UNCLE JOHN'S BIRTHDAY
If Timothy Bannan has had scant mention in these pages, it is not
because he was not an important personage at Fernley. King of the
stable, governor of the dogs, chief authority on all matters pertaining
to what Gerald called "four-leggers," he was as much a part of the
establishment as Frances herself. In person he was a small man, with
reddish-gray whiskers, an obstinate chin, and a kindly twinkling eye. He
usually wore a red waistcoat with black sleeves, and he was suspected of
matrimonial designs on Elizabeth.
One morning, not long after the events of which I have been telling,
Bannan approached his master, who was tying up roses, Margaret, as
usual, attending him with shears and ball of twine.
"If you please, sir," said Bannan, touching his hat, "would it be
convenient for me to take a horse this evening, sir?"
Mr. Montfort straightened himself, and looked with friendly interest at
his retainer.
"A horse, Bannan? Certainly! What horse do you want?"
Bannan looked embarrassed. "I was thinking of taking Chief, if you was
anyways willing, sir." Now Chief was the pride of the Fernley stable.
Mr. Montfort opened his eyes a little.
"Going far, Bannan?"
"N--not so very far, sir. I was wishful to try him with the new cart, if
you had no objections."
The new cart was a particularly stylish and comfortable wagonette,
bought for Margaret to take her young friends out in, and Mr. Montfort's
eyes opened still wider.
"Well, Bannan--of course you will be careful. You want to take some
friends out, eh?"
This simple question seemed to embarrass Bannan strangely. He reddened,
and taking off his cap, turned it round and round in his hands. "No,
sir, I shouldn't presume--that is to say, not exactly friends, sir, and
yet not anyways the reverse. But if it's not agreeable to you, sir,
I'll take the old mare and the Concord wagon."
"No, no," said Mr. Montfort, kindly. "Take Chief and the cart by all
means, Bannan. I wish you a pleasant drive with your--friends." Bannan
thanked him and withdrew, and Mr. Montfort turned to Margaret with a
smile and a sigh. "Does that mean Elizabeth and matrimony, Margaret?
What will Frances say?"
"Indeed, Uncle, I am quite sure that Elizabeth would disapprove as much
as Frances of Bannan's taking Chief and the wagonette. You are too
indulgent, dear sir."
"I suppose I am," said Mr. Montfort. "I suppose, also, that I am too old
to change. But I never knew Bannan to do such a thing before."
Meanwhile, Bannan was standing at the kitchen door, fuming. "If ever I
do sich a thing again, Frances, you may cut me up and serve me in a
gravy-boat."
"Nobody'd touch ye!" said Frances. "Ye've got to have juice to make
gravy, ye little bones-bag. I told ye let me see to it; men-folks
always messes when they try to manage nice things. It's like as if you
started to whip cream with a garding hose."
"I don't care!" said Bannan. "'Twas me the telegram come to, and 'twas
me they expected to see to it. You'd like to boss everything and
everybody on the place, Frances."
"I'll boss you with this mop, little man, if you give me any sauce,"
said Frances, with massive calm. "Go away now and feed your beasts; it's
what you're best at."
"But you'll have the supper ready and all, Frances? If I can feed
beasts, you can feed their masters, I'm bound to own that," said Bannan,
presenting this transparent sop with an air of hopeful diffidence.
"Go 'long with ye!" said Frances, loftily, yet with a suggestion of
softening in her voice. "I've kep' Mr. John's birthday for twenty years,
but I reckon you'd better tell me how to do it this time."
"And you'll tell nobody about--them--"
But here Frances raised the mop with such a businesslike air that Bannan
took himself off, grumbling and shaking his head.
Left alone, Frances fell into a frenzy of preparation, and when Margaret
found her half an hour later, she was beating eggs, stoning raisins, and
creaming butter, apparently all at the same moment. An ardent
consultation followed. What flavor would Mr. John (Frances would never
say Mr. Montfort) like best for the ice-cream? and the cake--would a
caramel frosting be best, or a boiled frosting with candied fruits
chopped into it? and for the small cakes, now, and the tartlets?
Mr. Montfort's birthday came, as most birthdays do, once a year.
Considering this, it was a singular thing that he, the most methodical
of men, who turned his calendar as regularly as he wound his watch,
never seemed to remember it. He never failed to be astonished at
Margaret's morning greeting. More than this, he apparently forgot it as
soon as it was over, for he always had a fresh stock of astonishment on
hand for the health-imperilling feast that Frances was sure to arrange
for the evening. To-day he took no notice of the fact that wherever he
went he came upon some girl or boy carrying armfuls of flowers and
ferns, or arranging them in bowls, jars, and vases. When he found his
desk heaped with a tangle of clematis and wild lilies,--Peggy had
dropped them there "just for a minute," half an hour before,--this
excellent man merely said "Charming," and rescued his pet Montaigne from
the wet sprays which covered it. In the course of the morning, Fernley
House was transformed into a bower of greenery, lit up with masses of
splendid color. Everywhere drooped or nodded clusters of ferns, the
ostrich fern and the great Osmunda Regalis, with here and there masses
of maiden-hair, most delicate and beautiful of all. In the library,
especially, the ferns were arranged with all the skill and care that
Margaret possessed. They outlined the oaken shelves, their delicate
tracery seeming to lie lovingly against the rich mellow tints of morocco
and vellum; they waved from tall vases of crystal and porcelain; they
spread their lace-like fronds in flat bowls and dishes. "I don't see how
there can be any left," said Peggy; "it seems as if we had all the ferns
in the world, and yet in the woods it didn't seem to make any
difference. Oh, Jean, isn't it just splendid!"
"Corking!" said Jean.
"Jean, I won't have you say that."
"Well, the Merryweathers say it all the time, Peggy. They never say
anything else, except when Margaret is round; you know they don't."
"The Merryweathers are boys, and you are a girl, and there is all the
difference in the world," said Peggy, loftily. "Jean, it is high time
you went to school."
"Oh, bother school! I have two ponies to break this fall, and Pa has
promised to let me drive the reaper around the hundred-acre field."
Peggy said nothing, being a wise as well as an affectionate elder
sister; but she resolved to consult Hugh, and to write to "Pa" without
delay.
So the morning passed in preparation and mystery. Then in the afternoon
came a drive in the great open car, a delightful vehicle, holding eight
people comfortably. Peggy sat on the box--happy Peggy!--and drove the
spirited black horses. Uncle John was by her side, and they recalled
merrily the day when, as John Strong, he took his first drive with her,
and decided that she was to be trusted with a horse.
"Oh, what fun we did have that summer!" cried Peggy. "Only--we had no
Uncle John. Oh, Uncle, if we had Rita here, wouldn't it be too
absolutely perfect for anything?"
"It would be very delightful," said Mr. Montfort. "I would give a good
deal to see that dark-eyed lassie and her gallant Jack. I think I must
take you and Margaret to Cuba one of these days, Peggy, to see them. How
would you like that, Missy?"
"Oh, Uncle John!" cried Peggy; and she almost dropped the whip, in the
effort to squeeze his arm and turn a corner at the same moment.
But the best of all was when the whole family assembled in the library
before supper, the girls in their very prettiest dresses, with flowers
in their hair, the lads brave in white duck waistcoats, with roses and
ferns in their buttonholes. Then the girls presented the gifts they had
made for the beloved uncle; Margaret's book, a fine old copy of the
"Colloquies of Erasmus," bound by her own hands in gold-stamped brown
leather, Peggy's mermaid-penwiper, with a long tail of sea-green sewing
silk, and the pincushion on which Jean had spent many painful hours in
her efforts to make the ferns look like ferns instead of like green hen
feathers. Grace had woven a basket of sweet rushes, of quaint and
graceful pattern, which Mr. Montfort declared was what he had dreamed of
all his life, while Hugh produced a box of wonderful cigars, which had a
history as mysterious and subtle as their fragrance. Lastly, the
Merryweathers, declaring that they had no gift but themselves, and that
if Mr. Montfort would be graciously pleased to accept them, they were
his, proceeded to go through a series of acrobatic performances, which
brought cries of admiration from all the beholders.
While this was going on, Margaret took advantage of the interlude
(though she was loth to lose one of Gerald's graceful postures) to run
out and see if supper was ready. She came back with a rueful
countenance, and whispered to Peggy, "Supper will not be ready for ten
minutes yet, and Frances is in a most frightful temper. She actually
drove me out of the kitchen; said she would not be bothered with foolish
children, and she would not send supper in till Bannan came back, if it
cost her her place."
"Bannan? What has Bannan to do with supper?"
"Bringing something, I suppose; some extra frill she has prepared as a
surprise. She is always savage when she has a surprise on foot. Hark!
There are wheels now. Listen! Yes, they are going round to the back
door. Bannan has come, then, and we may hope for food. Oh, do look at
those boys! Did you ever see anything like that?"
All eyes were fixed on the twins, who, after every variety of separate
antic, now proceeded to perform what they called a patent reversible
waltz. Standing on their hands, they twined their feet together in the
air, and revolved gracefully, moving in unison, and keeping time to the
waltz they whistled. The whole company was watching this proceeding with
such absorbed attention that no one saw the door at the back of the hall
open silently; no one noticed the figure that stole noiselessly
through, and now stood motionless in the doorway. A young woman,
slender, richly dressed, beautiful exceedingly; with a certain foreign
grace, which struck the eye even more than her beauty. But it was
neither the grace nor the beauty that was first to be seen now; it was
the light of love in the large dark eyes, the soft fire of joy and
tenderness and mirth that shone from them, and seemed to irradiate her
whole figure as she stood there, erect, yet seeming to sway forward, her
hand on the door, her eyes bent on the group before her. Her gaze
wandered for a moment to the guests: the revolving boys, Grace and Hugh
in their quiet corner together, Jean staring with open eyes and mouth;
but after a wondering look, it came back and settled again on the
central group, Mr. Montfort, in his great armchair, Peggy and Margaret
each on a stool beside him, leaning against his knees. Was the group
complete? or was there room for another by that good man's side?
Jean was the first to look up and see the newcomer. She started
violently. "My goodness!" she cried, "who is that?" The next instant a
cry rang out, as Margaret and Peggy sprang forward, "Rita! Rita!"
But Rita was too quick for them. Before they were well on their feet she
had them both in her arms, and was weeping, sobbing, laughing, and
kissing, all in a breath. With the next breath she had sunk at Mr.
Montfort's feet, and, seizing his hand, pressed it passionately to her
lips.
"My dear child," cried Uncle John, blushing like a girl, and drawing
away his hand in great discomposure. "Don't, my love; pray don't. Rita!
is it possible that this is really you? What does it mean?"
"What does it mean, my uncle? It means that even in Cuba we know the
days of the month. Dearest and best of men, I wish you a thousand
returns of the day,--five, ten thousand returns, and each one more
blissful than the last. Marguerite, my angel, you are more beautiful
than ever. Angel is no longer the word; you are a seraph! Embrace me
again! Peggy, you are a mountain; but a veritable mountain of roses and
cream! Dear little huge creature, I adore you. But where, then, is the
rest of me? Jack! Figure to yourself a husband who skulks in doorways at
a moment like this! Come forth, thou!"
Jack Del Monte advanced laughing; behind him in the passage the three
conspirators, Frances, Elizabeth, and Bannan, peered triumphant. "My
dear," said Jack, "I was merely waiting for my cue. You would not have
had me spoil your entrance, you know you would not. Uncle John--I may
say Uncle John? thanks!--I hope you will forgive Rita's little stratagem
for the sake of the pleasure it has given her."
"My dear nephew," said Uncle John, "you have brought me the most
enchanting birthday gift that ever a man had. Let me look at you again,
Rita! If ever happiness agreed with a person--but I must not begin upon
compliments now. I want you to know these cousins and friends. Here is
Hugh Montfort and Jean; here is Grace Wolfe, who is to be your cousin
one of these good days; and here are our friends Gerald and Philip
Merryweather. You have all heard of one another; let us all be friends
at once, without further ceremony, and keep this joyful feast
together."
"Supper is served, sir," said Elizabeth.
A joyful feast it was indeed. The table, decked with ferns and roses,
was covered with every good thing that Frances could think of, and she
could think of a good many. The candles shed their cheerful light on
all, though the faces hardly needed the artificial light. Amid general
mirth, Rita told of her plan; her letter of inquiry to Frances and
Elizabeth, asking if all were well, and if their coming would make any
inconvenience. Then the telegram to Bannan, and the arrival, to find him
awaiting them with the best horse the stable afforded; and, finally,
their stealthy entrance at the back door. All had been triumphantly
successful, and as Rita told her story, she laughed and clapped her
hands with the glee of a child, while every face glowed responsive.
[Illustration: "'I PROPOSE . . . THE HEALTH OF THE BEST MAN . . . THAT
LIVES UPON THIS EARTH TO-DAY; . . . THE HEALTH OF MY UNCLE JOHN!'"]
"And now," said Rita Del Monte, springing to her feet, and lifting high
her glass, "I wish to propose a toast--the only fitting toast for this
night. I propose, dear friends, and dear strangers whom I hope to
have for friends, the health of the best man--ah, Jack, you have not had
time yet, nor you others; but courage, time is before you!--of the best
man, I say, that lives upon this earth to-day; the dearest, the
kindest--oh, all please drink to the health of my Uncle John!"
One and all were upon their feet; all bending forward, glass in hand,
eager and joyous, their eyes shining with love and admiration; and from
one and all came the same glad cry, "Uncle John!"
"Because if one hasn't the luck to be really his nephew," said Gerald,
"the least one can do is to make a bluff at it."
And here, at this happy moment, let us leave our friends. Good-by,
Margaret--dear Margaret! Good-by, Peggy and Rita, Hugh and Grace, Gerald
and Phil,--we may see you again, boys,--Jean and Jack! Good-by, and good
luck to you! Last of all, good-by to you, John Montfort. If you are not
the best man in the world, you are at least a good one! Wise and strong,
courteous and kindly, brave and true, long may you live, as now you sit,
in your own beautiful home, surrounded by those you love best in the
world. Love, kindness, and truth; having these, what more do you lack?
Good-by, John Montfort.
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 45, "be" changed to "am" (I am to use)
Page 233, "delared" changed to "declared" (which Mr. Montfort declared)