ABOUT NOTHING IN PARTICULAR
"Jerusalem!" said Philip Merryweather.
"And Madagascar!" responded his twin brother. "Well, what did I tell
you, old Towser?"
"Yes, I know; but last night, you see, I was half-asleep, and didn't see
it all. This is what I call a room."
Phil sat up in bed, and looked about the great nursery, into which the
early sun was shining brightly.
"The bigness of it!" he said, "if nothing more. You could have quite a
track round this, do you know it? Most rooms are all walls; I hate
walls. Shove the furniture into the middle, and chalk a six-foot
track--hey? What do you say?"
"This!" replied Gerald, throwing a pillow with accurate aim. "Does it
occur to your arboreal, if not river-drift mind, that there are people
under this room? Heehaw! excuse me for not sooner addressing you in your
own language. Here, belay that! I want to know what you think of them
all."
"Jolly!" was Phil's brief but emphatic verdict. But Gerald seemed to
demand something more. "Isn't Mr. Montfort the most corking person you
ever saw?"
"Except three, I should say he was. That lame chap is a corker, too.
Reminds me a bit of the Codger, I don't know why."
"So he does!" said Gerald, eagerly. "I didn't see it before. Queer
stunt, too, because she always makes me think of Hildegarde."
"Who? Miss Peggy? I don't--"
"No, no! Who said anything about Miss Peggy? Miss Montfort, of course."
"They are all Miss Montforts. You mean Miss Margaret? Well--I see what
you mean. She hasn't Hildegarde's beauty, though. Very attractive,
but--"
"That's what I mean!" said Gerald, eagerly. "There's something of that
quiet way, that takes hold of you and--oh, I didn't mean that they
would be taken for sisters. Look here, Elderly Ape, was you thinking of
getting up, or should I bring his gruel, and feed him wiz a 'poon, a
pretty toddlekins?"
"A pretty toddlekins will break your pretty noddlekins," replied Philip.
"Avast there, and heave sponges!" And the conversation ended in a grand
splashing duet executed in two enormous bath-tubs that stood in
different corners of the great room.
It was a merry party that met at breakfast. John Montfort looked round
the table with pleasure, and wondered how he had ever sat here alone,
year after year, when this kind of thing was to be had, apparently for
the asking. Margaret's sweet face, opposite him, was radiant; it struck
Mr. Montfort that he had never seen her look so pretty before. The
delicate rose-flush on her cheek, the light in her eyes, an
indescribable air of gaiety, of lightness, about her whole figure--
"Why, this is what she needed!" said Mr. Montfort to himself. "The
children were all very well; I am all very well myself, for an old
uncle, but children and old uncles are not all that a lassie needs. Ah,
well, it is all as it should be. We remember, Rose!"
Gerald, at Margaret's left hand, was talking eagerly. If her face was
radiant, his was sparkling. For the first time in his life, it is
probable, he seemed to take little heed of his breakfast.
"Do you remember the thunder-storm, Miss Montfort? and the way that
little chap ran around the long corridor? He's going to make a great
runner some day. Cork--very nice little fellow. You say he isn't here
now? I'm sorry! I wanted the Ape to see him."
"The Ape?"
"The Old Un. My brother, Long-leggius Ridiculus. Christian name Philip,
but what has he done that I should call him that?"
Margaret laughed. She did not fully understand, but everything Gerald
said seemed to her funny. "What does he call you?" she asked. "Or do you
invent new names every day? Last night I heard you calling him--what was
it? Ornithorhynchus Paradoxus?"
"It might have been!" said Gerald, with modest pride. "I can 'gleek
upon occasion.' I can also sling a syllable with the next man. It is
only at monosyllables that I draw the line. When I call him Ape, I have
to tack an adjective to it, or things happen. Miss Montfort, you don't
know how glad I was to come. It was awfully kind of Mr. Montfort to ask
us. I've always wanted to come again, and I didn't know when I should
have a chance. There--there isn't any other place like this in the
world, I believe. I've told the Ape a lot about it, and he was keen to
see it, too. What a cork--that is, what an extremely fine fellow your
cousin appears to be."
"Do you mind if I ask," said Margaret; "is 'cork' a complimentary term?"
Gerald blushed. "Why, you see," he said, rather ruefully, "I made up my
mind that I would drop it when I came here. 'Corker,' and
'corking'--well, it means that a person is all right, don't you know?
That he's awfully jolly, and--and--corking, in short. It's the thing
fellows say nowadays. I get into the way of it, and then I go home, and
the Mater says things to me. She doesn't like slang, and of course you
don't either, Miss Montfort. I'll try not to do it again, truly I will."
"Oh, but I don't mind that kind of slang!" said Margaret; and she
wondered at herself even as she spoke. "It--it seems so funny, somehow.
I suppose when slang is really funny--"
She looked up and caught her uncle looking at her with an expression of
amusement. She blushed in her turn, stammered, and took refuge behind
her coffee-urn.
Meantime Peggy and Philip had fallen deep in conversation. He was the
brother of Gertrude Merryweather, the beloved Snowy Owl of Peggy's
happiest school-days; that was enough for Peggy. She was used to boys
and brothers, and felt none of the shyness that often made Margaret's
tongue trip and stammer in spite of her two years' advantage. Peggy was
full of eager questionings:
"How is she looking? dear lovely thing! Do you think she will go to
college this fall? Oh, do try to make her! I do so want to have her back
again,--near us, I mean. The Fluffy enters this fall, you know; the
Snowy ought to come, too. Do try to make her, won't you, Mr.
Merryweather?"
Phil looked grave. "Said the kangaroo to the duck, this requires a
little reflection!" he said. "The child Toots has her good points, as
you observe, Miss Montfort. She is a rather nice child, and we like to
have her at home. She has been at this old school three years, and I
don't see the good of sisters if they are somewhere else all the time.
Not that I should wish to stand in the way of the child Toots; but you
see, Bell is off, too, and the Mater has been having things the matter
with her,--rheumatism and that,--and the child Toots is useful at
home,--uncommon useful she is."
"Oh! but--of course I'm aw--dreadfully sorry your mother isn't well;
but--but Gertrude wants to come, doesn't she? Oh, well, I shall hope it
will be all right. And oh! what do you think, Mr. Merryweather? The most
astonishing thing happened last night. I must write and tell Gertrude
all about it. The Horny is near here."
"The Horny? Not--"
"Yes, Grace Wolfe. Think of it! Do you know her? Well, of course
Gertrude has told you all about her. She is the most wonderful person in
the world, and she is living close by here, taking care of some
one,--you know she means to be a nurse. You know how wonderful she was
when that poor girl was so sick at school--and she has been staying at
Doctor Flower's, and he persuaded her to come and take care of this
lady. You must see her,--I want everybody to see her. She isn't like
anybody else, you know. Why, just when you look at her you feel that; I
don't know what it is,--I can't explain,--but it's there. And then her
voice! When she sings, it's--it's like magic, somehow. Oh, dear! I wish
I could express myself; I never know how to say things."
"You are saying them beautifully!" said gallant Philip. "Besides, of
course, Toots has told me a good deal about your wonderful friend. Does
she still go climbing all about, disdaining doors and stairs, and using
windows instead?"
"Oh, hush!" said Peggy. "I don't know whether we are to speak of it or
not, but--she came up the wall, and in at our window last night."
"No!"
"Yes, she did. Don't tell anybody, because she might not like it. She
fluttered in like a bird, and stayed awhile, and then fluttered out
again. And then--we heard her singing in the distance as she went back,
and really and truly, it seemed like fairy music."
Something made Peggy look up at this moment, and she caught Hugh
Montfort's eyes fixed on her with so intent a gaze that she stumbled and
blushed, and thought she had said something wrong. "Don't ask me
anything about it," she murmured to her neighbor. "Perhaps--they may not
like to have people climb up the walls here; I wouldn't get Grace into
trouble for twenty worlds."
"Hugh," said Mr. Montfort, "I am going to get you to do the honors of
the garden and stables to these young gentlemen, as I am busy this
morning. The girls have a dozen plans, no doubt; but perhaps Peggy and
Jean would like to go with you and see the puppies, while Margaret sees
to her housekeeping. How does that suit you all?"
Every one acquiesced in the arrangement, and, as they went out into the
garden, Peggy managed to slip beside her brother.
"What did I say that was wrong, Hugh? You were looking at me as if I had
done all kinds of things. Would Uncle John mind her climbing up the
wall, do you think? She couldn't possibly hurt it; she is light as a
feather; and Margaret didn't say anything about her not doing it again."
A faint color crept into Hugh's brown cheek.
"My dear little Peggy," he said, "you must not be so imaginative. It is
a new trait in you. What possible objection could there be to a young
lady climbing up the wall if she enjoys it? It seemed--a little unusual,
I suppose, and so I was interested. Was I indiscreet? I hardly supposed
you would be having confidences with young Merryweather quite so soon."
"Hugh, don't be ridiculous. Then it's all right, and I am so glad! Thank
you, dear."
She was springing away, but Hugh called her back.
"One moment, Peggy. This--this friend of yours seems to be a remarkable
person. Has she other accomplishments besides climbing? Did I hear you
speak of singing?"
"Oh, Hugh, I wish you could hear her sing! You might have heard her last
night, if you had only been out. It was full moon, and the moon makes
her mad, she says. Anyhow, when the moon is out she is wilder than ever,
fuller of--whatever it is that she is full of; I don't know, something
like a spirit, or a bird. Once I saw her dance in the moonlight, and I
shall never forget it as long as I live."
"No more shall I," said Hugh, under his breath. "Thank you, Peggy," he
said aloud. "Don't let me keep you, my dear; or were you coming with
us?"
"Oh, I don't know, Hugh; I want to do so many things, all at once. I
want to show Jean the house, and the garden, and the summer-houses,
and--oh! oh, you darlings! you beauties! Hugh, do look at these lovely
duckies!"
The "lovely duckies" were Nip and Tuck, who came leaping and dancing up
the walk, wagging and sneezing, with every demonstration of frantic joy.
"Which is which? Nip, oh, you dear! Give a paw! Do they know how to
give a paw, Hugh?"
"They know how to fetch," said Hugh. "Here, Tuck! here, boys! What have
I got?"
He held up a stick; straightway the dogs went mad, and yelled and
danced, sneezed and yapped, like wild creatures. "Fetch!" said Hugh,
throwing the stick. Together the puppies flashed off in pursuit; fell
upon the stick and each other, and rolled over and over, still in
frenzied voice and motion; finally came to an understanding, and, taking
each an end in his mouth, came cantering abreast up to Hugh, and, laying
the stick at his feet, looked up and asked for more, as plainly as ever
did Oliver Twist. Here was a pleasant amusement for young people. The
grave Hugh and the gay Merryweathers, Peggy and Jean, all became
absorbed in picking up sticks and throwing them. There was no end to the
puppies' enthusiasm, apparently; they yelled, and rushed, and yelled and
rushed again; and when Margaret came out an hour afterward, anxious lest
her guests should find time hang heavy on their hands, she found one
and all flushed and breathless, hurling sticks and stones, and making
almost half as much noise as the dogs themselves. At sight of Margaret,
cool and pearly in her white dress, Gerald and Peggy dropped their
sticks, and looked abashed; but Hugh called to her merrily: "Margaret,
they are making great progress. I think my pupil has got farther than
yours, though. Miss Margaret and I are training them for a prize
contest," he added, turning to Gerald. "This is an extension of their
usual practice, that is all."
"Hurrah!" said Gerald, much relieved. "I was afraid she would think--I
didn't know whether she would approve," he concluded, somewhat lamely.
It _was_ amazing. It was rather as if the Venus of Milo had begun to
sing light opera, Gerald thought; but after all, how much pleasanter if
she should, than to stand there all day and wonder how she was going to
eat her breakfast without any arms. With this shocking reflection,
Master Gerald betook himself once more to the throwing of sticks, and
the sport went on till Margaret called the puppies off, declaring that
they would be too tired for their afternoon run.
"She takes care of everything, you see!" said Gerald, aside to his
brother. "All without any fuss; that's just like Hilda, too."
"Yes," said Phil. "Appears to be a corker!"
"I wish you wouldn't talk so much slang, Phil!" said Gerald. "What kind
of word is that to use in speaking of Miss Montfort?"
Philip looked up in amazement, and saw his brother flushed, and
evidently annoyed in earnest.
"Well, may I be split and buttered!" said Phil.
"I wish you were!" said Gerald, forcing a laugh. "Come along, and don't
be an ass!"