THE FIRST CONQUEST.
When Margaret went to bed that night, she felt as if she had been
whipped with rods. Head, heart, and back, all ached in sympathy. The
children were in bed; that is, she had left them in bed; their staying
there was another matter; however, all three were tired after their
journey, and Uncle John thought the chances were that they would fall
asleep before they had time to think of doing anything else. Among the
three, the little girl was the one who oppressed Margaret with a sense
of defeat, a sense of her own incompetence. She had not expected to
understand the boys; she had never had any experience of boys; but she
had expected to win the little girl to her, and make her a little
friend, perhaps almost a sister. Susan D. received her advances with an
elfish coldness that had something not human in it, Margaret thought.
The child was like a changeling, in the old fairy stories. That evening,
when bedtime came, Margaret went up with her to the pretty room, hoping
for a pleasant time. She sat down and took the little girl on her knee.
"Let us have a cuddle, dear!" she said; "put your head down on my
shoulder, and I will sing you one of my own bedtime songs, that my nurse
used to sing to me."
Susan D. sat bold upright, not a yielding joint in all her body.
"Don't you like songs?" asked Margaret, stroking the tow-coloured hair
gently.
"No!" said the child; and with the word she wriggled off Margaret's lap,
and stood twisting her fingers awkwardly, and frowning at the floor.
Margaret sighed.
"Then we will undress and get to bed," she said, trying to speak
lightly. "You must be very tired, little girl. Isn't that a pretty bed?
Is your bed at home like this? Tell me about your room, won't you,
Susie?"
But Susan D. still twisted her fingers and frowned, and would not say a
single word. She made no resistance, however, when Margaret helped her
off with her clothes. "You are big enough to undress yourself, of
course," the girl said, "but I will help you to-night, because you are
tired, and you must feel strange, coming so far away from home. Poor
little mite!" The child looked so small and slight, standing with her
dress off, and her thin shoulders sticking out like wings, that Margaret
felt a sudden thrill of compassion, and stooping, kissed the freckled
cheek warmly. The colour came into the child's face, but she stood like
a stock, never moving a muscle, never raising her eyes to take note of
the pretty, tasteful arrangements to which Margaret had given such
thought and pains. But the undressing went on, and presently she was in
her little nightgown, with her hair unbraided and smoothly brushed. She
might be pretty, Margaret decided, when she filled out a little, and had
a pleasanter expression. She was so little! Surely there must be one
more effort, this first night.
"Shall I hear you say your prayers, dear?" asked Margaret, taking the
child's two hands in hers. Susan D. shook her head resolutely.
"No? You like better to say them by yourself? Then I will come back in a
few minutes, and tuck you up in your little nest."
The child gave no sign; and when Margaret came back, she was standing in
the same spot, in the same position. She got into bed obediently, and
made no resistance when Margaret tucked the bedclothes in, patted her
shoulder, and gave her a last good-night kiss. She might as well have
kissed the pillow for any response there was, but at least there had
been no shrinking this time. "Good night, Susan D.," said Margaret,
cheerfully, pausing at the door. "Good night, dear! Susan, I think you
must answer when you are spoken to."
"Good night!" said Susan D. Margaret shut the door softly and went away.
As she passed along the corridor that ran round the hall, something
struck her forehead lightly. She looked up, and narrowly escaped getting
a fish-hook in her eye. Merton looked over the banisters, and smiled
appealingly. "I was fishin'," he said. "There's fish-lines in the
drawers of the sofa. I guess I 'most caught a whale, didn't I?"
"Merton, you must go to bed at once!" said Margaret. "How long have you
been standing there in your nightgown? You might catch your death." (It
had been one of old Katy's maxims that if you stood about in your
nightgown for however short a time, you inevitably got your death.
Margaret had never doubted it till this moment.) "I am coming up now to
tuck you both up!" she added, with a happy inspiration.
There was a hasty scuffle, then a rush, accompanied by smothered
squeals. When Margaret reached the nursery, both boys were in bed.
Merton's blue eyes were wide open, and fixed on her with mournful
earnestness; Basil was asleep, the clothes tucked in well under his
chin. He lay on his back, his mouth slightly opened; he was snoring
gently, but unobtrusively. Poor child! no doubt he was tired enough. But
how had Merton managed to make so _much_ noise?
Margaret looked around her, and Merton's gaze grew more intense. His own
clothes lay in a heap on the floor, but where were his brother's?
And--and what was that, smoothly folded over the back of a chair? A
clean nightgown?
But when Merton saw his cousin's eyes fix on the nightgown, he exploded
in a bubbling laugh. "He--he ain't undressed at all!" he cried,
gleefully. "He never! he's got his boots on, and every single--" The
speech got no further. There was a flying whirl of blankets, a leap, and
Basil was on his brother's chest, pounding him with right good will.
"You sneak!" he cried. "I'll teach you--"
There was no time to think; the child would be killed before her eyes.
Margaret took a firm hold on Basil's collar, and dragged him off by main
strength, he still clawing the air. Unconsciously, she gave him a hearty
shake before she let go; the boy staggered back a few paces; who would
have thought that Margaret had such strength in her slender wrists? The
crisis over, she panted, and felt faint for an instant; Basil, after a
moment of bewilderment, looked at her, and the smile broke all over his
face, a moment before black with rage.
"Got me that time, didn't you?" he said, simply. "He's a mean sneak,
Mert is. I'll serve him out to-morrow, don't you be afraid!"
"Basil, what does this mean?" asked Margaret, severely. "Why are you not
in bed?" Then as Basil sent an eloquent glance at the pillow where his
head had been lying so quietly, she added, "Why are you not undressed, I
mean? I am afraid you have been very naughty, both of you, boys."
"Well, you see," said Basil, apologetically, "there was all kinds of
things in the drawers, and then I got on the rocking-horse, and it
wasn't but just a minute before you came up. I say, isn't this a bully
room, Cousin Margaret? I think Uncle John was awfully good to give us
such a room as this. Why doesn't he sleep here himself? Bet I would, if
I owned the house. I say, do those marbles belong to him?"
"I suppose so," said Margaret, smiling in spite of herself; "yes, I am
sure they were his. But now, Basil,--"
"Well, see here!" cried the boy, excitedly. "Because, you see, they're
worth a lot, some of 'em. Why, there's agates,--why, they are perfect
beauties! Just look!" He ran towards the sofa, but Margaret stopped him
resolutely.
"To-morrow, Basil!" she said. "To-morrow you shall show me everything
you like; but now you must go to bed, this very moment. I am pretty
tired, but I shall sit outside on the landing, till you tell me that you
are in bed; then I shall come in and make sure for myself, and tuck you
in."
Basil illuminated the room again. "Will you?" he cried. "Honest, will
you tuck us in?"
Margaret nodded, wondering, and withdrew to the landing, where she sat
with her head in her hands, saying to herself, "Let nothing disturb
thee, nothing affright thee--"
Basil spoke through the keyhole. "Cousin Margaret!"
"Yes, Basil; are you ready so soon?"
"No, not quite. I wanted to say,--do you think you ought to spank me?"
"No, certainly not, my dear!"
"'Cause you can, if you think you'd better."
"No, no, Basil; only do get to bed, like a good boy!"
"Yes, ma'am."
A sudden plunge was heard, a thump, and the agonised shriek of a
suffering bedstead. "Now I'm in bed!" said Basil. Margaret picked up the
two heaps of clothing, and laid them neatly on two chairs. "I want you
to do this yourselves after this," she explained. "It isn't nice to
leave your things on the floor."
"All right!" "We will!" said both boys; and then they joined in a
fervent appeal to her not to turn their knickerbockers upside down.
"'Cause all the things in your pockets spill out," said Merton.
"And then you get 'em mixed, and can't tell what belongs where," cried
Basil. "Thank you, Cousin Margaret; that's bully!"
Margaret tucked Merton in first; he looked so dimpled and pretty, she
was tempted to offer a caress, but the recollection of Susan D. kept
her from it. Turning away, she came to Basil's bed. The boy watched her
intently as she smoothed the bedclothes with practised hand, and tucked
them in exactly right, not too tight and not too loose. There are
several ways of tucking a person into bed. With a pleasant "Good night!"
she was about to leave him, but something in the boy's face held her.
"Is there anything you want, my dear?" she asked, gently. Basil looked
at her; then turned his head away. "Mother used to put me to bed!" he
muttered, so low that Margaret could hardly hear. She did hear, however;
and instantly stooping over the boy, she kissed him warmly. Thank
Heaven, here was one who did want to be loved. "Dear Basil," she said,
tenderly. "Dear boy, you shall tell me all about her some day. Will
you?" The boy nodded; his eyes were eloquent, but he did not speak. Her
heart still warm, Margaret looked across at Merton; but Basil plucked
her gown and whispered, "He--doesn't know. He can't remember her.
Perhaps you can teach him--"
Margaret nodded, kissed the boy's white forehead once more, and went
away with a lighter heart than she had brought with her. On the floor
below she paused to listen at Susan's door; all was quiet there. Cousin
Sophronia was asleep, too, no doubt; Margaret had spent part of the
evening with her, reading, and listening to her doleful prophecies of
the miseries entailed by the coming of "these dreadful children!" It was
nearly her own bedtime, too, for between Cousin Sophronia and the
children the evening had slipped away all too fast. But surely she might
have a few minutes of peace and joy? The library door stood open; from
it there came a stream of cheerful light, and the perfume of a Manila
cigar. Oh, good! Uncle John had not gone to his study; he was waiting
for her. As she passed Miss Sophronia's door, Margaret fancied she heard
a call; but she was not sure, and for once she was rebellious. She flew
down-stairs, and ran into the library.
The pleasant room lay in shade, save for the bright gleam of the
reading-lamp. Among the books which lined the walls from floor to
ceiling, the gilded backs of the smaller volumes caught the light and
sent it back in soft, broken twinklings; but the great brown folios on
the lower shelves were half lost in a comfortable duskiness. The crimson
curtains were drawn before the open windows, and the evening wind waved
them lightly now and then, sending new shadows to chase the old ones
along the walls and ceiling. The thick old Turkey carpet held every
possible shade of soft, faded richness, and the brown leather armchairs
looked as if they had been sat in by generations of book-loving
Montforts, as indeed they had. And amid all this sober comfort, by the
great library table with its orderly litter of magazines and new books,
sat Mr. John Montfort, book in hand and cigar in mouth, a breathing
statue of Ease, in a brown velvet smoking-jacket. He looked up, and,
seeing Margaret in the doorway, laid down his book, and held out his
hand with a gesture of welcome. "Well, my girl," he said, "come and tell
me all about it!"
With a great sigh of relief, Margaret dropped on the rug at her uncle's
feet, and laid her tired head on his knee. "Uncle John!" she said. "Oh,
Uncle John!" That seemed to be all she wanted to say; she shut her eyes,
and gave herself up to the comfort which only comes with rest after
fatigue.
Mr. Montfort stroked her hair gently, with a touch as light as a
woman's. Then he took up his book again, and began to read aloud. It was
a curious old book, bound in black leather, with great silver clasps.
"In that isle is a dead sea or lake, that has
no bottom; and if any thing falls into it, it
will never come up again. In that lake grow
reeds, which they call Thaby, that are thirty
fathoms long; and of these reeds they make fair
houses. And there are other reeds, not so long,
that grow near the land, and have roots full a
quarter of a furlong long or more, at the knots
of which roots precious stones are found that
have great virtues; for he who carries any of
them upon him may not be hurt by iron or steel;
and therefore they who have those stones on
them fight very boldly both by sea and land;
and therefore, when their enemies are aware of
this, they shoot at them darts without iron or
steel, and so hurt and slay them. And also of
those reeds they make houses and ships and
other things, as we here make houses and ships
of oak, or of any other tree. And let no man
think I am joking, for I have seen these reeds
with my own eyes."
The words flowed on and on; Margaret felt her troubles smoothing
themselves out, melting away. "Who is this pleasant person?" she asked,
without raising her head.
"Sir John Mandeville," said her uncle. "Rest a bit still, and we'll go
and see the Chan of Cathay with him. Here we are!" He turned a page or
two, and read again:
"The emperor has his table alone by himself,
which is of gold and precious stones; or of
crystal, bordered with gold and full of
precious stones; or of amethysts, or of lignum
aloes, that comes out of Paradise; or of ivory
bound or bordered with gold. And under the
emperor's table sit four clerks, who write all
that the emperor says, be it good or evil; for
all that he says must be held good; for he may
not change his word nor revoke it."
"Oh, but I shouldn't like that, Uncle John!" cried Margaret. "I
shouldn't like that at all! Should you?"
"I don't think it would be agreeable," Mr. Montfort admitted. "But when
we come to anything we don't like, we can suppose that Sir John
was--shall we call it embroidering? And how does my girl feel now? Are
the wrinkles smoothing out at all?"
"All smooth!" replied the girl. "All gone, Uncle John. I was only a
little tired; and--Uncle John--"
"Yes, dear child."
"You must expect that I shall do a great many wrong things, at first. I
am very ignorant, and--well, not very old, perhaps. If only I can make
the children love me!"
"They'd better love you," said Uncle John. "If they don't, they'll get
the stick. But don't fret, Margaret; I am not going to fret, and I shall
not let you do it. The little girl seems slightly abnormal, at first
sight; but the boys--"
"Yes, Uncle John?" and Margaret raised her head and looked eagerly at
her uncle, hoping for some light that would make all clear to her. "The
boys?"
"Why, the boys are just boys, my dear; nothing in the world but plain
boys. Two of 'em instead of four,--thank your stars that you are in
this generation instead of the last, my love; and now take this little
head off to bed, and don't let another anxious thought come into it.
Good night, my child."