"I MUST HELP MYSELF."
"DEAR MARGARET:
"I find a telegram here which obliges me to run
on to Philadelphia at once. I may be away all
the week; do as well as you can, dear child,
and don't let B., M., and S. D. tear you to
pieces. I forgot to tell you that the young man
in charge of the bog-draining turns out to be
the son of an old friend of mine, Miles
Merryweather. I asked him to come up to the
house; if he should come while I am away, you
will be good to him. I will let you know by
telegraph when to expect me.
"Always affectionately yours,
"JOHN MONTFORT."
Margaret read this brief letter with a sinking heart. How was she to
keep up without Uncle John? How was she to cope with all the
difficulties that beset her path like sharp-thorned briers? If she had
but Aunt Faith--if she had but some one to turn to! She had tried to
take counsel with Mrs. Peyton, but the beautiful woman was still, at
fifty, a spoiled child, far younger in many ways than Margaret herself;
she would only laugh, and advise her to get rid of Miss Sophronia by
some trick, or practical joke.
"Freeze her out, my dear! Get rid of her, somehow! That is all the
advice I can give you. And bring the young barbarians to see me; I am
sure they will amuse me."
Margaret had just been acting on this last request. She had taken the
two boys to see the invalid, and had left them there now, coming away
with a sore and angry heart. Mrs. Peyton had been drawing the children
out, laughing at their remarks about their cousin, and paying no regard
to Margaret's entreaties. At length Margaret had simply come away, with
no more than a brief "Good afternoon!" feeling that she could not trust
herself to say more. Emily Peyton only laughed; she had full confidence
in her charm, and thought she could bring back her puritanical little
friend whenever she chose to smile in a particular way; meanwhile, the
children were a new toy, and amused her.
But Margaret felt that she had had almost enough of Mrs. Peyton. Beauty
was a great deal, charm and grace were a great deal more; but they did
not take the place of heart. No, there was no one to help her! Well,
then she must help herself, that was all!
She stood still, her mind full of this new thought. She was eighteen
years old; she was well and strong, and possessed of average
intelligence. "Look here!" she said suddenly, aloud. "If you cannot
manage those children, why, I am ashamed of you. Do you hear?"
The other self, the timid one, did hear, and took heart. The girl felt
new strength coming to her. The world had changed, somehow; the
giants,--were they only windmills, after all? Up, lance, and at them!
In this changed mood she went on, humming a little song to herself. As
she drew near the wood that skirted the bog, the song was answered by
another, trolled in a cheerful bass voice:
"The lady was pleased for to see him so bold;
She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold;
She said she had found it while walking around,
As she was a-hunting with her dog and her gun."
The "blue boy," as she mentally called him, came dancing out of the
wood, throwing up his cap, and singing as he came. At sight of Margaret
he paused, in some confusion, cap in hand.
"I--I beg your pardon," he said. "I trust I did not disturb you with my
carol? There isn't generally any one here, you know; I get rather to
feel as if it all belonged to me. I hope the little chap is all right
to-day, Miss--Is it Miss Montfort?"
"Oh, yes! Certainly!" said Margaret, blushing in her turn. "I ought to
have said, of course--yes, thank you, Mr. Merryweather, Merton is quite
well to-day; and I really think he has had a lesson, for he has not run
away since, and it is two or three days ago. I--my uncle has been
suddenly called away on business, but he asked me to say--that is, we
shall be very glad to see you at the house any day; Miss Montfort, his
cousin,--my uncle's cousin,--is there with me and the children."
"Thanks awfully," murmured Gerald. "I'd like to come ever so much, some
day; but I keep all in a mess so--" he glanced down ruefully at his blue
clothes, and finding them quite respectably clean, brightened visibly.
"My father was at school with Mr. Montfort; Miles Merryweather, perhaps
he told you, Miss Montfort?"
"Yes, he told me. I--I always think Uncle John must have been such a
delightful boy. I am sure they must have had good times together."
"So was the Pater, no end; I mean, my father was an agreeable youth
also." Gerald stopped short, and glanced sidelong at the young girl. He
was well used to girls, having sisters and cousins; but they were used
to him, too, and he somehow felt that this sweet, serious-looking maiden
was not accustomed to young men, and that he must, as he silently put it
to himself, "consider the prudent P, and the quaintly quiggling Q."
"And Uncle John must have been a brilliant scholar!" Margaret went on,
warming to her subject. She had never, as it happened, walked and talked
with a lad before in her quiet life; she did not know quite how to do
it, but so long as she talked about Uncle John, she could not go wrong.
"He knows so much,--so much that he must have learned early, because it
is so a part of him. Wasn't he head of his class most of the time? He
never will talk about it, but I am sure he must have been."
"I am not so sure about that," Gerald admitted; "I know he was the best
wrestler, and that he and my father were generally neck and neck in all
the running races. He was a better high kick, because his legs were
longer, don't you know, but the Pater was ahead in boxing."
Margaret was bewildered. Was this scholarship? Was this the record that
brilliant boys left behind them? She gave a little sigh; the mention of
long legs brought her back to Basil again. Dear Basil! he had only one
pair of knickerbockers left that was fit to be seen. She ought to be
mending the corduroys this moment, in case he should come home all in
pieces, as he was apt to do.
"Have you any little brothers, Mr. Merryweather?" she asked, following
the thread of her thought.
"One; Willy. That is, he's not so very little now, but he's a good bit
younger than Phil and I; Phil is my twin. Willy--oh, I suppose he must
be fourteen, or somewhere about there, to a field or two."
"Basil is twelve," said Margaret, thoughtfully. "And does he--or did he,
two years ago,--I suppose a boy develops very quickly,--did he want to
be climbing and jumping and running _all_ the time?"
"Let me see!" said Gerald, gravely. "Why--yes, I should say so, Miss
Montfort. Of course he stops now and then to eat; and then there's the
time that he's asleep, you know; you have to take out that. But
otherwise,--yes, I should say you had described Willy's existence pretty
well."
"And climbing on roofs?" Margaret went on. "And tumbling into bogs, and
turning somersaults? What _can_ be the pleasure of turning oneself
wrong side up and getting the blood into one's head?"
Margaret stopped suddenly, and the colour rushed into her face; no need
of somersaults in her case. For had not this young man been turning
somersaults the first time she saw him? And turning them in the same
senseless way, just for the joy of it, apparently? She glanced at him,
and he was blushing too; but he met her look of distress with one so
comic in its quizzical appeal, that she laughed in spite of herself.
"I love to turn somersaults!" he murmured. "'Twas the charm of my
chirping childhood; it is now the solace of my age. Don't be severe,
Miss Montfort. I turn them now, sometimes; I will not deceive you."
"Oh! oh, yes, I know!" said Margaret, timidly, but still laughing in
spite of herself. "I--I saw you the other day, Mr. Merryweather. I
thought--you seemed to be enjoying yourself very much."
"No! Did you, though?" cried Gerald. "I say! Where was it? I never meant
to do it when people were round. I'm awfully sorry."
"Oh, no!" said Margaret, confused. "Why shouldn't you? It--it was by the
edge of the bog. I had come round that way, and you were leaping with a
pole about the bog, and I--stayed to watch you. I hope you don't mind;"
this foolish girl was blushing again furiously, which was most
unnecessary; "and--I thought you must be a foreigner; I don't know why.
And--and then you came out, and turned a somersault, and--I wondered
why, that was all. You see, I never had a brother, and I have never
known any boys in all my life till now. I don't mean that you are a boy,
of course!"
"Oh, but I _am_!" cried Gerald. "What else am I but a boy? I wish they
could hear you at home. Why, I'm just Jerry, you know, and--and I've
always been that kind of boy, I'm afraid; just like Willy, only a good
deal worse. And now--well, I've been through college, and now I'm in the
School of Mines, and I'm twenty-one, and all that, but I can't seem to
make myself feel any older, don't you know. I don't know what's going to
become of me. Hilda says I won't grow up till I fall--oh! you don't
know Hilda, do you, Miss Montfort?"
"Hilda?" repeated Margaret. "I only know Hilda in the 'Marble Faun.'"
"Hildegarde Merryweather; Hildegarde Grahame she used to be. I thought
you might possibly have--well, she's my aunt according to the flesh. I
wish you did know her!"
"Your aunt? Is she--is she about Uncle John's age? I know so few people,
you see. I have lived a very quiet life."
"Oh, no! She--well, I suppose she's a little older than you, but not
very much. She married Roger, don't you know. He's my half-uncle all
right, but he's ever so many years younger than the Pater, nearer our
age, you might almost say; and Hildegarde and the girls, my sisters,--I
say! I wish you knew them all, Miss Montfort."
"I wish I did," said Margaret, simply. "There are no girls of my own age
near here. Last year I had my cousins, and I miss them so much!"
"Of course you must!" said sympathetic Gerald. "Girls are no end--I--I
mean, I like them too, ever so much." He paused, and wished he knew the
right thing to say. How pretty and sweet she was! Not like Hilda, of
course (Hilda was this young man's ideal of what a girl should be), but
with a little quiet way of her own that was very nice. She must have no
end of a time of it with these youngsters! He spoke his thought aloud.
They were nearing Fernley, and he must leave her soon. "You must be
having some difficulty with those youngsters, Miss Montfort. If I could
help you any time, I wish you'd let me know. There have always been such
a lot of us at home, I'm used to most kinds of children, you see; and I
should be ever so glad--"
[Illustration: "'Won't you come in?'"]
"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret, gratefully. "I am sure you are very
kind; and if you would advise me sometimes--now that Uncle John is
away--I should be most grateful. But--I ought to be able to manage them
myself, it seems to me, without help. If I can only make them love me!"
She looked straight at Gerald, and her dark gray eyes were very
wistful in their unconscious appeal.
"I'd like to see 'em not!" said the young man, straightway. "Little
beggars! They couldn't help themselves!" He was about to add that he
would thrash them handsomely if they did not love her, but pulled
himself together, and blushed to his ears, and was only comforted by
seeing out of the tail of his eye that the girl was wholly unconscious
of his blushes. After all, there was some sense in freckles and sunburn.
But here they were now at the gates of Fernley. "Won't you come in?"
said Margaret. But Gerald, becoming once more conscious of his
working-clothes, which he had entirely forgotten, excused himself. If he
might come some evening soon? Yes, he might, and should. He lingered
still a moment, and Margaret, after a moment's shyness, held out her
hand frankly. "I am so glad to know you!" she said, simply. "Uncle
John--Mr. Montfort said I was to be good to you, and I will try."
"I'm sure you couldn't be anything else!" said Gerald, with fervour.
"Thanks, awfully, Miss Montfort. Good-bye!" Lifting his cap, the young
man turned away, feeling homesick, and yet cheerful. Passing round the
corner of the house, and finding himself well out of sight of the young
girl, he relieved his feelings by turning a handspring; and on coming to
his feet again, encountered the awful gaze of two greenish eyes, bent
upon him from an upper window of the house.
"Now I've done it!" said the youth, brushing himself, and assuming all
the dignity of which he was master. "Wonder who that is? Housekeeper,
perhaps? Quite the Gorgon, whoever it is. Wish I didn't turn over so
easily."
Margaret went into the house singing, with a lighter heart than she had
felt since Uncle John's letter came. Perhaps she had made a friend; at
any rate, a pleasant acquaintance. What a frank, nice, gentlemanly--boy!
"For he is a boy, just as he says!" she acknowledged to herself. And
what kind, honest eyes he had; and how thoughtful to offer to help her
with the children!
Her pleasant meditations were harshly interrupted. Miss Sophronia came
down-stairs, with her brown and yellow shawl drawn over her shoulders;
this, Margaret had learned, was a bad sign.
"Margaret, who was that young man? I saw you! There is no use in
attempting to conceal anything from me, my dear. I saw you talking with
a young man at the gate."
"Why should I conceal it?" asked Margaret, wondering. "It was Mr.
Merryweather, Cousin Sophronia. He was a schoolmate of Uncle John's,--I
mean his father was."
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the lady, sharply. "Don't tell me anything
of the kind, miss. He was a common workman, a day-labourer. I tell you I
saw him! Do you suppose I have no eyes in my head? I shall consider it
my duty to tell your uncle as soon as he comes home. I am surprised at
you, Margaret. I thought at least you were discreet. William's daughters
would no more think of talking with such a person--but that comes of
leaving a young person alone here with servants. My dear, I shall make
it a point henceforward--"
She stopped; for the gentle Margaret turned upon her with eyes of fire.
"Cousin Sophronia, I cannot listen to this; I will not listen! I am a
gentlewoman, and must be spoken to as a gentlewoman. I am eighteen years
old, and am accountable to no one except Uncle John for my behaviour.
Let me pass, please! I want to go to my room."
The girl swept by, her head high, her cheeks burning with righteous
wrath. Miss Sophronia gazed after her speechless; it was as if a dove
had ruffled its wings and flown in her face. "Ungrateful girl!" said the
lady to herself. "I never meet with anything but ingratitude wherever I
go. She is as bad as those girls of William's, for all her soft looks.
The human heart is very, very depraved. But I shall do my duty, in spite
of everything."