AUNT AGNES'S WAY.
If there was a person with a determined will, with a heart set upon
certain actions which must and _should_ be carried out, that was the
elderly lady known as Agnes Delacour. She never went back on her word.
She never relaxed in her charities. She herself lived in a small house
in Chelsea, and, being a rich woman, could thereby spend large sums on
the poor and the needy. She was a wise woman in her generation, and
never gave help when help was not needed. No begging letters appealed
to her, no pretended woes took her in; but the real sufferers in life!
these she attended to, these she helped, these she comforted. Her
universal plan was to get the sorrowful and the poor in a very great
measure to help themselves. She had no idea of encouraging what she
called idleness. Thrift was her motto. If a person needed money, that
person must work for it. Agnes would help her to work, but she
certainly would not have anything whatsoever to do with those whom she
called the _wasters_ of life.
In consequence, Agnes Delacour did a vast amount of good. She never by
any chance gave injudiciously. Her present protégée was Mrs Macintyre.
Mrs Macintyre was the sort of woman to whom the heart of Agnes Delacour
went out in a great wave of pity. In the first place, she was Scots,
and Miss Delacour loved the Scots. In the next place, she was very
proud, and would not eat the bread of charity. Mrs Macintyre was a
highly educated woman. She had lost both husband and children, and was
therefore stranded on the shores of life. There was little or no hope
for her, unless her friend Agnes took her up. Now, therefore, was the
time for Agnes Delacour to attack that strange being, her
brother-in-law, whom she had neglected so long.
She hardly knew his sister, Cecilia Constable, but she meant to become
acquainted with her soon, to plead for her help, and in so great a
cause to overlook the fact that this brother and this sister were a
pair of faddists. Faddists they should not remain long, if _she_ could
help it. She, Agnes Delacour, strong-minded and determined, would see
to that. The children of this most silly pair required education. Who
more suitable for the purpose than gentle, kind, clever Mrs Macintyre?
If George Lennox paid down the rent for Ardshiel, or, in other words,
for the Palace of the Kings, and if Mrs Constable put down five hundred
pounds for the redecorating of the grounds, and if the great Duke
allowed them to keep the old, magnificent furniture, which had lain
unused within those walls for over twenty years--and this he had
practically promised to do, drawn thereto by Mrs Macintyre's sweet,
pathetic smile and face--why, the deed was done, and she, Agnes, the
noble and generous, need only add a few extra hundred pounds for the
purchase of beds and school furniture. Thus the greatest school in the
whole of Scotland would be opened under wonderfully noble auspices.
Yes, all was going well, and the good woman felt better than pleased.
Her great fame would spread wider and faster than ever. She lived to
do good; she was doing good--good on a very considerable
scale--supported by the highest nobility in the land.
Miss Delacour was not quite sure whether the school should be a mixed
school or not. She waited for circumstances to settle that point.
Mixed schools were becoming the fashion, and to a certain extent she
approved of them; but she would not give her vote in that direction
until she had a talk with her brother-in-law, and with Mrs Constable.
Ardshiel was within easy reach of Edinburgh and Glasgow, but Miss
Delacour made up her mind that the school, when established, should be
a boarding-school. The very most she would permit would be the return
of the children who lived within a convenient distance to their homes
for week-end visits. But on that point also she was by no means sure.
Providence must decide, she said softly to herself. She came,
therefore, to The Garden determined to leave the matter, as she said,
to Providence; whereas, in reality, she left it to George Lennox and
his sister, Mrs Constable.
At any cost these people must do their parts. Be they faddists, or be
they not, their children must be saved. Could there in all the world
be a more horrible girl than Hollyhock--or, as her real name was,
Jacqueline? Even Lucy (always called Jasmine) was an impertinent
little thing; but what _could_ you expect from such a man as George
Lennox?
Miss Delacour was, however, the sort of person who held her soul in
great patience. After Jasmine had left her she stood and looked out of
the window, observed the lake on which those silly little girls were
rowing, noticed those absurd boys who were called after precious
stones, forsooth! and made up her mind to be pleasant with Cecilia and
her family, and to say nothing of her designs to her brother-in-law
until the children had gone to bed. She presumed at least that they
went to bed early. A little creature like Dorothy ought to be in her
warm nest not later than half-past seven. Lucy and Margaret might be
permitted to sit up till nine. Afterwards she, Miss Delacour, could
have a good talk with George Lennox. She invariably spoke of him as
George Lennox, ignoring the Honourable, for she had no respect for the
semblance of a title.
By opening her window very wide, she was able to get a distant glimpse
of the much-neglected Palace. She observed, with approval, the vast
size of the house, the abundance of trees, the glass-houses, the
hothouses, the remains of ancient splendour. Then she looked at the
lake, which shone and gleamed in all its summer glory; but she turned
her thoughts from the sad history of that lake. She was not a woman to
romance over things. She was a woman to go straight forward in a
matter-of-fact, downright fashion.
Happening to meet one of the girls at an hour between tea and dinner,
she inquired at what time their father dined.
'We all dine at half-past seven,' replied Hollyhock.
'You _all_ dine at half-past seven? How old are you, Jacqueline?'
'Nearly thirteen, Auntie Agnes,' replied the girl, tossing her black
mane of lovely, thick hair.
'And do you mean to tell me that little Dorothy, who cannot be more
than eight or nine years old, takes her last heavy meal at half-past
seven in the evening? Such folly is really past believing.'
'Auntie, you must believe it, for wee Delphy always dines with the rest
of us. And why shouldn't she?'
'Now, my dear child, as to your father's strange conduct, it is not my
place to speak of it before his unhappy and ill-bred child, but I have
one request to make. It is this--that you do not again in my presence
call your sister by that sickening name.'
'But, auntie, _we_ think it a very lovely name. We like our flower
names so much. Auntie, I do wish that you'd go. We were so happy
without you, auntie. Do go and leave us in peace.'
'You certainly are the most impertinent little girl I ever met in my
life; but times, thank the good God, are changing.'
'Are they? How, may I ask?' inquired Hollyhock.
'That I am not going to tell you quite yet, but changing they are.'
'And I say they are _not_,' repeated Hollyhock with great zeal.
'Oh! what a bad, wicked little girl you are! What an awful trial to my
poor brother-in-law!'
'And I say I 'm not. I say that I 'm the joy of his life, the poor
dear! Auntie, you 'd best not try me too far.'
'May God grant me patience,' muttered Miss Delacour under her breath.
She went upstairs to the room where her sister had not died, and made
up her mind that as, of course, this wild family would not know
anything whatsoever of dressing for dinner, she need not trouble to
change her clothes. That being the case, she need not ring for the
objectionable young person called Magsie. 'Such a name for a maid!'
thought Miss Delacour. 'I'll just wear my old brown dress; it will
save the dresses which I have to keep for proper occasions in London.
Dear, dear, what an _awful_ house this is!'
She sank into a chair, saying to herself how much, how very much, Mrs
Macintyre would have to thank her for by-and-by! She looked at the
watch she wore in a leather wristlet, and decided that she might rest
for at least a quarter of an hour. She was really tired as well as
appalled at the state of things at The Garden. Presently, however,
seated in her easy-chair--and a very easy and comfortable chair it
was--she observed that all her trunks had been unpacked; not only
unpacked, but removed bodily from the large apartment. She felt a
sense of anger. That girl, Magsie, had taken a liberty in unpacking
her trunks. She should not have done so without asking permission. It
is true that she herself had left the keys of the said trunks on her
dressing-table, for most maids did unpack for her, but that was no
excuse for such a creature as Magsie.
Just then there came a tap at her door. She was beginning to feel
drowsy and comfortable, and said, in a cross voice, for she preened
herself on her French, '_Entrez!_'
Magsie had never heard '_Entrez_' before, but concluded that it was the
strange woman's way of saying, 'Come in.' She accordingly entered,
carrying a large brass can of boiling water.
'It has come to the bile, miss,' remarked Magsie, as she entered the
room, 'but ye can cool it down wi' cold water.'
'Thank you. You can leave it,' said Miss Delacour.
'What dress would ye be likin' to array yerself in?' asked Magsie.
'I'm not going to dress for dinner.'
'Not goin' to dress for dinner! But the master, he dresses like most
people i' the evenin', and the young leddies and gentlemen and Mrs
Constable, they sit down at the table--ah, weel! as them as is
accustomed to respec' their station in life. I was thinkin', miss,
that your purple gown, which I have put away in the big cupboard, might
do for to-night. Ye 're a well-formed woman, miss--out in the back,
out in the front--and I jalouse all your bones are covered. It 'll
look queer your not dressin'--more particular when every one else does.'
'I never heard of anything quite so ridiculous,' said Miss Delacour;
'but as those silly children are going to dress, I suppose I had better
put on the gown which I call my thistle gown. The thistle is the
emblem of Scotland. I suppose you know that, Margaret?'
'No me,' said Margaret. 'It's an ugly, prickly thing, is a thistle.'
'Well, you have learnt something from me to-night. You ought to be
very glad when I instruct you, Margaret.'
'I 'd rather be called Magsie,' returned Margaret.
'I intend to call you just what I please.'
'Very weel, miss; but may I make bold to ask which _is_ the thistle
gown?'
'It is a rich, white silk, patterned over with thistles of the natural
colour of the emblem of Scotland. Open the wardrobe and I shall show
it to you. But you took a liberty when you unpacked my clothes without
asking my permission, Margaret.'
'Leeberty--did I? I thocht ye'd be pleased, bein' an auld leddy, no
less; but catch me doin' it again. Ay, but this thistle gown is gran',
to be sure.'
'Can you dress hair?' inquired Miss Delacour.
'Naething special,' was Magsie's answer. 'Is it a wig ye wear or no?
It looks gey unnatural, sae I tak' it to be a wig; but if it's yer ain
hair, I beg yer humble pardon. There's nae harm dune in makin' the
remark.'
'You are a very impertinent girl; but as my dress happens to fasten
behind, and the people in this house are all foolish, I suppose I had
better get you to help me. No, my hair is my own. You must make it
look as well as you can. Do you understand back-combing?'
'Lawk a mercy, ma'am! I never heard tell o' such a thing; and speakin'
o' my master and his family as fules is beyond a'. However, Miss
Jasmine, the darlin', she comes to me and she says in her coaxin' way,
"Mak' the auld leddy comfy, Magsie;" and I 'd risk mony a danger to
please Miss Jasmine.'
'There isn't any Miss Jasmine. Her name is Lucy.'
'Ah, weel, ma'am, ca' the bonnie lass what ye like. Now stand up and
let me at ye. That's the gown. My word! thae thistles are fine.
Hoots! ye needna mind wearin' that gown, auld as ye be. The thistle
'll do its part.'
'I do wish, girl, you'd atop talking,' said Miss Delacour, and Magsie
of the black hair and black eyes and glowing complexion glanced at her
new mistress and thought it prudent to obey.
She did manage to arrange Miss Delacour's hair 'brawly,' as she called
it, for, as it proved, she had a real talent for hairdressing, and the
good lady inwardly resolved to train this ignorant Margaret for the
school.
She went downstairs presently in her thistle dress. The five little
girls were clad very simply all in white. The five boys wore Eton
jackets, and looked what they were, most gentlemanly young fellows.
Mrs Constable, in a pale shade of gray, was altogether charming; and
nothing could excel the courteous manners of George Lennox.
Every one was inclined to be kind to the stranger, and as it was the
stranger's intention to make a good impression on account of her
scheme, she led the conversation at dinner, ignoring the ten children,
and devoting herself to her brother-in-law and Mrs Constable.
When Miss Delacour was not present there were always wild games, not to
say romps, after dinner, but she seemed in some extraordinary way to
put an extinguisher on the candle of their fun. So deeply was this
manifest that Mrs Constable went back to The Paddock with her five boys
shortly after dinner; and Mr Lennox, seeing that he must make the best
of things, gave a hint to Jasmine that they had better leave him alone
with their mother's half-sister.
The boys had groaned audibly at this ending of their evening's fun.
Hollyhock looked defiant and even wicked; but when daddy whispered to
her, 'The sooner she lets out her scheme, the sooner I can get rid of
her,' the little girls ran upstairs hand-in-hand, all of them singing
at the top of their voices:
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.'