Were you with him when he died?"
"I was."
"Poor Uncle Patrick! What _did_ you do?"
He pegged away to the sofa, and threw himself on it.
"Played the fool. Broke an arm and a thigh, and damaged my spine,
and--_lived_. Here rest the mortal remains."
And for the next ten minutes, he mocked himself, as he only can.
* * * * *
One does not like to be outdone by an uncle, even by such an uncle;
but it is not very easy to learn to live like Godfather Bayard.
Sometimes I wish my grandmother had not brought up her sons to such a
very high pitch, and sometimes I wish my mother had let that unlucky
name become extinct in the family, or that I might adopt my nickname.
One could live up to _Backyard_ easily enough. It seems to suit being
grumpy and tyrannical, and seeing no further than one's own nose, so
well.
But I do try to learn unselfishness; though I sometimes think it would
be quite as easy for the owl to learn to respect the independence of a
mouse, or a cat to be forbearing with a sparrow!
I certainly get on better with the others than I used to do; and I
have some hopes that even my father's godmother is not finally
estranged through my fault.
Uncle Patrick went to call on her whilst he was with us. She is very
fond of "that amusing Irishman with the crutch," as she calls him; and
my father says he'll swear Uncle Patrick entertained her mightily
with my unlucky entertainment, and that she was as pleased as Punch
that her cockatoo was in the thick of it.
I am afraid it is too true; and the idea made me so hot, that if I had
known she was really coming to call on us again, I should certainly
have kept out of the way. But when Uncle Patrick said, "If the yellow
chariot rolls this way again, Bayard, ye need not be pursuing these
archæological revivals of yours in a too early English costume," I
thought it was only his chaff. But she did come.
I was pegging out the new gardens for the little ones. We were all
there, and when she turned her eye over us (just like a cockatoo), and
said, in a company voice--
"What a happy little family!"
I could hardly keep my countenance, and I heard Edward choking in
Benjamin's fur, where he had hidden his face.
But Lettice never moved a muscle. She clasped her hands, and put her
head on one side, and said--in _her_ company voice--"But you know
brother Bayard _is_ so good to us now, and _that_ is why we are such A
HAPPY FAMILY."
* * * * *
_The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized,
complete, and uniform Edition published._
_It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol.,
issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will
appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Series
will be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover was
specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing._
_The following is a list of the books included in the Series--_
1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES.
2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES.
3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY-TALES.
4. A FLAT-IRON FOR A FARTHING.
5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES.
6. SIX TO SIXTEEN.
7. LOB-LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES.
8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL.
9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS.
10. THE PEACE EGG--A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY--HINTS FOR PRIVATE
THEATRICALS, &c.
11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER TALES.
12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES OF BEASTS AND MEN.
13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I
14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II.
15. JACKANAPES--DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOTE--THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.
16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS.
17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the Bloody Hand--Wonder
Stories--Tales of the Khoja, and other translations.
18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs.
Ewing's Letters.
* * * * *
S.P.C.K., NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON, W.C.