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diff --git a/old/43731-h/43731-h.htm b/old/43731-h/43731-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index a2b60ac..0000000 --- a/old/43731-h/43731-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11756 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html -PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> -<head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> -<title> -Bud, by Neil Munro -</title> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - -<style type="text/css"> - <!-- - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 100%; font-style:normal; - margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; - text-align: right;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - --> -</style> -</head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bud, by Neil Munro - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Bud -A Novel - -Author: Neil Munro - -Release Date: September 15, 2013 [EBook #43731] -Last Updated: March 8, 2018 - - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUD *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger - - - - - -</pre> - -<div style="height: 8em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h1> -BUD -</h1> -<h2> -A Novel -</h2> -<p> -<br /> -</p> -<h2> -By Neil Munro -</h2> -<p> -<br /> -</p> -<h4> -1906 -</h4> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> - -<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> -<img alt="bud (65K)" src="images/bud.jpg" width="100%" /><br /></div> - -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<p> -<b>CONTENTS</b> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a> -</p> -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV </a> -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER I -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE town's bell rang through the dark of the winter morning with queer -little jolts and pauses, as if Wanton Wully Oliver, the ringer, had been -jovial the night before. A blithe New-Year's-time bell; a droll, daft, -scatter-brained bell; it gave no horrid alarms, no solemn reminders that -commonly toll from steeples and make good-fellows melancholy to think upon -things undone, the brevity of days and years, the parting of good company, -but a cheery ditty—“boom, boom, ding-a-dong boom, boom ding, hie, -ding-dong,” infecting whoever heard it with a kind of foolish gayety. The -burgh town turned on its pillows, drew up its feet from the bed-bottles, -last night hot, now turned to chilly stone, rubbed its eyes, and knew by -that bell it was the daftest of the daft days come. It cast a merry spell -on the community; it tickled them even in their cosey beds. “Wanton -Wully's on the randan!” said the folk, and rose quickly, and ran to pull -aside screens and blinds to look out in the dark on window-ledges -cushioned deep in snow. The children hugged themselves under the blankets, -and told one another in whispers it was not a porridge morning, no, nor -Sunday, but a breakfast of shortbread, ham, and eggs; and behold! a -beautiful, loud drum, careless as 'twere a reveille of hot, wild youths, -began to beat in a distant lane. Behind the house of Dyce, the lawyer, a -cock that must have been young and hearty crew like to burst; and at the -stables of the post-office the man who housed his horses after bringing -the morning mail through night and storm from a distant railway station -sang a song: -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'A damsel possessed of great beauty -Stood near by her own father's gate: -The gallant hussars were on duty; -To view them this maiden did wait. -Their horses were capering and prancing, -Their accoutrements shone like a star; -From the plains they were quickly advancing— -She espied her own gallant hussard” - </pre> -<p> -“Mercy on us, six o'clock!” cried Miss Dyce, with a startled jump from her -dreams to the floor of her bedroom. “Six o'clock on the New Year's -morning, and I'll warrant that randy Kate is sound asleep yet,” she said, -and quickly clad herself and went to the head of the stair and cried, -“Kate! Kate! are ye up yet, Kate? Are ye hearing me, Kate MacNeill?” - </p> -<p> -From the cavern dark of the lower story there came back no answer. -</p> -<p> -She stood with a curious, twirly wooden candlestick in her hand in the -midst of a house that was dead dumb and desperate dark and smelled -deliciously of things to eat. Even herself, who had been at the making of -most of them the day before, and had, by God's grace, still much of a -child's appetite, could not but sniff with a childish satisfaction at this -air of a celestial grocery—of plum-puddings and currant-buns, apples -and oranges, cordials and spices, toffee and the angelic treacly sweet we -call Black Man—her face lit rosily by the candle low, a woman small -and soft and sappy, with the most wanton reddish hair, and a briskness of -body that showed no sign as yet of her accomplished years. What they were -I will never tell you; but this I'll say, that even if they had been -eighty she was the kind to cheerily dance a quadrille. The daft bell, so -plainly in the jovial mood of Wanton Wully Oliver, infected her: she -smiled to herself in a way she had when remembering droll things or just -for simple jollity, and whoever saw Bell Dyce smile to herself had never -the least doubt after that she was a darling. Over the tenements of the -town the song of the bell went rollicking, and in its hiccoughing pauses -went wonderfully another sound far, far removed in spirit and suggestion—the -clang of wild geese calling: the “honk, honk” of the ganders and the -challenge of their ladies come down adrift in the snow from the bitter -north. -</p> -<p> -But there was no answer from the maid in the kitchen. She had rolled less -deliberately than was usual from her blankets to the summons of the -six-o'clock bell, and already, with the kitchen window open, her bounteous -form surged over the two sashes that were always so conveniently low and -handy for a gossip with any friendly passer-by on the pavement. She drank -the air of the clean, chill morning dark, a heady thing like old Tom -Watson's autumn ale, full of the sentiment of the daft days. She tilted an -ear to catch the tune of the mail-boy's song that now was echoing mellow -from the cobwebbed gloom of the stable stalls, and, making a snowball from -the drift of the window-ledge, she threw it, woman wise, aimlessly into -the street with a pretence at combat. The chill of the snow stung sweet in -the hot palm of her, for she was young and strong. -</p> -<p> -“Kate, you wretch!” cried a voice behind her. She drew in her head, to -find her mistress in the kitchen with the candlestick in her hand. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, m'em,” cried the maid, no way abashed, banging up the window and -hurriedly crushing her more ample parts under the final hooks and eyes of -her morning wrapper—“oh, m'em, what a start you gave me! I'm all in -a p-p-palpitation. I was just takin' one mouthful of air and thinkin' to -myself yonder in the Gaelic that it was time for me to be comin' in and -risin' right.” - </p> -<p> -“A happy New Year to you, Kate MacNeill,” said the mistress, taking her -hand. -</p> -<p> -“Just that, just that! and the same to you yourself, Miss Dyce. I'm -feeling fine; I'm that glad with everything,” said the maid, in some -confusion at this unusual relation with her mistress. She shook the -proffered hand rapidly from side to side as if it were an egg-switch. -</p> -<p> -“And see and get the fires on quick now, like a good lass. It would never -do to be starting the New Year late—it would be unlucky. I was -crying to you yonder from the stair-head, and wondering if you were ill, -that you did not answer me so quickly as you do for ordinar'.” - </p> -<p> -“Ill, Miss Dyce!” cried the maid, astounded. “Do you think I'm daft to be -ill on a New Year's Day?” - </p> -<p> -“After yon—after yon shortbread you ate yesterday I would not have -wondered much if you were,” said Miss Dyce, shaking her head solemnly. -“I'm not complaining, but, dear me! it was an awful lump; and I thought it -would be a bonny-like thing, too, if our first-foot had to be the doctor.” - </p> -<p> -“Doctor! I declare to goodness I never had need of a doctor to me since -Dr. Macphee in Colonsay put me in order with oil and things after I had -the measles,” exclaimed the maid, as if mankind were like wag-at-the-wa' -clocks, and could be guaranteed to go right for years if you blew through -them with a pair of bellows or touched their works with an oily feather. -</p> -<p> -“Never mind about the measles just now, Kate,” said Miss Dyce, with a -meaning look at the black-out fire. -</p> -<p> -“Neither I was mindin' them, m'em—I don't care a spittle for them; -it's so long ago I would not know them if I saw them; I was just—” - </p> -<p> -“But get your fire on. You know we have a lot to do to-day to get -everything nice and ready for my nephew who comes from America with the -four-o'clock coach.” - </p> -<p> -“America!” cried the maid, dropping a saucepan lid on the floor in her -astonishment. “My stars! Did I not think it was from Chickagoo?” - </p> -<p> -“And Chicago is in America, Kate,” said her mistress. “Is it? is it? Mercy -on me, how was Kate to know? I only got part of my education—up to -the place where you carry one and add ten. America! Dear me, just fancy! -The very place that I'm so keen to go to. If I had the money, and was in -America—” - </p> -<p> -It was a familiar theme; Kate had not got fully started on it when her -mistress fled from the kitchen and set briskly about her morning affairs. -</p> -<p> -And gradually the household of Dyce, the lawyer, awoke wholly to a day of -unaccustomed stillness and sound, for the deep snow piled in the street -and hushed the traffic of wheel and hoof and shoe, but otherwise the -morning was cheerful with New-Year's-Day noise. For the bell-ringing of -Wanton Wully was scarcely done, died down in a kind of brazen chuckle, and -the “honk, honk” of the wild geese sped seaward over gardens and back -lanes—strange, wild music of the north, far-fetched and undomestic—when -the fife band shrilly tootled through the town to the tune of “Hey, Johnny -Cope, are Ye Waukin' Yet?” Ah, they were the proud, proud men, their heads -dizzy with glory and last night's wine, their tread on air. John Taggart -drummed—a mighty drummer, drunk or sober, who so loved his -instrument he sometimes went to bed with it still fastened to his neck, -and banged to-day like Banagher, who banged furiously, never minding the -tune much, but happy if so be that he made noise enough. And the fifers -were not long gone down the town, all with the wrong step but Johnny -Vicar, as his mother thought, when the snow was trampled under the feet of -playing children, and women ran out of their houses, and crossed the -street, some of them, I declare, to kiss each other, for 'tis a fashion -lately come, and most genteel, grown wonderfully common in Scotland. Right -down the middle of the town, with two small flags in his hat and holly in -the lapel of his coat, went old Divine, the hawker, with a great barrow of -pure gold, crying: “Fine Venetian oranges! wha'll buy sweet Venetian -oranges? Nane o' your foreign trash. Oranges! Oranges!—rale New Year -oranges, three a penny; bloods, a bawbee each!” The shops opened just for -an hour for fear anybody might want anything, and many there were, you may -be sure, who did, for they had eaten and drunken everything provided the -night before—which we call hogmanay—and now there were -currant-loaves and sweety biscuits to buy; shortcake, sugar, and lemons, -ginger cordial for the boys and girls and United Presbyterians, boiled ham -for country cousins who might come unexpected, and P. & A. -MacGlashan's threepenny mutton-pies (twopence if you brought the ashet -back), ordinarily only to be had on fair-days and on Saturdays, and far -renowned for value. -</p> -<p> -Miss Minto's Millinery and Manteau Emporium was discovered at daylight to -have magically outlined its doors and windows during the night with -garlands and festoons of spruce and holly, whereon the white rose bloomed -in snow; and Miss Minto herself, in a splendid crimson cloak down to the -heels and cheeks like cherries, was standing with mittens and her five -finger-rings on, in the middle door, saying in beautiful, gentle English, -“A happy New Year” to every one who passed—even to George Jordon, -the common cowherd, who was always a little funny in his intellects, and, -because his trousers were bell-mouthed and hid his feet, could never -remember whether he was going to his work or coming from it, unless he -consulted; the school-master. “The same to you, m'em, excuse my hands,” - said poor George, just touching the tips of her fingers. Then, because he -had been stopped and slewed a little from his course, he just went back -the way he had come. -</p> -<p> -Too late got up the red-faced sun, too late to laugh at Wanton Wully's -jovial bell, too late for Taggart's mighty drumming, but a jolly winter -sun—'twas all that was wanted among the chimneys to make the day -complete. -</p> -<p> -First of all to rise in Dyce's house, after the mistress and the maid, was -the master, Daniel Dyce himself. -</p> -<p> -And now I will tell you all about Daniel Dyce: it is that behind his back -he was known as Cheery Dan. -</p> -<p> -“Your bath is ready, Dan,” his sister had cried, and he rose and went with -chittering teeth to it, looked at it a moment, and put a hand in the -water. It was as cold as ice, because that water, drinking which men never -age, comes from high mountain bens. -</p> -<p> -“That for ye to-day!” said he to the bath, snapping his fingers. “I'll see -ye far enough first!” And contented himself with a slighter wash than -usual, and shaving. As he shaved he hummed all the time, as was his habit, -an ancient air of his boyhood; to-day it was -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“' Star of Peace, to wanderers weary,'” - </pre> -<p> -with not much tone but a great conviction—a tall, lean, clean-shaven -man of over fifty, with a fine, long nose, a ruddy cheek, keen, gray eyes, -and plenty of room in his clothes, the pockets of him so large and open it -was no wonder so many people tried, as it were, to put their hands into -them. And when he was dressed he did a droll thing, for from one of his -pockets he took what hereabouts we call a pea-sling, that to the rest of -the world is a catapult, and having shut one eye, and aimed with the -weapon, and snapped the rubber several times with amazing gravity, he went -up-stairs into an attic and laid it on a table at the window with a -pencilled note, in which he wrote: -</p> -<p> -“A New Year's Day Present for a Good Boy, from an Uncle who does not like -Cats.” - </p> -<p> -He looked round the little room that seemed very bright and cheerful, for -its window gazed over the garden to the east and to the valley where was -seen the King's highway. “Wonderful! wonderful!” he said to himself. “They -have made an extraordinary job of it. Very nice, indeed, but just a shade -ladylike. A stirring boy would prefer fewer fallals.” There was little, -indeed, to suggest the occupation of a stirring boy in that attic, with -its draped dressing-table in lilac print, its looking-glass flounced in -muslin and pink lover's-knots, its bower-like bed canopied and curtained -with green lawn, its shy scent of potpourri and lavender. A framed text in -crimson wools, the work of Bell Dyce when she was in Miss Mushet's -seminary, hung over the mantel-piece enjoining all beholders to -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“Watch and Pray” - </pre> -<p> -Mr. Dyce put both hands into his trousers-pockets, bent a little, and -heaved in a sort of chirruping laughter. “Man's whole duty, according to -Bell Dyce,” he said, “'Watch and Pray'; but they do not need to have the -lesson before them continually yonder in Chicago, I'll warrant. Yon's the -place for watching, by all accounts, however it may be about the prayer. -'Watch and Pray'—h'm! It should be Watch or Pray—it clearly -cannot be both at once with the world the way it is; you might as well -expect a man to eat pease-meal and whistle strathspeys at the same time.” - </p> -<p> -He was humming “Star of Peace”—for the tune he started the morning -with usually lasted him all day—and standing in the middle of the -floor contemplating with amusement the lady-like adornment of the room -prepared for his Chicago nephew, when a light step fell on the attic -stairs, and a woman's voice cried: “Dan! Dan Dyce! Coo-ee!” - </p> -<p> -He did not answer. -</p> -<p> -She cried again after coming up a step or two more, but still he did not -answer. He slid behind one of the bed-curtains. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER II -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>LISON DYCE came lightly up the rest of the stair, whistling blithely, in -spite of her sister Bell's old notion that whistling women and crowing -hens are never canny. She swept into the room. People in the town—which -has a forest of wood and deer behind it—used to say she had the -tread and carriage of a young wild roe, and I can well assure you she was -the girl to walk with on a winter day! She had in her hand a book of poems -called <i>The Golden Treasury</i> and a spray of the herb called Honesty, -that thrives in poor men's gardens. Having laid them down on the table -without noticing her brother's extraordinary Present for a Good Boy, she -turned about and fondled things. She smoothed the bedclothes as if they -covered a child, she patted the chair-backs with an air of benediction, -she took cushions to her breast like one that cuddled them, and when she -touched the mantelpiece ornaments they could not help it but must start to -chime. It was always a joy to see Alison Dyce redding-up, as we say, -though in housewifery, like sewing, knitting, and cooking, she was only a -poor second to her sister Bell. She tried, from duty, to like these -occupations, but oh, dear! the task was beyond her: whatever she had -learned from her schooling in Edinburgh and Brussels, it was not the -darning of hose and the covering of rhubarb-tarts. -</p> -<p> -Her gift, said Bell, was management. -</p> -<p> -Tripping round the little attic, she came back by-and-by to the table at -the window to take one last wee glimpse inside <i>The Golden Treasury</i>, -that was her own delight and her notion of happy half-hours for the ideal -boy, and her eye fell for the first time on the pea-sling and the note -beside it. -</p> -<p> -She read, and laughed, and upon my word, if laughter like Ailie Dyce's -could be bought in perforated rolls, there would be no demand for Chopin -and Schumann on the pianolas. It was a laugh that even her brother could -not resist: a paroxysm of coughing burst from behind the curtains, and he -came out beside her chuckling. -</p> -<p> -“I reckoned without my hoast,” said he, gasping. -</p> -<p> -“I was sure you were up-stairs,” said Alison. “You silly man! Upon my -word! Where's your dignity, Mr. Dyce?” - </p> -<p> -Dan Dyce stood for a second a little bit abashed, rubbing his chin and -blinking his eyes as if their fun was a thing to be kept from brimming -over. “I'm a great wag!” said he. “If it's dignity you're after, just look -at my velvet coat!” and so saying he caught the ends of his coat skirts -with his fingers, held them out at arm's-length, and turned round as he -might do at a fit-on in his tailor's, laughing till his hoast came on -again. “Dignity, quo' she, just look at my velvet coat!” - </p> -<p> -“Dan! Dan! will you never be wise?” said Ailie Dyce, a humorsome -demoiselle herself, if you believe me. -</p> -<p> -“Not if I keep my health,” said he. “You have made a bonny-like show of -the old garret, between the two of you. It's as smart as a lass at her -first ball.” - </p> -<p> -“I think it's very nice; at least it might be worse,” interrupted Alison, -defensively, glancing round with satisfaction and an eye to the hang of -the frame round “Watch and Pray.” Bell's wool-work never agreed with her -notions, but, as she knew that her tarts never agreed with Bell, she kept, -on that point, aye discreetly dumb. -</p> -<p> -“Poor little Chicago!” said her brother. “I'm vexed for the wee fellow. -Print chintz, or chint prints, or whatever it is; sampler texts, and -scent, and poetry books—what in the world is the boy to break?” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, you have seen to that department, Dan!” said Ailie, taking the -pea-sling again in her hand. “'A New Year's Day Present for a Good Boy -from an Uncle who does not like Cats.' I declare that is a delightful way -of making the child feel quite at home at once.” - </p> -<p> -“Tuts! 'Tis just a diversion. I know it 'll cheer him wonderfully to find -at the start that if there's no young folk in the house there's some of -the eternal Prank. I suppose there are cats in Chicago. He cannot expect -us to provide him with pigs, which are the usual domestic pets there, I -believe. You let my pea-sling alone, Ailie; you'll find it will please him -more than all the poetry and pink bows. I was once a boy myself, and I -know.” - </p> -<p> -“You were never anything else,” said Alison—“and never will be -anything else. It is a pity to let the child see at the very start what an -irresponsible person his uncle is; and, besides, it's cruel to throw -stones at cats.” - </p> -<p> -“Not at all, not at all!” said her brother, briskly, with his head -quizzically to the side a little, in a way he had when debating in the -court. “I have been throwing stones for twenty years at those cats of -Rodger's that live in our garden, and I never hit one yet. They're all -about six inches too short for genuine sport. If cats were dachshund dogs, -and I wasn't so fond of dogs, I would be deadly. But my ado with cats is -just one of the manly old British sports, like trout-fishing and curling. -You take your fun out in anticipation, and the only difference is you -never need to carry a flask. Still, I'm not without hope that my nephew -from Chicago may have a better aim than I have.” - </p> -<p> -“You are an old—an old goose, Dan Dyce, and a happy New Year to -you!” said his sister, putting her arms suddenly round his neck and -kissing him. -</p> -<p> -“Tuts! the coming of that child's ta'en your head,” said the brother, -reddening, for sisters never kiss their own brothers in our part—it's -so sentimental, it's so like the penny stories. “A good New Year to you, -Ailie,” and “Tuts!” he said again, looking quite upset, till Ailie laughed -and put her arm through his and drew him down-stairs to the breakfast to -which she had come to summon him. -</p> -<p> -The Chicago child's bedroom, left to itself, chilly a bit like Highland -weather, but honest and clean, looked more like a bower than ever: the -morning sun, peeping over garden trees and the chimneys of the lanes, -gazed particularly on the table where the pea-sling and the poetry book -lay together. -</p> -<p> -And now the town was thronged like a fair-day, with such stirring things -happening every moment in the street that the servant, Kate, had a -constant head out at the window, “putting by the time,” as she explained -to the passing inquirer, “till the mustress would be ready for the -breakfast.” That was Kate—she had come from an island where they -make the most of everything that may be news, even if it's only -brandy-sauce to pudding at the minister's; and Miss Dyce could not start -cutting a new bodice or sewing a button on her brother's trousers but the -maid billowed out upon the window-sash to tell the tidings to the first of -her sex that passed. -</p> -<p> -Over the trodden snow she saw the people from the country crowd in their -Sunday clothes, looking pretty early in the day for gayety, all with scent -on their handkerchiefs (which is the odor of festive days for a hundred -miles round burgh towns); and town people, less splendid in attire, as -folk that know the difference between a holiday and a Sabbath, and leave -their religious hard hats at home on a New Year's Day; children, too, -replete with bun already, and all succulent with the juice of Divine's -oranges. She heard the bell begin to peal again, for Wully Oliver—fie -on Wully Oliver!—had been met by some boys who told him the -six-o'clock bell was not yet rung, and sent him back to perform an office -he had done with hours before. He went to his bell dubiously, something in -the dizzy abyss he called his mind that half convinced him he had rung it -already. -</p> -<p> -“Let me pause and consider,” he said once or twice when being urged to the -rope, scratching the hair behind his ears with both hands, his gesture of -reflection. “Was there no' a bairn—an auld-fashioned bairn—helped -to ca' the bell already, and wanted to gie me money for the chance? It -runs in my mind there was a bairn, and that she had us aye boil-boiling -away at eggs, but maybe I'm wrong, for I'll admit I had a dram or two and -lost the place. I don't believe in dram-dram-dramming, but I aye say if -you take a dram, take it in the morning and you get the good of it all -day. It's a tip I learned in the Crimea.” But at last they convinced him -the bairn was just imagination, and Wanton Wully Oliver spat on his hands -and grasped the rope, and so it happened that the morning bell on the New -Year's Day on which my story opens was twice rung. -</p> -<p> -The Dyce handmaid heard it pealing as she hung over the window-sash with -her cap awry on her head. She heard from every quarter—from lanes, -closes, tavern-rooms, high attics, and back yards—fifes playing; it -was as if she leaned over a magic grove of great big birds, each singing -its own song—“Come to the Bower,” or “Moneymusk,” or “The Girl I -Left Behind Me,” noble airs wherein the captain of the band looked for a -certain perfection from his musicians before they marched out again at -mid-day. “For,” said he often in rehearsals, “anything will do in the way -of a tune in the dark, my sunny boys, but it must be the tiptop of skill, -and no discordancy, when the eyes of the world are on us. One turn more at -'Moneymusk,' sunny boys, and then we'll have a skelp at yon tune of my own -composure.” - </p> -<p> -Besides the sound of the bell and the universal practice of the fifes -there were loud vocalists at the Cross, and such laughter in the street -that Kate was in an ecstasy. Once, uplifted beyond all private decorum, -she kilted her gown and gave a step of a reel in her kitchen solitude. -</p> -<p> -“Isn't it cheery, the noise!” she exclaimed, delightedly, to the -letter-carrier who came to the window with the morning's letters. “Oh, I -am feeling beautiful! It is—it is—it is just like being inside -a pair of bagpipes.” - </p> -<p> -He was a man who roared, the postman, being used to bawling up long -common-stairs in the tenements for the people to come down to the foot -themselves for their letters—a man with one roguish eye for the -maiden and another at random. Passing in the letters one by one, he said -in tones that on a quieter day might be heard half up the street, “Nothing -for you, yourself, personally, Kate, but maybe there'll be one to-morrow. -Three big blue anes and seven wee anes for the man o' business himsel', -twa for Miss Ailie (she's the wonderfu' correspondent!), and ane for Miss -Dyce, wi' the smell o' scented perfume on't—that 'll be frae the -Miss Birds o' Edinburgh. And I near forgot—here's a post-card for -Miss Dyce: hearken to this: -</p> -<p> -“'Child arrived Liverpool yesterday; left this morning for Scotland. Quite -safe to go alone, charge of conductor. Pip, pip! Molyneux.' -</p> -<p> -“Whatna child is it, Kate?” - </p> -<p> -“'Pip, pip!' What in the world's 'Pip, pip?' The child is Brother -William's child, to be sure,” said Kate, who always referred to the Dyce -relations as if they were her own. “You have heard of Brother William?” - </p> -<p> -“Him that was married to the play-actress and never wrote home?” shouted -the letter-carrier. “He went away before my time. Go on; quick, for I'm in -a desperate hurry this mornin'.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, he died abroad in Chickagoo—God have mercy on him dying so -far away from home, and him without a word of Gaelic in his head!—and -a friend o' his father's bringing the boy home to his aunties.” - </p> -<p> -“Where in the world's Chickagoo?” bellowed the postman. -</p> -<p> -“In America, of course—where else would it be but in America?” said -Kate, contemptuously. “Where is your education not to know that Chickagoo -is in America, where the servant-maids have a pound a week of wages, and -learn the piano, and can get married when they like quite easy?” - </p> -<p> -“Bless me! do you say so?” cried the postman, in amazement, and not -without a pang of jealousy. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, I say so!” said Kate, in the snappish style she often showed to the -letter-carrier. “And the child is coming this very day with the -coach-and-twice from Maryfield railway station—oh, them trains! them -trains! with their accidents; my heart is in my mouth to think of a child -in them. Will you not come round to the back and get the mistress's New -Year dram? She is going to give a New Year dram to every man that calls on -business this day. But I will not let you in, for it is in my mind that -you would not be a lucky first-foot.” - </p> -<p> -“Much obleeged,” said the postman, “but ye needna be feared. I'm not -allowed to go dramming at my duty. It's offeecial, and I canna help it. If -it was not offeecial, there's few letter-carriers that wouldna need to hae -iron hoops on their heids to keep their brains from burstin' on the day -efter New Year.” - </p> -<p> -Kate heard a voice behind her, and pulled her head in hurriedly with a -gasp, and a cry of “Mercy, the start I got!” while the postman fled on his -rounds. Miss Dyce stood behind, in the kitchen, indignant. -</p> -<p> -“You are a perfect heartbreak, Kate,” said the mistress. “I have rung for -breakfast twice and you never heard me, with your clattering out there to -the letter-carrier. It's a pity you cannot marry the glee party, as Mr. -Dyce calls him, and be done with it.” - </p> -<p> -“Me marry him!” cried the maid, indignantly. “I think I see myself -marryin' a man like yon, and his eyes not neighbors.” - </p> -<p> -“That's a trifle in a husband if his heart is good; the letter-carrier's -eyes may—may skew a little, but it's not to be wondered at, -considering the lookout he has to keep on all sides of him to keep out of -reach of every trollop in the town who wants to marry him.” - </p> -<p> -And leaving Kate speechless at this accusation, the mistress of the house -took the letters from her hands and went to the breakfast-table with them. -</p> -<p> -She had read the contents of the post-card before she reached the parlor; -its news dismayed her. -</p> -<p> -“Just imagine!” she cried. “Here's that bairn on his way from Liverpool -his lee-lone, and not a body with him!'' -</p> -<p> -“What! what!” cried Mr. Dyce, whose eyes had been shut to say the grace. -“Isn't that actor-fellow, Molyneux, coming with him, as he promised?” - </p> -<p> -Miss Dyce sunk in a chair and burst into tears, crushing the post-card in -her hand. -</p> -<p> -“What does he say?” demanded her brother. -</p> -<p> -“He says—he says—oh, dear me!—he says, 'Pip, pip!'” - quoth the weeping sister. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER III -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> MISDOUBTED Mr. Molyneux from the very first,” said Ailie, turning as -white as a clout. “From all his post-cards he was plainly too casual. Stop -it, Bell, my dear—have sense; the child's in a Christian land, and -in the care of somebody who is probably more dependable than this -delightful Molyneux.” - </p> -<p> -Mr. Dyce took out an old, thick, silver verge. “Nine o'clock,” he said, -with a glance at its creamy countenance. “Molyneux's consignment is making -his first acquaintance with Scottish scenery and finding himself, I hope, -amused at the Edinburgh accent. He'll arrive at Maryfield—poor, wee -smout!—at three; if I drive over at twelve, I'll be in time to meet -him. Tuts, Bell, give over; he's a ten-year-old and a Dyce at that—there's -not the slightest fear of him.” - </p> -<p> -“Ten years old, and in a foreign country—if you can call Scotland a -foreign country,” cried Miss Dyce, still sobbing with anger and grief. -“Oh, the cat-witted scamp, that Molyneux—if I had him here!” - </p> -<p> -The dining-room door opened and let in a yawning dog of most plebeian -aspect, longest lie-abed of the household, the clamor of the street, and -the sound of sizzling bacon, followed by Kate's majestic form at a stately -glide, because she had on her new stiff lilac print that was worn for -breakfast only on Sundays and holidays. “You would think I was never -coming,” she said, genially, and smiled widely as she put the tray on the -sideboard. This that I show you, I fear, is a beggarly household, absurdly -free from ceremony. Mr. Dyce looked at his sister Ailie and smiled; Ailie -looked at her sister Bell and smiled. Bell took a hair-pin or two out of -their places and seemed to stab herself with them viciously in the nape of -the neck, and smiled not at all nor said anything, for she was furious -with Molyneux, whom she could see in her mind's eye—an ugly, -tippling, frowzy-looking person with badly polished boots, an impression -that would have greatly amused Mrs. Molyneux, who, not without reason, -counted her Jim the handsomest man and the best dressed in the profession -in all Chicago. -</p> -<p> -“I'm long of coming, like Royal Charlie,” Kate proceeded, as she passed -the ashets on to Miss Dyce; “but, oh me! New Year's Day here is no' like -New Year's Day in the bonny isle of Colonsay.” - </p> -<p> -Mr. Dyce said grace and abstractedly helped himself alternately from both -ends of a new roll of powdered butter. “Dan, dear, don't take the butter -from both ends—it spoils the look,” said Bell. “Tuts!” said he. -“What's the odds? There'll be no ends at all when we're done with it. I'm -utterly regardless of the symmetrical and the beautiful this morning. I'm -savage to think of that man Molyneux. If I was not a man of peace I would -be wanting to wring Mr. Moly-neux's neck,” and he twisted his morning roll -in halves with ferocious hands. -</p> -<p> -“Dan!” said Ailie, shocked. “I never heard you say anything so -blood-thirsty in all my life before. I would never have thought it of -you.” - </p> -<p> -“Maybe not,” he said. “There's many things about me you never suspected. -You women are always under delusions about the men—about the men—well, -dash it! about the men you like. I know myself so well that there is no -sin, short of one or two not so accounted, that I cannot think myself -capable of. I believe I might be forced into robbing a kirk if I had no -money and was as hungry as I was this morning before that post-card came -to ruin a remarkably fine New-Year's-Day appetite, or even into murdering -a man like Molyneux who failed in the simplest duties no man should -neglect.” - </p> -<p> -“I hope and trust,” said Bell, still nervous, “that he is a wiselike boy -with a proper upbringing, who will not be frightened at travelling and -make no mistakes about the train. If he was a Scotch laddie, with the fear -of God in him, I would not be a bit put about for him, for he would be -sure to be asking, asking, and if he felt frightened he would just start -and eat something, like a Christian. But this poor child has no advantages—just -American!” - </p> -<p> -Ailie sat back in her chair, with her teacup in her hand, and laughed, and -Kate laughed quietly—though it beat her to see where the fun was; -and the dog laughed likewise—at least it wagged its tail and twisted -its body and made such extraordinary sounds in its throat that you could -say it was laughing. -</p> -<p> -“Tuts! you are the droll woman, Bell,” said Mr. Dyce, blinking at her. -“You have the daftest ideas of Some things. For a woman who spent so long -a time in Miss Mushet's seminary, and reads so much at the newspapers, I -wonder at you.” - </p> -<p> -“Of course his father was Scotch, that's one mercy,” added Bell, not a bit -annoyed at the reception of her pious opinions. -</p> -<p> -“That, is always something to be going on with,” said Mr. Dyce, mockingly. -“I hope he'll make the most of that great start in life and fortune. It's -as good as money in his pocket.” - </p> -<p> -Bell put up a tiny hand and pushed a stray curl (for she had a rebel -chevelure) behind her ear, and smiled in spite of her anxiety about the -coming nephew. “You may laugh if you like, Dan,” she said, emphatically, -perking with her head across the table at him, “but I'm <i>proud</i>, I'm -proud, I'm PROUD I'm Scotch.” (“Not apologizing for it myself,” said her -brother, softly.) “And you know what these Americans are! Useless bodies, -who make their men brush their own boots, and have to pay wages that's a -sin to housemaids, and eat pie even-on.” - </p> -<p> -“Dear me! is that true, or did you see it in a newspaper?” said her -brother. “I begin to be alarmed myself at the possibilities of this small -gentleman now on his way to the north, in the complete confidence of Mr. -Molyneux, who must think him very clever. It's a land of infant prodigies -he comes from; even at the age of ten he may have more of the stars and -stripes in him than we can eradicate by a diet of porridge and a -curriculum of Shorter Catechism and Jane Porter's <i>Scottish Chiefs</i>. -Faith, I was fond of Jane myself when I read her first: she was nice and -bloody. A big soft hat with a bash in it, perhaps; a rhetorical delivery -at the nose, 'I guess and calculate' every now and then; a habit of -chewing tobacco” (“We'll need a cuspidor,” said Ailie, <i>sotto voce</i>); -“and a revolver in his wee hip-pocket. Oh, the darling! I can see him -quite plainly.” - </p> -<p> -“Mercy on us!” cried the maid, Kate, and fled the room all in a tremor at -the idea of the revolver. -</p> -<p> -“You may say what you like, but I cannot get over his being an American,” - said Bell, solemnly. “The dollar's everything in America, and they're so -independent!” - </p> -<p> -“Terrible! terrible!” said her brother, ironically, breaking into another -egg fiercely with his knife, as if he were decapitating the President of -the United States. -</p> -<p> -Ailie laughed again. “Dear, dear Bell!” she said, “it sounds quite Scotch. -A devotion to the dollar is a good sound basis for a Scotch character. -Remember there are about a hundred bawbees in a dollar: just think of the -dollar in bawbees, and you'll not be surprised that the Americans prize it -so much.” “Renegade!” said Bell, shaking a spoon at her. “Provincial!” - retorted Ailie, shaking a fork at Bell, -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -'"Star of Peace, to wanderers weary, -Bright the beams that shine on me. -</pre> -<p> -—children, be quiet,” half-sung, half-said their brother. “Bell, you -are a blether; Ailie, you are a cosmopolitan, a thing accursed. That's -what Edinburgh and Brussels and your too brisk head have done for you. -Just bring yourself to our poor parochial point of view, and tell me, both -of you, what you propose to do with this young gentleman from Chicago when -you get him.” - </p> -<p> -“Change his stockings and give him a good tea,” said Bell, promptly, as if -she had been planning it for weeks. “He'll be starving of hunger and damp -with snow.” - </p> -<p> -“There's something more than dry hose and high tea to the making of a -man,” said her brother. “You can't keep that up for a dozen years.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, you mean education!” said Bell, resignedly. “That's not in my -department at all.” - </p> -<p> -Ailie expressed her views with calm, soft deliberation, as if she, too, -had been thinking of nothing else for weeks, which was partly the case. “I -suppose,” she said, “he'll go to the grammar-school, and get a good -grounding on the classic side, and then to the university. I will just -love to help him so long as he's at the grammar-school. That's what I -should have been, Dan, if you had let me—a teacher. I hope he's a -bright boy, for I simply cannot stand what Bell calls—calls—” - </p> -<p> -“Diffies,” suggested Bell. -</p> -<p> -“Diffies; yes, I can <i>not</i> stand diffies. Being half a Dyce I can -hardly think he will be a diffy. If he's the least like his father, he may -be a little wild at first, but at least he'll be good company, which makes -up for a lot, and good-hearted, quick in perception, fearless, and—” - </p> -<p> -“And awful funny,” suggested Bell, beaming with old, fond, glad -recollections of the brother dead beside his actor wife in far Chicago. -</p> -<p> -“Fearless, and good fun,” continued Ailie. “Oh, dear Will! what a merry -soul he was. Well, the child cannot be a fool if he's like his father. -American independence, though he has it in—in—in clods, won't -do him any harm at all. I love Americans—do you hear that, Bell -Dyce?—because they beat that stupid old King George, and have been -brave in the forest and wise on the prairie, and feared no face of man, -and laughed at dynasties. I love them because they gave me Emerson, and -Whitman, and Thoreau, and because one of them married my brother William, -and was the mother of his child.” - </p> -<p> -Dan Dyce nodded; he never quizzed his sister Ailie when it was her heart -that spoke and her eyes were sparkling. -</p> -<p> -“The first thing you should learn him,” said Miss Dyce, “is 'God Save the -Queen.' It's a splendid song altogether; I'm glad I'm of a kingdom every -time I hear it at a meeting, for it's all that's left of the olden notions -the Dyces died young or lost their money for. You'll learn him that, -Ailie, or I'll be very vexed with you. I'll put flesh on his bones with my -cooking if you put the gentleman in him.” - </p> -<p> -It was Bell's idea that a gentleman talked a very fine English accent like -Ailie, and carried himself stately like Ailie, and had wise and witty talk -for rich or poor like Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“I'm not so sure about the university,” she went on. “Such stirks come out -of it sometimes; look at poor Maclean, the minister! They tell me he could -speak Hebrew if he got anybody to speak it back slow to him, but just -imagine the way he puts on his clothes! And his wife manages him not so -bad in broad Scotch. I think we could do nothing better than make the boy -a lawyer; it's a trade looked up to, and there's money in it, though I -never could see the need of law myself if folk would only be agreeable. He -could go into Dan's office whenever he is old enough.” - </p> -<p> -“A lawyer!” cried her brother. “You have first of all to see that he's not -an ass.” - </p> -<p> -“And what odds would that make to a lawyer?” said Bell, quickly, snapping -her eyes at the brother she honestly thought the wisest man in Scotland. -</p> -<p> -“Bell,” said he, “as I said before, you're a haivering body—nothing -else, though I'll grant you bake no' a bad scone. And as for you, Ailie, -you're beginning, like most women, at the wrong end. The first thing to do -with your nephew is to teach him to be happy, for it's a habit that has to -be acquired early, like the taste for pease-brose.” - </p> -<p> -“You began gey early yourself,” said Bell. “Mother used to say that she -was aye tickling your feet till you laughed when you were a baby. I -sometimes think that she did not stop it soon enough.” - </p> -<p> -“If I had to educate myself again, and had not a living to make, I would -leave out a good many things the old dominie thought needful. What was yon -awful thing again?—mensuration. To sleep well and eat anything, fear -the face of nobody in bashfulness, to like dancing, and be able to sing a -good bass or tenor—that's no bad beginning in the art of life. -There's a fellow Brodie yonder in the kirk choir, who seems to me happier -than a king when he's getting in a fine boom-boom of bass to the tune -Devizes; he puts me all out at my devotions on a Lord's day with envy of -his accomplishment.” - </p> -<p> -“What! envy too!” said Alison. “Murder, theft, and envy—what a -brother!” - </p> -<p> -“Yes, envy too, the commonest and ugliest of our sins,” said Mr. Dyce. “I -never met man or woman who lacked it, though many never know they have it. -I hope the great thing is to be ashamed to feel it, for that's all that I -can boast of myself. When I was a boy at the school there was another boy, -a great friend of my own, was chosen to compete for a prize I was thought -incapable of taking, so that I was not on the list. I envied him to hatred—almost; -and saying my bits of prayers at night I prayed that he might win. I felt -ashamed of my envy, and set the better Daniel Dyce to wrestle with the -Daniel Dyce who was not quite so big. It was a sair fight, I can assure -you. I found the words of my prayer and my wishes considerably at variance—” - </p> -<p> -“Like me and 'Thy will be done' when we got the word of brother William,” - said Bell. -</p> -<h3> -27 -</h3> -<p> -“But my friend—dash him!—got the prize. I suppose God took a -kind of vizzy down that night and saw the better Dan Dyce was doing his -desperate best against the other devil's—Dan, who mumbled the prayer -on the chance He would never notice. There was no other way of accounting -for it, for that confounded boy got the prize, and he was not half so -clever as myself, and that was Alick Maitland. Say nothing about envy, -Ailie; I fear we all have some of it until we are perhaps well up in -years, and understand that between the things we envy and the luck we have -there is not much to choose. If I got all I wanted, myself, the world -would have to be much enlarged. It does not matter a docken leaf. Well, as -I was saying when my learned friend interrupted me, I would have this -young fellow healthy and happy and interested in everything. There are men -I see who would mope and weary in the middle of a country fair—God -help them! I want to stick pins in them sometimes and make them jump. They -take as little interest in life as if they were undertakers.” - </p> -<p> -“Hoots! nobody could weary in this place at any rate,” said Bell briskly. -“Look at the life and gayety that's in it. Talk about London! I can hardly -get my sleep at night quite often with the traffic. And such things are -always happening in it—births and marriages, engagements and -tea-parties, new patterns at Miss Minto's, two coaches in the day, and -sometimes somebody doing something silly that will keep you laughing half -the week.” - </p> -<p> -“But it's not quite so lively as Chicago,” said Mr. Dyce. “There has not -been a man shot in this neighborhood since the tinker kind of killed his -wife (as the fiscal says) with the pistol. You'll have heard of him? When -the man was being brought on the scaffold for it, and the minister asked -if he had anything to say before he suffered the extreme penalty of the -law, 'All I have got to say,' he answered, starting to greet, 'is that -this'll be an awful lesson to me.'” - </p> -<p> -“That's one of your old ones,” said Bell; but even an old one was welcome -in Dyce's house on New Year's day, and the three of them laughed at the -story as if it had newly come from London in Ailie's precious <i>Punch</i>. -The dog fell into a convulsion of merriment, as if inward chuckles -tormented him—as queer a dog as ever was, neither Scotch terrier nor -Skye, Dandy Dinmont nor Dashshund, but just dog—dark wire-haired -behind, short ruddy-haired in front, a stump tail, a face so fringed you -could only see its eyes when the wind blew. Mr. Dyce put down his hand and -scratched it behind the ear. “Don't laugh, Footles,” he said. “I would not -laugh if I were you, Footles—it's just an old one. Many a time -you've heard it before, sly rogue. One would think you wanted to borrow -money.” If you could hear Dan Dyce speak to his dog, you would know at -once he was a bachelor: only bachelors and bairnless men know dogs. -</p> -<p> -“I hope and trust he'll have decent clothes to wear, and none of their -American rubbish,” broke in Bell, back to her nephew again. “It's all -nonsense about the bashed hat; but you can never tell what way an American -play-actor will dress a bairn: there's sure to be something daft-like -about him—a starry waistcoat or a pair of spats—and we must -make him respectable like other boys in the place.” - </p> -<p> -“I would say Norfolk suits, the same as the banker's boys,” suggested -Ailie. “I think the banker's boys always look so smart and neat.” - </p> -<p> -“Anything with plenty of pockets in it,” said Mr. Dyce. “At the age of ten -a boy would prefer his clothes to be all pockets. By George! an entire -suit of pockets, with a new penny in every pocket for luck, would be a -great treat,” and he chuckled at the idea, making a mental note of it for -a future occasion. -</p> -<p> -“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Bell, emphatically, for here she was in her -own department. “The boy is going to be a Scotch boy. I'll have the kilt -on him, or nothing.” - </p> -<p> -“The kilt!” said Mr. Dyce. -</p> -<p> -“The kilt!” cried Ailie. -</p> -<p> -Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat! -</p> -<p> -It was a loud knocking at the front door. They stopped the talk to listen, -and they heard the maid go along the lobby from the kitchen. When she -opened the door, there came in the cheerful discord of the street, the -sound of a pounding drum, the fifes still busy, the orange-hawker's cry, -but over all they heard her put her usual interrogation to visitors, no -matter what their state or elegance. -</p> -<p> -“Well, what is't?” she asked, and though they could not see her, they knew -she would have the door just a trifle open, with her shoulder against it, -as if she was there to repel some chieftain of a wild invading clan. Then -they heard her cry, “Mercy on me!” and her footsteps hurrying to the -parlor door. She threw it open, and stood with some one behind her. -</p> -<p> -“What do you think? Here's brother William's wean!” she exclaimed, in a -gasp. -</p> -<p> -“My God! Where is he?” cried Bell, the first to find her tongue. “He's no -hurt, is he?” - </p> -<p> -“It's no' a him at all—it's a her!” shrieked Kate, throwing up her -arms in consternation, and stepping aside she gave admission to a little -girl. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER IV -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE orphan child of William and Mary Dyce, dead, the pair of them, in the -far-off city of Chicago, stepped, quite serenely, into an astounded -company. There were three Dyces in a row in front of her, and the droll -dog Footles at her feet, and behind her, Kate, the servant, wringing her -apron as if it had newly come from the washing-boyne, her bosom heaving. -Ten eyes (if you could count the dog's, hidden by his tousy fringe) stared -at the child a moment, and any ordinary child would have been much put -out; but this was no common child, or else she felt at once the fond kind -air of home. I will give you her picture in a sentence or two. She was -black-haired, dark and quick in the eye, not quite pale but olive in -complexion, with a chin she held well up, and a countenance neither shy -nor bold, but self-possessed. Fur on her neck and hood (Jim Molyneux's -last gift), and a muff that held her arms up to the elbows, gave her an -aspect of picture-book cosiness that put the maid in mind at once of the -butcher's Christmas calendar. -</p> -<p> -It was the dog that first got over the astonishment: he made a dive at her -with little friendly growls, and rolled on his back at her feet, to paddle -with his four paws in the air, which was his way of showing he was in the -key for fun. -</p> -<p> -With a cry of glee she threw the muff on the floor and plumped beside him, -put her arms about his body and buried her face in his fringe. His tail -went waving, joyous, like a banner. “Doggie, doggie, you love me,” said -she, in an accent that was anything but American. “Let us pause and -consider—you will not leave this house till I boil you an egg.” - </p> -<p> -“God bless me, what child's this?” cried Bell, coming to herself with a -start, and, pouncing on her, she lifted her to her feet. Ailie sank on her -hands and knees and stared in the visitor's face. “The kilt, indeed!” said -Mr. Dyce to himself. “This must be a warlock wean, for if it has not got -the voice and sentiment of Wanton Wully Oliver I'm losing my wits.” - </p> -<p> -“Tell me this, quick, are you Lennox Dyce?” said Bell, all trembling, -devouring the little one with her eyes. -</p> -<p> -“Well, I just guess I am,” replied the child, calmly, with the dog licking -her chin. “Say, are you Auntie Bell?” and this time there was no doubt -about the American accent. Up went her mouth to them to be kissed, -composedly: they lost no time, but fell upon her, Ailie half in tears -because at once she saw below the childish hood so much of brother -William. -</p> -<p> -“Lennox, dear, you should not speak like that; who in all the world taught -you to speak like that?” said Bell, unwrapping her. -</p> -<p> -“Why, I thought that was all right here,” said the stranger. “That's the -way the bell-man speaks.” - </p> -<p> -“Bless me! Do you know the bell-man?” cried Miss Dyce. -</p> -<p> -“I rang his old bell for him this morning—didn't you hear me?” was -the surprising answer. “He's a nice man; he liked me. I'd like him too if -he wasn't so tired. He was too tired to speak sense; all he would say was, -'I've lost the place, let us pause and consider,' and 'Try another egg.' I -said I would give him a quarter if he'd let me ring his bell, and he said -he'd let me do it for nothing, and my breakfast besides. 'You'll not leave -this house till I boil an egg for you'—that's what he said, and the -poor man was so tired! And his legs were dreff'le poorly.” Again her voice -was the voice of Wully Oliver; the sentiment, as the Dyces knew, was the -slogan of his convivial hospitality. -</p> -<p> -“The kilt, indeed!” said Mr. Dyce, feeling extraordinarily foolish, and, -walking past them, he went up-stairs and hurriedly put the pea-sling in -his pocket. -</p> -<p> -When he came down, young America was indifferently pecking at her second -breakfast with Footles on her knee, an aunt on either side of her, and the -maid Kate with a tray in her hand for excuse, open-mouthed, half in at the -door. -</p> -<p> -“Well, as I was saying, Jim—that's my dear Mr. Molyneux, you know—got -busy with a lot of the boys once he landed off that old ship, and so he -said, 'Bud, this is the—the—justly cel'brated Great Britain; I -know by the boys; they're so lively when they're by themselves. I was -'prehensive we might have missed it in the dark, but it's all right.' And -next day he bought me this muff and things and put me on the cars—say, -what funny cars you have!—and said 'Good-bye, Bud; just go right up -to Maryfield, and change there. If you're lost anywhere on the island just -holler out good and loud, and I'll hear!' He pretended he wasn't caring, -but he was pretty blinky 'bout the eyes, and I saw he wasn't anyway gay, -so I never let on the way I felt myself.” - </p> -<p> -She suggested the tone and manner of the absent Molyneux in a fashion to -put him in the flesh before them. Kate almost laughed out loud at the -oddity of it; Ailie and her brother were astounded at the cleverness of -the mimicry; Bell clinched her hands, and said for the second time that -day, “Oh! that Molyneux, if I had him!” - </p> -<p> -“He's a nice man, Jim. I can't tell you how I love him—and he gave -me heaps of candy at the depot,” proceeded the unabashed new-comer. -“'Change at Edinburgh,' he said; 'you'll maybe have time to run into the -Castle and see the Duke; give him my love, but not my address. When you -get to Maryfield hop out slick and ask for your uncle Dyce.' And then he -said, did Jim, 'I hope he ain't a loaded Dyce, seein' he's Scotch, and -it's the festive season.'” - </p> -<p> -“The adorable Jim!” said Ailie. “We might have known.” - </p> -<p> -“I got on all right,” proceeded the child, “but I didn't see the Duke of -Edinburgh; there wasn't time, and uncle wasn't at Maryfield, but a man put -me on his mail carriage and drove me right here. He said I was a caution. -My! it was cold. Say, is it always weather like this here?” - </p> -<p> -“Sometimes it's like this, and sometimes it's just ordinary Scotch -weather,” said Mr. Dyce, twinkling at her through his spectacles. -</p> -<p> -“I was dre'ffle sleepy in the mail, and the driver wrapped me up, and when -I came into this town in the dark he said, 'Walk right down there and rap -at the first door you see with a brass man's hand for a knocker; that's -Mr. Dyce's house.' I came down, and there wasn't any brass man, but I saw -the knocker. I couldn't reach up to it, so when I saw a man going into the -church with a lantern in his hand. I went up to him and pulled his coat. I -knew he'd be all right going into a church. He told me he was going to -ring the bell, and I said I'd give him a quarter—oh, I said that -before. When the bell was finished he took me to his house for luck—that -was what he said—and he and his wife got right up and boiled eggs. -They said I was a caution, too, and they went on boiling eggs, and I -couldn't eat more than two and a white though I tried <i>and</i> tried. I -think I slept a good while in their house; I was so fatigued, and they -were all right, they loved me, I could see that. And I liked them some -myself, though they must be mighty poor, for they haven't any children. -Then the bellman took me to this house, and rapped at the door, and went -away pretty quick for him before anybody came to it, because he said he -was plain-soled—what's plain-soled anyhow?—and wasn't a lucky -first-foot on a New Year's morning.'' -</p> -<p> -“It beats all, that's what it does!” cried Bell. “My poor wee whitterick! -Were ye no' frightened on the sea?” - </p> -<p> -“Whitterick, whitterick,” repeated the child to herself, and Ailie, -noticing, was glad that this was certainly not a diffy. Diffies never -interest themselves in new words; diffies never go inside themselves with -a new fact as a dog goes under a table with a bone. -</p> -<p> -“Were you not frightened when you were on the sea?” repeated Bell. -</p> -<p> -“No,” said the child, promptly. “Jim was there all right, you see, and he -knew all about it. He said, 'Trust in Providence, and if it's <i>very</i> -stormy, trust in Providence <i>and</i> the Scotch captain.'” - </p> -<p> -“I declare! the creature must have some kind of sense in him, too,” said -Bell, a little mollified by this compliment to Scots sea-captains. And all -the Dyces fed their eyes upon this wonderful wean that had fallen among -them. 'Twas happy in that hour with them, as if in a miracle they had been -remitted to their own young years; their dwelling was at long last -furnished! She had got into the good graces of Footles as if she had known -him all her life. -</p> -<p> -“Say, uncle, this is a funny dog,” was her next remark. “Did God make -him?” - </p> -<p> -“Well—yes, I suppose God did,” said Mr. Dyce, taken a bit aback. -</p> -<p> -“Well, isn't He the damedst! This dog beats Mrs. Molyneux's Dodo, and Dodo -was a looloo. What sort of a dog is he? Scotch terrier?” - </p> -<p> -“Mostly not,” said her uncle, chuckling. “It's really an improvement on -the Scotch terrier. There's later patents in him, you might say. He's a -sort of mosaic; indeed, when I think of it you might describe him as a -pure mosaic dog.” - </p> -<p> -“A Mosaic dog!” exclaimed Lennox. “Then he must have come from scriptural -parts. Perhaps I'll get playing with him Sundays. Not playing loud out, -you know, but just being happy. I love being happy, don't you?” - </p> -<p> -“It's my only weakness,” said Mr. Dyce, emphatically, blinking through his -glasses. “The other business men in the town don't approve of me for it; -they call it frivolity. But it comes so easily to me I never charge it in -the bills, though a sense of humor should certainly be worth 12s. 6d. a -smile in the Table of Fees. It would save many a costly plea.” - </p> -<p> -“Didn't you play on Sunday in Chicago?” asked Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“Not out loud. Poppa said he was bound to have me Scotch in one thing at -least, even if it took a strap. That was after mother died. He'd just read -to me Sundays, and we went to church till we had pins and needles. We had -the Reverend Ebenezer Paul Frazer, M.A., Presbyterian Church on the Front. -He just preached <i>and</i> preached till we had pins and needles all -over.” - </p> -<p> -“My poor Lennox!” exclaimed Ailie, with feeling. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, I'm all right!” said young America, blithely. “I'm not kicking.” - </p> -<p> -Dan Dyce, with his head to the side, took off his spectacles and rubbed -them clean with his handkerchief; put them on again, looked at his niece -through them, and then at Ailie, with some motion struggling in his -countenance. Ailie for a moment suppressed some inward convulsion, and -turned her gaze embarrassed from him to Bell, and Bell catching the eyes -of both of them could contain her joy no longer. They laughed till the -tears came, and none more heartily than brother William's child. She had -so sweet a laugh that there and then the Dyces thought it the loveliest -sound they had ever heard in their house. Her aunts would have devoured -her with caresses. Her uncle stood over her and beamed, rubbing his hands, -expectant every moment of another manifestation of the oddest kind of -child mind he had ever encountered. And Kate swept out and in between the -parlor and the kitchen on trivial excuses, generally with something to eat -for the child, who had eaten so much in the house of Wanton Wully Oliver -that she was indifferent to the rarest delicacies of Bell's celestial -grocery. -</p> -<p> -“You're just—just a wee witch!” said Bell, fondling the child's -hair. “Do you know, that man Molyneux—” - </p> -<p> -“Jim,” suggested Lennox. -</p> -<p> -“I would Jim him if I had him! That man Molyneux in all his scrimping -little letters never said whether you were a boy or a girl, and we thought -a Lennox was bound to be a boy, and all this time we have been expecting a -boy.” - </p> -<p> -“I declare!” said the little one, with the most amusing drawl, a memory of -Molyneux. “Why, I always was a girl, far back as I can remember. Nobody -never gave me the chance to be a boy. I s'pose I hadn't the clothes for -the part, and they just pushed me along anyhow in frocks. Would you'd -rather I was a boy?” - </p> -<p> -“Not a bit! We have one in the house already, and he's a fair -heart-break,” said her aunt, with a look towards Mr. Dyce. “We had just -made up our mind to dress you in the kilt when your rap came to the door. -At least, I had made up my mind, the others are so stubborn. And bless me! -lassie, where's your luggage? You surely did not come all the way from -Chicago with no more than what you have on your back?” - </p> -<p> -“You'll be tickled to death to see my trunks!” said Lennox. “I've heaps -and heaps of clothes and six dolls. They're all coming with the coach. -They wanted me to wait for the coach too, but the mail man who called me a -caution said he was bound to have a passenger for luck on New Year's Day, -and I was in a hurry to get home anyway.” - </p> -<p> -“Home!” When she said that, the two aunts swept on her like a billow and -bore her, dog and all, up-stairs to her room. She was almost blind for -want of sleep. -</p> -<p> -They hovered over her quick-fingered, airy as bees, stripping her for bed. -She knelt a moment and in one breath said: -</p> -<p> -“God - bless - father - and - mother - and - Jim - and - Mrs. - Molyneux - -and - my - aunts - in - Scotland - and Uncle - Dan - and - everybody - -good - night.” - </p> -<p> -And was asleep in the sunlight of the room as soon as her head fell on the -pillow. -</p> -<p> -“She prayed for her father and mother,” whispered Bell, with Footles in -her arms, as they stood beside the bed. “It's not—it's not quite -Presbyterian to pray for the dead; it's very American, indeed you might -call it papist.” - </p> -<p> -Ailie's face reddened, but she said nothing. -</p> -<p> -“And do you know this?” said Bell, shamefacedly, “I do it myself; upon my -word, I do it myself. I'm often praying for father and mother and -William.” - </p> -<p> -“So am I,” confessed Alison, plainly relieved. “I'm afraid I'm a poor -Presbyterian, for I never knew there was anything wrong in doing so.” - </p> -<p> -Below, in the parlor, Mr. Dyce stood looking into the white garden, a -contented man, humming: -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“Star of Peace, to wanderers weary.” - </pre> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER V -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>HE was a lucky lassie, this of ours, to have come home to her father's -Scotland on that New Year's Day, for there is no denying that it is not -always gay in Scotland, contrary land, that, whether we be deep down in -the waist of the world and afar from her, or lying on her breast, chains -us to her with links of iron and gold—stern tasks and happy days -remembered, ancient stories, austerity and freedom, cold weather on moor -and glen, warm hearths and burning hearts. She might have seen this burgh -first in its solemnity, on one of the winter days when it shivers and -weeps among its old memorials, and the wild geese cry more constant over -the house-tops, and the sodden gardens, lanes, wynds, and wells, the -clanging spirits of old citizens dead and gone, haunting the place of -their follies and their good times, their ridiculous ideals, their -mistaken ambitions, their broken plans. Ah, wild geese! wild geese! old -ghosts that cry to-night above my dwelling, I feel—I feel and know! -She might have come, the child, to days of fast, and sombre dark drugget -garments, dissonant harsh competing kettle bells, or spoiled harvests, -poor fishings, hungry hours. It was good for her, and it is the making of -my story, that she came not then, but with the pure white cheerful snow, -to ring the burgh bell in her childish escapade, and usher in with -merriment the New Year, and begin her new life happily in the Old World. -</p> -<p> -She woke at noon among the scented curtains, in linen sea-breeze bleached, -under the camceil roof that all children love, for it makes a garret like -the ancestral cave and in rainy weather they can hear the pattering feet -of foes above them. She heard the sound of John Taggart's drum, and the -fifing of “Happy we've been a' thegether,” and turning, found upon her -pillow a sleeping doll that woke whenever she raised it up, and stared at -her in wonderment. -</p> -<p> -“Oh!—Oh!—Oh! you roly-poly blonde!” cried the child in -ecstasy, hugging it to her bosom and covering it with kisses. “I'm as glad -as anything. Do you see the lovely little room? I'll tell you right here -what your name is: it's Alison; no, it's Bell; no, it's Alibel for your -two just lovely, lovely aunties.” - </p> -<p> -Up she rose, sleep banished, with a sense of cheerfulness and expectation, -nimbly dressed herself, and slid down the banisters to tumble plump at the -feet of her Auntie Bell in the lobby. -</p> -<p> -“Mercy on us! You'll break your neck; are you hurt?” cried Aunt Bell. “I'm -not kicking,” said the child, and the dog waved furiously a gladsome tail. -A log fire blazed and crackled and hissed in the parlor, and Mr. Dyce -tapped time with his fingers on a chair-back to an internal hymn. -</p> -<p> -“My! ain't I the naughty girl to be snoozling away like a gopher in a hole -all day? Your clock's stopped, Uncle Dan.” - </p> -<p> -Mr. Dyce looked very guilty, and coughed, rubbing his chin. “You're a -noticing creature,” said he. “I declare it <i>has</i> stopped. Well, -well!” and his sister Bell plainly enjoyed some amusing secret. -</p> -<p> -“Your uncle is always a little daft, my dear,” she said. -</p> -<p> -“I would rather be daft than dismal,” he retorted, cleaning his glasses. -</p> -<p> -“It's a singular thing that the clocks in our lobby and parlor always stop -on the New Year's Day, Lennox.” - </p> -<p> -“Bud; please, say Bud,” pleaded the little one. “Nobody ever calls me -Lennox 'cept when I'm doing something wrong and almost going to get a -whipping.” - </p> -<p> -“Very well, Bud, then. This clock gets something wrong with it every New -Year's Day, for your uncle, that man there, wants the folk who call never -to know the time so that they'll bide the longer.” - </p> -<p> -“Tuts!” said Uncle Dan, who had thought this was his own particular recipe -for joviality, and that they had never discovered it. -</p> -<p> -“You have come to a hospitable town, Bud,” said Ailie. “There are -convivial old gentlemen on the other side of the street who have got up a -petition to the magistrates to shut up the inn and the public-house in the -afternoon. They say it is in the interests of temperance, but it's really -to compel their convivial friends to visit themselves.” - </p> -<p> -“I signed it myself,” confessed Mr. Dyce, “and I'm only half convivial. -I'm not bragging; I might have been more convivial if it didn't so easily -give me an aching head. What's more cheerful than a crowd in the house and -the clash going? A fine fire, a good light, and turn about at a story! The -happiest time I ever had in my life was when I broke my leg; so many folk -called, it was like a month of New Year's Days. I was born with a craving -for company. Mother used to have a superstition that if a knife or spoon -dropped on the floor from the table it betokened a visitor, and I used to -drop them by the dozen. But, dear me! here's a wean with a doll, and where -in the world did she get it?” - </p> -<p> -Bud, with the doll under one arm and the dog tucked under the other, -laughed up in his face with shy perception. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, you funny man!” she exclaimed. “I guess you know all right who put -Alibel on my pillow. Why! I could have told you were a doll man: I noticed -you turning over the pennies in your pants' pocket, same as poppa used -when he saw any nice clean little girl like me, and he was the dolliest -man in all Chicago. Why, there was treasury days when he just rained -dolls.” - </p> -<p> -“That was William, sure enough,” said Mr. Dyce. “There's no need for -showing us <i>your</i> strawberry mark. It was certainly William. If it -had only been dolls!” - </p> -<p> -“Her name's Alibel, for her two aunties,” said the child. -</p> -<p> -“Tuts!” said Mr. Dyce. “If I had thought you meant to honor them that way -I would have made her twins. But you see I did not know; it was a delicate -transaction as it was. I could not tell very well whether a doll or a—a—or -a fountain-pen would be the most appropriate present for a ten-year-old -niece from Chicago, and I risked the doll. I hope it fits.” - </p> -<p> -“Like a halo! It's just sweet!” said the ecstatic maiden, and rescued one -of its limbs from the gorge of Footles. -</p> -<p> -It got about the town that to Dyces' house had come a wonderful American -child who talked language like a minister: the news was partly the news of -the mail-driver and Wully Oliver, but mostly the news of Kate, who, from -the moment Lennox had been taken from her presence and put to bed, had -dwelt upon the window-sashes, letting no one pass that side of the street -without her confidence. -</p> -<p> -“You never heard the like! No' the size of a shilling worth of ha'pennies, -and she came all the way by her lee-lone in the coach from Chickagoo—that's -in America. There's to be throng times in this house now, I'm tellin' you, -with brother William's wean.” - </p> -<p> -As the forenoon advanced Kate's intelligence grew more surprising: to the -new-comer were ascribed a score of characteristics such as had never been -seen in the town before. For one thing (would Kate assure them), she could -imitate Wully Oliver till you almost saw whiskers on her and could smell -the dram. She was thought to be a boy to start with, but that was only -their ignorance in Chickagoo, for the girl was really a lassie, and had -kists of lassie's clothes coming with the coach. -</p> -<p> -The Dyces' foreigner was such a grand sensation that it marred the -splendor of the afternoon band parade, though John Taggart was unusually -glorious, walking on the very backs of his heels, his nose in the heavens, -and his drumsticks soaring and circling over his head in a way to make the -spectators giddy. Instead of following the band till its <i>répertoire</i> -was suddenly done at five minutes to twelve at the door of Maggie White, -the wine and spirit merchant, there were many that hung about the street -in the hope of seeing the American. They thought they would know her at -once by the color of her skin, which some said would be yellow, and others -maintained would be brown. A few less patient and more privileged boldly -visited the house of Dyce to make their New-Year compliments and see the -wonder for themselves. -</p> -<p> -The American had her eye on them. -</p> -<p> -She had her eye on the Sheriffs lady, who was so determinedly affable, so -pleased with everything the family of Dyce might say, do, or possess, and -only five times ventured to indicate there were others, by a mention of -“the dear Lady Anne—so nice, so simple, so unaffected, so amiable.” - </p> -<p> -On Miss Minto of the crimson cloak, who kept her deaf ear to the sisters -and her good one to their brother, and laughed heartily at all his little -jokes even before they were half made, or looked at him with large, soft, -melting eyes and her lips apart, which her glass had told her was an -aspect ravishing. The sisters smiled at each other when she had gone and -looked comically at Dan, but he, poor man, saw nothing, but just that Mary -Minto was a good deal fatter than she used to be. -</p> -<p> -On the doctor's two sisters, late come from a farm in the country, -marvellously at ease so long as the conversation abode in gossip about the -neighbors, but in a silent terror when it rose from persons to ideas, as -it once had done when Lady Anne had asked them what they thought of -didactic poetry, and one of them said it was a thing she was very fond of, -and then fell in a swound. -</p> -<p> -On the banker man, the teller, who was in hopeless love with Ailie, as was -plain from the way he devoted himself to Bell. -</p> -<p> -On Mr. Dyce's old retired partner, Mr. Cleland, who smelt of cloves and -did not care for tea. -</p> -<p> -On P. & A. MacGlashan, who had come in specially to see if the -stranger knew his brother Albert, who, he said, was “in a Somewhereville -in Manitoba.” - </p> -<p> -On the Provost and his lady, who were very old, and petted each other when -they thought themselves unobserved. -</p> -<p> -On the soft, kind, simple, content and happy ladies lately married. -</p> -<p> -On the others who would like to be. -</p> -<p> -Yes, Bud had her eye on them all. They never guessed how much they -entertained her as they genteelly sipped their tea, or wine, or ginger -cordial,—the women of them—or coughed a little too -artificially over the New-Year glass—the men. -</p> -<p> -“Wee Pawkie, that's what she is—just Wee Pawkie!” said the Provost -when he got out, and so far it summed up everything. -</p> -<p> -The ladies could not tear away home fast enough to see if they had not a -remnant of cloth that could be made into such a lovely dress as that of -Dyce's niece for one of their own children. “Mark my words!” they said; -“that child will be ruined between them. She's her father's image, and he -went and married a poor play-actress, and stayed a dozen years away from -Scotland, and never wrote home a line.” - </p> -<p> -So many people came to the house, plainly for no reason but to see the -new-comer, that Ailie at last made up her mind to satisfy all by taking -her out for a walk. The strange thing was that in the street the populace -displayed indifference or blindness. Bud might have seen no more sign of -interest in her than the hurried glance of a passer-by; no step slowed to -show that the most was being made of the opportunity. There had been some -women at their windows when she came out of the house sturdily walking by -Aunt Ailie's side, with her hands in her muff, and her keen black eyes -peeping from under the fur of her hood; but these women drew in their -heads immediately. Ailie, who knew her native town, was conscious that -from behind the curtains the scrutiny was keen. She smiled to herself as -she walked demurely down the street. -</p> -<p> -“Do you feel anything, Bud?” she asked. -</p> -<p> -Bud naturally failed to comprehend. -</p> -<p> -“You ought to feel something at your back; I'm ticklish all down the back -because of a hundred eyes.” - </p> -<p> -“I know,” said the astounding child. “They think we don't notice, but I -guess God sees them,” and yet she had apparently never glanced at the -windows herself, nor looked round to discover passers-by staring over -their shoulders at her aunt and her. -</p> -<p> -For a moment Ailie felt afraid. She dearly loved a quick perception, but -it was a gift, she felt, a niece might have too young. -</p> -<p> -“How in the world did you know that, Bud?” she asked. -</p> -<p> -“I just guessed they'd be doing it,” said Bud, “'cause it's what I would -do if I saw a little girl from Scotland walking down the lake front in -Chicago. Is it dreff'le rude, Aunt Ailie?” - </p> -<p> -“So they say, so they say,” said her aunt, looking straight forward, with -her shoulders back and her eyes level, flushing at the temples. “But I'm -afraid we can't help it. It's undignified—to be seen doing it. I can -see you're a real Dyce, Bud. The other people who are not Dyces lose a -great deal of fun. They must be very much bored with each other. Do you -know, child, I think you and I are going to be great friends—you and -I and Aunt Bell and Uncle Dan.” - </p> -<p> -“And the Mosaic dog,” added Bud with warmth. “I love that old dog so much -that I could—I could eat him. He's the becomingest dog! Why, here he -is!” And it was indeed Footles who hurled himself at them, a rapturous -mass of unkempt hair and convulsive barkings, having escaped from the -imprisonment of Kate's kitchen by climbing over her shoulders and out -across the window-sash. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER VI -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> HEARD all about you and Auntie Bell and Uncle Dan from pop—from -father,” said Bud, as they walked back to the house. She had learned -already from example how sweeter sounded “father” than the term she had -used in America. “He was mighty apt to sit up nights talking about you -all. But I don't quite place Kate: he never mentioned Kate.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, she's a new addition,” explained Ailie. “Kate is the maid, you know: -she came to us long after your father left home, but she's been with us -five years now, and that's long enough to make her one of the family.” - </p> -<p> -“My! Five years! She ain't—she isn't much of a quitter, is she? I -guess you must have tacked her down,” said Bud. “You don't get helps in -Chicago to linger round the dear old spot like that; they get all hot -running from base to base, same as if it was a game of ball. But she's a -pretty—pretty broad girl, isn't she? She couldn't run very fast; -that'll be the way she stays.” - </p> -<p> -Ailie smiled. “Ah! So that's Chicago, too, is it? You must have been in -the parlor a good many times at five-o'clock tea to have grasped the -situation at your age. I suppose your Chicago ladies lower the temperature -of their tea weeping into it the woes they have about their domestics? -It's another Anglo-Saxon link.” - </p> -<p> -“Mrs. Jim said sensible girls that would stay long enough to cool down -after the last dash were getting that scarce you had to go out after them -with a gun. You didn't really, you know; that was just Mrs. Jim's way of -putting it.” - </p> -<p> -“I understand,” said Alison, unable to hide her amusement. “You seem to -have picked up that way of putting it yourself.” - </p> -<p> -“Am I speaking slang?” asked the child, glancing up quickly and reddening. -“Father pro—prosisted I wasn't to speak slang nor chew gum; he said -it was things no real lady would do in the old country, and that I was to -be a well-off English undefied. You must be dreff'le shocked, Auntie -Ailie?” - </p> -<p> -“Oh no,” said Ailie cheerfully; “I never was shocked in all my life, -though they say I'm a shocker myself. I'm only surprised a little at the -possibilities of the English language. I've hardly heard you use a word of -slang yet, and still you scarcely speak a sentence in which there's not -some novelty. It's like Kate's first attempt at sheep's-head broth: we -were familiar with all the ingredients except the horns, and we knew them -elsewhere.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>That's</i> all right, then,” said Bud, relieved. “But Mrs. Jim had -funny ways of putting things, and I s'pose I picked them up. I can't help -it—I pick up so fast. Why, I had scarlatina twice! and I picked up -her way of zaggerating: often I zaggerate dreff'le, and say I wrote all -the works of Shakespeare, when I really didn't, you know. Mrs. Jim didn't -mean that she had to go out hunting for helps with a gun; all she meant -was that they were getting harder and harder to get, and mighty hard to -keep when you got them.” - </p> -<p> -“I know,” said Alison. “It's an old British story, you'll hear it often -from our visitors, if you're spared. But we're lucky with our Kate; we -seem to give her complete satisfaction, or, at all events, she puts up -with us. When she feels she can't put up with us any longer, she hurls -herself on the morning newspaper to look at the advertisements for -ladies'-maids and housekeepers with £50 a year, and makes up her mind to -apply at once, but can never find a pen that suits her before we make her -laugh. The servant in the house of Dyce who laughs is lost. You'll like -Kate, Bud. We like her; and I notice that if you like anybody they -generally like you back.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm so glad,” said Bud, with enthusiasm. “If there's one thing under the -canopy I am, I'm a liker.” They had reached the door of the house without -seeing the slightest sign that the burgh was interested in them, but they -were no sooner in than a hundred tongues were discussing the appearance of -the little American. Ailie took off Bud's cloak and hood, and pushed her -into the kitchen, with a whisper to her that she was to make Kate's -acquaintance, and be sure and praise her scones, then left her and flew -upstairs, with a pleasant sense of personal good-luck. It was so sweet to -know that brother William's child was anything but a diffy. -</p> -<p> -Bud stood for a moment in the kitchen, bashful, for it must not be -supposed she lacked a childish shyness. Kate, toasting bread at the fire, -turned round and felt a little blate herself, but smiled at her, such a -fine expansive smile, it was bound to put the child at ease. “Come away -in, my dear, and take a bite,” said the maid. It is so they greet you—simple -folk!—in the isle of Colonsay. -</p> -<p> -The night was coming on, once more with snowy feathers. Wanton Wully lit -the town. He went from lamp to lamp with a ladder, children in his train -chanting: -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'Leerie, leerie, light the lamps. -Long legs and crooked shanks!'” - </pre> -<p> -and he expostulating with: “I know you fine, the whole of you; at least I -know the boys. Stop you till I see your mothers!” Miss Minto's shop was -open, and shamefaced lads went dubiously in to buy ladies' white gloves, -for with gloves they tryst their partners here at New Year balls, and -to-night was Samson's fiddle giggling at the inn. The long tenement lands, -as flat and high as cliffs, and built for all eternity, at first dark gray -in the dusk, began to glow in every window, and down the stairs and from -the closes flowed exceeding cheerful sounds. Green fires of wood and coal -sent up a cloud above these dwellings, tea-kettles jigged and sang. A -thousand things were happening in the street, but for once the maid of -Colonsay restrained her interest in the window. “Tell me this, what did -you say your name was?” she asked. -</p> -<p> -“I'm Miss Lennox Brenton Dyce,” said Bud, primly, “but the miss don't -amount to much till I'm old enough to get my hair up.” - </p> -<p> -“You must be tired coming so far. All the way from that Chickagoo!” - </p> -<p> -“Chicago,” suggested Bud, politely. -</p> -<p> -“Just that! Chickagoo or Chicago, it depends on the way you spell it,” - said Kate, readily. “I was brought up to call it Chickagoo. What a length -to come on New Year's Day! Were you not frightened? Try one of them brown -biscuits. And how are all the people keeping in America?” - </p> -<p> -She asked the question with such tender solicitude that Bud saw no humor -in it, and answered gravely: -</p> -<p> -“Pretty spry, thank you. Have you been there?” - </p> -<p> -“Me!” cried Kate, with her bosom heaving at the very thought. Then her -Highland vanity came to her rescue. “No,” she said, “I have not been -exactly what you might call altogether there, but I had a cousin that -started for Australia and got the length of Paisley. It 'll be a big -place, America? Put butter on it.”. -</p> -<p> -“The United States of America are bounded on the east by the Atlantic -Ocean, on the west by the Pacific, on the south by Mexico and the Gulf, -and on the north by an imaginary line called Canada. The State of New York -alone is as large as England,” said Bud, glibly, repeating a familiar -lesson. -</p> -<p> -“What a size!” cried Kate. “Take another of them brown biscuits. -Scotland's not slack neither for size; there's Glasgow and Oban, and -Colonsay and Stornoway. There'll not be hills in America?” - </p> -<p> -“There's no hills, just mountains,” said Bud. “The chief mountain ranges -are the Rocky Mountains and the Alleghanies. They're about the biggest -mountains in the world.” - </p> -<p> -“Talking about big things, look at the big pennyworth of milk we get -here,” said Kate, producing a can—it was almost the last ditch of -her national pride. -</p> -<p> -The child looked gravely into the can, and then glanced shrewdly at the -maid. -</p> -<p> -“It isn't a pennyworth,” said she, sharply, “it's twopence worth.” - </p> -<p> -“My stars! how did you know that?” said Kate, much taken aback. -</p> -<p> -“'Cause you're bragging. Think I don't know when anybody's bragging?” said -Bud. “And when a body brags about a place or anything, they zaggerate, and -just about double things.” - </p> -<p> -“You're not canny,” said Kate, thrusting the milk-can back hastily on the -kitchen dresser. “Don't spare the butter on your biscuit. They tell me -there's plenty of money in America. I would not wonder, eh?” - </p> -<p> -“Why, everybody's got money to throw at the birds there,” said Bud, with -some of the accent as well as the favorite phrase of Jim Molyneux. -</p> -<p> -“They have little to do; forbye, it's cruelty. Mind you, there's plenty of -money here, too; your uncle has a desperate lot of it. He was wanting to -go away to America and bring you home whenever he heard—whenever he -heard—Will you not try another of them biscuits? It will do you no -harm.” - </p> -<p> -“I know,” said Bud, gravely—“whenever he heard about my father being -dead.” - </p> -<p> -“I think we're sometimes very stupid, us from Colonsay,” said the maid, -regretfully. “I should have kept my mouth shut about your father. Take <i>two</i> -biscuits, my dear; or maybe you would rather have short-cake. Yes, he was -for going there and then—even if it cost a pound, I dare say—but -changed his mind when he heard yon man Molyneux was bringing you.” - Footles, snug in the child's lap, shared the biscuits and barked for more. -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'I love little Footles, -His coat is so warm, -And if I don't tease him -He'll do me no harm,'” - </pre> -<p> -said Bud, burying her head in his mane. -</p> -<p> -“Good Lord! did you make that yourself, or just keep mind of it?” asked -the astounded Kate. -</p> -<p> -“I made it just right here,” said Bud, coolly. “Didn't you know I could -make poetry? Why, you poor, perishing soul, I'm just a regular wee—wee -whitterick at poetry! It goes sloshing round in my head, and it's simply -pie for me to make it. Here's another: -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'Lives of great men oft remind us -We can make our lives sublime, -And, departing, leave behind us -Footprints on the sands of time.' -</pre> -<p> -I just dash them off. I guess I'll have to get up bright and early -to-morrow and touch that one up some. Mostly you can't make them good the -first try, and then you're bound to go all over them from the beginning -and put the good in here and there. That's art, Jim says. He knew an -artist who'd finish a picture with everything quite plain about it, and -then say, 'Now for the art!' and fuzz it all over with a hard brush.” - </p> -<p> -“My stars, what things you know!” exclaimed the maid. “You're clever—tremendous -clever! What's your age?” - </p> -<p> -“I was bom mighty well near eleven years ago,” said Bud, as if she were a -centenarian. -</p> -<p> -Now it is not wise to tell a child like Lennox Dyce that she is clever, -though a maid from Colonsay could scarcely be expected to know that. Till -Bud had landed on the British shore she had no reason to think herself -anything out of the ordinary. Jim Molyneux and his wife, with no children -of their own, and no knowledge of children except the elderly kind that -play in theatres, had treated her like a person little younger than -themselves, and saw no marvel in her quickness, that is common enough with -Young America. But Bud, from Maryfield to her uncle's door, had been a -“caution” to the plainly admiring mail-driver; a kind of fairy princess to -Wanton Wully Oliver and his wife; the surprise of her aunts had been only -half concealed, and here was the maid in an undisguised enchantment! The -vanity of the ten-year-old was stimulated; for the first time in her life -she felt decidedly superior. -</p> -<p> -“It was very brave of me to come all this way in a ship at ten years old,” - she proceeded. -</p> -<p> -“I once came to Oban along with a steamer my-self,” said Kate, “but och, -that's nothing, for I knew a lot of the drovers. Just fancy you coming -from America! Were you not lonely?” - </p> -<p> -“I was dre'ffle lonely,” said Bud, who, in fact, had never known a -moment's dulness across the whole Atlantic. “There was I leaving my native -land, perhaps never to set eyes on its shores evermore, and coming to a -far country I didn't know the least thing about. I was leaving all my dear -young friends, and the beautiful Mrs. Molyneux, and her faithful dog Dodo, -and—” Here she squeezed a tear from her eyes, and stopped to think -of circumstances even more touching. -</p> -<p> -“My poor wee hen!” cried Kate, distressed. “Don't you greet, and I'll buy -you something.” - </p> -<p> -“And I didn't know what sort of uncle and aunties they might be here—whether -they'd be cruel and wicked or not, or whether they'd keep me or not. -Little girls most always have cruel uncles and aunties—you can see -that in the books.” - </p> -<p> -“You were awful stupid about that bit of it,” said the maid, emphatically. -“I'm sure anybody could have told you about Mr. Dyce and his sisters.” - </p> -<p> -“And then it was so stormy,” proceeded Bud, quickly, in search of more -moving considerations. “I made a poem about that, too—I just dashed -it off; the first verse goes: -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'The breaking waves dashed high -On a stern and rock-bound coast—' -</pre> -<p> -but I forget the rest, 'cept that -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'—they come to wither there -Away from their childhood's land.' -The waves were mountains high, -And whirled over the deck, and—” - </pre> -<p> -“My goodness, you would get all wet!” said Kate, putting her hand on Bud's -shoulder to feel if she were dry yet. Honest tears were in her own eyes at -the thought of such distressing affairs. -</p> -<p> -“The ship at last struck on a rock,” proceeded Bud, “so the captain lashed -me—” - </p> -<p> -“I would lash him, the villain!” cried the indignant maid. -</p> -<p> -“I don't mean that; he tied me—that's lash in books—to the -mast, and then—and then—well, then we waited calmly for the -end,” said Bud, at the last of her resources for ocean tragedy. -</p> -<p> -Kate's tears were streaming down her cheeks at this conjured vision of -youth in dire distress. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! my poor wee hen!” she sobbed. -“I'm so sorry for you.” - </p> -<p> -“Bud! coo-ie! coo-ie!” came the voice of Aunt Ailie along the lobby, but -Bud was so entranced with the effect of her imaginings that she paid no -heed, and Kate's head was wrapped in her apron. -</p> -<p> -“Don't cry, Kate; I wouldn't cry if I was you,” said the child at last, -soothingly. “Maybe it's not true.” - </p> -<p> -“I'll greet if I like,” insisted the maid. “Fancy you in that awful -shipwreck! It's enough to scare anybody from going anywhere. Oh, dear! oh, -dear!” and she wept more copiously than ever. -</p> -<p> -“Don't cry,” said Bud again. “It's silly to drizzle like that. Why, great -Queen of Sheba! I was only joshing you: it was as calm on that ship as a -milk sociable.” - </p> -<p> -Kate drew down the apron from her face and stared at her. Her meaning was -only half plain, but it was a relief to know that things had not been -quite so bad as she first depicted them. “A body's the better of a bit -greet, whiles,” she said, philosophically, drying her eyes. -</p> -<p> -“That's what I say,” agreed Bud. “That's why I told you all that. Do you -know, child, I think you and I are going to be great friends.” She said -this with the very tone and manner of Alison, whose words they were to -herself, and turned round hastily and embarrassed at a laugh behind her to -find her aunt had heard herself thus early imitated. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER VII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>F Molyneux, the actor, was to blame for sending this child of ten on her -journey into Scotland without convoy, how much worse was his offence that -he sent no hint of her character to the house of Dyce? She was like the -carpet-bag George Jordon found at the inn door one day without a name on -it, and, saying, “There's nothing like thrift in a family,” took home -immediately, to lament over for a week because he had not the key to open -it. There should have been a key to Lennox Brenton Dyce, but Molyneux, a -man of post-cards and curt and cryptic epistles generally, never thought -of that, so that it took some days for the folk she came among to pick the -lock. There was fun in the process, it cannot be denied, but that was -because the Dyces were the Dyces; had they been many another folk she -might have been a mystery for years, and in the long-run spoiled -completely. Her mother had been a thousand women in her time—heroines -good and evil, fairies, princesses, paupers, maidens, mothers, shy and -bold, plain or beautiful, young or old, as the play of the week demanded—a -play-actress, in a word. And now she was dead and buried, the bright, -white lights on her no more, the music and the cheering done. But not all -dead and buried, for some of her was in her child. -</p> -<p> -Bud was born a mimic. I tell you this at once, because so many -inconsistencies will be found in her I should otherwise look foolish to -present her portrait for a piece of veritable life. Not a mimic of voice -and manner only, but a mimic of people's minds, so that for long—until -the climax came that was to change her when she found herself—she -was the echo and reflection of the last person she spoke with. She -borrowed minds and gestures as later she borrowed Grandma Buntain's -pelerine and bonnet. She could be all men and all women except the plainly -dull or wicked—but only on each occasion for a little while; -by-and-by she was herself again. -</p> -<p> -And so it was that for a day or two she played with the phrase and accent -of Wanton Wully Oliver, or startled her aunts with an unconscious -rendering of Kate's Highland accent, her “My stars!” and “Mercy me's!” and -“My wee hens!” - </p> -<p> -The daft days (as we call New Year time) passed—the days of careless -merriment, that were but the start of Bud's daft days, that last with all -of us for years if we are lucky. The town was settling down; the schools -were opening on Han'sel Monday, and Bud was going—not to the -grammar-school after all, but to the Pigeons' Seminary. Have patience, and -by-and-by I will tell about the Pigeons. -</p> -<p> -Bell had been appalled to find the child, at the age of ten, apparently -incredibly neglected in her education. -</p> -<p> -“Of course you would be at some sort of school yonder in America?” she had -said at an early opportunity, not hoping for much, but ready to learn of -some hedge-row academy in spite of all the papers said of Yales and -Harvards and the like. -</p> -<p> -“No, I never was at school; I was just going when father died,” said Bud, -sitting on a sofa wrapped in a cloak of Ailie's, feeling extremely tall -and beautiful and old. -</p> -<p> -“What! Do you sit there and tell me they did not send you to school?” - cried her aunt, so stunned that the child delighted in her power to -startle and amaze. “That's America for you! Ten years old and not the -length of your alphabets!—it's what one might expect from a heathen -land of niggers, and lynchers, and presidents. I was the best sewer and -speller in Miss Mushet's long before I was ten. My lassie, let me tell you -you have come to a country where you'll get your education! We would make -you take it at its best if we had to live on meal. Look at your auntie -Ailie—French and German, and a hand like copperplate; it's a treat -to see her at the old scrutoire, no way put-about, composing. Just goes at -it like lightning! I do declare if your uncle Dan was done, Ailie could -carry on the business, all except the aliments and sequestrations. It -beats all! Ten years old and not to know the ABC!” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, but I do,” said Bud, quickly. “I learned the alphabet off the -play-bills—the big G's first, because there's so many Greats and -Grand? and Gorgeouses in them. And then Mrs. Molyneux used to let me try -to read Jim's press notices. She read them first every morning sitting up -in bed at breakfast, and said, 'My! wasn't he a great man?' and then she'd -cry a little, 'cause he never got justice from the managers, for they were -all mean and jealous of him. Then she'd spray herself with the peau -d'espagne and eat a cracker. And the best papers there was in the land -said the part of the butler in the second act was well filled by Mr. Jim -Molyneux; or among others in a fine cast were J. Molyneux, Ralph Devereux, -and O. G. Tarpoll.” - </p> -<p> -“I don't know what you're talking about, my poor wee whitterick; but it's -all haivers,” said Miss Bell. “Can you spell?” - </p> -<p> -“If the words are not too big, or silly ones where it's 'ei' or 'ie' and -you have to guess,” said Bud. -</p> -<p> -“Spell cat.” - </p> -<p> -Bud stared at her incredulously. -</p> -<p> -“Spell cat,” repeated her aunt. -</p> -<p> -“K-a-t-t,” said Bud (oh, naughty Bud!). -</p> -<p> -“Mercy!” cried Bell, with horrified hands in the air. “Off you pack -to-morrow to the seminary. I wouldn't wonder if you did not know a single -word of the Shorter Catechism. Perhaps they have not such a thing in that -awful heathen land you came from?” - </p> -<p> -Bud could honestly say she had never heard of the Shorter Catechism. -</p> -<p> -“My poor, neglected bairn,” said her aunt, piteously, “you're sitting -there in the dark with no conviction of sin, and nothing bothering you, -and you might be dead to-morrow! Mind this, that 'Man's chief end is to -glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever.' Say that.” - </p> -<p> -'"Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever,'” repeated -Bud, obediently, rolling her r's and looking solemn like her aunt. -</p> -<p> -“Did you ever hear of Robert Bruce, him that watched the spiders?” - </p> -<p> -Here, too, the naughty Bud protested ignorance. -</p> -<p> -“He was the savior of his country,” said Bell. “Mind that!” - </p> -<p> -“Why, auntie, I thought it was George Washington,” said Bud, surprised. “I -guess if you're looking for a little wee stupid, it's me.” - </p> -<p> -“We're talking about Scotland,” said Miss Bell, severely. “He saved -Scotland. It was well worth while! Can you do your sums?” - </p> -<p> -“I can <i>not</i>,” said Bud, emphatically. “I hate them.” Miss Bell said -not a word more; she was too distressed at such confessed benightedness; -but she went out of the parlor to search for Ailie. Bud forgot she was -beautiful and tall and old in Ailie's cloak; she was repeating to herself -“Man's chief end” with rolling r's, and firmly fixing in her memory the -fact that Robert Bruce, not George Washington, was the savior of his -country and watched spiders. -</p> -<p> -Ailie was out, and so her sister found no ear for her bewailings over the -child's neglected education till Mr. Dyce came in humming the tune of the -day—“Sweet Afton”—to change his hat for one more becoming to a -sitting of the sheriff's court. He was searching for his good one in what -he was used to call “the piety press,” for there was hung his Sunday -clothes, when Bell distressfully informed him that the child could not so -much as spell cat. -</p> -<p> -“Nonsense! I don't believe it,” said he. “That would be very unlike our -William.” - </p> -<p> -“It's true—I tried her myself!” said Bell. “She was never at a -school; isn't it just deplorable?” - </p> -<p> -“H'm!” said Mr. Dyce, “it depends on the way you look at it, Bell.” - </p> -<p> -“She does not know a word of her catechism, nor the name of Robert Bruce, -and says she hates counting.” - </p> -<p> -“Hates counting!” repeated Mr. Dyce, wonderfully cheering up; “that's -hopeful; it reminds me of myself. Forbye its gey like Brother William. His -way of counting was 'one pound, ten shillings in my pocket, two pounds -that I'm owing some one, and ten shillings I get to-morrow— that's -five pounds I have; what will I buy you now?' The worst of arithmetic is -that it leaves nothing to the imagination. Two and two's four and you're -done with it; there's no scope for either fun or fancy as there might be -if the two and two went courting in the dark and swapped their partners by -an accident.” - </p> -<p> -“I wish you would go in and speak to her,” said Bell, distressed still, -“and tell her what a lot she has to learn.” - </p> -<p> -“What, me!” cried Uncle Dan; “excuse my grammar,” and he laughed. “It's an -imprudent kind of mission for a man with all his knowledge in little -patches. I have a lot to learn, myself, Bell; it takes me all my time to -keep the folk I meet from finding out the fact.” - </p> -<p> -But he went in humming, Bell behind him, and found the child still -practising “Man's chief end,” so engrossed in the exercise she never heard -him enter. He crept behind her, and put his hands over her eyes. -</p> -<p> -“Guess who,” said he, in a shrill falsetto. -</p> -<p> -“It's Robert Bruce,” said Bud, without moving. -</p> -<p> -“No—cold—cold!—guess again,” said her uncle, growling -like Giant Blunderbore. -</p> -<p> -“I'll mention no names,” said she, “but it's mighty like Uncle Dan.” - </p> -<p> -He stood in front of her and put on a serious face. “What's this I am -hearing, Miss Lennox,” said he, “about a little girl who doesn't know a -lot of things nice little girls ought to know?” - </p> -<p> -“'Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever,'” repeated -Bud, reflectively. “I've got that all right, but what does it mean?” - </p> -<p> -“What does it mean?” said Mr. Dyce, a bit taken aback. “You tell her, -Bell; what does it mean? I must not be late for the court.” - </p> -<p> -“You're far cleverer than I am,” said Bell. “Tell her yourself.” - </p> -<p> -“It means,” said Daniel Dyce, the lawyer, seating himself on the sofa -beside his niece, “that man in himself is a gey poor soul, no' worth a -pin, though he's apt to think the world was made for his personal -satisfaction. At the best he's but an instrument—a harp of a -thousand strings God bends to hear in His leisure. He made that harp—the -heart and mind of man—when He was in a happy hour. Strings hale and -strings broken, strings slack or tight, there are all kinds of them; the -best we can do's to be taut and trembling for the gladness of God who -loves fine music, and set the stars themselves to singing from the very -day He put them birling in the void. To glorify's to wonder and adore, and -who keeps the wondering, humble heart, the adoring eye, is to God pleasing -exceedingly. Sing, lassie, sing, sing, sing, inside ye, even if ye are as -timmer as a cask. God knows I have not much of a voice myself, but I'm -full of nobler airs than ever crossed my rusty thrapple. To be grateful -always, and glad things are no worse, is a good song to start the -morning.” - </p> -<p> -“Ah, but sin, Dan, sin!” said Bell, sighing, for she always feared her own -light-heartedness. “We may be too joco.” - </p> -<p> -“Say ye so?” he cried, turning to his sister with a flame upon his visage. -“By the heavens above us, no! Sin might have been eternal; each abominable -thought might have kept in our minds, constant day and night from the -moment that it bred there; the theft we did might keep everlastingly our -hand in our neighbor's kist as in a trap; the knife we thrust with might -have kept us thrusting forever and forever. But no—God's good! sleep -comes, and the clean morning, and the morning is Christ, and every moment -of time is a new opportunity to amend. It is not sin that is eternal, it -is righteousness and peace. Joco! We cannot be too joco, having our -inheritance.” - </p> -<p> -He stopped suddenly, warned by a glance of his sister's, and turned to -look in his niece's face to find bewilderment there. The mood that was not -often published by Dan Dyce left him in a flash, and he laughed and put -his arms round her. -</p> -<p> -“I hope you're a lot wiser for my sermon, Bud,” said he. “I can see you -have pins and needles worse than under the Reverend Mr. Frazer on the -Front. What's the American for haivers—for foolish speeches?” - </p> -<p> -“Hot air,” said Bud, promptly. -</p> -<p> -“Good!” said Dan Dyce, rubbing his hands together. “What I'm saying may -seem just hot air to you, but it's meant. You do not know the Shorter -Catechism; never mind; there's a lot of it I'm afraid I do not know -myself; but the whole of it is in that first answer to 'Man's chief end.' -Reading and writing, and all the rest of it, are of less importance, but -I'll not deny they're gey and handy. You're no Dyce if you don't master -them easily enough.” - </p> -<p> -He kissed her and got gayly up and turned to go. “Now,” said he, “for the -law, seeing we're done with the gospels. I'm a conveyancing lawyer—though -you'll not know what that means—so mind me in your prayers.” - </p> -<p> -Bell went out into the lobby after him, leaving Bud in a curious frame of -mind, for “Man's chief end,” and Bruce's spider, and the word “joco,” all -tumbled about in her, demanding mastery. -</p> -<p> -“Little help I got from you, Dan!” said Bell to her brother. “You never -even tried her with a multiplication table.” - </p> -<p> -“What's seven times nine?” he asked her, with his fingers on the handle of -the outer door, his eyes mockingly mischievous. -</p> -<p> -She flushed and laughed, and pushed him on the shoulder. “Go away with -you!” said she. “Fine you ken I could never mind seven times!” - </p> -<p> -“No Dyce ever could,” said he—“excepting Ailie. Get her to put the -little creature through her tests. If she's not able to spell cat at ten -she'll be an astounding woman by the time she's twenty.” - </p> -<p> -The end of it was that Aunt Ailie, whenever she came in, upon Bell's -report went over the street to Rodger's shop and made a purchase. As she -hurried back with it, bareheaded, in a cool drizzle of rain that jewelled -her wonderful hair, she felt like a child herself again. The banker-man -saw her from his lodging as she flew across the street with sparkling eyes -and eager lips, the roses on her cheeks, and was sure, foolish man! that -she had been for a new novel or maybe a cosmetic, since in Rodger's shop -they sell books and balms and ointments. She made the quiet street -magnificent for a second—a poor wee second, and then, for him, the -sun went down. The tap of the knocker on the door she closed behind her -struck him on the heart. You may guess, good women, if you like, that at -the end of the book the banker-man is to marry Ailie, but you'll be wrong; -she was not thinking of the man at all at all—she had more to do, -she was hurrying to open the gate of gold to her little niece. -</p> -<p> -“I've brought you something wonderful,” said she to the child—“better -than dolls, better than my cloak, better than everything; guess what it -is.” - </p> -<p> -Bud wrinkled her brows. “Ah, dear!” she sighed, “we may be too joco! And -I'm to sing, sing, sing, even if I'm as—timmer as a cask, and Robert -Bruce is the savior of his country.” She marched across the room, trailing -Ailie's cloak with her, in an absurd caricature of Bell's brisk manner. -Yet not so much the actress engrossed in her performance, but what she -tried to get a glimpse of what her aunt concealed. -</p> -<p> -“You need not try to see it,” said Ailie, smiling, with the secret in her -breast. “You must honestly guess.” - </p> -<p> -“Better'n dolls and candies; oh, my!” said Bud. “I hope it's not the -Shorter Catechism,” she concluded, looking so grave that her aunt laughed. -</p> -<p> -“It's not the Catechism,” said Ailie; “try again. Oh, but you'll never -guess! It's a key.” - </p> -<p> -“A key?'' repeated Bud, plainly cast down. -</p> -<p> -“A gold key,” said her aunt. -</p> -<p> -“What for?” asked Bud. -</p> -<p> -Ailie sat herself down on the floor and drew the child upon her knees. She -had a way of doing that which made her look like a lass in her teens; -indeed, it was most pleasing if the banker-man could just have seen it! “A -gold key,” she repeated, lovingly, in Bud's ear. “A key to a garden—the -loveliest garden, with flowers that last the whole year round. You can -pluck and pluck at them and they're never a single one the less. Better -than sweet-pease! But that's not all, there's a big garden-party to be at -it—” - </p> -<p> -“My! I guess I'll put on my best glad rags,” said Bud. “<i>And</i> the hat -with pink.” Then a fear came to her face. “Why, Aunt Ailie, you can't have -a garden-party this time of the year,” and she looked at the window down -whose panes the rain was now streaming. -</p> -<p> -“This garden-party goes on all the time,” said Ailie. “Who cares about the -weather? Only very old people; not you and I. I'll introduce you to a lot -of nice people—Di Vernon, and—you don't happen to know a lady -called Di Vernon, do you, Bud?” - </p> -<p> -“I wouldn't know her if she was handed to me on a plate with parsley -trimmings,” said Bud, promptly. -</p> -<p> -“—Di Vernon, then, and Effie Deans, and Little Nell, and the -Marchioness; and Richard Swivefler, and Tom Pinch, and the Cranford folks, -and Juliet Capulet—” - </p> -<p> -“She must belong to one of the first families,” said Bud. “I have a kind -of idea that I have heard of her.” - </p> -<p> -“And Mr. Falstaff—such a naughty man, but nice, too! And Rosalind.” - </p> -<p> -“Rosalind!” cried Bud. “You mean Rosalind in 'As You Like It?”' -</p> -<p> -Ailie stared at her with astonishment. “You amazing child!” said she, “who -told you about 'As You Like It'?” - </p> -<p> -“Nobody told me; I just read about her when Jim was learning the part of -Charles the Wrestler he played on six 'secutive nights in the Waldorf.” - </p> -<p> -“Read it!” exclaimed her aunt. “You mean he or Mrs. Molyneux read it to -you.” - </p> -<p> -“No, I read it myself,” said Bud. -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'Now my co-mates and brothers in exile, -Hath not old custom made this life more sweet -Than that of painted pomp? -Are not these woods -More free from peril than the envious court.” - </pre> -<p> -She threw Aunt Ailie's cloak over one shoulder, put forth a ridiculously -little leg with an air of the playhouse, and made the gestures of Jim -Molyneux. -</p> -<p> -“I thought you couldn't read,” said Ailie. “You little fraud! You made -Aunt Bell think you couldn't spell cat.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, Queen of Sheba! did she think I was in earnest?” cried Bud. “I was -just pretending. I'm apt to be pretending pretty often; why, Kate thinks I -make Works. I can read anything; I've read books that big it gave you -cramp. I s'pose you were only making believe about that garden, and you -haven't any key at all, but I don't mind; I'm not kicking.” - </p> -<p> -Ailie put her hand to her bosom and revealed the Twopenny she had bought -to be the key to the wonderful garden of letters—the slim little -gray-paper-covered primer in which she had learned her own first lessons. -She held it up between her finger and thumb that Bud might read its title -on the cover. Bud understood immediately and laughed, but not quite at her -ease for once. -</p> -<p> -“I'm dre'ffle sorry, Aunt Ailie,” she said. “It was wicked to pretend just -like that, and put you to a lot of trouble. Father wouldn't have liked -that.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, I'm not kicking,” said Ailie, borrowing her phrase to put her at her -ease again. “I'm too glad you're not so far behind as Aunt Bell imagined. -So you like books? Capital! And Shakespeare no less! What do you like -best, now?'” - </p> -<p> -“Poetry,” said Bud. “Particularly the bits I don't understand, but just -about almost. I can't bear to stop and dally with too easy poetry; once I -know it all plain and there's no more to it, I—I—I love to -amble on. I—why! I make poetry myself.” - </p> -<p> -“Really?” said Ailie, with twinkling eyes. -</p> -<p> -“Sort of poetry,” said Bud. “Not so good as 'As You Like It'—not -'nearly' so good, of course! I have loads of really, really poetry inside -me, but it sticks at the bends and then I get bits that fit, made by -somebody else, and wish I had been spry and said them first. Other times -I'm the real Winifred Wallace.” - </p> -<p> -“Winifred Wallace?” said Aunt Ailie, inquiringly. -</p> -<p> -“Winifred Wallace,” repeated Bud, composedly. “I'm her. It's my—it's -my poetry name. 'Bud Dyce' wouldn't be any use for the magazines; it's not -dinky enough.” - </p> -<p> -“Bless me, child, you don't tell me you write poetry for the magazines?” - said her astonished aunt. -</p> -<p> -“No,” said Bud, “but I'll be pretty liable to when I'm old enough to wear -specs. That's if I don't go on the stage.” - </p> -<p> -“On the stage!” exclaimed Ailie, full of wild alarm. -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” said the child. “Mrs. Molyneux said I was a born actress.” - </p> -<p> -“I wonder, I wonder,” said Aunt Ailie, staring into vacancy. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER VIII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ANIEL DYCE had an office up the street at the windy corner facing the -Cross, with two clerks in it and a boy who docketed letters and ran -errands. Once upon a time there was a partner—Cleland & Dyce the -firm had been—but Cleland was a shy and melancholy man whose only -hours of confidence and gayety came to him after injudicious drams. 'Twas -patent to all how his habits seized him, but nobody mentioned it except in -a whisper, sometimes as a kind of little accident, for in everything else -he was the perfect gentleman, and here we never like to see the honest -gentry down. All men liked Colin Cleland, and many would share his jovial -hours who took their law business elsewhere than to Cleland & Dyce. -That is the way of the world, too; most men keep their jovial-money in a -different pocket from where they keep their cash. The time came when it -behooved Mr. Cleland to retire. Men who knew the circumstances said Dan -Dyce paid rather dear for that retirement, and indeed it might be so in -the stricter way of commerce, but the lawyer was a Christian who did not -hang up his conscience in the “piety press” with his Sunday clothes. He -gave his partner a good deal more than he asked. -</p> -<p> -“I hope you'll come in sometimes and see me whiles at night and join in a -glass of toddy,” said Mr. Cleland. -</p> -<p> -“I'll certainly come and see you,” said Dan Dyce. And then he put his arm -affectionately through that of his old partner, and added, “I would—I -would ca' canny wi' the toddy, Colin,” coating the pill in sweet and -kindly Scots. Thank God, we have two tongues in our place, and can speak -the bitter truth in terms that show humility and love, and not the sense -of righteousness, dictate. -</p> -<p> -“Eh! What for?” said Mr. Cleland, his vanity at once in arms. -</p> -<p> -Dan Dyce looked in his alarmed and wavering eyes a moment, and thought, -“What's the use? He knows himself, they always do!” - </p> -<p> -“For fear—for fear of fat,” he said, with a little laugh, tapping -with his finger on his quondam partner's widening waistcoat. “There are -signs of a prominent profile, Colin. If you go on as you're doing it will -be a dreadful expense for watch-guards.” - </p> -<p> -Colin Cleland at once became the easy-osey man again, and smiled. “Fat, -man! it's not fat,” said he, clapping himself on the waistcoat, “it's -information. Do you know, Dan, for a second, there, I thought you meant to -be unkind, and it would be devilish unlike you to be unkind. I thought you -meant something else. The breath of vulgar suspicion has mentioned drink.” - </p> -<p> -“It's a pity that!” said Mr. Dyce, “for a whole cask of cloves will not -disguise the breath of suspicion.” It was five years now since Colin -Cleland retired among his toddy rummers, and if this were a fancy story I -would be telling you how he fell, and fell, and fell, but the truth—it's -almost lamentable—is that the old rogue throve on leisure and -ambrosial nights with men who were now quite ready to give the firm of -Daniel Dyce their business, seeing they had Colin Cleland all to -themselves and under observation. Trust estates and factorages from all -quarters of the county came now to the office at the windy corner. A -Christian lawyer with a sense of fun, unspotted by the world, and yet with -a name for winning causes, was what the shire had long been wanting. And -Daniel Dyce grew rich. “I'm making money so fast,” he said one day to his -sisters (it was before Bud came), “that I wonder often what poor souls are -suffering for it.” - </p> -<p> -Said Bell, “It's a burden that's easy put up with. We'll be able now to -get a new pair of curtains for the back bedroom.” - </p> -<p> -“A pair of curtains!” said her brother, with a smile to Ailie. “Ay, a -score of pairs if they're needed, even if the vogue was Valenciennes. Your -notion of wealth, Bell, is Old Malabar's—'Twopence more, and up goes -the donkey!' Woman, I'm fair rolling in wealth.” He said it with a kind of -exultation that brought to her face a look of fear and disapproval. -“Don't, Dan, don't,” she cried—“don't brag of the world's dross; -it's not like you. 'He that hasteth to be rich shall not be innocent,' -says the Proverbs. You must be needing medicine. We should have humble -hearts. How many that were high have had a fall!” - </p> -<p> -“Are you frightened God will hear me and me His bounty?” said the brother, -in a whisper. “I'm not bragging; I'm just telling you.” - </p> -<p> -“I hope you're not hoarding it,” proceeded Miss Bell. “It's not wiselike—” - </p> -<p> -“Nor Dyce-like either,” said Miss Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“There's many a poor body in the town this winter that's needful.” - </p> -<p> -“I dare say,” said Daniel Dyce, coldly. “'The poor we have always with -us.' The thing, they tell me, is decreed by Providence.” - </p> -<p> -“But Providence is not aye looking,” said Bell. “If that's what you're -frightened for, I'll be your almoner.” - </p> -<p> -“It's their own blame, you may be sure, if they're poor. Improvidence and—and -drink. I'll warrant they have their glass of ale every Saturday. What's -ale? Is there any moral elevation in it? Its nutritive quality, I believe, -is less than the tenth part of a penny loaf.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, but the poor creatures!” sighed Miss Bell. “Possibly,” said Dan Dyce, -“but every man must look after himself; and as you say, many a man well -off has come down in the world. We should take no risks. I had Black the -baker at me yesterday for £20 in loan to tide over some trouble with his -flour merchant and pay an account to Miss Minto.” - </p> -<p> -“A decent man, with a wife and seven children,” said Miss Bell. -</p> -<p> -“Decent or not, he'll not be coming back borrowing from me in a hurry. I -set him off with a flea in his lug.” - </p> -<p> -“We're not needing curtains,” said Miss Bell, hurriedly; “the pair we have -are fine.” - </p> -<p> -Dan finished his breakfast that day with a smile, flicked the crumbs off -his waistcoat, gave one uneasy glance at Ailie, and went off to business -humming “There is a Happy Land.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, dear me, I'm afraid he's growing a perfect miser,” moaned Bell, when -she heard the door close behind him. “He did not use to be like that when -he was younger and poorer. Money's like the toothache, a commanding -thing.” - </p> -<p> -Ailie smiled. “If you went about as much as I do, Bell,” she said, “you -would not be misled by Dan's pretences. And as for Black, the baker, I saw -his wife in Miss Minto's yesterday buying boots for her children and a -bonnet for herself. She called me Miss Ailie, an honor I never got from -her in all my life before.” - </p> -<p> -“Do you think—do you think he gave Black the money?” said Bell, in a -pleasant excitation. -</p> -<p> -“Of course he did. It's Dan's way to give it to some folk with a pretence -of reluctance, for if he did not growl they would never be off his face! -He's telling us about the lecture that accompanied it as a solace to our -femininity. Women, you know, are very bad lenders, and dislike the -practice in their husbands and brothers.” - </p> -<p> -“None of the women I know,” protested Bell. “They're just as free-handed -as the men if they had it. I hope,” she added, anxiously, “that Dan got -good security. Would it be a dear bonnet, now, that she was getting?” - </p> -<p> -Ailie laughed—a ridiculous sort of sister this; she only laughed. -</p> -<p> -Six times each lawful day Daniel Dyce went up and down the street between -his house and the office at the windy corner opposite the Cross, the -business day being divided by an interval of four hours to suit the mails. -The town folk liked to see him passing; he gave the street an air of -occupation and gayety, as if a trip had just come in with a brass band -banging at the latest air. Going or coming he was apt to be humming a tune -to himself as he went along with his hands in his outside pockets, and it -was an unusual day when he did not stop to look in at a shop window or two -on the way, though they never changed a feature once a month. To the shops -he honored thus it was almost as good as a big turnover. Before him his -dog went whirling and barking, a long alarm for the clerks to stop their -game of Catch-the-Ten and dip their pens. There were few that passed him -without some words of recognition. -</p> -<p> -He was coming down from the office on the afternoon of the Hansel Monday -that started Bud in the Pigeons' Seminary when he met the nurse, old Betty -Baxter, with a basket. She put it down at her feet, and bobbed a courtesy, -a thing that nowadays you rarely see in Scotland. -</p> -<p> -“Tuts! woman,” he said to her, lifting the basket and putting it in her -hand. “Why need you bother with the like of that? You and your courtesies! -They're out of date, Miss Baxter, out of date, like the decent men that -deserved them long ago, before my time.” - </p> -<p> -“No, they're not out of date, Mr. Dyce,” said she, “I'll aye be minding -you about my mother; you'll be paid back some day.” - </p> -<p> -“Tuts!” said he again, impatient. “You're an awful blether: how's your -patient, Duncan Gill?” - </p> -<p> -“As dour as the devil, sir,” said the nurse. “Still hanging on.” - </p> -<p> -“Poor man! poor man!” said Mr. Dyce. “He'll just have to put his trust in -God.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, he's no' so far through as all that,” said Betty Baxter. “He can -still sit up and take his drop of porridge. They're telling me you have -got a wonderful niece, Mr. Dyce, all the way from America. What a mercy -for her! But I have not set eyes on her yet. I'm so busy that I could not -stand in the close like the others, watching: what is she like?” - </p> -<p> -“Just like Jean Macrae,” said Mr. Dyce, preparing to move on. -</p> -<p> -“And what was Jean Macrae like?” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, just like other folk,” said Mr. Dyce, and passed on chuckling, to run -almost into the arms of Captain Consequence. -</p> -<p> -“Have you heard the latest?” said Captain Consequence, putting his -kid-gloved hand on the shoulder of the lawyer, who felt it like a lump of -ice, for he did not greatly like the man, the smell of whose cigars, he -said, before he knew they came from the Pilgrim widows, proved that he -rose from the ranks. -</p> -<p> -“No, Captain Brodie,” he said, coldly. “Who's the rogue or the fool this -time?” but the captain was too stupid to perceive it. He stared -perplexedly. -</p> -<p> -“I hear,” said he, “the doctor's in a difficulty.” - </p> -<p> -“Is he—is he?” said Mr. Dyce. “That's a chance for his friends to -stand by him.” - </p> -<p> -“Let him take it!” said Captain Consequence, puffing. “Did he not say to -me once yonder, 'God knows how you're living.'” - </p> -<p> -“It must be God alone, for all the rest of us are wondering,” said Mr. -Dyce, and left the man to put it in his pipe and smoke it. -</p> -<p> -Along the street came the two Miss Duffs, who kept the dame school, and he -saw a hesitation in their manner when they realized a meeting was -inevitable. If they had been folk that owed him anything he would not have -wondered, from their manner, to see them tuck up their skirts and scurry -down the lane. Twins they were—a tiny couple, scarcely young, -dressed always in a douce long-lasting brown, something in their walk and -color that made them look like pigeon hens, and long ago conferred on them -that name in Daniel Dyce's dwelling. They met him in front of his own -door, and seemed inclined to pass in a trepidation. -</p> -<p> -He took off his hat to them and stood, full of curiosity about Lennox. -</p> -<p> -“What a lovely winter day!” said Miss Jean, with an air of supplication, -as if her very life depended on his agreement. -</p> -<p> -“Isn't it <i>perfectly</i> exquisite!” said Miss Amelia, who usually -picked up the bald details of her sister's conversation and passed them on -embroidered with a bit of style. -</p> -<p> -“It's not bad,” said Mr. Dyce, blinking at them, wondering what ailed the -dears to-day. They were looking uneasily around them for some way of -escape; he could almost hear the thump of their hearts, he noted the -stress of their breathing. Miss Jean's eyes fastened on the tree-tops over -the banker's garden-wall; he felt that in a moment she would spread out -her wings and fly. “You have opened the school again,” he said, simply. -</p> -<p> -“We started again to-day,” cooed Miss Jean. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, we resumed to-day,” said Miss Amelia. “The common round, the daily -task. And, oh! Mr. Dyce—” - </p> -<p> -She stopped suddenly at the pressure of her sister's elbow on her own, and -lowered her eyes, that had for a second shown an appalling area of white. -It was plain they were going to fly. Mr. Dyce felt inclined to cry “Pease, -pease!” and keep them a little longer. -</p> -<p> -“You have my niece with you to-day?” he remarked. “What do you think of -her?” - </p> -<p> -A look of terror exchanged between them escaped his observation. -</p> -<p> -“She's—she's a wonderful child,” said Miss Jean, nervously twisting -the strings of a hand-bag. -</p> -<p> -“A singularly interesting and—and unexpected creature,” said Miss -Amelia. -</p> -<p> -“Fairly bright, eh?” said Mr. Dyce. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, bright!” repeated Miss Jean. “Bright is not the word for it—is -it, Amelia?” - </p> -<p> -“I would rather say brilliant,” said Amelia, coughing, and plucking a -handkerchief out of her pocket to inhale its perfume and avert a -threatening swound. “I hope—we both hope, Mr. Dyce, she will be -spared to grow up a credit to you. One never knows?” - </p> -<p> -“That's it,” agreed Mr. Dyce, cheerfully. “Some girls grow up and become -credits to their parents and guardians, others become reciters and spoil -many a jolly party with 'The Women of Mumbles Head' or 'Coffee was not -strong.'” - </p> -<p> -“I hope not,” said Miss Jean, hardly understanding: the painful -possibility seemed to be too much for Miss Amelia; she said nothing, but -fixed her eyes on the distant tree-tops and gave a little flap of the -wings of her Inverness cape. -</p> -<p> -“Pease, pease!” murmured Mr. Dyce, unconsciously, anxious to hold them -longer and talk about his niece. -</p> -<p> -“I beg pardon!” exclaimed Miss Jean, and the lawyer got very red. -</p> -<p> -“I hope at least you'll like Bud,” he said. “She's odd, but—but—but—” - he paused for a word. -</p> -<p> -“—sincere,” suggested Miss Jean. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, I would say sincere—or perhaps outspoken would be better,” - said Miss Amelia. -</p> -<p> -“So clever too,” added Miss Jean. “Pretematurally!” cooed Miss Amelia. -</p> -<p> -“Such a delightful accent,” said Miss Jean. -</p> -<p> -“Like linked sweetness long drawn out,” quoted Miss Amelia. -</p> -<p> -“But—” hesitated Miss Jean. -</p> -<p> -“Still—” more hesitatingly said her sister, and then there was a -long pause. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, to the mischief!” said Mr. Dyce to himself, then took off his hat -again, said, “Good-afternoon,” and turned to his door. -</p> -<p> -He was met by Ailie in the lobby; she had seen him from a window speaking -to the Duffs. “What were they saying to you?” she asked, with more -curiosity in her manner than was customary. -</p> -<p> -“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Dyce. “They just stood and cooed. I'm not sure -that a doo-cot is the best place to bring up an eagle in. How did Bud get -on with them at school to-day?” - </p> -<p> -“So far as I can make out, she did not get on at all; she seems to have -demoralized the school, and driven the Misses Duff into hysterics, and she -left of her own accord and came home an hour before closing-time. And—and -she's not going back!” - </p> -<p> -Mr. Dyce stood a moment in amazement, then rubbed his hands gleefully. -“I'm glad to hear it,” said he. “The poor birdies between them could not -summon up courage to tell me what was wrong. I'm sorry for them; if she's -not going back, we'll send them down a present.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER IX -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HAT the child should have gone to the dame school at all was due to her -Auntie Bell. From the first Miss Ailie had been dubious of the seminary, -but Bell was terribly domineering; in fact, was neither to hold nor bind, -and the doo-cot it bode to be. A product herself of the old dame school in -the spacious days of Barbara Mushet, whose pupils in white-seam sewing and -Italian hand were nowadays married to the best, and notable as housewives, -she deemed it still the only avenue to the character and skill that keep -those queer folk, men, when they're married, by their own fire-ends. As -for Daniel Dyce, he was, I fear, indifferent how Bud came by her -schooling, having a sort of philosophy that the gate of gifts is closed on -us the day we're bom, and that the important parts of the curriculum, good -or bad, are picked up like a Scots or Hielan' accent, someway in the home. -</p> -<p> -So Ailie had gone reluctant to the Misses Duff and told them that on the -morrow the child would start in their academy. They currookity cooed at -the prospect, put past their crocheting, brought out their celebrated -silver spoons, and made of the afternoon tea a banquet with the aid of a -seed-cake hurriedly brought from P. & A. MacGlashan's. Their home was -like a stall in a bazaar and smelt of turpentine. Ailie, who loved wide -spaces, sat cramped between a laden what-not and a white-enamelled -spinning-wheel, the feathers of her hat colliding with a fretwork bracket -on the wall behind her chair, and thinking not unkindly of the creatures, -wished that she could give them a good shaking. Oh! they were so prim, -pernickety, and hopelessly in all things wrong! She was not very large -herself, for stature, but in their company she felt gigantic. And oddly -there rose in her, too, a sense of gladness that she was of a newer kind -of women than those gentle slaves, prisoned in their primness, manacled by -stupid old conceits. She was glad she was free, that her happy hours were -not so wasted in futilities, that she saw farther, that she knew no social -fears, that custom had not crushed her soul, and yet she someway liked and -pitied them. -</p> -<p> -“You'll find her somewhat odd,” she explained, as she nibbled the -seed-cake, with a silly little doily of Miss Jean's contrivance on her -knee, and the doves fluttering round her as timid of settling down as -though they had actual feathers and she were a cat. “She has got a -remarkably quick intelligence; she is quite unconventional—quite -unlike other children in many respects, and it may be difficult at first -to manage her.” - </p> -<p> -“Dear me!” said Miss Jean. “What a pity she should be so odd! I suppose -it's the American system; but perhaps she will improve.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, it's nothing alarming,” explained Miss Ailie, recovering the doily -from the floor to which it had slid from her knee, and replacing it with a -wicked little shake. “If she didn't speak much you would never guess from -her appearance that she knew any more than—than most of us. Her -mother, I feel sure, was something of a genius—at least it never -came from the Dyce side; we were all plain folk, not exactly fools, but -still not odd enough to have the dogs bite us, or our neighbors cross to -the other side of the street when they saw us coming. She died two years -ago, and when William—when my brother died, Lennox was staying with -professional friends of himself and his wife, who have been good enough to -let us have her, much against their natural inclination.” - </p> -<p> -“The dear!” said Miss Jean, enraptured. -</p> -<p> -“Quite a sweet romance!” cooed Miss Amelia, languishing. -</p> -<p> -“You may be sure we will do all we can for her,” continued Miss Jean, -pecking with unconscious fingers at the crumbs on her visitor's lap, till -Ailie could scarcely keep from smiling. -</p> -<p> -“She will soon feel quite at home among us in our little school,” said -Miss Amelia. “No doubt she'll be shy at first—” - </p> -<p> -“Quite the contrary!” Ailie assured them, with a little mischievous inward -glee, to think how likely Bud was to astonish them by other qualities than -shyness. “It seems that in America children are brought up on wholly -different lines from children here; you'll find a curious fearless -independence in her.” - </p> -<p> -The twins held up their hands in amazement, “tcht-tcht-tchting” - simultaneously. “<i>What</i> a pity!” said Miss Jean, as if it were a -physical affliction. -</p> -<p> -“But no doubt by carefulness and training it can be eradicated,” said Miss -Amelia, determined to encourage hope. -</p> -<p> -At that Miss Ailie lost her patience. She rose to go, with a start that -sent the doves more widely fluttering than ever in their restless little -parlor, so crowded out of all comfort by its fretful toys. -</p> -<p> -“I don't think you should trouble much about the eradication,” she said, -with some of her brother's manner at the bar. “Individuality is not -painful to the possessor like toothache, so it's a pity to eradicate it or -kill the nerve.” - </p> -<p> -The words were out before she could prevent them; she bit her lips, and -blushed in her vexation to have said them, but luckily the Pigeons in -their agitation were not observant. -</p> -<p> -“Like all the Dyces, a little daft!” was what they said of her when she -was gone, and they were very different women then, as they put on their -aprons, rolled up the silver spoons in tissue-paper and put them in a -stocking of Amelia's, before they started to their crochet work again. -</p> -<p> -It was a bright, expectant, happy bairn that set out next day for the -school. No more momentous could have seemed her start for Scotland across -the wide Atlantic; her aunties, looking after her going down the street -alone, so confident and sturdily, rued their own arrangement, and envied -the Misses Duff that were to be blessed all day with her companionship. To -Bell it seemed as if the wean were walking out of their lives on that -broad road that leads our bairns to other knowledge than ours, to other -dwellings, to the stranger's heart. Once the child turned at the corner of -the church and waved her hand; Miss Ailie took it bravely, but oh, Miss -Bell!—Miss Bell!—she flew to the kitchen and stormed at Kate -as she hung out at the window, an observer too. -</p> -<p> -Three-and-twenty scholars were there in the doo-cot of the Duffs—sixteen -of them girls and the remainder boys, but not boys enough as yet to be in -the grammar-school. Miss Jean came out and rang a tea-bell, and Bud was -borne in on the tide of youth that was still all strange to her. The twins -stood side by side behind a desk; noisily the children accustomed found -their seats, but Bud walked up to the teachers and held out her hand. -</p> -<p> -“Good-morning; I'm Lennox Dyce,” she said, before they could get over -their astonishment at an introduction so unusual. Her voice, calm and -clear, sounded to the backmost seat and sent the children tittering. -</p> -<p> -“Silence!” cried Miss Jean, reddening with a glance at the delinquents, as -she dubiously took the proffered hand. -</p> -<p> -“Rather a nice little school,” said Bud, “but a little stuffy. Wants air -some, don't it? What's the name of the sweet little boy in the Fauntleroy -suit? It looks as if it would be apt to be Percy.” - </p> -<p> -She was standing between the twins, facing the scholars; she surveyed all -with the look of his Majesty's Inspector. -</p> -<p> -“Hush-h-h,” murmured Miss Amelia, Miss Jean being speechless. “You will -sit here,” and she nervously indicated a place in the front bench. -“By-and-by, dear, we will see what you can do.” - </p> -<p> -Bud took her place composedly, and rose with the rest to join in the -Lord's Prayer. The others mumbled it; for her it was a treat to have to -say it there for the first time in her life in public. Into the words she -put interest and appeal; for the first time the doo-cot heard that -supplication endowed with its appropriate dignity. And then the work of -the day began. The school lay in the way of the main traffic of the little -town: they could hear each passing wheel and footstep, the sweet “chink, -chink” from the smithy, whence came the smell of a sheep's head singeing. -Sea-gulls and rooks bickered and swore in the gutters of the street; from -fields behind came in a ploughman's whistle as he drove his team, slicing -green seas of fallow as a vessel cuts the green, green wave. -Four-and-twenty children, four-and-twenty souls, fathers and mothers of -the future race, all outwardly much alike with eyes, noses, hands, and -ears in the same position, how could the poor Misses Duff know what was -what in the stuff they handled? Luckily for their peace of mind, it never -occurred to them that between child and child there was much odds. Some -had blue pinafores and some white; some were freckled and some had warts -and were wild, and these were the banker's boys. God only knew the other -variations. 'Twas the duty of the twins to bring them all in mind alike to -the one plain level. -</p> -<p> -It was lucky that the lessons of that day began with the Shorter -Catechism, for it kept the ignorance of Lennox Dyce a little while in -hiding. She heard with amazement of Effectual Calling and Justification -and the reasons annexed to the fifth commandment as stammeringly and -lifelessly chanted by the others; but when her turn came, and Miss Jean, -to test her, asked her simply “Man's chief end,” she answered, boldly: -</p> -<p> -“Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever.” - </p> -<p> -“Very good! <i>very</i> good, indeed!” said the twin encouragingly. She -was passing on to the next pupil, when Bud burst out with her own -particular reason annexed, borrowed from the rapturous explanation of her -uncle. -</p> -<p> -“Man is a harp,” she said, as solemnly as he had said it—“a har-r-rp -with a thousand strings; and we must sing, sing, sing, even if we're -timmer as a cask, and be grateful always, and glad in the mornings with -things.” - </p> -<p> -If the whistling ploughman and his team had burst into the school-room it -would have been no greater marvel, brought no more alarm to the breasts of -the little teachers. They looked at her as if she had been a witch. The -other pupils stared, with open mouths. -</p> -<p> -“What's that you say, my dear?” said Miss Amelia. “Did you learn that in -America?” - </p> -<p> -“No,” said Bud, “I just found it out from Uncle Dan.” - </p> -<p> -“Silence!” cried Miss Jean, for now the class was tittering again. She -went with her sister behind the black-board, and nervously they communed. -Bud smiled benignly on her fellows. -</p> -<p> -Just as disconcerting was her performance in geography. Had they tested -her in her knowledge of the United States she might have come out -triumphantly commonplace; but unfortunately they chose to ask her of -Scotland, and there her latest teacher had been Kate. -</p> -<p> -“What are the chief towns in Scotland?” asked Miss Jean. -</p> -<p> -“Oban, and Glasgow, and Toraoway,” replied Bud, with a touch of Highland -accent; and, tired of sitting so long in one place, calmly rose and -removed herself to a seat beside the Fauntleroy boy, who was greatly put -about at such a preference. -</p> -<p> -“You mustn't move about like that, Lennox,” explained Miss Amelia, taking -her back. “It's not allowed.” - </p> -<p> -“But I was all pins and needles,” said Bud, frankly, “and I wanted to -speak to Percy.” - </p> -<p> -“My dear child, his name's not Percy, and there's no speaking in school,” - exclaimed the distressed Miss Amelia. -</p> -<p> -“No speaking! Why, you're speaking all the time,” said the child. “It -ain't—isn't fair. Can't I just get speaking a wee teeny bit to that -nice girl over there?” - </p> -<p> -The twins looked at each other in horror: the child was a thousand times -more difficult than the worst her aunt had led them to expect. A sudden -unpleasant impression that their familiar pupils seemed like wooden models -beside her, came to them both. But they were alarmed to see that the -wooden models were forgetting their correct deportment under the -demoralizing influence of the young invader. -</p> -<p> -Once more they dived behind the black-board and communed. -</p> -<p> -There were many such instances during the day. Bud, used for all her -thinking years to asking explanations of what she did not understand, -never hesitated to interrogate her teachers, who seemed to her to be -merely women, like her mother, and Mrs. Molyneux, and Auntie Ailie, only a -little wilted and severe, grotesque in some degree because of their funny -affected manner, and the crochet that never was out of their hands in oral -exercises. She went further, she contradicted them twice, not rudely, but -as one might contradict her equals. -</p> -<p> -“You talk to her,” said Miss Jean behind the blackboard where they had -taken refuge again. “I declare I'll take a fit if this goes on! Did you -ever hear of such a creature?” - </p> -<p> -Miss Amelia almost cried. All her fixed ideas of children were shattered -at a blow. Here was one who did not in the least degree fit in with the -scheme of treatment in the doo-cot. But she went forward with a look of -great severity. -</p> -<p> -“Of course, coming from America and all that, and never having been at -school before, you don't know,” she said, “but I must tell you that you -are not behaving nicely—not like a nice little girl at all, Lennox. -Nice little girls in school in this country listen, and never say anything -unless they're asked. They are respectful to their teachers, and never ask -questions, and certainly never contradict them, and—” - </p> -<p> -“But, please, Miss Duff, I wasn't contradicting,” explained Bud, very -soberly, “and when respect is called for, I'm there with the goods. You -said honor was spelled with a 'u,' and I guess you just made a mistake, -same as I might make myself, for there ain't no 'u' in honor, at least in -America.” - </p> -<p> -“I—I—I never made a mistake in all my life,” said Miss Amelia, -gasping. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Laura!” was all that Bud replied, but in such a tone, and with eyes -so widely opened, it set half of the other pupils tittering. -</p> -<p> -“What do you mean by 'Oh, Laura?'” asked Miss Jean. “Who is Laura?” - </p> -<p> -“You can search me,” replied Bud, composedly. “Jim often said 'Oh, Laura!' -when he got a start.” - </p> -<p> -“It's not a nice thing to say,” said Miss Jean. “It's not at all ladylike. -It's just a sort of profane language, and profane language is an -'abomination unto the Lord.'” - </p> -<p> -“But it was so like Jim,” said Bud, giggling with recollection. “If it's -slang I'll stop it—at least I'll try to stop it. I'm bound to be a -well-off English undefied, you know; poppa—father fixed that.” - </p> -<p> -The school was demoralized without a doubt, for now the twins were -standing nervously before Bud and put on equal terms with her in spite of -themselves, and the class was openly interested and amused—more -interested and amused than it had ever been at anything that had ever -happened in the doo-cot before. Miss Amelia was the first to comprehend -how far she and her sister had surrendered their citadel of authority to -the little foreigner's attack. “Order!” she exclaimed. “We will now take -up poetry and reading.” Bud cheered up wonderfully at the thought of -poetry and reading, but alas! her delight was short-lived, for the -reading-book put into her hand was but a little further on than Auntie -Ailie's Twopenny. When her turn came to read “My sister Ella has a cat -called Tabby. She is black, and has a pretty white breast. She has long -whiskers and a bushy white tail,” she read with a tone of amusement that -exasperated the twins, though they could not explain to themselves why. -What completed Bud's rebellion, however, was the poetry. “Meddlesome -Matty” was a kind of poetry she had skipped over in Chicago, plunging -straightway into the glories of the play-bills and Shakespeare, and when -she had read that: -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“One ugly trick has often spoiled -The sweetest and the best; -Matilda, though a pleasant child, -One ugly trick possessed”— -</pre> -<p> -she laughed outright. -</p> -<p> -“I can't help it, Miss Duff,” she said, when the twins showed their -distress. “It looks like poetry, sure enough, for it's got the jaggy -edges, but it doesn't make any zip inside me same as poetry does. It wants -biff.” - </p> -<p> -“What's 'zip' and 'biff'?” asked Miss Amelia. -</p> -<p> -“It's—it's a kind of tickle in your mind,” said Bud. “I'm so tired,” - she continued, rising in her seat, “I guess I'll head for home now.” And -before the twins had recovered from their dumfounderment she was in the -porch putting on her cloak and hood. -</p> -<p> -“Just let her go,” said Miss Jean to her sister. “If she stays any longer -I shall certainly have a swoon; I feel quite weak.” - </p> -<p> -And so Bud marched out quite cheerfully, and reached home an hour before -she was due. -</p> -<p> -Kate met her at the door. “My stars! are you home already?” she exclaimed, -with a look at the town clock. “You must be smart at your schooling when -they let you out of the cemetery so soon.” - </p> -<p> -“It ain't a cemetery at all,” said Bud, standing unconcernedly in the -lobby; “it's just a kindergarten.” - </p> -<p> -Aunt Ailie bore down on her to overwhelm her in caresses. “What are you -home for already, Bud?” she asked. “It's not time yet, is it?” - </p> -<p> -“No,” said Bud, “but I just couldn't stay any longer. I'd as lief not go -back there. The ladies don't love me. They're Sunday sort of ladies, and -give me pins and needles. They smile and smile, same's it was done with a -glove-stretcher, and don't love me. They said I was using profound -language, and—and they don't love me. Not the way mother and Mrs. -Molyneux and you and Auntie Bell and Uncle Dan and Kate and Footles does. -They made goo-goo eyes at me when I said the least thing. They had all -those poor kiddies up on the floor doing their little bits, and they made -me read kindergarten poetry—that was the limit! So I just upped and -walked.” - </p> -<p> -The two aunts and Kate stood round her for a moment baffled. -</p> -<p> -“What's to be done now?” said Aunt Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“Tuts!” said Aunt Bell, “give the wean a drink of milk and some bread and -butter.” - </p> -<p> -And so ended Bud's only term in a dame school. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER X -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T was a saying of Daniel Dyce's that all the world is under one's own -waistcoat. We have a way of spaeing fortunes in the North, when young, in -which we count the waistcoat buttons from top to bottom, and say: -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“Tinker, -Tailor, -Soldier, -Sailor, -Rich man, -Poor man, -Prodigal, -Or Thief?” - </pre> -<p> -Whichever name falls upon the last button tells what is your destiny, and -after the county corps has been round our way recruiting, I see our -school-boys with all their waistcoat buttons but three at the top -amissing. Dan Dyce had a different formula: he said, “Luckiness, Leisure, -Ill or Well, Good World, Bad World, Heaven or Hell?” - </p> -<p> -“Not Heaven, Dan!” said Bell. “The other place I'll admit, for whiles I'm -in a furious temper over some trifle;” to which he would answer, “Woman! -the Kingdom of Heaven is within you.” - </p> -<p> -So, I think sometimes, all that's worth while in the world is in this -little burgh, except a string-quartette and a place called Florence I have -long been wishing to see if ever I have the money. In this small town is -every week as much of tragedy and comedy and farce as would make a -complete novel full of laughter and tears, that would sell in a jiffy. I -have started, myself, a score of them—all the essential inspiration -got from plain folk passing my window, or from hearing a sentence dropped -among women gossiping round a well. Many a winter night I come in with a -fine catch of tales picked up in the by-going, as we say, and light the -candles in a hurry, and make a gallant dash at “Captain Consequence. -Chapter I.” or “A Wild Inheritance. Part I. The Astounding Mary.” Only the -lavishness of the material hampers me: when I'm at “Captain Consequence” - (which would be a splendid sombre story of an ill life, if I ever got -beyond Chapter I. and the old scamp's fondness for his mother), my wife -runs in with something warm to drink, and tells me Jonathan Campbell's -goat has broken into the minister's garden, and then I'm off the key for -villany; there's a shilling book in Jonathan's goat herself. -</p> -<p> -But this time I'm determined to stick by the fortunes of the Dyce family, -now that I have got myself inside their door. I hope we are friends of -that household, dearer to me than the dwellings of kings (not that I have -cognizance of many). I hope that no matter how often or how early we rap -at the brass knocker, or how timidly, Kate will come, and in one breath -say, “What is't? Come in!” We may hear, when we're in, people passing in -the street, and the wild geese call—wild geese, wild geese! this -time I will not follow where you tempt to where are only silence and dream—the -autumn and the summer days may cry us out to garden and wood, but if I can -manage it I will lock the door on the inside, and shut us snugly in with -Daniel Dyce and his household, and it will be well with us then. Yes, yes, -it will be well with us then. -</p> -<p> -The wild-goose cry, heard in the nights, beyond her comprehension, was all -that Bud Dyce found foreign in that home. All else was natural and -familiar and friendly, for all else she knew was love. But she feared at -first the “honk, honk” of the lone wild things that burdened her with -wonder and awe. Lying in her attic bower at night, they seemed to her like -sore mistaken wanderers, wind-driven, lost; and so they are, I know. Hans -Andersen and Grimm for her had given to their kind a forlorn and fearsome -meaning. But Kate MacNeill had helped, to some degree, these childish -apprehensions. -</p> -<p> -The Highland maid had brought from Colonsay a flesh that crept in -darkness, a brain with a fantastic maggot in it; she declared to goodness, -and to Bud sometimes, that she had no life of it with ghosts in her small -back room. But Bud was not to let on to her aunties. Forbye it was only -for Kate they came, the ghosts; did Bud not hear them last night? Geese! -No, not geese, Kate knew different, and if the thing lasted much longer -she would stay no more in this town; she would stay nowhere, she would -just go back to Colonsay. Not that Colonsay was better; there were often -ghosts in Colonsay—in the winter-time, and then it behooved you to -run like the mischief, or have a fine strong lad with you for your convoy. -If there were no ghosts in America it was because it cost too much to go -there on the steamers. Harken to yon—“Honk, honk!”—did ever -you hear the like of it? Who with their wits about them in weather like -that would like to be a ghost? And loud above the wind that rocked the -burgh in the cradle of the hills, loud above the beating rain, the creak -of doors and rap of shutters in that old house, Bud and Kate together in -the kitchen heard again the “honk, honk!” of the geese. Then it was for -the child that she missed the mighty certainty of Chicago, that Scotland -somehow to her mind seemed an old unhappy place, in the night of which -went passing Duncan, murdered in his sleep, and David Rizzio with the -daggers in his breast, and Helen of Kirk-connel Lee. The nights but rarely -brought any fear for her in spite of poor Kate's ghosts, since the warmth -and light and love of the household filled every corner of lobby and -stair, and went to bed with her. When she had said her prayer the geese -might cry, the timbers of the old house crack, Bud was lapped in the love -of God and man, and tranquil. But the mornings dauntened her often when -she wakened to the sound of the six-o'clock bell. She would feel, when it -ceased, as if all virtue were out of last night's love and prayer. Then -all Scotland and its curious scraps of history as she had picked it up -weighed on her spirit for a time; the house was dead and empty; not ghost -nor goose made her eerie, but mankind's old inexplicable alarms. How deep -and from what distant shores comes childhood's wild surmise! There was -nothing to harm her, she knew, but the strangeness of the dawn and a -craving for life made her at these times the awakener of the other -dwellers in the house of Dyce. -</p> -<p> -She would get out of bed and go next door to the room of Ailie, and creep -in bed beside her to kiss her for a little from her dreams. To the aunt -these morning visitations were precious: she would take the bairn to her -bosom and fall asleep with sighs of content, the immaculate mother. Bud -herself could not sleep then for watching the revelation of her lovely -auntie in the dawn—the cloud on the pillow, that turned to masses of -hazel hair, the cheeks and lips that seemed to redden like flowers as the -day dawned, the nook of her bosom, the pulse of her brow. -</p> -<p> -Other mornings Wanton Wully's bell would send her in to Bell, who would -give her the warm hollow of her own place in the blankets, while she -herself got up to dress briskly for the day's affairs. “Just you lie down -there, pet, and sleepy-baw,” she would say, tying her coats with trim -tight knots. “You will not grow up a fine, tall, strong girl like your -Auntie Ailie if you do not take your sleep when you can get it. The -morning is only for done old wives like me that have things to do and -don't grudge doing them.” - </p> -<p> -She would chatter away to Bud as she dressed, a garrulous auntie this, two -things always for her text—the pride of Scotland, and the virtue of -duty done. A body, she would say, was sometimes liable to weary of the -same things to be done each day, the same tasks even-on, fires and food -and cleansing, though the mind might dwell on great deeds desirable to be -accomplished, but pleasure never came till the thing was done that was the -first to hand, even if it was only darning a stocking. What was Bud going -to be when she grew up? Bud guessed she wasn't going to be anything but -just a lady. Ah, yes, but even ladies had to do something wise-like; there -was Ailie—to go no farther—who could have managed a business -though her darning was but lumpy. Even for a lady there was nothing nobler -than the making of her own bed; besides the doctors said it was remarkably -efficacious for the figure. -</p> -<p> -Bud, snug in her auntie's blankets, only her nose and her bright bead eyes -showing in the light of the twirly wooden candlestick, guessed Mrs. -Molyneux was the quickest woman to get through work ever she saw: why! she -just waved it to one side and went out to shop or lunch with Jim. -</p> -<p> -A look of pity for Mrs. Molyneux, the misguided, would come to Bell's -face, but for those folk in America she never had a word of criticism in -the presence of the child. All she could say was America was different. -America was not Scotland. And Scotland was not England, though in many -places they called Scotch things English. -</p> -<p> -Jim used to say, speaking of father, that a Scotsman was a kind of -superior Englishman. -</p> -<p> -Bell wished to goodness she could see the man—he must have been a -clever one! -</p> -<p> -Other mornings again would the child softly open her uncle's door and he -would get a terrible fright, crying “Robbers! but you'll get nothing. I -have my watch in my boots, and my money in my mouth.” - </p> -<p> -She would creep beside him, and in these early hours began her education. -She was learning Ailie's calm and curiosity and ambition, she was learning -Bell's ideas of duty and the ancient glory of her adopted land; from her -uncle she was learning many things, of which the least that seemed useful -at the time was the Lord's Prayer in Latin. <i>Pater noster qui es in -coelis</i>—that and a few hundred of Trayner's Latin maxims was -nearly all of the classic tongue that survived with the lawyer from -student days. It was just as good and effective a prayer in English, he -admitted, but somehow, whiles, the language was so old it brought you into -closer grips with the original. Some mornings she would hum to him coon -songs heard in her former home; and if he was in trim he himself would -sing some psalm to the tune of Coleshill, French, Bangor, or Tor-wood. His -favorite was Torwood; it mourned so—mourned so! Or at other times a -song like “Mary Morison.” - </p> -<p> -“What are you bumming away at up there the pair of you?” Bell would cry, -coming to the stair-foot. “If you sing before breakfast, you'll greet -before night!” - </p> -<p> -“Don't she like singing in the morning?” Bud asked, nestling beside him, -and he laughed. -</p> -<p> -“It's an old freit—an old superstition,” said he, “that it's unlucky -to begin the day too blithely. It must have been a doctor that started it, -but you would wonder at the number of good and douce Scots folk, plain -bodies like ourselves, that have the notion in their mind from infancy, -and never venture a cheep or chirrup before the day's well aired.” - </p> -<p> -“My stars, ain't she Scotch, Auntie Bell!” said Bud. “So was father. He -would sing any time; he would sing if it broke a tooth; but he was pretty -Scotch other ways. Once he wore a pair of kilts to a Cale—to a -Caledonian club.” - </p> -<p> -“I don't keep a kilt myself,” said her uncle. “The thing's not strictly -necessary unless you're English and have a Hielan' shooting.” - </p> -<p> -“Auntie Bell is the genuine Scotch stuff, I guess!” - </p> -<p> -“There's no concealing the fact that she is,” her uncle admitted. “She's -so Scotch that I am afraid she's apt to think of God as a countryman of -her own.” And there were the hours that Ailie gave with delight to Bud's -more orthodox tuition. The back room that was called Dan's study, because -he sometimes took a nap there after dinner, became a schoolroom. There was -a Mercator's map of the world on the wall, and another of Europe, that of -themselves gave the place the right academy aspect. With imagination, a -map, and <i>The Golden Treasury</i> you might have as good as a college -education, according to Ailie. They went long voyages together on -Mercator; saw marvellous places; shivered at the poles or languished 4 in -torrid plains, sometimes before Kate could ring the bell for breakfast. -There seemed no spot in the world that this clever auntie had not some -knowledge of. How eagerly they crossed continents, how ingeniously they -planned routes! For the lengths of rivers, the heights of mountains, the -values of exports, and all the trivial passing facts that mar the great -game of geography for many childish minds, they had small consideration; -what they gathered in their travels were sounds, colors, scenes, weather, -and the look of races. What adventures they had! as when, pursued by -elephants and tigers, they sped in a flash from Bengal to the Isle of -Venice, and saw the green slime of the sea on her steeping palaces. Yes, -the world is all for the folk of imagination. 'Love maps and you will -never be too old or too poor to travel,' was Ailie's motto. She found a -hero or a heroine for every spot upon Mercator, and nourished so the child -in noble admirations. -</p> -<p> -You might think it would always be the same pupil and the same teacher, -but no, they sometimes changed places. If Ailie taught Bud her own love -for the lyrics that are the best work of men in their hours of exaltation, -Bud sent Ailie back to her Shakespeare, and sweet were the days they spent -in Arden or Prospero's Isle. -</p> -<p> -It was well with them then; it was well with the woman and the child, and -they were happy. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XI -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>UT the Dyces never really knew how great and serious was the charge -bequeathed to them in their brother William's daughter till they saw it -all one night in March in the light of a dozen penny candles. -</p> -<p> -Lennox had come from a world that's lit by electricity, and for weeks she -was sustained in wonder and amusement by the paraffine lamps of Daniel -Dyce's dwelling. They were, she was sure, the oldest kind of light in all -the world—Aladdin-lights that gleamed of old on caverns of gems—till -Kate on this particular evening came into the kitchen with the week-end -groceries. It was a stormy season—the year of the big winds; -moanings were at the windows, sobbings in the chimney-heads, and the -street was swept by spindrift rain. Bell and Ailie and their brother sat -in the parlor, silent, playing cards with a dummy hand, and Bud, with -Footles in her lap, behind the winter dikes on which clothes dried before -the kitchen fire, crouched on the fender with a Shakespeare, where almost -breathlessly she read the great, the glorious Macbeth. -</p> -<p> -“My stars, what a night!” said Kate. “The way them slates and chimney-cans -are flying! It must be the antinuptial gales. I thought every minute would -by my next. Oh, towns! towns! Stop you till I get back to Colonsay, and -I'll not leave it in a hurry, I'll assure you.” - </p> -<p> -She threw a parcel on the kitchen dresser, and turned to the light a round -and rosy face that streamed with clean, cooling rain, her hair in tangles -on her temples and her eyes sparkling with the light of youth and -adventure—for to tell the truth she had been flirting at the door a -while, in spite of all the rain, with some admirer. -</p> -<p> -Bud was the sort of child whose fingers itch in the presence of unopened -parcels—in a moment the string was untied from the week-end -groceries. -</p> -<p> -“Candles!” she cried. “Well, that beats the band! I've seen 'em in -windows. What in the world are you going to do with candles? One, two, -three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve—oh, -Laura, ain't we grand!” - </p> -<p> -“What would we do with them but burn them?” said the maid; “we'll use them -in the washing-house,” and then she sank into a chair. “Mercy on me, I -declare I'm dying!” she exclaimed, in a different key, and Bud looked -round and saw Kate's face had grown of a sudden very pale. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, dear! what is the matter?” she asked, her eyes large, innocent, and -anxious. -</p> -<p> -“Pains,” moaned the maid. “Pains inside me and all over me, and shiverings -down the spine of the back. Oh, it's a sore thing pain, especially when -it's bad! But don't—don't say a word to the mustress; I'm not that -old, and maybe I'll get better.” - </p> -<p> -“Try pain-killer,” recommended Bud. “And if I was you I'd start just here -and say a prayer. Butt right in and I'll not listen.” - </p> -<p> -“Pain-killer!—what in all the world's pain-killer? I never heard of -it. And the only prayer I know is 'My Father which art' in Gaelic, and -there's nothing in it about pains in the spine of the back. No, no! I'll -just have to take a table-spoonful of something or other three times a -day, the way I did when the doctor put me right in Colonsay. Perhaps it's -just a chill, but oh! I'm sorrowful, sorrowful!” and Kate, the color -coming slowly back to her, wept softly to herself, rocking in the kitchen -chair. It was sometimes by those odd hysterics that she paid for her -elations with the lads. -</p> -<p> -“I know what's wrong with you,” said Bud, briskly, in the manner of Mrs. -Molyneux. “It's just the croodles. Bless you, you poor, perishing soul! I -take the croodles myself when it's a night like this and I'm alone. The -croodles ain't the least wee bit deadly; you can put them away by hustling -at your work, or banging an old piano, or reading a story, or playing that -you're somebody else—Well, I declare, I think I could cure you right -now with these twelve candles, far better than you'd do by shooting drugs -into yourself.” - </p> -<p> -“I never took a single candle in all my life,” said Kate, “far less -twelve, and I'll die first.” - </p> -<p> -“Silly!” exclaimed Bud. “You'd think to hear you speak you were a starving -Esquimau. I don't want you to eat the candles. Wait a minute.” She ran -lightly up-stairs and was gone for ten minutes. -</p> -<p> -Kate's color all revived; she forgot her croodles in the spirit of -anticipation that the child had roused. “Oh, but she's the clever one -that!” she said to herself, drying the rain and tears from her face and -starting to nibble a biscuit. “She knows as much as two ministers, and -still she's not a bit proud. Some day she'll do something desperate.” - </p> -<p> -When Bud came back she startled the maid by her appearance, for she had -clad herself, for the first time in Scotland, with a long, thin, copious -dancing-gown, in which a lady of the vaudeville, a friend of Mrs. -Molyneux's, had taught her dancing. -</p> -<p> -“Ain't this dandy?” she said, closing the kitchen door, and there was a -glow upon her countenance and a movement of her body that, to the maid's -eyes, made her look a little woman. “Ain't this bully? Don't you stand -there looking like a dying Welsh rabbit, but help me light them candles -for the foot-lights. Why, I knew there was some use for these old candles -first time I set eyes on them; they made me think of something I couldn't -'zactly think of—made me kind of gay, you know, just as if I was -going to the theatre. They're only candles, but there's twelve lights to -them all at once, and now you'll see some fun.” - </p> -<p> -“What in the world are you going to do, lassie?” asked the maid. -</p> -<p> -“I'm going to be a Gorgeous Entertainment; I'm going to be the Greatest -Agg-Aggregation of Historic Talent now touring the Middle West. I'm -Mademoiselle Winifred Wallace, of Madison Square Theatre, New York, -positively appearing here for one night only. I'm the whole company, and -the stage manager, and the band, and the boys that throw the bouquets. -Biff! I'm checked high; all you've got to do is to sit there with your -poor croodles and feel them melt away. Let's light the foot-lights.” - </p> -<p> -There was a row of old brass bedroom candlesticks on the kitchen shelf -that were seldom used now in the house of Dyce, though their polish was -the glory of Miss Bell's heart. The child kilted up her gown, jumped on a -chair, and took them down with the help of Kate. She stuck in each a -candle, and ranged them in a semicircle on the floor, then lit the candles -and took her place behind them. -</p> -<p> -“Put out the lamp!” she said to Kate, in the common voice of actors' -tragedy. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed and I'll do nothing of the kind,” said the maid. “If your auntie -Bell comes in she'll—she'll skin me alive for letting you play such -cantrips with her candles. Forbye, you're going to do something desperate, -something that's not canny, and I must have the lamp behind me or I'll -lose my wits.” - </p> -<p> -“Woman, put out the light!” repeated Bud, with an imperious, pointing -finger, and, trembling, Kate turned down the lamp upon the wall and blew -down the chimney in the very way Miss Dyce was always warning her against. -She gasped at the sudden change the loss of the light made—at the -sense of something idolatrous and bewitched in the arc of flames on her -kitchen floor, each blown inward from the draught of a rattling window. -</p> -<p> -“If it is <i>buidseachas</i>—if it is witchcraft of any kind you are -on for, I'll not have it,” said Kate, firmly. “I never saw the like of -this since the old woman in Pennyland put the curse on the Colonsay -factor, and she had only seven candles. Dear, <i>dear</i> Lennox, do not -do anything desperate; do not be carrying on, for you are frightening me -out of my judgment. I'm—I'm maybe better now; I took a bite at a -biscuit; indeed, I'm quite better; it was nothing but the cold—and a -lad out there that tried to kiss me.” - </p> -<p> -Bud paid no heed, but plucked up the edges of her skirt in out-stretched -hands and glided into the last dance she had learned from the vaudeville -lady, humming softly to herself an appropriate tune. The candles warmly -lit her neck, her ears, her tilted nostrils; her brow was high in shadow. -First she rose on tiptoe and made her feet to twitter on the flags, then -swayed and swung a little body that seemed to hang in air. The white silk -swept around and over her—wings with no noise of flapping feather, -or swirled in sea-shell coils, that rose in a ripple from her ankles and -swelled in wide, circling waves above her head, revealing her in glimpses -like some creature born of foam on fairy beaches and holding the command -of tempest winds. Ah, dear me! many and many a time I saw her dance just -so in her daft days before the chill of wisdom and reflection came her -way; she was a passion disembodied, an aspiration realized, a happy -morning thought, a vapor, a perfume of flowers, for her attire had lain in -lavender. She was the spirit of spring, as I have felt it long ago in -little woods, or seen it in pictures, or heard it in songs; she was an -ecstasy, she was a dream. -</p> -<p> -The dog gave a growl of astonishment, then lay his length on the -hearth-rug, his nose between his paws, his eyes fixed on her. “I'll not -have it,” said the maid, piteously. “At least I'll not stand much of it, -for it's not canny to be carrying on like that in a Christian dwelling. I -never did the like of that in all my life.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>Every</i> move a picture,” said the child, and still danced on, with -the moan of the wind outside for a bass to her low-hummed melody. Her -stretching folds flew high, till she seemed miraculous tall, and to the -servant's fancy might have touched the low ceiling; then she sank—and -sank—and sank till her forehead touched the floor, and she was a -flower fallen, the wind no more to stir its petals, the rain no more to -glisten on its leaves. 'Twas as if she shrivelled and died there, and Kate -gave one little cry that reached the players of cards in the parlor. -</p> -<p> -“Hush! what noise was that?” said Ailie, lifting her head. -</p> -<p> -“It would be Kate clumping across the kitchen floor in the Gaelic -language,” said Mr. Dyce, pushing his specs up on his brow. -</p> -<p> -“Nothing but the wind,” said Bell. “What did you say was trump?”—for -that was the kind of player she was. -</p> -<p> -“It was not the wind, it was a cry; I'm sure I heard a cry. I hope there's -nothing wrong with the little one,” said Ailie, with a throbbing heart, -and she threw her cards on the table and went out. She came back in a -moment, her face betraying her excitement, her voice demanding silence. -</p> -<p> -“Of all the wonders!” said she. “Just step this way, people, to the -pantry.” - </p> -<p> -They rose and followed her. The pantry was all darkness. Through its -partly open door that led into the kitchen they saw their child in the -crescent of the candles, though she could not see them, as no more could -Kate, whose chair was turned the other way. They stood in silence watching -the strange performance, each with different feelings, but all with -eeriness, silent people of the placid, old, half-rustic world that lives -forever with realities and seldom sees the passions counterfeited. -</p> -<p> -Bud had risen, her dark hair looking unnaturally black above her brow, -and, her dancing done, she was facing the dog and the servant, the only -audience of whose presence she was aware. -</p> -<p> -“Toots!” said the maid, relieved that all seemed over, “that's nothing in -the way of dancing; you should see them dancing Gillie-Callum over-bye in -Colonsay! There's a dancer so strong there that he breaks the very -boards.” - </p> -<p> -Bud looked at her, and yet not wholly at her—through her—with -burning eyes. -</p> -<p> -“Hush!” she said, trembling. “Do you not hear something?” and at that -moment, high over the town went the “honk, honk” of the wild geese. -</p> -<p> -“Devil the thing but geeses!” said the maid, whose blood had curdled for a -second. The rain swept like a broom along the street, the gutters bubbled, -the shutters rapped, far above the dwelling went the sound of the flying -geese. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, hush, woman, hush!” implored the child, her hands over her ears, her -figure cowering. -</p> -<p> -“It's only the geeses. What a start you gave me!” said the maid again. -</p> -<p> -“No, no,” said Bud. -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'Methought, I heard a voice cry, -“Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,” the innocent sleep; -Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, -... sore labor's bath, -Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, -Chief nourisher in life's feast—' ” - </pre> -<p> -“What do you mean?” cried Kate. -</p> -<p> -“Still it cried, 'Sleep no more!' to all the house: Glamis hath murder'd -sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no -more.” - </p> -<p> -The child filled each phrase with a travesty of passion; she had seen the -part enacted. It was not, to be sure, a great performance. Some words were -strangely mutilated; but it was a child, and she had more than a child's -command of passion—she had feeling, she had heart. -</p> -<p> -“I cannot look at you!” exclaimed Kate. “You are not canny, but oh! you -are—you are majestic! There was never the like of it in all the -isles.” - </p> -<p> -Bell, in the darkness of the pantry, wept silently at some sense of sin in -this play-acting on a Saturday night; her brother held her arm tightly. -Ailie felt a vague unrest and discontent with herself, a touch of envy and -of shame. -</p> -<p> -“Please collect the bouquets,” said the child, seating herself on the -floor with her knees tucked high in her gown. “Are the croodles all gone?” - </p> -<p> -“It did me a lot of good, yon dancing,” said Kate. “Did you put yon words -about Macbeth sleep no more together yourself?” - </p> -<p> -“Yes,” said Bud, and then repented. “No,” she added, hurriedly, “that's a -fib; please, God, give me a true tongue. It was made by Shakespeare—dear -old Will!” - </p> -<p> -“I'm sure I never heard of the man in all my life before; but he must have -been a bad one.” - </p> -<p> -“Why, Kate, you are as fresh as the mountain breeze,” said Bud. “He was -Great! He was born at Stratford-on-Avon, a poor boy, and went to London -and held horses outside the theatre door, and then wrote plays so grand -that only the best can act them. He was—he was not for an age, but -all the time.” - </p> -<p> -She had borrowed the lesson as well as the manner of Auntie Ailie, who -smiled in the dark of the pantry at this glib rendering of herself. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, I should love to play Rosalind,” continued the child. “I should love -to play <i>everything</i>. When I am big, and really Winifred Wallace, I -will go all over the world and put away people's croodles same as I did -yours, Kate, and they will love me; and I will make them feel real good, -and sometimes cry—for that is beautiful, too. I will never rest, but -go on, and on, and on; and everywhere everybody will know about me—even -in the tiny minstrel towns where they have no or'nary luck but just coon -shows, for it's in these places croodles must be most catching. I'll go -there and play for nothing, just to show them what a dear soul Rosalind -was. I want to grow fast, fast! I want to be tall like my auntie Ailie, -and lovely like my dear auntie Ailie, and clever like my sweet, sweet aunt -Ailie.” - </p> -<p> -“She's big enough and bonny enough, and clever enough in some things,” - said the maid; “but can she sew like her sister?—tell me that!” - </p> -<p> -“Sew!” exclaimed the child, with a frown. “I <i>hate</i> sewing. I guess -Auntie Ailie's like me, and feels sick when she starts a hem and sees how -long it is, and all to be gone over with small stitches.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, indeed I do,” whispered Ailie in the pantry, and she was -trembling. She told me later how she felt—of her conviction then -that for her the years of opportunity were gone, the golden years that had -slipped past in the little burgh town without a chance for her to grasp -their offerings. She told me of her resolution there and then that this -child, at least, should have its freedom to expand. -</p> -<p> -Bud crept to the end of the crescent of her footlights and blew out the -candles slowly one by one. The last she left a-light a little longer, and, -crouched upon the floor, she gazed with large, dreaming eyes into its -flame as if she read there. -</p> -<p> -“It is over now,” said Mr. Dyce, in a whisper, to his sisters, and with -his hands on their shoulders led them back into the parlor. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>HE was wayward, she was passionate, she was sometimes wild. She was not -what, in the Pigeons' Seminary, could be called a good child, for all her -sins were frankly manifest, and she knew no fear nor naughty stratagem; -her mind, to all but Kate, was open as the day, and there it was the fault -of honest Kate's stupidity. But often Miss Bell must be moaning at -transgressions almost harmless in themselves, yet so terribly unlike a -Christian bairn, as when Bud spent an afternoon in a tent with some <i>gypsy</i> -children, changed clothes with them the better to act a part, and stormed -because she could not have them in to tea with her. Or when she asked Lady -Anne, bazaar-collecting in the house of Dyce, if she ever had had a -proposal. It was a mercy that Lady Anne that very week had had one, and -was only too pleased to tell of it and say she had accepted. -</p> -<p> -“Then <i>you're</i> safe out of the woods,” said Bud, gravely. “There's -our Kate, she hasn't had a proposal yet, and I guess she's on the slopey -side of thirty. It must be dreff'le to be as old—as old as a house -and have no beau to love you. It must be 'scrudating.” - </p> -<p> -Lady Anne let her eyes turn for a moment on the sisters Dyce, and the -child observed and reddened. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Auntie Bell!” she said, quickly. “Auntie Bell had heaps and heaps of -beaux all dying to marry her, but she gave them the calm, cold eye and -said she had to cling to Uncle Dan. It was very noble of her, wasn't it?” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed it was!” admitted Lady Anne, very much ashamed of herself. -</p> -<p> -“And Auntie Ailie is not on the slopey side of thirty,” continued Bud, -determined to make all amends. “She's young enough to love dolls.” - </p> -<p> -It was Bell who censured her for this dreadful behavior. “You are a -perfect torment, Lennox,” she said, at the first opportunity. “A bairn -like you must not be talking about beaux, and love, and proposals, and -nonsense of that kind—it's fair ridiculous.” - </p> -<p> -“Why, I thought love was the Great Thing!” exclaimed Bud, much astonished. -“It's in all the books, there's hardly anything else, 'cept when somebody -is murdered and you know that the man who did it is the only one you don't -suspect. Indeed, auntie, I thought it was the Great Thing!” - </p> -<p> -“And so it is, my dear,” said Ailie. “There's very little else in all the -world, except—except the children,” and she folded her niece in her -arms. “It <i>is</i> the Great Thing; it has made Lady Anne prettier than -ever she was in her life before, it has made her brighter, humbler, -gentler, kinder. God bless her, I hope she will be happy.” - </p> -<p> -“But it was very wrong; it was a kind of fib for you to talk about me -having lots of lads in my time,” said Auntie Bell. “You do not know -whether I had or not.” - </p> -<p> -Bud looked at her and saw a flush on her face. “I think,” said she, “the -beaux must have been very stupid, then. But I guess there must have been -one, Auntie Bell, and you have forgotten all about him.” And at that Miss -Bell went hurriedly from the room with a pretence that she heard a pot -boil over, and Ailie in a low voice told her niece all about Bell's beau, -deep drowned in the Indian Ocean. -</p> -<p> -For days after that the child was tender with her elder aunt, and made a -splendid poem in blank verse upon the late Captain James Murray, which -Bell was never to see, but Ailie treasured. For days was she angelic good. -Her rages never came to fever heat. Her rebellions burned themselves out -in her bosom. Nobly she struggled with long division and the grammar that -she abominated; very meekly she took censure for copy-books blotted and -words shamefully misspelled in Uncle Daniel's study. Some way this love -that she had thought a mere amusement, like shopping in Chicago, took a -new complexion in her mind—became a dear and solemn thing, like her -uncle's Bible readings, when, on Sunday nights at worship in the parlor, -he took his audience through the desert to the Promised Land, and the -abandoned street was vocal with domestic psalm from the provost's open -window. She could not guess—how could she, the child?—that -love has its variety. She thought there was but the one love in all the -world—the same she felt herself for most things—a gladness and -agreement with things as they were. And yet at times in her reading she -got glimpses of love's terror and empire, as in the stories of Othello and -of Amy Robsart, and herself began to wish she had a lover. She thought at -first of Uncle Dan; but he could not be serious, and she had never heard -him sigh—in him was wanting some remove, some mystery. What she -wanted was a lover on a milk-white steed, a prince who was “the flower o' -them a',” as in Aunt Ailie's song “Glenlogie”; and she could not imagine -Uncle Dan with his spectacles on riding any kind of steed, though she felt -it would be nice to have him with her when the real prince was there. -</p> -<p> -Do you think it unlikely that this child should have such dreams? Ah, -then, you are not of her number, or you have forgotten. She never forgot. -Many a time she told me in after years of how in the attic bower, with -Footles snug at her feet, she conjured up the lad on the milk-white steed, -not so much for himself alone, but that she might act the lady-love. And -in those dreams she was tall and slender, sometimes proud, disdainful, -wounding the poor wretch with sharp words and cold glances; or she was -meek and languishing, sighing out her heart even in presence of his -true-love gifts of candy and P. & A. MacGlashan's penny tarts. She -walked with him in gardens enchanted; they sailed at nights over calm, -moonlit seas, and she would be playing the lute. She did not know what the -lute was like; but it was the instrument of love, and had a dulcet sound, -like the alto flutes in the burgh band. -</p> -<p> -But, of course, no fairy prince came wooing Daniel Dyce's little niece, -though men there were in the place—elderly and bald, with married -daughters—who tried to buy her kisses for sixpences and sweets, and -at last she felt vicariously the joys of love by conducting the affairs of -Kate. -</p> -<p> -Kate had many wooers—that is the solace of her class. They liked her -that she was genial and plump, with a flattering smile and a soft touch of -the Gaelic accent that in the proper key and hour is the thing to break -hearts. She twirled them all round her little finger, and Bud was soon to -see this and to learn that the maid was still very far from the slopey -side of thirty. But Kate, too, had her dreams—of some misty lad of -the mind, with short, curled hair, clothes brass-buttoned, and a delicious -smell of tar—something or other on a yacht. The name she had endowed -him with was Charles. She made him up from passing visions of seamen on -the quays, and of notions gleaned from her reading of penny novelettes. -</p> -<p> -One week-night Bud came on her in the kitchen dressed in her Sunday -clothes and struggling with a spluttering pen. -</p> -<p> -“Are you at your lessons, too?” said the child. “You naughty Kate! there's -a horrid blot. No lady makes blots.” - </p> -<p> -“It wasn't me, it was this devilish pen; besides, I'm not a lady,” said -Kate, licking the latest blot with her tongue and grimacing. “What way do -you spell weather?” - </p> -<p> -“W-e-t-h-e-r,” said Bud. “At least, I think that's the way; but I'd best -run and ask Aunt Ailie—she's a speller from Spellerville.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed and you'll do nothing of the kind,” cried the maid, alarmed and -reddening. “You'll do nothing of the kind, Lennox, because—I'm -writing to Charles.” - </p> -<p> -“A love-letter! Oh, I've got you with the goods on you!” exclaimed Bud, -enchanted. “And what are you doing with your hurrah clothes on?” - </p> -<p> -“I like to put on my Sunday clothes when I'm writing Charles,” said the -maid, a little put-about. “Do you think it's kind of daft?” - </p> -<p> -“It's not daft at all, it's real cute of you; it's what I do myself when -I'm writing love-letters, for it makes me feel kind of grander. It's just -the same with poetry; I simply can't make really poetry unless I have on a -nice frock and my hands washed.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>You</i> write love-letters!” said the maid, astounded. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, you poor, perishing soul!” retorted Bud. “And you needn't yelp. I've -written scores of love-letters without stopping to take breath. Stop! -stop!” she interrupted herself, and breathed an inward little prayer. “I -mean that I write them—well, kind of write them—in my mind.” - But this was a qualification beyond Kate's comprehension. -</p> -<p> -“Then I wish you would give me a hand with this one,” said she, -despairingly. “All the nice words are so hard to spell, and this is such a -bad pen.” - </p> -<p> -“They're <i>all</i> bad pens; they're all devilish,” said Bud, from long -experience. “But I'd love to help you write that letter. Let me see—pooh! -it's dreff'le bad, Kate. I can't read a bit of it, almost.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm sure and neither can I,” said Kate, distressed. -</p> -<p> -“Then how in the world do you expect Charles to read it?” asked Bud. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, he's—he's a better scholar than me,” said Kate, complacently. -“But you might write this one for me.” - </p> -<p> -Bud washed her hands, took a chair to the kitchen table, threw back her -hair from her eyes, and eagerly entered into the office of -love-letter-writer, “What will I say to him?” she asked. -</p> -<p> -“My dear, dear Charles,” said the maid, who at least knew so much. -</p> -<p> -“My adorable Charles,” said Bud, as an improvement, and down it went with -the consent of the dictator. -</p> -<p> -“I'm keeping fine, and I'm very busy,” suggested Kate, upon deliberation. -“The weather is capital here at present, and it is a good thing, for the -farmers are busy with their hay.” - </p> -<p> -Bud sat back and stared at her in amazement. “Are you sure this is for a -Charles?” she asked. “You might as well call him Sissy and talk frocks. -Why, you must tell him how you love him.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, I don't like,” said Kate, confused. “It sounds so—so bold and -impudent when you put it in the English and write it down. But please -yourself; put down what you like and I'll be dipping the pen for you.” - </p> -<p> -Bud was not slow to take the opportunity. For half an hour she sat at the -kitchen table and searched her soul for fitting words that would convey -Kate's adoration. Once or twice the maid asked what she was writing, but -all she said was: “Don't worry, Kate. I'm right in the throes.” There were -blots and there were erasions, but something like this did the epistle -look when it was done: -</p> -<p> -“My adorable Charles,—I am writing this letter to let you know how -much I truly love you. Oh Charles, dear, you are the Joy of my heart. I am -thinking of you so often, often, till my Heart just aches. It is lovely -wether here at present. Now I will tell you all about the Games. They took -place in a park near here Friday and there was seventeen beautiful dances. -They danced to give you spassums. One of them was a Noble youth. He was a -Prince in his own write, under Spells for sevn years. When he danced, lo -and behold he was the admiration of all Beholders. Alas? poor youth. When -I say alas I mean that it was so sad being like that full of Spells in the -flower of his youth. He looked at me so sad when he was dancing, and I was -so glad. It was just like money from home. Dear Charles, I will tell you -all about myself. I am full of goodness most the time for God loves good -people. But sometimes I am not and I have a temper like two crost sticks -when I must pray to be changed. The dancing gentleman truly loves me to -destruction. He kissed my hand and hastily mountain his noble steed, -galoped furiously away. Ah, the coarse of true love never did run smooth. -Perhaps he will fall upon the forein plain. Dearest Charles—adorable—I -must now tell you that I am being educated for my proper station in life. -There is Geograpy, and penmanship with the right commas, and Long Division -and conjunctives which I abominate. But my teacher, a sweet lady named -Miss Alison Dyce, says they are all truly refining. Oh I am weary, weary, -he cometh not. That is for you, darling Charles, my own.—Your true -heart love, Kate MacNeill.” - </p> -<p> -“Is that all right?” asked Bud, anxiously. -</p> -<p> -“Yes; at least it 'll do fine,” said the maid, with that Highland -politeness that is often so bad for business. “There's not much about -himself in it, but och! it 'll do fine. It's as nice a letter as ever I -saw: the lines are all that straight.” - </p> -<p> -“But there's blots,” said Bud, regretfully. “There oughtn't to be blots in -a real love-letter.” - </p> -<p> -“Toots! just put a cross beside each of them, and write 'this is a kiss,”' -said Kate, who must have had some previous experience. “You forgot to ask -him how's his health, as it leaves us at present.” - </p> -<p> -So Bud completed the letter as instructed. “Now for the envelope,” said -she. -</p> -<p> -“I'll put the address on it myself,” said Kate, confused. “He would be -sure somebody else had been reading it if the address was not in my hand -of write”—an odd excuse, whose absurdity escaped the child. So the -maid put the letter in the bosom of her Sunday gown against her heart, -where meanwhile dwelt the only Charles. It is, I sometimes think, where we -should all deposit and retain our love-letters; for the lad and lass, as -we must think of them, have no existence any more than poor Kate's -Charles. -</p> -<h3> -119 -</h3> -<p> -Two days passed. Often in those two days would Bud come, asking anxiously -if there was any answer yet from Charles. As often the maid of Colonsay -reddened, and said with resignation there was not so much as the scrape of -a pen. “He'll be on the sea,” she explained at last, “and not near a -post-office. Stop you till he gets near a post-office, and you'll see the -fine letter I'll get.” - </p> -<p> -“I didn't know he was a sailor,” said Bud. “Why, I calculated he was a -Highland chieftain or a knight, or something like that. If I had known he -was a sailor I'd have made that letter different. I'd have loaded it up to -the nozzle with sloppy weather, and said, Oh, how sad I was—that's -you, Kate—to lie awake nights thinking about him out on the heaving -billow. Is he a captain?” - </p> -<p> -“Yes,” said Kate, promptly. “A full captain in the summer-time. In the -winter he just stays at home and helps on his mother's farm. Not a cheep -to your aunties about Charles, darling Lennox,” she added, anxiously. -“They're—they're that particular!” - </p> -<p> -“I don't think you're a true love at all,” said Bud, reflecting on many -interviews at the kitchen window and the back door. “Just think of the way -you make goo-goo eyes at the letter-carrier and the butcher's man and the -ash-pit gentleman. What would Charles say?” - </p> -<p> -“Toots! I'm only putting by the time with them,” explained the maid. “It's -only a diversion. When I marry I will marry for my own conveniency, and -the man for me is Charles.” - </p> -<p> -“What's the name of his ship?” asked the child. “The <i>Good Intent</i>,” - said Kate, who had known a skiff of the name in Colonsay. “A beautiful -ship, with two yellow chimneys, and flags to the masthead.” - </p> -<p> -“That's fine and fancy!” said Bud. “There was a gentleman who loved me to -destruction, coming over on the ship from New York, and loaded me with -candy. He was not the captain, but he had gold braid everywhere, and his -name was George Sibley Purser. He promised he would marry me when I made a -name for myself, but I 'spect Mister J. S. Purser 'll go away and forget.” - </p> -<p> -“That's just the way with them all,” said Kate. -</p> -<p> -“I don't care, then,” said Bud. “I'm all right; I'm not kicking.” - </p> -<p> -Next day the breakfast in the house of Dyce was badly served, for Kate was -wild to read a letter that the post had brought, and when she opened it, -you may be sure Bud was at her shoulder. It said: -</p> -<p> -“Dearest Kate,—I love you truly and I am thinking of you most the -time. Thank God we was all safed. Now I will tell you all about the Wreck. -The sea was mountains high, and we had a cargo of spise and perils from -Java on the left-hand side the map as you go to Australia. When the Pirite -ship chased us we went down with all hands. But we constrickted a raft and -sailed on and on till we had to draw lots who would drink the blood. Just -right there a sailor cried 'A sail, A sail, and sure enough it was a sail. -And now I will tell you all about Naples. There is a monsterious mountain -there, or cone which belches horrid flames and lavar. Once upon' a time it -belched all over a town by the name of Pompy and it is there till this -very day. The bay of naples is the grandest in the world it is called the -golden horn. Dearest Katherine, I am often on the mast at night. It is -cold and shakey in that place and oh how the wind doth blow, but I ring a -bell and say alls well which makes the saloon people truly glad. We had -five stow-ways. One of them was a sweet fairhaired child from Liverpool, -he was drove from home. But a good and beautious lady, one of the first -new england families is going to adopt him and make him her only air. How -beautiful and bright he stood as born to rule the storm. I weary for your -letters darling Katherine.—Write soon to your true love till death, -Charles.” - </p> -<p> -Kate struggled through this extraordinary epistle with astonishment. “Who -in the world is it from?” she asked Bud. -</p> -<p> -“Charles, stupid,” said Bud, astonished that there should be any doubt -about that point. “Didn't I—didn't we write him the other night? It -was up to him to write back, wasn't it?” - </p> -<p> -“Of course,” said Kate, very conscious of that letter still unposted, “but—but -he doesn't say Charles anything, just Charles. It's a daft like thing not -to give his name; it might be anybody. There's my Charles, and there's -Charles Maclean from Oronsay—what way am I to know which of them it -is?” - </p> -<p> -“It'll be either or eyether,” said Bud. “Do you know Charles Maclean?” - </p> -<p> -“Of course I do,” said the maid. “He's following the sea, and we were well -acquaint.” - </p> -<p> -“Did he propose to you?” asked Bud. -</p> -<p> -“Well, he did not exactly propose,” admitted Kate, “but we sometimes went -a walk together to the churchyard on a Sunday, and you know yourself what -that means out in Colonsay. I'll just keep the letter and think of it. -It's the nicest letter I ever got, and full of information. It's Charles -Maclean, I'll warrant you, but he did not use to call me Katherine—he -just said Kate and his face would be as red as anything. Fancy him going -down with all hands! My heart is sore for him,” and the maid there and -then transferred her devotion from the misty lad of her own imagination to -Charles Maclean of Oronsay. -</p> -<p> -“You'll help me to write him a letter back to-night,” she said. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, indeed, I'll love to,” said the child, wearily. But by the time the -night came on, and Wanton Wully rang his curfew bell, and the rooks came -clanging home to the tall trees of the forest, she was beyond all interest -in life or love. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XIII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>NTON WULLY only briefly rang the morning bell, and gingerly, with -tight-shut lips and deep nose breathings, as if its loud alarm could so be -mitigated. Once before he had done it just as delicately—when the -Earl was dying, and the bell-ringer, uncertain of his skill to toll, when -the time came, with the right half-minute pauses, grieved the town and -horrified the castle by a rehearsal in the middle of a winter night. But -no soul of mercy is in brazen bells that hang aloof from man in lofty -steeples, and this one, swung ever so gently, sullenly boomed—boomed—boomed. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, to the devil wi' ye!” said Wanton Wully, sweating with vexation. “Of -all the senseless bells! A big, boss bluiter! I canna compel nor coax ye!” - and he gave the rope one vicious tug that brought it, broken, round his -ears, then went from the church into the sunny, silent, morning street, -where life and the day suspended. -</p> -<p> -In faith, a senseless bell, a merciless bell, waking folk to toil and -grief. Dr. Brash and Ailie, heavy-eyed, beside the bed in the attic bower, -shivered at the sound of it, and looked with fear and yearning at the -sleeping child. -</p> -<p> -Bud moved her head from side to side a little on the pillow, with a murmur -from her parched lips, and there was a flicker of the eyelids—that -was all. Between her and the everlasting swound, where giddily swings the -world and all its living things, there seemed no more than a sheet of -tissue-paper: it was as if a breath of the tender morning air would quench -the wavering flame that once was joy and Lennox Dyce. The heart of Auntie -Ailie rose clamoring in her bosom; her eyes stung with the brine of tears -restrained, but she clinched her teeth that she might still be worthy of -the doctor's confidence. -</p> -<p> -He saw it, and put out his hand and pressed her shoulder, a fat, -old-fashioned man, well up in years, with whiskers under his chin like a -cravat, yet beautiful as a prince to Ailie, for on him all her hopes were -cast. “They call me agnostic—atheist even, whiles, I hear,” he said, -in the midst of their vigil; “and, indeed, I'm sometimes beat to get my -mind beyond the mechanism, but—h'm!—a fine child, a noble -child; she was made for something—h'm! That mind and talent—h'm!—that -spirit—h'm!—the base of it was surely never yon gray stuff in -the convolutions.” And another time the minister had come in (the folk in -the street were furious to see him do it!), and timidly suggested prayer. -“Prayer!” said Dr. Brash, “before this child, and her quite conscious! -Man, what in God's own name are we doing here, this—h'm!—dear, -good lady and I, but fever ourselves with sleepless, silent prayer? Do you -think a proper prayer must be official? There's not a drop of stuff in a -druggist's bottle but what's a solution of hope and faith and—h'm!—prayer. -Confound it, sir!” - </p> -<p> -He put out his hand and pressed her on the shoulder, and never said a -word. Oh, the doctors! the doctors! Hale men and hearty, we can see their -shortcomings and can smile at them, but when the night-light burns among -the phials! -</p> -<p> -It was the eighth day after Kate, with a face of clay and her sleeves -rolled up, and the dough still on her elbows as she had come from the -baking-board, burst upon the doctor in his surgery with the cry, “Dr. -Brash, Dr. Brash! ye're to haste ye and come at once to the wee one!” He -had gone as nearly on the wings of the wind as a fat man may in carpet -slippers, and found a distracted family round the fevered child. -</p> -<p> -“Tut, tut, lassie,” said he, chucking her lightly under the chin. “What -new prank is this, to be pretending illness? Or if it's not a let-on, I'll -be bound it's MacGlashan's almond tablet.” - </p> -<p> -“It's these cursed crab-apples in the garden; I'm sure it's the -crab-apples, doctor,” said Miss Bell, looking ten years older than her -usual. -</p> -<p> -“H'm! I think not,” said Dr. Brash, more gravely, with his finger on the -pulse. -</p> -<p> -“It's bound to be,” said Bell, piteous at having to give up her only hope. -“Didn't you eat some yesterday, pet, after I told you that you were not -for your life to touch them?” - </p> -<p> -“No,” said Bud, with hot and heavy breathing. “Then why didn't ye, why -didn't ye; and then it might have been the apples?” said poor Miss Bell. -“You shouldn't have minded me; I'm aye so domineering.” - </p> -<p> -“No, you're not,” said Bud, wanly smiling. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed I am; the thing's acknowledged and you needn't deny it,” said her -auntie. “I'm desperate domineering to you.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, I'm—I'm not kicking,” said Bud. It was the last cheerful -expression she gave utterance to for many days. -</p> -<p> -Wanton Wully was not long the only one that morning in the sunny street. -Women came out unusually early, as it seemed, to beat their basses; but -the first thing that they did was to look at the front of Daniel Dyce's -house with a kind of terror lest none of the blinds should be up and Mr. -Dyce's old kid glove should be off the knocker. “Have you heard what way -she is keeping to-day?” they asked the bellman. -</p> -<p> -“Not a cheep!” said he. “I saw Kate sweepin' out her door-step, but I -couldna ask her. That's the curse of my occupation; I wish to goodness -they had another man for the grave-diggin'.” - </p> -<p> -“You and your graves!” said the women. “Who was mentioning them?” - </p> -<p> -He stood on the siver-side and looked at the blank front of Daniel Dyce's -house with a gloomy eye. “A perfect caution!” he said, “that's what she -was—a perfect caution! She called me Mr. Wanton and always asked me -how was my legs.” - </p> -<p> -“Is there anything wrong with your legs?” said one of the women. -</p> -<p> -“Whiles a weakness,” said Wanton Wully, for he was no hypocrite. “Her -uncle tell't me once it was a kind o' weakness that they keep on gantrys -doon in Maggie White's. But she does not understand—the wee one; -quite the leddy! she thought it was a kind o' gout. Me! I never had the -gout—I never had the money for it, more's the pity.” - </p> -<p> -He went disconsolate down the street to get his brush and barrow, for he -was, between the morning bell and breakfast-time, the burgh's cleansing -department. Later—till the middle of the day—he was the -harbor-master, wore a red-collared coat and chased the gulls from the -roofs of the shipping-boxes and the boys from the slip-side where they -might fall in and drown themselves; his afternoons had half a dozen -distinct official cares, of which, in that wholesome air, grave-digging -came seldomest. This morning he swept assiduously and long before the -house of Daniel Dyce. Workmen passing yawning to their tasks in wood and -garden, field and shed, looked at the muffled knocker and put the -question; their wives, making, a little later, a message to the well, -stopped, too, put down their water-stoups, and speculated on the state of -things within. Smoke rose from more than one chimney in the Dyces' house. -“It's the parlor fire,” said Wanton Wully. “It means breakfast. Cheery -Dan, they say, aye makes a hearty breakfast; I like to see the gift in a -man mysel' though I never had it; it's a good sign o' him the night -before.” - </p> -<p> -Peter the post came clamping by-and-by along the street with his letters, -calling loudly up the closes, less willing than usual to climb the long -stairs, for he was in a hurry to reach the Dyces'. Not the window for him -this morning, nor had it been so for a week, since Kate no longer hung on -the sashes, having lost all interest in the outer world. He went tiptoe -through the flagged close to the back door and lightly tapped. -</p> -<p> -“What way is she this morning?” said he, in the husky whisper that was the -best he could control his voice to, and in his eagerness almost mastered -his roving eye. -</p> -<p> -“She's got the turn!—she's got the turn!” said the maid, -transported. “Miss Dyce was down the now and told me that her temper was -reduced.” - </p> -<p> -“Lord help us! I never knew she had one,” said the post. -</p> -<p> -“It's no' temper that I mean,” said Kate, “but yon thing that you measure -wi' the weather-glass the doctor's aye so cross wi' that he shakes and -shakes and shakes at it. But, anyway, she's better. I hope Miss Ailie will -come down for a bite; if not she'll starve hersel'.” - </p> -<p> -“That's rare! By George, that's tip-top!” said the postman, so uplifted -that he went off with the M.C. step he used at Masons' balls, and would -have clean forgotten to give Kate the letters if she had not cried him -back. -</p> -<p> -Wanton Wully sat on a barrow-tram waiting the postman's exit. “What way is -she?” said he, and Peter's errant eye cocked to all parts of the compass. -What he wanted was to keep this titbit to himself, to have the -satisfaction of passing it along with his letters. To give it to Wanton -Wully at this stage would be to throw away good-fortune. It was said by -Daniel Dyce that the only way to keep a dead secret in the burgh was to -send Wully and his handbell round the town with it as public crier. When -Wanton Wully cried, it beat you to understand a word he said after -“Notice!” but unofficially he was marvellously gleg at circulating news. -“What way is she?” he asked again, seeing the postman's hesitation. -</p> -<p> -“If ye'll promise to stick to the head o' the toun and let me alone in the -ither end, I'll tell ye,” said Peter, and it was so agreed. -</p> -<p> -But they had not long all the glory of the good tidings to themselves. Dr. -Brash came out of Dyce's house for the first time in two days, very sunken -in the eyes and sorely needing shaving, and it could be noticed by the -dullest that he had his jaunty walk and a flower in the lapel of his badly -crushed coat. Ailie put it there with trembling fingers; she could have -kissed the man besides, if there had not been the chance that he might -think her only another silly woman. Later Footles hurled himself in fury -from the doorway, his master close behind him. At the sight of Mr. Dyce -the street was happy; it was the first time they had seen him for a week. -In burgh towns that are small enough we have this compensation, that if we -have to grieve in common over many things, a good man's personal joy -exalts us all. -</p> -<p> -“She's better, Mr. Dyce, I'm hearing,” said P. & A. MacGlashan, wiping -his hands on his apron to prepare for a fervent clasp from one who he -ought to have known was not of the fervent-clasping kind. -</p> -<p> -“Thank God! Thank God!” said Mr. Dyce. “You would know she was pretty far -through?” - </p> -<p> -“Well—we kind of jaloused. But we kent there was no danger—the -thing would be ridiculous!” said P. & A. MacGlashan, and went into his -shop in a hurry, much uplifted, too, and picked out a big bunch of black -grapes and sent his boy with them, with his compliments, to Miss Lennox -Dyce, care of Daniel Dyce, Esquire, Writer. -</p> -<p> -Miss Minto so adored the man she could not show herself to him in an hour -like that; for she knew that she must weep, and a face begrutten ill -became her, so in she came from the door of her Emporium and watched him -pass the window. She saw in him what she had never seen before—for -in his clothing he was always trim and tidy, quite perjink, as hereabouts -we say—she saw, with the sharp eyes of a woman who looks at the man -she would like to manage, that his hat was dusty and his boots not very -brightly polished. More than all the news that leaked that week from the -Dyces' dwelling it realized for her the state of things there. -</p> -<p> -“Tcht! tcht! tcht!” she said to herself; “three of them yonder, and he's -quite neglected!” She went into a back room, where gathered the stuff for -her Great Annual Jumble Sales with ninepenny things at sevenpence -ha'penny, and searched a drawer that sometimes had revealed tremendous joy -to Lennox and other bairns who were privileged to see what they called -“Miss Minto's back.” In the drawer there was a doll called Grace, a large, -robust, and indestructible wooden child that had shared Miss Minto's youth -and found the years more kindly than she, since it got no wrinkles -thinking on the cares of competition in the millinery and mantua-making -trade, but dozed its days away upon feathers and silk and velvet swatches. -Grace was dressed like a queen—if queens are attired in gorgeous, -hand-stitched remnants; she had so long been part of Miss Minto's life -that the mantua-maker swithered in her first intention. But she thought -how happy Mr. Dyce must be that day, and hurriedly packed the doll in a -box and went round herself with it for Lennox Dyce. -</p> -<p> -As she knocked lightly at the front door, the old kid glove came loose in -her hand—an omen! One glance up and down the street to see that no -one noticed her, and then she slipped it in her pocket, with a guilty -countenance. She was not young, at least she was not in her 'teens, but -young enough to do a thing like that for luck and her liking of Daniel -Dyce. Yet her courage failed her, and when Kate came to the door the first -thing she handed to her was the glove. -</p> -<p> -“It fell off,” she said. “I hope it means that it's no longer needed. And -this is a little thing for Miss Lennox, Kate; you will give her it with my -compliments. I hear there's an improvement?” - </p> -<p> -“You wouldna <i>believe</i> it!” said Kate. “Thank God she'll soon be -carrying on as bad as ever!” - </p> -<p> -Mr. Dyce would not have cared a rap that morning if he had come upon his -clerks at Catch-the-Ten, or even playing leap-frog on their desks. He was -humming a psalm you may guess at as he looked at the documents heaped on -his table—his calf-bound books and the dark, japanned deed-boxes -round his room. -</p> -<p> -“Everything just the same, and business still going on!” he said to his -clerk. “Dear me! dear me! what a desperate world! Do you know, I had the -notion that everything was stopped. No, when I think of it, I oftener -fancied all this was a dream.” - </p> -<p> -“Not Menzies vs. Kilblane, at any rate,” said the clerk, with his hand on -a bulky Process, for he was a cheery soul and knew the mind of Daniel -Dyce. -</p> -<p> -“I dare say not,” said the lawyer. “That plea will last a while, I'm -thinking. And all about a five-pound fence! Let you and me, Alexander, -thank our stars there are no sick bairns in the house of either Menzies or -Kilblane, for then they would understand how much their silly fence -mattered, and pity be on our Table-of-Fees!” He tossed over the papers -with an impatient hand. “Trash!” said he. “What frightful trash! I can't -be bothered with them—not to-day. They're no more to me than a -docken leaf. And last week they were almost everything. You'll have heard -the child has got the turn?” - </p> -<p> -“I should think I did!” said Alexander. “And no one better pleased to hear -it!” - </p> -<p> -“Thank you, Alick. How's the family?” - </p> -<p> -“Fine,” said the clerk. -</p> -<p> -“Let me think, now—seven, isn't it? A big responsibility.” - </p> -<p> -“Not so bad as long's we have the health,” said Alexander. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Dyce. “All one wants in this world is the health—and -a little more money. I was just thinking—” He stopped himself, -hummed a bar of melody, and twinkled through his spectacles. “You'll have -read Dickens?” said he. -</p> -<p> -“I was familiar with his works when I was young,” said Alexander, like a -man confessing that in youth he played at bools. “They were not bad.” - </p> -<p> -“Just so! Well, do you know there was an idea came to my mind just now -that's too clearly the consequence of reading Dickens for a week back, so -I'll hold my hand and keep my project for another early occasion when it -won't be Dickens that's dictating.” - </p> -<p> -He went early back that day, to relieve Ailie at her nursing, as he -pretended to himself, but really for his own delight in looking at the -life in eyes where yesterday was a cloud. A new, fresh, wholesome air -seemed to fill the house. Bud lay on high pillows, with Miss Minto's Grace -propped against her knees, and the garret was full of the odor of flowers -that had come in a glorious bunch from the banker's garden. Bell had grown -miraculously young again, and from between Ailie's eyebrows had -disappeared the two black lines that had come there when Dr. Brash had -dropped in her ear the dreadful word pneumonia. But Dr. Brash had beaten -it! Oh, if she only knew the way to knit a winter waistcoat for him! -</p> -<p> -The child put out her hand to her uncle, and he kissed her on the palm, -frightful even yet of putting a lip to her cheek, lest he should -experience again the terror of the hot breath from that consuming inward -fire. -</p> -<p> -“Well,” said he, briskly, “how's our health, your ladyship? Losh bless me! -What a fine, big, sonsy baby you have gotten here; poor Alibel's nose will -be out of joint, I'm thinking.” - </p> -<p> -“Hasn't got any,” said Bud, still weakly, in her new, thin, and -unpractised voice, as she turned with a look that showed no lessening -affection for the old doll, badly battered in the visage and wanting in -the limbs, which lay beside her on the pillow. -</p> -<p> -“Blythmeat and breadberry,” said Daniel Dyce. “In the house of Daniel -Dyce! Bell and Ailie, here's an example for you!” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XIV -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>OLLOWING on stormy weeks had come an Indian summer, when the world was -blessed with Ailie's idea of Arden weather, that keeps one wood forever -green and glad with company, knows only the rumor of distant ice and rain, -and makes men, reading thereof by winter fires, smell fir and feel the -breeze on their naked necks and hunger for the old, abandoned bed among -the brackens. “It is better to hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak,” - was the motto of Daniel Dyce, and though the larks were absent, he would -have the little one' in the garden long hours of the day. She basked there -like a kitten in the sunlight till her wan cheek bloomed. The robin sang -among the apples—pensive a bit for the ear of age that knows the -difference between the voice of spring and autumn—sweet enough for -youth that happily does not have an ear for its gallant melancholy; the -starlings blew like a dust about the sky; over the garden wall—the -only one in the town that wanted broken bottles—far-off hills raised -up their heads to keek at the little lassie, who saw from this that the -world was big and glorious as ever. -</p> -<p> -“My! ain't this fine and clean?” said Bud. “Feels as if Aunt Bell had been -up this morning bright and early with a duster.” She was enraptured with -the blaze of the nasturtiums, that Bell would aye declare should be the -flower of Scotland, for “Indian cress here, or Indian cress there,” as she -would say “they're more like Scots than any flower I ken. The poorer the -soil the better they thrive, and they come to gold where all your fancy -flowers would rot for the want of nutriment. Nutriment! Give them that in -plenty and you'll see a bonny display of green and no' much blossom. The -thing's a parable—the worst you can do with a Scotsman, if you want -the best from him, 's to feed him ower rich. Look at Captain Consequence, -never the same since he was abroad—mulligatawny even-on in India; a -score of servant-men, and never a hand's turn for himself—all the -blossom from that kind of Indian cress is on his nose.” - </p> -<p> -“Land's sake! I <i>am</i> glad I'm not dead,” said Bud, with all her body -tingling as she heard the bees buzz in the nasturtium bells and watched -the droll dog Footles snap at the butterflies. -</p> -<p> -“It's not a bad world, one way and the other,” said Miss Bell, knitting at -her side; “it would have been a hantle worse if we had the making o't. But -here we have no continuing city, and yonder—if the Lord had willed—you -would have gone sweeping through the gates of the new Jerusalem.” - </p> -<p> -“Sweeping!” said the child. “I can't sweep for keeps; Kate won't give me a -chance to learn. But, anyhow, I guess this is a good enough world for a -miserable sinner like me.” - </p> -<p> -Mr. Dyce, who had carried her, chair and all, into the garden, though she -could have walked there, chuckled at this confession. -</p> -<p> -“Dan,” said Bell, “think shame of yourself! you make the child -light-minded.” - </p> -<p> -“The last thing I would look for in women is consistency,” said he, “and I -dare say that's the way I like them. What is it Ailie quotes from Emerson? -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -'A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,' -</pre> -<p> -—that kind of goblin never scared a woman in the dark yet. But -surely you'll let me laugh when I think of you chiding her gladness in -life to-day, when I mind of you last week so desperate throng among the -poultices.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm for none of your lawyer arguments,” said Bell, trying in vain to gag -herself with a knitting-pin from one of the Shetland shawls she had been -turning out for years with the hope that some day she could keep one for -herself. “It might have been that 'she pleased God and was beloved of Him, -so that, living among sinners'—among sinners, Dan—'she was -translated. Yea, speedily was she taken away, lest that wickedness should -alter her understanding, or deceit beguile her soul.'” - </p> -<p> -“I declare if I haven't forgot my peppermints!” said her brother, quizzing -her, and clapping his outside pockets. “A consoling text! I have no doubt -at all you could enlarge upon it most acceptably, but confess that you are -just as glad as me that there's the like of Dr. Brash.” - </p> -<p> -“I like the doc,” the child broke in, with most of this dispute beyond -her; “he's a real cuddley man. Every time he rapped at my chest I wanted -to cry 'Come in.' Say, isn't he slick with a poultice!” - </p> -<p> -“He was slick enough to save your life, my dear,” said Uncle Dan, soberly. -“I'm almost jealous of him now, for Bud's more his than mine.” - </p> -<p> -“Did he make me better?” asked the child. -</p> -<p> -“Under God. I'm thinking we would have been in a bonny habble wanting -him.” - </p> -<p> -“I don't know what a bonny habble is from Adam,” said Bud, “but I bet the -doc wasn't <i>everything</i>—there was that prayer, you know.” - </p> -<p> -“Eh?” exclaimed her uncle, sharply. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, I heard you, Uncle Dan,” said Bud, with a sly look up at him. “I -wasn't sleeping really that night, and I was awful liable to have tickled -you on the bald bit of your head. I never saw it before. I could have done -it easily if it wasn't that I was so tired; and my breath was so sticky -that I had to keep on yanking it, just; and you were so solemn and used -such dre'ffle big words. I didn't tickle you, but I thought I'd help you -pray, and so I kept my eyes shut and said a bit myself. Say, I want to -tell you something”—she stammered, with a shaking lip—“I felt -real mean when you talked about a sinless child; of course you didn't -know, but it was—it wasn't true. I know why I was taken ill: it was -a punishment for telling fibs to Kate. I was mighty frightened that I'd -die before I had a chance to tell you.” - </p> -<p> -“Fibs!” said Mr. Dyce, seriously. “That's bad. And I'm loath to think it -of you, for it's the only sin that does not run in the family, and the one -I most abominate.” - </p> -<p> -Bell stopped her knitting, quite distressed, and the child lost her -new-come bloom. “I didn't mean it for fibs,” she said, “and it wasn't -anything I said, but a thing I did when I was being Winifred Wallace. Kate -wanted me to write a letter—” - </p> -<p> -“Who to?” demanded Auntie Bell. -</p> -<p> -“It was to—it was to—oh, I daren't tell you,” said Bud, -distressed. “It wouldn't be fair, and maybe she'll tell you herself, if -you ask her. Anyhow, I wrote the letter for her, and seeing she wasn't -getting any answer to it, and was just looney for one, and I was mighty -keen myself, I turned Winny on, and wrote one. I went out and posted it -that dre'ffle wet night you had the party, and I never let on to Kate, so -she took it for a really really letter from the person we sent the other -one to. I got soaked going to the post-office, and that's where I guess -God began to play <i>His</i> hand. Jim said the Almighty held a royal -flush every blessed time; but that's card talk; I don't know what it -means, 'cept that Jim said it when the 'Span of Life' manager skipped with -the boodle—lit out with the cash, I mean—and the company had -to walk home from Kalamazoo on the railroad ties.” - </p> -<p> -“Mercy on us! I never heard a word of it,” cried Miss Bell. “This 'll be a -warning! People that have bairns to manage shouldn't be giving parties; it -was the only night since ever you came here that we never put you to your -bed. Did Kate not change your clothes when you came in wet?” - </p> -<p> -“She didn't know I was out, for that would have spoiled everything, 'cause -she'd have asked me what I was doing out, and I'd have had to tell her, -for I can't fib that kind of fib. When I came in all soaking, I took a -teeny-weeny loan of uncle's tartan rug, and played to Kate I was Helen -Macgregor, and Kate went into spasms, and didn't notice anything till my -clothes were dry. Was it very very naughty of me?” - </p> -<p> -“It was, indeed! It was worse than naughty, it was silly,” said her uncle -Dan, remembering all the prank had cost them. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Lennox, my poor, sinful bairn!” said her aunt, most melancholy. -</p> -<p> -“I didn't mean the least harm,” protested the child, trembling on the -verge of tears. “I did it all to make Kate feel kind of gay, for I hate to -see a body mope—and I wanted a little fun myself,” she added, -hastily, determined to confess all. -</p> -<p> -“I'll Kate her, the wretch!” cried Auntie Bell, quite furious, gathering -up her knitting. -</p> -<p> -“Why, Auntie Bell, it wasn't her fault, it was—” - </p> -<p> -But before she could say more Miss Bell was flying to the house for an -explanation, Footles barking at her heels astonished, for it was the first -time he had seen her trot with a ball of wool trailing behind her. The -maid had the kitchen window open to the last inch, and looked out on a -street deserted but for a ring of bairns that played before the baker's -door. Their voices, clear and sweet, and laden with no sense of care or -apprehension, filled the afternoon with melody— -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'Water, water wall-flowers, -Growing up so high, -We are all maidens -And we must all die.'” - </pre> -<p> -To the maid of Colonsay in an autumn mood the rhyme conveyed some pensive -sentiment that was pleasant though it almost made her cry: the air slipped -to her heart, the words in some way found the Gaelic chord that shakes in -sympathy with minor keys, for beautiful is all the world, our day of it so -brief! Even Miss Bell was calmed by the children's song as it came from -the sunny street into the low-ceiled, shady kitchen. She had played that -game herself, sting these words long ago, never thinking of their meaning—how -pitiful it was that words and a tune should so endure, unchanging, and all -else alter! -</p> -<p> -“Kate, Kate, you foolish lass!” she cried, and the maid drew in with the -old astonishment and remorse, as if it was her first delinquency. -</p> -<p> -“I—I was looking for the post,” said she. -</p> -<p> -“Not for the first time, it seems,” said her mistress. “I'm sorry to hear -it was some business of yours that sent Miss Lennox to the post-office on -a wet night that was the whole cause of our tribulation. At least you -might have seen the wean was dried when she came back.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm sure and I don't know what you're talking about, m'em,” said the -maid, astounded. -</p> -<p> -“You got a letter the day the bairn took ill; what was it about?” - </p> -<p> -The girl burst into tears and covered her head with her apron. “Oh, Miss -Dyce, Miss Dyce!” she cried, “you're that particular, and I'm ashamed to -tell you. It was only just diversion.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, and you must tell me,” said her mistress, now determined. -“There's some mystery here that must be cleared, as I'm a living woman. -Show me that letter this instant!” - </p> -<p> -“I can't, Miss Dyce, I can't; I'm quite affronted. You don't ken who it's -from.” - </p> -<p> -“I ken better than yourself; it's from nobody but Lennox,” said Miss Bell. -</p> -<p> -“My stars!” cried the maid, astonished. “Do you tell me that? Amn't I the -stupid one? I thought it was from Charles. Oh, m'em, what will Charles -Maclean of Oronsay think of me? He'll think I was demented,” and turning -to her servant's chest she threw it open and produced the second sham -epistle. -</p> -<p> -Miss Bell went in with it to Ailie in the parlor, and they read it -together. Ailie laughed till the tears came at the story it revealed. -“It's more creditable to her imagination than to my teaching in grammar -and spelling,” was her only criticism. “The—the little rogue!” - </p> -<p> -“And is that the way you look at it?” asked Bell, disgusted. “A pack of -lies from end to end. She should be punished for it; at least she should -be warned that it was very wicked.” - </p> -<p> -“Stuff and nonsense,” said Miss Ailie. “I think she has been punished -enough already, if punishment was in it. Just fancy if the Lord could make -so much ado about a little thing like that! It's not a pack of lies at -all, Bell; it's literature, it's romance.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, romancing!” said Miss Bell. “What's romancing if you leave out -Walter Scott? I am glad she has a conviction of the sin of it herself. If -she had slipped away from us on Wednesday this letter would have been upon -her soul. It's vexing her now.” - </p> -<p> -“If that is so, it's time her mind was relieved,” said Ailie, and, rising, -sped to the garden with the letter in her hand. Her heart bled to see the -apprehension on Bud's face, and beside her Dan stroking her hair and -altogether bewildered. -</p> -<p> -“Bud,” cried Ailie, kissing her, “do you think you could invent a lover -for me who would write me letters half so interesting as this? It's a -lover like that I have all the time been waiting for: the ordinary kind, -by all my reading, must be very dull in their correspondence, and the -lives they lead deplorably humdrum— -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'Oh, Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling; -Oh, Charlie is my darling, the young marineer.' -</pre> -<p> -After this I'll encourage only sailors. Bud, dear, get me a nice, clean -sailor. But I stipulate that he must be more discriminating with his -capitals, and know that the verb must agree with its nominative, and not -be quite so much confused in his geography.” - </p> -<p> -“You're not angry with me, aunt?” said Bud, in a tone of great relief, -with the bloom coming back. “Was it very, very wicked?” - </p> -<p> -“Pooh!” said Ailie. “If that's wicked, where's our Mr. Shakespeare? Oh, -child! child! you are my own heart's treasure. I thought a girl called -Alison I used to know long ago was long since dead and done with, and here -she's to the fore yet, daft as ever, and her name is Lennox Dyce.” - </p> -<p> -“No, it wasn't Lennox wrote that letter,” said Bud; “it was Winifred -Wallace, and oh, my! she's a pretty tough proposition. You're quite, <i>quite</i> -sure it wasn't fibbing.” - </p> -<p> -“No more than Cinderella's fibbing,” said her aunt, and flourished the -letter in the face of Dan, who she saw was going to enter some dissent. -“Behold, Dan Dyce, the artist b-r-r-rain! Calls sailor sweethearts from -the vasty deep, and they come obedient to her bidding. Spise and perils, -Dan, and the golden horn a trifle out of its latitude, and the darling boy -that's <i>always</i> being drove from home. One thing you overlooked in -the boy, Bud—the hectic flush. I'm sure Kate would have liked a -touch of the hectic flush in him.” - </p> -<p> -But Bud was still contrite, thinking of the servant. “She was so set upon -a letter from her Charles,” she explained, “and now she'll have to know -that I was joshing her. Perhaps I shouldn't say joshing, Auntie Ailie—I -s'pose it's slang.” - </p> -<p> -“It is,” said her aunt, “and most unlady-like; let us call it pulling her -le—let us call it—oh, the English language! I'll explain it -all to Kate, and that will be the end of it.” - </p> -<p> -“Kate'd be dre'ffle rattled to talk about love to a grown-up lady,” said -Bud, on thinking. “I'd best go in and explain it all myself.” - </p> -<p> -“Very well,” said Auntie Ailie; so Bud went into the house and through the -lobby to the kitchen. -</p> -<p> -“I've come to beg your pardon, Kate,” said she, hurriedly. “I'm sorry I—I—pulled -your leg about that letter you thought was from Charles.” - </p> -<p> -“Toots! Ye needn't bother about my leg or the letter, either,” said Kate, -most cheerfully, with another letter open in her hand, and Mr. Dyce's -evening mail piled on the table before her; “letters are like herring now, -they're comin' in in shoals. I might have kent yon one never came from -Oronsay, for it hadn't the smell of peats. I have a real one now that's -new come in from Charles, and it's just a beauty! He got his leg broken on -the boats a month ago, and Dr. Macphee's attending him. Oh, I'm that glad -to think that Charles's leg is in the hands of a kent face!” - </p> -<p> -“Why, that's funny,” said Bud. “And we were just going to write—oh, -you mean the other Charles?” - </p> -<p> -“I mean Charles Maclean,” said Kate, with some confusion. “I—I—was -only lettin' on about the other Charles; he was only a diversion.” - </p> -<p> -“But you sent him a letter?” cried Bud. -</p> -<p> -“Not me!” said Kate, composedly. “I kept it, and I sent it on to Charles -out in Oronsay when you were poorly; it did fine! He says he's glad to -hear about my education and doesn't think much of gentlemen that dances, -but that he's always glad to get the scrape of a pen from me, because—because—well, -just because he loves me still the same, yours respectfully, Charles -Maclean. And oh, my stars, look at what a lot of crosses!” - </p> -<p> -Bud scrutinized them with amazement. “Well, <i>he's</i> a pansy!” said -she. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XV -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>UDDENLY all the town began to talk of the pride of Kate MacNeill. She -took to wearing all her best on week-days, abandoned the kitchen window, -and ruined an old-established trade in pay-night sweeties that used to -shower on her in threepenny packets at the start of every autumn when the -days grew short. No longer blate young lads scraped with their feet -uneasily in the sawdust of P. & A. Mac-Glashan's, swithering between -the genteel attractions of Turkish Delight and the eloquence of -conversation lozenges that saved a lot of thinking and made the blatest -equal with the boldest when it came to tender badinage below the lamp at -the back-door close with Dyce's maid. Talk about the repartee of salons! -wit moves deliberately there compared with the swift giff-gaff that Kate -and her lads were used to maintain with sentiments doubly sweet and -ready-made at threepence the quarter pound. So fast the sweeties passed, -like the thrust and riposte of rapiers, that their final purpose was -forgotten; they were sweeties no longer to be eaten, but scented -billets-doux, laconic of course, but otherwise just as satisfactory as -those that high-born maidens get only one at a time and at long intervals -when their papas are out at business. -</p> -<p> -“Are you engaged?” - </p> -<p> -“Just keep spierin'.” - </p> -<p> -“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” - </p> -<p> -“You are a gay deceiver.” - </p> -<p> -“My heart is yours.” - </p> -<p> -“How are your poor feet?” - </p> -<p> -By the hour could Kate sustain such sparkling flirtations, or at least -till a “Kiss me, dearest” turned up from the bottom of the poke, and then -she slapped his face for him. It is the only answer out in Colonsay unless -he's your intended. -</p> -<p> -But it stopped all at once. P. & A. was beat to understand what way -his pay-night drawings fell, until he saw that all the lads were taking -the other side of the street. “That's <i>her</i> off, anyway!” said he to -Mrs. P. & A., with a gloomy visage. “I wonder who's the lucky man? -It's maybe Peter—she'll no' get mony lozengers from him.” - </p> -<p> -And it was not only the decline in votive offerings that showed the vital -change: she was not at the Masons' ball, which shows how wrong was the -thought of P. & A., for Peter was there with another lady. Very -cheery, too, exceedingly cheery, ah, desperately gay, but quite beyond the -comprehension of his partner, Jenny Shand, who was unable to fathom why a -spirit so merry in the hall should turn to groans and bitterness when, -feeling a faintish turn, she got him in behind the draught-screen on the -landing of the stair to sit the “Flowers o' Edinburgh.” He was fidging -fain to tell her plainly what he thought of all her sex, but strove like a -perfect gentleman against the inclination, and only said, “Ha! ha! do you -say so, noo?” and “Weemen!” with a voice that made them all out nothing -more nor less than vipers. Poor Jenny Shand! bonny Jenny Shand! what a -shame she should be bothered with so ill-faured a fellow! When she was -picking bits of nothing off his coat lapel, as if he was her married man, -and then coming to herself with a pretty start and begging pardon for her -liberty, the diffy paid no heed; his mind was down the town, and he was -seeing himself yesterday morning at the first delivery getting the window -of Dyce's kitchen banged in his face when he started to talk about soap, -meaning to work the topic round to hands and gloves. He had got the length -of dirty hands, and asked the size of hers, when bang! the window went, -and the Hielan' one in among her pots and pans. -</p> -<p> -It was not any wonder, for other lads as deliberate and gawky as himself -had bothered her all the week with the same demand. Hands! hands! you -would think, said she, they were all at the door wi' a bunch of -finger-rings bound to marry her right or wrong, even if they had to put -them on her nose. Of course she knew finely what they were after—she -knew that each blate wooer wanted a partner for the ball, and could only -clinch the compact with a pair of gloves; but just at present she was not -in trim for balls, and landsmen had no interest for her since her heart -was on the brine. Some of them boldly guessed at seven-and-a-halfs without -inquiry, and were dumfoundered that she would not look at them; and one -had acquired a pair of roomy white cotton ones with elastic round the top—a -kind of glove that plays a solemn part at burials, having come upon Miss -Minto when her stock of festive kids was done. They waylaid Kate coming -with her basket from the mangle—no, thanky, she was needing no -assistance; or she would find them scratching at the window after dark; or -hear them whistling, whistling, whistling—oh, so softly!—in -the close. There are women rich and nobly born who think that they are -fortunate, and yet, poor dears! they never heard the whistling in the -close. Kate's case was terrible! By day, in her walks abroad in her new -merino, not standing so much as a wink, or paying any heed to a “Hey, -Kate, what's your hurry?” she would blast them with a flashing eye. By -night, hearing their signals, she showed them what she thought of them by -putting to the shutters. “Dir-r-rt!” was what she called them, with her -nose held high and every “r” a rattle on the lug for them—this to -Bud, who could not understand the new distaste Kate had to the other sex. -“Just dirt below my feet! I think myself far, far above them.” - </p> -<p> -One evening Mr. Dyce came in from his office and quizzed her in the lobby. -“Kate,” said he, “I'm not complaining, but I wish you would have mercy on -my back door. There's not a night I have come home of late but if I look -up the close I find a lad or two trying to bite his way into you through -the door. Can you no' go out, like a good lass, and talk at them in the -Gaelic—it would serve them right! If you don't, steps will have to -be taken with a strong hand, as you say yourself. What are they wanting? -Can this—can this be love?” - </p> -<p> -She ran to the sanctuary of the kitchen, plumped in a chair, and was swept -away in a storm of laughter and tears that frightened Bud, who waited -there a return of her aunts from the Women's Guild. “Why, Kate, what's the -matter?” she asked. -</p> -<p> -“Your un—your un—un—uncle's blaming me for harboring all -them chaps about the door, and says it's l-l-love—oh, dear! I'm -black affronted.” - </p> -<p> -“You needn't go into hysterics about a little thing like that,” said Bud. -“Uncle Dan's tickled to death to see so many beaux you have, wanting you -to that ball; he said last night he had to walk between so many of them -waiting for you there in front, it was like shassaying up the middle in -the 'Haymakers'.” - </p> -<p> -“It's not hysterics, nor hersterics, either,” said the maid; “and oh, I -wish I was out of here and back in the isle of Colonsay!” - </p> -<p> -Yes, Colonsay became a great place then. America, where the prospects for -domestics used to be so fascinating, had lost its glamour since Bud had -told her the servants there were as discontented as in Scotland, and now -her native isle beat paradise. She would talk by the hour, at a washing, -of its charms, of which the greatest seemed to be the absence of public -lamps and the way you heard the wind! Colonsay seemed to be a place where -folk were always happy, meeting in one another's houses, dancing, singing, -courting, marrying, getting money every now and then from sons or wealthy -cousins in Australia. Bud wondered if they never did any work in Colonsay. -Yes, yes, indeed! Kate could assure her, they worked quite often out in -Colonsay—in the winter-time. -</p> -<p> -But one thing greatly troubled her—she must write back at once to -the only Charles, who so marvellously had come to her through Bud's -unconscious offices, and she knew she could never sustain the standard of -hand-write, spelling, and information Bud had established in her first -epistle. Her position was lamentable. It was all very well to be the -haughty madam on the street, and show herself a wise like, modest gyurl, -but what was that without the education? C. Maclean was a man of education—he -got it on the yats among the gentry, he had travelled all the world! -</p> -<p> -Kate's new airs, that caused such speculation in the town, were—now -let me tell you—all the result of a dash at education. She wanted to -be able to write a letter as good as Bud in a week or two, and had engaged -the child to tutor her. -</p> -<p> -Bud never found a more delicious game in all her life, and it hurried her -convalescence, for to play it properly she must be Aunt Ailie, and Aunt -Ailie was always so strong and well. -</p> -<p> -“Education,” said Bud, who had a marvellous memory, and was now, you will -notice, Ailie Dyce, sitting on a high chair, with the maid on a stool -before her—“education is not what a lot of sillies think it is; it -isn't knowing everything. Lots try for it that way, and if they don't die -young, just when they're going to win the bursary, they grow up horrid -bores that nobody asks to picnics. You can't know everything, not if you -sit up cramming till the cows come home; and if you want to see a brainy -person jump, ask him how his mother raised her dough. Miss Katherine -MacNeill, never—never—NEVER be ashamed of not knowing a thing, -but always be ashamed of not wanting to know. That's Part One. Don't you -think you should have an exercise-book, child, and take it down?” - </p> -<p> -“Toots! what's my head for?” said the servant. -</p> -<p> -“Uncle Dan says education is knowing what you don't know, and knowing -where to find it out without the other people knowing; but he says in most -places you can get the name of having it fine and good by talking loud and -pushing all your goods in front of you in a big enough barrow. And Auntie -Bell—she says the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, and the -rest of it is what she skipped at Barbara Mushet's Seminary. But I tell -you, child (said the echo of Ailie Dyce), that education's just another -name for love.” - </p> -<p> -“My stars! I never knew that before,” cried the servant. “I'm awful glad -about Charles!” - </p> -<p> -“It isn't that kind of love,” Bud hurriedly explained, “though it's good -enough, for that's too easy. You're only on the trail for education when -you love things so you've simply <i>got</i> to learn as much as is good -for your health about them. Everything's sweet—oh, so sweet!—all -the different countries, and the different people, when you understand, -and the woods, and the things in them, and all the animals—'cepting -maybe pud-docks, though it's likely God made them, too, when He was kind -of careless—and the stars, and the things men did, and women—'specially -those that's dead, poor dears!—and all the books, 'cepting the -stupid ones Aunt Ailie simply <i>can't</i> stand, though she never lets on -to the ladies who like that kind.” - </p> -<p> -“My Lord! must you love them all?” asked the maid, astonished. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, you must, my Lord,” said Bud. “You'll never know the least thing -well in this world unless you love it. It's sometimes mighty hard, I -allow. I hated the multiplication table, but now I love it—at least, -I kind of love it up to seven times nine, and then it's almost horrid, but -not so horrid as it was before I knew that I would never have got to this -place from Chicago unless a lot of men had learned the table up as far as -twelve times twelve.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm not particular about the multiplication table,” said the maid, “but I -want to be truly refined, the same as you said in yon letter to Charles. I -know he'll be expecting it.” - </p> -<p> -“H-m-m-m-m!” said Bud, thoughtfully, “I s'pose I'll have to ask Auntie -Ailie about that, for I declare to goodness I don't know where you get it, -for it's not in any of the books I've seen. She says it's the One Thing in -a lady, and it grows inside you some way, like—like—like your -lungs, I guess. It's no use trying to stick it on outside with lessons on -the piano or the mandoline, and parlor talk about poetry, and speaking mim -as if you had a clothes-pin in your mouth, and couldn't say the least wee -thing funny without it was a bit you'd see in <i>Life and Work</i>. -Refinement, some folk think, is not laughing right out.” - </p> -<p> -“My stars!” said Kate. -</p> -<p> -“And Auntie Bell says a lot think it's not knowing any Scotch language and -never taking cheese to tea.” - </p> -<p> -“I think,” said Kate, “we'll never mindrefining; it's an awful bother.” - </p> -<p> -“But every lady must be refined,” said Bud. “Ailie prosists in that.” - </p> -<p> -“I don't care,” said the maid; “I'm not particular about being very much -of a lady—I'll maybe never have the jewelry for it—but I would -like to be a sort of lady on the Sundays, when Charles is at home. I'm not -hurryin' you, my dear, but—but when do we start the writin'?” and -she yawned in a way that said little for the interest of Professor Bud's -opening lecture. -</p> -<p> -Whereupon Bud explained that in a systematic course of education reading -came first, and the best reading was Shakespeare, who was truly ennobling -to the human mind. She brought in Auntie Ailie's Shakespeare and sat upon -the fender, and plunged Kate at once into some queer society at Elsinore. -But, bless you, nothing came of it: Kate fell asleep, and woke to find the -fire cold and the child entranced with Hamlet. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, dear! it's a slow job getting your education,” she said, pitifully, -“and all this time there's my dear Charles waiting for a letter!” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XVI -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> CANNA be bothered with that Shakespeare,” Kate cried, hopelessly, after -many days of him; “the man's a mournin' thing! Could he not give us -something cheery, with 'Come, all ye boys!' in it, the same as the -trawlers sing in Colonsay? There was far more fun last week in the penny -<i>Horner</i>”. -</p> -<p> -So Bud dipped in the bottomless well of knowledge again and scooped up -Palgrave's <i>Golden Treasury</i>, and splashed her favorite lyrics at the -servant's feet. Kate could not stand <i>The Golden Treasury</i> either; -the songs were nearly all so lamentable they would make a body greet. Bud -assured her on the best authority that the sweetest songs were those that -told of saddest thought, but Kate said that might be right enough for -gentry who had no real troubles of their own, but they weren't the thing -at all for working folk. What working folk required were songs with tunes -to them, and choruses that you could tramp time to with your feet. -History, too, was as little to her taste; it was all incredible—the -country could never have kept up so many kings and queens. But she liked -geography, for the map enabled her to keep an eye on Charles as he went -from port to port, where letters in her name, but still the work of -Lennox, would be waiting for him. -</p> -<p> -The scheme of education was maintained so long because the town had come -upon its melancholy days and Bud began to feel depression, so that playing -teacher was her only joy. The strangers had gone south with the swallows; -the steamer no longer called each day to make the pavement noisy in the -afternoon with the skliff of city feet, so different from the customary -tread of tackety boots; the coachman's horn, departing, no longer sounded -down the valley like a brassy challenge from the wide, wide world. Peace -came to the burgh like a swoon, and all its days were pensive. Folk went -about their tasks reluctant, the very smoke of the chimneys loitered -lazily round the ridges where the starlings chattered, and a haze was -almost ever over the hills. When it rose, sometimes, Bud, from her attic -window, could see the road that wound through the distant glen. The road!—the -road!—ah, that began to have a meaning and a kind of cry, and -wishfully she looked at it and thought upon its other end, where the life -she had left and read about was loudly humming and marvellous things were -being done. Charles Maclean of Oronsay, second mate, whom she loved unto -destruction, now that he was writing regularly, fairly daft himself to get -such charming, curious letters as he thought from Kate, had been adjusted -by the doctor, and was once again on the heaving main. It would be Cardiff -or Fleetwood, Hamburg, Santander, or Bilbao, whose very name is like a -story, and his tarry pen, infected by the child's example, induced to -emulation, always bravely sought to give some picture of the varied world -through which he wandered. Of noisy ports did he communicate, crowded with -ships; of streets and lofty warehouses, and places where men sang, and -sometimes of the playhouse, where the villain was a bad one and the women -were so braw. -</p> -<p> -“What is braw?” asked Bud. -</p> -<p> -“It's fine clothes,” said Kate; “but what's fine clothes if you are not -pure in heart and have a figure?” and she surveyed with satisfaction her -own plump arms. -</p> -<p> -But the child guessed at a wider meaning for the word as Charles used it, -and thought upon the beauteous, clever women of the plays that she had -seen herself in far Chicago, and since her vicarious lover would have -thought them braw and plainly interesting, she longed to emulate them, at -least to see them again. And oh! to see the places that he wrote of and -hear the thundering wheels and jangling bells! And there was also Auntie -Ailie's constant stimulus to thoughts and aspirations that could meet no -satisfaction in this little town. Bell dwelt continually within the narrow -walls of her immediate duty, content, like many, thank the Lord! doing her -daily turns as best she could, dreaming of nothing nobler. Dan had ranged -wider in his time and knew the world a great deal better, and had seen so -much of it was illusion, its prizes “will-o'-the-wisp,” that now his wild -geese were come home. He could see the world in the looking-glass in which -he shaved, and there was much to be amused at. But Ailie's geese were -still flying far across the firmament, knowing no place of rest. The child -had bewitched her! it was often the distant view for her now, the region -unattainable; and though apparently she had long ago surrendered to her -circumstances, she now would sometimes silently irk at her prisoning here, -in sleep-town, where we let things slide until to-morrow, while the wild -birds of her inclination flew round the habitable, wakeful world. -Unwittingly—no, not unwittingly always—she charged the child -with curiosity unsatisfiable, and secret discontent at little things and -narrow, with longings for spacious arenas and ecstatic crowded hours. To -be clever, to be brave and daring, to venture and make a glorious name—how -her face would glow and all her flesh would quiver picturing lives she -would have liked to live if only she had had the chance! How many women -are like that—silent by the hearth, seemingly placid and content as -they dam and mend and wait on the whim and call of dullards! -</p> -<p> -Bell might be content and busy with small affairs, but she had a quick, -shrewd eye and saw the child's unrest. It brought her real distress, for -so had the roving spirit started in her brother William. Sometimes she -softly scolded Lennox, and even had contemplated turning her into some -other room from the attic that had the only window in the house from which -the high-road could be seen, but Ailie told her that would be to make the -road more interesting for the child. “And I don't know,” she added, “that -it should worry us if she does indulge herself in dreams about the great -big world and its possibilities. I suppose she'll have to take the road -some day.” - </p> -<p> -“Take the road!” cried Bell, almost weeping. “Are you daft, Ailie Dyce? -What need she take the road for? There's plenty to do here, and I'm sure -she'll never be better off anywhere else. A lot of nonsense! I hope you -are not putting notions in her head; we had plenty of trouble with her -father.” - </p> -<p> -“It would break my heart to lose her, I assure you,” said Aunt Ailie, -softly; “but—” and she ended with a sigh. -</p> -<p> -“I'm sure you're content enough yourself?” said Bell; “and you're not by -any means a diffy.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed I am content,” admitted Ailie; “at least—at least I'm not -complaining. But there is a discontent that's almost holy, a roving mood -that's the salvation of the race. There were, you mind, the Pilgrim -Fathers—” - </p> -<p> -“I wish to the Lord they had bided at home!” cried Bell. “There's never -been happy homes in this Christian land since they started emigration.” - And at that Miss Ailie smiled and Dan began to chuckle. -</p> -<p> -“Does it not occur to you, Bell,” said he, “that but for the Pilgrim -Fathers there would never have been Bud?” - </p> -<p> -“I declare neither there would!” she said, smiling. “Perhaps it was as -well they went, poor things! And, of course, there must be many an honest, -decent body in America.” - </p> -<p> -“Quite a number!” said Ailie. “You would not expect this burgh to hold -them all, or even Scotland. America's glad to get the overflow.” - </p> -<p> -“Ah, you're trying to make me laugh, the pair of you, and forget my -argument,” said Bell; “but I'll not be carried away this time. I'm feared -for the bairn, and that's telling you. Oh, Ailie, mind what her mother was—poor -girl! poor, dear girl! play-acting for her living, roving from place to -place, with nothing you could call a home; laughing and greeting and -posturing before lights for the diversion of the world—” - </p> -<p> -“We might do worse than give the world diversion,” said Ailie, soberly. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, yes, but with a painted face and all a vain profession—that is -different, is it not? I love a jovial heart like Dan's, but to make the -body just a kind of fiddle! It's only in the body we can be ourselves—it -is our only home; think of furnishing it with shams, and lighting every -room that should be private, and leaving up the blinds that the world may -look in at a penny a head! How often have I thought of William, weeping -for a living, as he had to do sometimes, no doubt, and wondered what was -left for him to do to ease his grief when Mary died. Oh, curb the child, -Ailie! curb the dear wee lassie—it's you it all depends on; she -worships you; the making of her's in your hands. Keep her humble. Keep her -from thinking of worldly glories. Teach her to number her days that she -may apply her heart unto wisdom. Her mind's too often out of here and -wandering elsewhere—it was so with William—it was once the -same with you.” - </p> -<p> -Indeed, it was no wonder that Bud's mind should wander elsewhere since the -life about her had grown so suddenly dull. In these days Wanton Wully -often let his morning sleep too long possess him, and hurrying through the -deserted dawn with his breeches scarcely on, would ring the bell in a -hasty fury half an hour behind the proper time. But a little lateness did -not matter in a town that really never woke. Men went to work in what we -call a dover—that is, half asleep; shopkeepers came blinking -drowsily down and took their shutters off and went back to breakfast, or, -I sometimes fear, to bed, and when the day was aired and decency demanded -that they should make some pretence at business they stood by the hour at -their shop doors looking at the sparrows, wagtails, and blue-bonnets -pecking in the street, or at the gulls that quarrelled in the syver sand. -Nothing doing. Two or three times a day a cart from the country rumbled -down the town breaking the Sabbath calm; and on one memorable afternoon -there came a dark Italian with an organ who must have thought that this at -last was Eldorado, so great was his reward from a community sick of -looking at one another. But otherwise nothing doing, not a thing! As in -the dark of the fabled underland the men who are blind are kings, George -Jordon, the silly man, who never had a purpose, and carried about with him -an enviable eternal dream, seemed in that listless world the only -wideawake, for he at least kept moving, slouching somewhere, sure there -was work for him to do if only he could get at it. Bairns dawdled to the -schools, dogs slept in the track where once was summer traffic, Kate, -melancholy, billowed from the kitchen window, and into the street quite -shamelessly sang sad, old Gaelic songs which Mr. Dyce would say would have -been excellent if only they were put to music, and her voice was like a -lullaby. -</p> -<p> -One day Bud saw great bands of countless birds depart, passing above the -high-road, and standing in the withering garden heard as it were without a -breath of wind the dry rattle of dead leaves fall. It frightened her. She -came quickly in to the tea-table almost at her tears. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, it's dre'ffle,” she said. “It's Sunday all the time, without good -clothes and the gigot of mutton for dinner. I declare I want to yell.” - </p> -<p> -“Dear me!” said Miss Bell, cheerfully, “I was just thinking things were -unusually lively for the time of year. There's something startling every -other day. Aggie Williams found her fine, new kitchen range too big for -the accommodation, and she has covered it with cretonne and made it into a -whatnot for her parlor. Then there's the cantata; I hear the U. P. choir -is going to start to practise it whenever Duncan Gill next door to the -hall is gone—he's near his end, poor body! they're waiting on, but -he says he could never die a Christian death if he had to listen to them -at their operatics through the wall.” - </p> -<p> -“It's not a bit like this in Chicago,” said the child, and her uncle -chuckled. -</p> -<p> -“I dare say not,” said he. “What a pity for Chicago! Are you wearying for -Chicago, lassie?” - </p> -<p> -“No,” said Bud, deliberating. “It was pretty smelly, but my! I wish to -goodness folk here had a little git-up-and-go to them!” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, I dare say it's not a bit like Chicago,” admitted Auntie Bell. -“It pleases myself that it's just like Bonnie Scotland.” - </p> -<p> -“It's not a bit like Scotland, either,” said Bud. “I calc'lated Scotland -'d be like a story-book all the time, chock-full of men-at-arms and -Covenanters, and things father used to talk about, Sundays, when he was -kind of mopish and wanted to make me Scotch. I've searched the woods for -Covenanters and can't find one; they must have taken to the tall timber -and I haven't seen any men-at-arms since I landed, 'cepting the empty ones -up in the castle lobby.” - </p> -<p> -“What <i>did</i> you think Scotland would be like, dear?” asked Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“Between me and Winifred Wallace, we figured it would be a great place for -chivalry and constant trouble among the crowned heads. I expected there'd -be a lot of 'battles long ago,' same as in the 'Highland Reaper' in the -sweet, sweet G. T.” - </p> -<p> -“What's G. T.?” asked Auntie Bell; and Bud laughed slyly and looked at her -smiling Auntie Ailie, and said: “We know, Auntie Ailie, don't we? It's -GRAND! And if you want to know, Auntie Bell, it's just Mr. Lovely -Palgrave's <i>Golden Treasury. That's</i> a book, my Lord! I expected -there'd be battles every day—” - </p> -<p> -“What a blood-thirsty child!” said Miss Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“I don't mean truly, truly battles,” Bud hurried to explain, “but the kind -that's the same as a sound of revelry off—no blood, but just a lot -of bang. But I s'pose battles are gone out, like iron suits. Then I -thought there'd be almost nothing but cataracts and ravines and—and—mountain -passes, and here and there a right smart Alick in short trunks and a -feather in his hat winding a hunting-horn. I used to think, when I was a -little, wee, silly whitterick, that you wound a horn every Saturday night -with a key just like a clock; but I've known for years and years it's just -blowing. The way father said, and from the things I read, I calc'lated all -the folk in Scotland'd hate one another like poison, and start a clan, and -go out chasing all the other clans with direful slogans and bagpipes -skirling wildly in the genial breeze. And the place would be crowded with -lovelorn maidens—that kind with the starched millstones round their -necks like Queen Mary always wore. My, it must have been rough on dear old -Mary when she fell asleep in church! But it's not a bit like that; it's -only like Scotland when I'm in bed, and the wind is loud, and I hear the -geese. Then I think of the trees all standing out in the dark and wet, and -the hills, too, the way they've done for years and years, and the big, -lonely places with nobody in them, not a light even; and I get the -croodles and the creeps, for that's Scotland, full of bogies. I think -Scotland's stone-dead.” - </p> -<p> -“It's no more dead than you are yourself,” said Miss Bell, determined ever -to uphold her native land. “The cleverest people in the world come from -Scotland.” - </p> -<p> -“So father used to say; but Jim, he said he guessed the cleverer they were -the quicker they came. I'm not a bit surprised they make a dash from home -when they feel so dead and mopish and think of things and see that road.” - </p> -<p> -“Road?” said Uncle Dan. “What road?” - </p> -<p> -“My road,” said the child. “The one I see from my window—oh, how it -rises and rises and winds and winds, and it just <i>shrieks</i> on you to -come right along and try.” - </p> -<p> -“Try what?” asked her uncle, curiously. -</p> -<p> -“I dunno,” said Bud, thinking hard; “Auntie Ailie knows, and I 'spect -Auntie Bell knows, too. I can't tell what it is, but I fairly tickle to -take a walk along. Other times I fee I'd be mighty afraid to go, but -Auntie Ailie says you should always do the things you're afraid to do, for -they're most always the only things worth doing.” - </p> -<p> -Mr. Dyce, scratching the ear of Footles, who begged at the side of his -chair, looked over the rims of his glasses and scrutinized the child. -</p> -<p> -“All roads,” said he, “as you'll find a little later, come to the same -dead end, and most of us, though we think we're picking our way, are all -the time at the mercy of the School-master, like Geordie Jordon. The only -thing that's plain in the present issue is that we're not brisk enough -here for Young America. What do you think we should do to make things -lively?” - </p> -<p> -“Hustle,” said Bud. “Why, nobody here moves faster 'n a funeral, and they -ought to gallop if they want to keep up with the band.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm not in a hurry myself,” said her uncle, smiling. “Maybe that's -because I think I'm all the band there is myself. But if you want to -introduce the Chicago system you should start with Mrs. Wright's Italian -warehouse down the street—the poor body's losing money trying to run -her shop on philanthropic principles.” - </p> -<p> -Bud thought hard a while. “Phil—phil—What's a philanthropic -principle?” she asked. -</p> -<p> -“It's a principle on which you don't expect much interest except in -another world,” said her uncle. “The widow's what they call a Pilgrim -hereabouts; if the meek were to inherit the earth in a literal sense, she -would long ago have owned the whole county.” - </p> -<p> -“A truly Christian woman!” said Miss Bell. -</p> -<p> -“I'm not denying it,” said Mr. Dyce; “but even a Christian woman should -think sometimes of the claims of her creditors, and between ourselves it -takes me all my time to keep the wholesale merchants from hauling her to -court.” - </p> -<p> -“How do you manage it?” asked Ailie, with a twinkle in her eyes; but Dan -made no reply—he coughed and cleaned his spectacles. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XVII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HERE was joy a few days later in the Dyces' kitchen when Peter the -postman, with a snort that showed the bitterness of his feelings, passed -through the window a parcel for Kate that on the face of it had come from -foreign parts. “I don't ken who it's from, and ye're no' to think I'm -askin',” said he; “but the stamps alone for that thing must have cost a -bonny penny.” - </p> -<p> -“Did they, indeed!” said Kate, with a toss of her head. “Ye'll be glad to -ken he can well afford it!” and she sniffed at the parcel redolent of -perfumes strange and strong. -</p> -<p> -“Ye needna snap the nose off me,” said the postman; “I only made the -remark. What—what does the fellow, do?” - </p> -<p> -“He's a traveller for railway tunnels,” retorted the maid of Colonsay, and -shut the window with a bang, to tear open the parcel in a frenzy of -expectation and find a bottle of Genuine Riga Balsam—wonderful cure -for sailors' wounds!—another of Florida Water, and a silver locket, -with a note from Charles saying the poem she had sent was truly grand, and -wishing her many happy returns of the day. Like many of Charles's letters -now, its meaning was, in parts, beyond her, until she could learn from Bud -the nature of the one to which it was an answer—for Bud was so far -enraptured with the wandering sailor that she sometimes sent him letters -which the servant never saw. That day the breakfast service smelled of -Florida Water, for Kate had drenched herself with the perfume, and Miss -Bell was sure she had washed the dishes again with scented soap, as was -the habit of the girl when first she came from Colonsay and thought that -nothing but Brown Windsor would do justice to Grandma Buntain's tea-set -used on Sundays. But Bud could see the signs of Shipping Intelligence, and -as soon as she could she hastened to the kitchen, for it was Saturday, and -on Saturdays there were no lessons in the Dyce Academy. Oh, how she and -Kate fondled the bottles lovingly, and sniffed passionately at their -contents, and took turn about of the locket! The maid had but one regret, -that she had no immediate use for Riga Balsam; but Bud was more devoted -than that—she gently pricked the palm of her hand with a pin and -applied the Genuine. “Oh, how he must love me—us, I mean!” she -exclaimed, and eagerly devoured his letter. -</p> -<p> -“What did you say to him in the last?” asked Kate. “He's talking there -about a poetry, and happy returns of the day.” - </p> -<p> -Bud confessed she had made a poem for him from his beloved Kate, and had -reckoned on fetching a gift of candy by telling him her birthday was on -Monday. “It really I'd just as lief have the balsam,” said she; “it's -perfectly lovely; how it nips!” - </p> -<p> -“It's not my birthday at all,” said Kate. “My birthday's always on the -second Sunday in September. I was born about the same time as Lady Anne—either -a fortnight before or a fortnight after; I forget mysel' completely which -it was, and I dare say so does she.” - </p> -<p> -“No, but Monday's my birthday, right enough,” said Bud, “and seeing that -we're sort of loving him in company, I s'posed it would be all the same.” - </p> -<p> -“So it is; I'm not complainin',” said the maid. “And now we'll have to -send him something back. What would you recommend?” - </p> -<p> -They considered many gifts appropriate for a sailor—sou'westers, -Bible-markers, woollen comforters, and paper-knives, scarf-pins, gloves, -and ties. Bud was sure that nothing would delight him like a book about a -desert island, but Kate said no, a pipe was just the very ticket—a -wooden pipe with silver mountings; the very one to suit was in the window -of Mrs. Wright's Italian warehouse. -</p> -<p> -“What's an Italian warehouse?” asked the child. “You have me there,” said -Kate, “unless, maybe, her husband was Italian before he went and died on -her. 'Italian Warehouse' is the only thing that's on her sign. She sells a -thing for almost any price you like to offer, because the Bible says it's -not the thing at all to argy-bargy.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>I</i> know,” said Bud; “it's what we call running a business on—on—on -philanthropic principles. I'd love to see a body do it. I'll run out and -buy the pipe from Mrs. Wright, Kate.” - </p> -<p> -She departed on her errand down the town, at the other side of the church; -and the hours of the forenoon passed, and dinner-time was almost come, and -still there was no sign of her returning. Kate would have lost her -patience and gone to seek for her, but found so much to interest her at -the window that she quite forgot her messenger. Something out of the -ordinary was happening on the other side of the church. Wanton Wully knew -what it was, but of course he was not telling, for he was out as public -crier, rousing the town with his hand-bell, and shouting “Notice!” with an -air that promised some tremendous tidings; but beyond mysterious words -like “bed-rock prices,” which he mumbled from a paper in his hand, there -was nothing to show this proclamation differed from the common ones -regarding herring at the quay or a sale of delft down-by at John Turner's -corner. “What are ye crying?” they asked him, but being a man with the -belief that he had a voice as clear as a concert singer he would not -condescend to tell them. Only when some one looked across his shoulder and -read the paper for himself was it found that a sale described as -“Revolutionary” was taking place at the Italian warehouse. Half the town -at once went to see what the decent body was up to. Kate saw them hurrying -down, and when they came back they were laughing. “What's the ploy?” she -asked a passer-by. -</p> -<p> -“A sale at the Pilgrim weedow's,” she was told. “She's put past her <i>Spurgeon's -Sermons</i> and got a book aboot business, and she's learnin' the way to -keep an Italian warehouse in Scotch.” - </p> -<p> -Kate would have been down the town at once to see this marvel for herself, -but her pot was on the boil, and here was the mistress coming down the -stair crying, “Lennox, Lennox!” The maid's heart sank. She had forgotten -Lennox, and how could she explain her absence to a lady so particular? But -for the moment she was spared the explanation, for the bark of Footles -filled the street and Mr. Dyce came into the lobby laughing. -</p> -<p> -“You're very joco!” said his sister, helping him off with his coat. “What -are you laughing at?” - </p> -<p> -“The drollest thing imaginable,” said he. “I have just left Captain -Consequence in a terrible rage about a letter that a boy has brought to -him from Mrs. Wright. He's one of the folk who brag of paying as they go -but never make a start. It seems he's as much in debt to her as to most of -the other merchants in the place, but wasn't losing any sleep about it, -for she's such a softy. This letter has given him a start. He showed it to -me, with the notion that it was a libel or a threat that might be -actionable, but I assured him I couldn't have written one more to the -point myself. It said that unless he paid at once something would be apt -to happen that would create him the utmost astonishment.” - </p> -<p> -“Mercy on us! That's not very like the widow; she must be getting -desperate.” - </p> -<p> -“It was the wording of the thing abused me,” said Mr. Dyce, walking into -the parlor still chuckling—“'something will be apt to happen that -will create you the utmost astonishment'—it suggests such awful -possibilities. And it's going to serve its purpose, too, for the Captain's -off to pay her, sure it means a scandal.” Kate took the chance to rush -round the kirk in search of her messenger. “This way for the big -bargains!” cried some lads coming back from the Italian warehouse, or, -“Hey! ye've missed a step”—which shows how funny we can be in the -smallest burgh towns—but Kate said nothing only “trash!” to herself -in indignation, and tried by holding in her breath to keep from getting -red. -</p> -<p> -The shop of the Pilgrim widow suffered from its signboard, that was “far -too big for its job, like the sweep that stuck in my granny's chimney,” as -Mr. Dyce said. Once the sign had been P. & A.'s, but P. & A's good -lady tired of hearing her husband nicknamed the Italian, and it went back -to the painter, who partly paid with it a debt to the Pilgrim widow, who -long since rued her acquisition. She felt in her soul it was a worldly -vanity—that a signboard less obtrusive on the public eye would more -befit herself and her two meek little windows, where fly-papers, fancy -goods, sweetmeats, cigarettes, country eggs, and cordial invitations to -the Pilgrims' Mission Bethel every Friday (D. V.), eight o'clock, kept one -another incongruous and dusty company. A decent, pious widow, but ah! so -wanting any saving sense of guile. The Pilgrim Mission was the thing she -really lived for, and her shop was the cross she bore. But to-day it was -scarcely recognizable: the windows had been swept of their stale -contents', and one was filled with piles of rosy apples, the other with -nuts that poured in a tempting cataract from a cask upset with an air of -reckless prodigality. A large, hand-lettered bill was in each window; one -said: -</p> -<p> -“HALLOWE'EN! ARISE AND SHINE!” and the other: -</p> -<h3> -“DO IT NOW!” - </h3> -<p> -what was to be done being left to the imagination. All forenoon there had -been a steady flow of customers, who came out of the shop with more than -nuts or apples, greatly amazed at the change in the Pilgrim widow, who was -cracking up her goods like any common sinner. Behind the railed and -curtained box, in which she was supposed to keep her books and pray for -the whole community, there seemed to be some secret stimulating influence, -for when bad payers tried to-day to get a thing on credit, and she was on -the point of yielding, she would dart into the box and out again as hard -as steel, insisting that at every Revolutionary Sale the terms were cash. -She was giving bargains, but at her own price, never at her customers', as -it used to be. The Health Saline—extract of the finest fruit, -Cooling, Refreshing, Invigorating, Tonic (though indeed it looked like an -old friend from Rochelle with a dash of sugar and tartaric)—was down -a ha'penny, to less than what it cost, according to another hand-done bill -upon the counter. When they asked her how she could afford to sell the -stuff below its cost, she seemed ashamed and startled, till she had a -moment in behind the curtains, and then she told them it was all because -of the large turn-over; she could not afford to sell the saline under cost -if she did not sell it in tremendous quantities. -</p> -<p> -Did they want Ward's Matchless Polishing Paste?—alas! (after a dash -behind the curtains) she was completely out of it. Of late it had been in -such great demand that she got tired of ordering it every other week -wholesale. Yes, she was out of Ward's, but (again the curtained box) what -about this wonderful line in calf-foot jelly, highly praised by the—by -the connoisseurs? What were connoisseurs? A connoisseur (again on -reference behind the curtains) was one of those wealthy men who could -swallow anything. -</p> -<p> -“I'll tell ye what it is,” said the tailor, “I see't at last! She's got a -book in there; I've seen't before—<i>The Way to Conduct a Retail -Business</i>—and when she runs behind, it's to see what she should -say to the customers. That's where she got the notions for her window and -the 'Do it Now!'” - </p> -<p> -But he was wrong—completely wrong, for when Kate came into the shop -with “Have you seen Miss Lennox, Mrs. Wright? I sent her here a message -hours ago,” Lennox herself came from the curtained box saying, “Hello, -Kate; saw you first! What can we do for you to day?” - </p> -<p> -“My stars! you'll catch it!” said the maid. “They're waiting yonder on you -for your dinner.” - </p> -<p> -“I was just heading for home,” said Bud, making for the door. -</p> -<p> -“My child! my child! my angel child!” cried the Pilgrim widow, going to -kiss her, but Bud drew back. -</p> -<p> -“Not to-day, please; I'm miles too big for kissing to-day,” said she, and -marched solemnly out of the Italian warehouse. -</p> -<p> -“What in the world were you doing away so long?” asked Kate. “Were you -carrying on at anything?” - </p> -<p> -“I was paying for Charles's pipe,” said the child, returning the money she -had got for its purchase. “That's the sweetest lady, Mrs. Wright, but my! -ain't she Baby Mine when it settles down to business? When I wanted to buy -the pipe, she was so tickled she wanted me to have it for nothing, seeing -I was Mr. Dyce's niece. She said Uncle Dan was a man of God, who saved her -more than once from bankruptcy, and it was a pretty old pipe anyway, that -had been in the window since the time she got changed and dropped brocaded -dolmans. You'd think it made her ache to have folk come in her shop and -spend money; I guess she was raised for use in a free-soup kitchen. I said -I'd take the pipe for nothing if she'd throw in a little game with it. -'What game?' said she—oh, she's a nice lady!—and I said I was -just dying to have a try at keeping a really really shop, and would show -her Chicago way. <i>And you bet I did, Kate MacNeill!</i>” - </p> -<p> -She came in with the soup, but no question was put till her uncle asked -the blessing, and then, before a spoon was lifted, Auntie Bell said, -“Lassie, lassie, where in the world have you been?” - </p> -<p> -“Keeping shop for Mrs. Wright,” said Bud. -</p> -<p> -“Tcht! tcht! you're beyond redemption,” cried her aunt. “A child like you -keeping shop!” - </p> -<p> -“A bonny pair of shopkeepers, the widow and you! which of you counted the -change?” said Uncle Dan. “Tell us all about it.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, I had the loveliest time,” said Bud. “It would take till tea-time -to tell just 'zactly what a lovely day it was, but I'll hurry up and make -it a front scene. What you said, Uncle Dan, about her running a shop on -phil—on philanthropic principles made me keen to see her doing it, -and I went down a message for Kate, and offered to help. She lowed herself -she wasn't the best there was in the land at keeping shop, and didn't seem -to make much money at it, but said thank the Lord she had the priceless -boon of health. I was the first customer she'd set eyes on all the -morning, 'cept a man that wanted change for half a crown and hadn't the -half-crown with him, but said he'd pay it when he didn't see her again, -and she said she felt sure that trade was going to take a turn. I said I -thought it would turn quicker if—if—if she gave it a push -herself, and she said she dared say there was something in it, and hoped I -was in the fold. I said I was, sure, and at that she cried out -'Hallelujah!' Every other way she was 'a perfectly perfect lady; she made -goo-goo eyes at me, and skipped round doing anything I told her. First she -cleared all the old truck out of the windows, and filled them up with nuts -and apples for Hallowe'en, till they looked the way windows never looked -in Scotland in all creation before, I s'pose. 'They'll think it kind of -daft,' says she, scared-like, 'they're not like any other windows in the -place.' 'Of course not,' I said, 'and that's the very thing to jar the eye -of the passer-by.' Jim Molyneux said a shop-window was like a play-bill, -it wanted a star line—a feature—a whoop. Then I tried to think -of the 'cute things shopkeepers print in Chicago, but couldn't remember -any 'cepting 'Pants two dollars a leg, seats free,' but the widow said she -didn't sell pants. Then I thought of some natty little cards I'd seen that -said 'Arise and Shine!' and 'Do it Now!' so I got her to print these words -good and big, and put them in the window. She wanted to know what they -meant, but I said I couldn't tell from Adam, but they would make the -people wonder, and come in the shop to find out, and then it would be up -to her to sell them something and pry the money out of them before they -balked. Oh, Auntie, how I go on!” and here Bud stopped almost breathless -and a little ashamed. -</p> -<p> -“Go on! go on!” cried Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“Well, I got behind a curtain into a little box-office, where the widow -kept a cash-book awfully doggy-eared, and a pile of printed sermons, and -heaps of tracts about doing to others as you should be done by, and giving -to the poor and lending to the Lord. She read bits of them to me, and said -she sometimes wondered if Captain Brodie was too poor to pay for eighteen -months' tobacco, but she didn't like to press him, seeing he had been in -India and fought his country's battles. She said she felt she must write -him again for her money, but couldn't think of what to say that would be -Christian and polite and gentle, but still make him see she wanted the -money pretty bad. I said I would tell her what to say that would suit just -fine, and I dictated it—” - </p> -<p> -“I saw the letter,” said Uncle Dan, twinkling through his glasses. “It was -a work of genius—go on! go on!” - </p> -<p> -“Then folk began to come in for nuts and apples, and asked what 'Arise and -Shine' and 'Do it Now' meant. She said they were messages from the angel -of the Lord—meaning me, I s'pose—though, goodness knows, I'm -not much of an angel, am I, Auntie Bell? Then the folk would fade away, -looking a bit rattled, and come back in a while and ask the price of -things. She'd say she wasn't sure, but she thought about a shilling, or -maybe ninepence, seeing they had a young family, and then they'd want the -stuff on credit, and she'd yammer away to them till I got wild. When they -were gone I had a good heart-to-heart talk with her, and said -phil-philanthropic principles were a great mistake in a small Italian -warehouse, and that she ought to give the customers a chance of doing unto -others as they would be done by. She made more goo-goo eyes at me, and -said I was a caution, sure enough, and perhaps I was right, for she had -never looked at it that way before. After that she spunked up wonderful. I -got her to send Mr. Wanton through the town with his bell, saying there -was everything you wanted at Mrs. Wright's at bed-rock prices; and when -people came in after that and wanted to get things for nothing, or next to -it, she'd pop into the box where I lay low, and ask me what she was to say -next, and then skip out to them as sharp as a tack and show they needn't -try to toy with her. She says she made more money to-day by my playing -shop Chicago-way than she'd make in a week her own way. Why, I'm talking, -and talking, and talking, and my soup's stone cold!” - </p> -<p> -“So's mine,” said Uncle Dan, with a start. -</p> -<p> -“And mine!” said Auntie Ailie, with a smile. -</p> -<p> -“And mine too, I declare!” cried Miss Bell, with a laugh they all joined -in, till Footles raised his voice protesting. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XVIII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ES, that was one bright day in the dismal season, the day she tutored the -Pilgrim widow in the newer commerce. There was a happy night to follow -soon, and it is my grief that my pen cannot grasp the spirit of it, so -that reading you would laugh with her and whiles be eerie. 'Tis true there -was little in the thing itself as in most that at the age of twelve -impresses us for all our lives, but it met in some degree the expectations -that her father's tales of Scotland had sent home with her. Hitherto all -had been natural and wellnigh commonplace that she had experienced, all -except the folk so queer and kind and comical in a different way from -those in Chicago, the sounds she could hear as she lay in her attic bed—the -wind-call, and the honk of geese, and the feeling of an island hopelessly -remote from the new bright world that best she knew—remote and lost, -a speck on the sea far, far from great America. The last things vaguely -troubled her. For she was child enough as yet to shiver at things not -touched by daylight nor seemingly made plain by the common-sense of man. -She could laugh at the ghosts that curdled the blood of the maid of -Colonsay; and yet at times, by an effort of the will, she could feel all -Kate's terror at some manifestation no more alarming than the cheep of -mice or a death-watch ticking in a corner cupboard. These were but crude -and vulgar fears, self-encouraged little actress terrors. It took more -than the hint of ghost or the menace of the ticking insect in the wood to -wake in her the feeling of worlds unrealized, encompassing, that she could -get from casual verses in her auntie Ailie's book of Scottish ballads, or -find o'erwhelm her of a sudden on looking from her window into the garden -bare and palid below the moon. -</p> -<p> -This night there should be moon according to the penny almanac, and Wanton -Wully lit no lamps, but went home for a good sleep to himself, as his -saying went, and left the burgh to such illumination as should come to it -by the caprice of the clouds. It lay, the little place, for most of the -night in darkness: a mirk so measureless deep, when the shops were shut, -that the red-lit skylight windows at the upper end of the town seemed by -some miracle to lift themselves and soar into the heavens—square, -monstrous, flitting stars to the vision of Bud, as she stood with Auntie -Ailie at the door watching for Uncle Dan's return from his office. To -bring the soaring windows back to their natural situation, she had to -stand a little way inside the lobby and establish their customary place -against the darkness by the lintel of the door. -</p> -<p> -From the other side of the church came a sound of dull, monotonous -drumming—no cheerful, rhythmic beat like the drumming of John -Taggart, but a mournful thumping, fitful in flaws of the bland night wind. -</p> -<p> -“What's that, Auntie?” she asked. -</p> -<p> -“The guizards,” said Miss Ailie, looking down upon her in the lobby light -with a smile she could not see. “Did you never hear of the guizards, Bud?” - </p> -<p> -Bud had never heard of the guizards; that was one thing, surely, her -father had forgotten. She had heard of Hallowe'en, she said, when further -questioned. Wasn't it the night for ducking into tubs for apples? The -Pilgrim widow had told her Hallowe'en was coming, and it was for -Hallowe'en she had sold so many nuts and apples; but the widow said she -felt ashamed to do it, for Hallowe'en was not approved of by the Mission, -being idolatrous and gay. “Is it very gay?” asked Bud, anxiously. -</p> -<p> -“So I used to think it,” said her aunt. -</p> -<p> -“Then I s'pose it must be wicked,” said the child, regretfully. “I'd have -expected you'd have Hallowe'en right here in the house if it hadn't been -very bad. That widow did me a lot of good, showing me what a heap of happy -things are full of sin. She knew them all! I s'pose she got them in the -tracts. Yes, she did me a lot of good; I—I almost wish I hadn't met -that widow.” - </p> -<p> -“Do you feel wicked when you're gay?” asked Miss Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“Mercy on us! not a mite!” said Bud. “I feel plumb full of goodness when -I'm gay; but that's my youth and innocence. The widow says it is, and I -guess what she says goes.” - </p> -<p> -“Still, do you know, my dear, I'd risk a little gayety now and then,” said -Auntie Ailie. “Who knows? The widow, though a worthy lady, is what in -Scotland we call an old wife, and it's generally admitted that old wives -of either sex have no monopoly of wisdom. If you're wanting pious -guidance, Bud, I don't know where you'll get it better than from Auntie -Bell; and she fairly dotes on Hallowe'en and the guizards. By-and-by -you'll see the guizards, and—and—well, just wait and we'll -find what else is to be seen. I do wish your uncle Dan would hurry.” - </p> -<p> -The street was quite deserted, but did not show its vacancy until the -clouds for a moment drifted off the moon that rolled behind the steeple. -Then the long, gray stretch of tenements came out unreal and pale on the -other side of the street, their eaves and chimneys throwing inky shadows, -their red-lit windows growing of a sudden wan. Over them hung the -ponderous kirk, the master shadow, and all—the white-harled walls, -the orange windows, the glittering cold, and empty street—seemed -like the vision of a dream. Then the clouds wrapped up the moon again, and -the black was the black of Erebus. But as it fell, the dull drums seemed -to come nearer, and from the head of the street, the windy corner where -Uncle Dan had his office, small moons came, purple and golden, -fantastically carved. They ran from house to house, and grouped in -galaxies, or singly fell apart, swinging and giddy orbs. For a moment Bud -looked at them bewildered, then gave a happy scream. -</p> -<p> -“The lanterns! the lanterns! Look at the lanterns, Auntie. Is that -Hallowe'en?” - </p> -<p> -“That's part of it, at least,” said her aunt; “these are the guizards, -with their turnip lanterns; they're going round the houses singing; -by-and-by we'll hear them.” - </p> -<p> -“My! I wish to goodness I had a lantern like that. To swing a lantern like -that I'd feel like being a lighthouse or the statue of Liberty at New -York. I'd rather have a turnip lantern than a raft of dolls.” - </p> -<p> -“Did, you never have one?” - </p> -<p> -“No,” said Bud, sorrowfully. “You have no idea what a poor mean place -Chicago is—not a thing but common electric light!” And Miss Ailie -smiled gleefully to herself again like one possessed of a lovely secret. -“I wish that brother of mine would come quickly.” she said, and at the -moment he came out of the darkness to them with a comical look of -embarrassment in his face and in his hand an unlighted turnip lantern. -</p> -<p> -“Here, Bud,” said he, “take this quickly, before some silly body sees me -with it and thinks it's for myself. I have the name, I know, of being daft -enough already, and if it gets about the country that Daniel Dyce was -going round at Hallowe'en with a turnip lantern, they would think he had -lost his head in a double sense, and it would be very bad for business.” - </p> -<p> -“Uncle!” cried the child, in ecstasy, “you're the loveliest, sweetest man -in the whole wide world.” - </p> -<p> -“I dare say,” said he. “I have been much admired when I was younger. But -in this case don't blame me. I wash my hands of the responsibility. I got -my orders for that thing from your auntie Bell.” - </p> -<p> -“My! ain't it cute! Did you make it?” asked Bud, surveying the rudely -carved exterior with delight, and her uncle, laughing, put on his glasses -to look at it himself. -</p> -<p> -“No,” said he, “though I've made a few of them in my time. All that's -needed is a knife or a mussel-shell, and a dose of Gregory's Mixture in -the morning.” - </p> -<p> -“What's the Gregory's Mixture for?” - </p> -<p> -“In making a turnip lantern you eat the whole inside of it,” said Mr. -Dyce. “Perhaps I might have made this one myself if it wasn't that I know -I would hate to see the inside wasted, and still I have mind of the -Gregory. I bought the lantern from a boy at the head of the street who was -looking very gash and ill, and seemed suspiciously glad to get quit of it. -I'm thinking that his Gregory's nearly due.” - </p> -<p> -Bud hardly listened, she was so taken up with her gift. She pounced at the -handle of the kitchen door and found it snibbed within. “Kate! Kate!” she -cried; “let me in to light my lantern.” - </p> -<p> -Kate was to be heard moving within, and there was a curious sound of -giggling, but no answer. -</p> -<p> -“Open the door—quick, quick!” cried Bud, again, and this time Auntie -Bell, inside, said: -</p> -<p> -“Yes, open, Kate; I think we're ready.” - </p> -<p> -The door of the kitchen opened, and before the eyes of the child was a -spectacle the more amazing and delightful since all day they had taken -pains to keep the preparations secret. A dozen children, who had been -smuggled in by the back door in the close, were seated round a tub of -water with floating apples, and they were waiting her presence to begin -their fun. -</p> -<p> -Oh, how happy was that hour! But not just then came the thrill of which -I'm thinking. It was not the laughter and the ducking in the tub, the -discoveries of rings and buttons, thimbles, and scuddy little dolls and -silver pieces hidden in the mound of champed potatoes Kate had cooked; nor -the supper that followed, nor the mating of nuts on the fire-ribs that -gave the eerie flavor of old time and the book of ballads. She liked them -all; her transport surely was completed when the guizards entered, -black-faced, garmented as for a masque, each thumping a sheepskin -stretched on a barrel-hoop—the thing we call a dallan. She had never -discovered before what a soul of gayety was in Auntie Bell, demure so -generally, practising sobriety, it might seem, as if she realized her -dancing days were over and it was time for her to remember all her years. -To-night Miss Bell outdid even Ailie in her merriment, led the games in -the spacious kitchen, and said such droll things, and kept the company in -such a breeze that Ailie cried at last, “I think, Bell, that you're fey!” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, and I dare say you're right,” admitted Bell, sinking in a chair -exhausted. “At my time of life it's daft; I have not laughed so much since -I was at Barbara Mushet's seminary.” - </p> -<p> -Not these things, but the half-hour after, was what made the evening -memorable for the child. Nothing would satisfy her but that she should -light her lantern and convoy the other children home; so Kate went with -her, and the happy band went through the street, each dropping off at her -own house front till the last was gone, and then Bud and the maid turned -back. -</p> -<p> -But Kate had a project in her mind that had been there all night since she -had burned two nuts for herself and Charles in the kitchen fire, and found -them willing to flame quite snug together. That, so far, was satisfactory, -but she wanted more assurance of the final triumph of her love. There was, -it seemed, a skilful woman up the lane who knew spells and magic, read -tea-cups and the cards, and could unravel dreams. Notably was she good at -Hallowe'en devices, and Bud must come and see her, for it would not take a -minute. -</p> -<p> -They found their way by the light of the lantern to the spae-wife's door, -and to a poor confidant of fate and fortune surely, since she had not -found them kinder to herself, for she dwelt in a hovel where foolish -servant-girls came at night with laughter and fears to discover what the -future held for them. Bud, standing on the floor in the circle of light -from her own lantern, watched the woman drop the white of an egg in a -glass of water. In the clot of the albumen, which formed some wavering, -vague figures, she peered and found, she said, the masts of ships and a -crowded harbor, and that meant a sailor husband. -</p> -<p> -“Was I not sure of it!” cried Kate, triumphant; but that was not the end -of the ceremony, for she was bidden to sip a little from the glass, -without swallowing, and go dumb into the night till she heard the -Christian name of a man, and <i>that</i> was the name of the sailor -husband. Kate sipped from the glass of destiny, and passed with Bud into -the darkness of the lane. It was then there came to the child the -delicious, wild eerieness that she was beginning now to coax to her spirit -whenever she could, and feed her fancies on. The light of the lantern only -wanly illumined the lane they hurried through; so plain and gray and -ancient and dead looked the houses pressing on either hand, with windows -shuttered, that it seemed to Bud she had come by magic on a shell as empty -of life as the armor in the castle hall. By-and-by the servant, -speechless, stopped at a corner listening. No sound of human life for a -moment, but then a murmur of voices up the town, to which on an impulse -she started running, with Lennox at her heels, less quickly since the -light of her lantern must be nursed from the wind. Bud fell behind in the -race for the voice of fate; the sound of the footsteps before her died -away in the distance, and her light went out, and there she stood alone -for the first time in the dark of Scotland—Scotland where witches -still wrought spells! A terror that was sweet to think of in the morning, -whose memory she cherished all her days, seized on her, and she knew that -all the ballad book was true! One cry she gave, that sounded shrilly up -the street—it was the name of Charles, and Kate, hearing it, gulped -and came back. -</p> -<p> -“I guessed that would fetch you,” said Bud, panting. “I was so scared I -had to say it, though I s'pose it means I've lost him for a husband.” - </p> -<p> -“My stars! you are the clever one!” said the grateful maid. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XIX -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>PRING came, and its quickening; forest and shrub and flower felt the new -sap rise; she grew in the garden then, the child—in that old -Scottish garden, sheltered lownly in the neuk of the burgh walls. It must -have been because the Dyces loved so much their garden, and spent so many -hours there, that they were so sanely merry, nor let too often or too long -the Scots' forebodings quell their spirits, but got lessons of hope from -the circling of the seasons, that give us beauty and decay in an unvarying -alternation. -</p> -<p> -“It is the time,” used Ailie to say of the spring, “when a delicious -feeling steals over you of wanting to sit down and watch other people -work.” - </p> -<p> -“I'll need to have the lawn-mower sharpened; it may be needed at any -moment by the neighbors,” said her brother Dan. -</p> -<p> -They watched upspring the green spears of the daffodils, that by-and-by -should bear their flags of gold. -</p> -<p> -And Wanton Wully, when he was not bell-ringing, or cleaning the streets, -or lounging on the quay to keep tally of ships that never came, being at -ports more propinque to the highways of the world, where folks are making -fortunes and losing much innocent diversion, wrought—as he would -call it—in the Dyce's garden. Not a great gardener, admittedly, for -to be great in versatility is of necessity to miss perfection in anything, -so that the lowest wages in the markets of the world are for the handy -man. But being handy is its own reward, carrying with it the soothing -sense of self-sufficiency, so we need not vex ourselves for Wully. As he -said himself, he “did the turn” for plain, un-ornamental gardening, though -in truth he seemed to think he did it best when sitting on his barrow -trams, smoking a thoughtful pipe and watching the glad spring hours go by -at a cost of sixpence each to the lawyer who employed him. -</p> -<p> -Bud often joined him on the trams, and gravely listened to him, thinking -that a man who did so many different and interesting things in a day was -wise and gifted beyond ordinary. In the old and abler years he had been 'a -soldier, and, nursing flowers nowadays, his mind would oft incongruously -dwell on scenes remote and terribly different where he had delved in -foreign marl for the burial of fallen comrades. -</p> -<p> -“Tell me Inkerman again, Mr. Wanton,” Bud would say, “and I'll shoo off -the birds from the blub-flow-ers. -</p> -<p> -“I'll do that, my dearie!” he would answer, filling another pipe, and glad -of an excuse to rest from the gentle toil of raking beds and chasing birds -that nipped the tips from peeping tulip leaves. “To the mischief with them -birds! the garden's fair polluted wi' them! God knows what's the use o' -them except for chirping, chirping—Tchoo! off wi' ye at once, or -I'll be after ye!—Ay, ay, Inkerman. It was a gey long day, I'm -tellin' ye, from a quarter past six till half-past four; slaughter, -slaughter a' the time; me wi' an awfu' hacked heel, and no' a bit o' -anything in my stomach. A nesty, saft day, wi' a smirr o' rain. We were as -black as—as black as—as—” - </p> -<p> -“As black as the Earl o' Hell's waistcoat,” Bud prompted him. “Go on! I -mind the very words.” - </p> -<p> -“I only said that the once,” said Wully, shocked at her glibness in the -uptake. “And it's not a thing for the like o' you to say at all; it's only -the word o' a rowdy sodger.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, ain't I the limb! I'll not say it again,” promised the child; “you -needn't look as solemn's the Last Trump. Go on, go on!” - </p> -<p> -“As black as a ton o' coal, wi; the creesh o' the cartridges and the -poother; it was the Minié gun, ye ken. And the Rooshians would be just -ower there between the midden and the cold-frame, and we would be coming -doon on them—it micht be ower the sclates o' Rodger's hoose yonder. -We were in the Heavy Diveesion, and I kill't my first man that I kent o' -aboot where the yellow crocus is. Puir sowl! I had nae ill-will to the -man, I'll guarantee ye that; but we were baith unloaded when we met each -other, and it had to be him or me.” - </p> -<p> -He paused and firmed his mouth until the lips were lost among the puckers -gathered round them, a curious glint in his eyes. -</p> -<p> -“Go on!” cried Bud, sucking in her breath with a horrid expectation, “ye -gie'd him—ye gie'd him—” - </p> -<p> -“I gie'd him—I tell't ye what I gie'd him before. Will I need to -say't again?” - </p> -<p> -“Yes,” said Bud, “for that's your top note.” - </p> -<p> -“I gie'd him—I gie'd him the—the <i>baggonet!</i>” cried the -gardener, with a sudden, frightful, furious flinging of the arms, and then—oh, -silly Wully Oliver!—began to weep, or at least to show a tear. For -Bud had taught him to think of all that lay beyond that furious thrust of -the bayonet—the bright, brave life extinguished, the mother rendered -childless, or the children fatherless, in some Russian home. -</p> -<p> -Bell, the thrifty woman, looking from the scullery window, and seeing time -sadly wasted at twelve bawbees the hour, would come out and send the child -in to her lessons, but still the orra gardener did not hurry to his task, -for he knew the way to keep Miss Dyce in an idle crack, although she would -not sit on his barrow trams. -</p> -<p> -“A wonderfu' wean that!” would be his opening. “A perfect caution! I can -see a difference on her every day; she grows like a willow withy, and -she's losin' yon awfu' Yankee awcent she had about her when she came at -first. She speaks as bonny English noo as you or me, when she puts her -mind to't.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm afraid it would not be very difficult for her to do that, Willy,” - said Miss Bell. “She could always speak in any way she wanted, and, -indeed, the first time that we heard her she was just yoursel' on a New -Year's morning, even to the hiccough. I hope you'll keep a watch on what -you say to her; the bairn picks up the things she hears so fast, and she's -so innocent, that it's hardly canny to let her listen much to the talk of -a man that's been a soldier—not that I blame the soldiers, Willy, -bless them all for Scotland, young or old!” - </p> -<p> -“Not a word out of place from me, Miss Dyce,” would he cry, emphatic. -“Only once I slippit oot a hell, and could have bit my tongue oot for it. -We heard, ye ken, a lot o' hells oot yonder roond aboot Sevastapool: it -wasna Mr. Meikle's Sunday-school. But ye needna fear that Wully Oliver -would learn ill language to a lady like the wee one. Whatever I am that's -silly when the dram is in, I hope I'm aye the perfect gentleman.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, I never doubted it,” said Miss Bell. “But you know yourself we're -anxious that she should be all that's gentle, nice, and clean. When you're -done raking this bed—dear me! I'm keeping you from getting at it—it -'ll be time for you to go home for dinner. Take a bundle of rhubarb for -the mistress.” - </p> -<p> -“Thanky, thanky, me'm,” said Wanton Wully, “but, to tell the truth, we're -kind o' tired o' rhubarb; I'm getting it by the stone from every bit o' -grun I'm laborin' in. I wish folk were so rife wi' plooms or -strawberries.” - </p> -<p> -Bell laughed. “It's the herb of kindness,” said she. “There's aye a reason -for everything in nature, and rhubarb's meant to keep our generosity in -practice.” And there she would be, the foolish woman, keeping him at the -crack, the very thing he wanted, till Mr. Dyce himself, maybe, seeing his -silver hours mishandled, would come to send his sister in, and see his -gardener earned at least a little of his wages. -</p> -<p> -“A terrible man for the ladies, William!” was all that the lawyer had to -say. “There was some talk about doing a little to the garden, but, hoots, -man! don't let it spoil your smoke!” - </p> -<p> -It was then you would see Wanton Wully busy. Where would Bud be then? At -her lessons? No, no, you may be sure of it; but in with Kate of Colonsay, -giving the maid the bloody tale of Inkerman. It was a far finer and more -moving story as it came from Bud than ever it was on the lips of Wanton -Wully. From him she only got the fling of the arms that drove the bayonet -home, the lips pursed up as if they were gathered by a string, the fire of -the moment, and the broad Scots tongue he spoke in. To what he gave she -added fancy and the drama. -</p> -<p> -“As black as a ton o' coal, wi' the creesh o' the cartridges;... either -him or me;... I gie'd him,... I gie'd him;... I shut my eyes, and said, 'O -God, Thy pardon!' and gie'd him the <i>baggonet!</i>” - </p> -<p> -Kate's apron at that would fly up to cover her eyes, for she saw before -her all the bloody spectacle. “I'm that glad,” she would say, “that my -lad's a sailor. I couldna sleep one iota at night thinkin' of their -baggonets if he was a man o' war. And that puts me in mind, my dear, it's -more than a week since we sent the chap a letter. Have you time the now to -sit and write a scrape to Hamburg on the Elbow—imports iron ore?” - </p> -<p> -And Bud had time, and sit she would and write a lovely letter to Charles -Maclean of Oronsay. She told him that her heart was sore, but she must -confess that she had one time plighted her troth to a Russian army -officer, who died, alas! on the bloody field. His last words, as his -life-blood slowly ebbed away, were: -</p> -<p> -“What <i>would</i> be the last words of a Russian officer who loved you?” - asked Bud, biting her pen in her perplexity. -</p> -<p> -“Toots! anything—'my best respects to Kate,'” said the maid, who had -learned by this time that the letters Charles liked the most were the ones -where Bud most freely used imagination. -</p> -<p> -“I don't believe it would,” said Bud. “It'd sound far too calm for a man -that's busy dying.” But she put it down all the same, feeling it was only -fair that Kate should have some say in the letters written in her name. -</p> -<p> -That was the day they gave him a hint that a captain was wanted on the -yacht of Lady Anne. -</p> -<p> -And still Kate's education made some progress, as you may see from what -she knew of Hamburg, though she was not yet the length of writing her own -love-letters. She would sit at times at night for hours quite docile, -knitting in the kitchen, listening to the reading of the child. A score of -books had been tried on her by Aunt Ailie's counsel (for she was in the -secret of this Lower Dyce Academy), but none there was that hit the -pupil's fancy half so much as her own old favorite penny novelettes till -they came one happy day to <i>The Pickwick Papers</i>. Kate grew very fond -of <i>The Pickwick Papers</i>. The fun of them being in a language quite -unknown in Colonsay was almost all beyond her. But “that poor Mr. -Puckwuck!” she would cry at each untoward accident; “oh, the poor wee -man!” and the folk were as real to her as if she had known them all in -Colonsay. If Dickens could have known the curious sentiments his wandering -hero roused in this Highland servant mind he would have greatly wondered. -</p> -<p> -While Bud was tutoring Kate that spring, Miss Bell was thinking to take up -the training of Bud herself in wiselike housekeeping. The child grew as -fast in her mind as in her body; each day she seemed to drift farther away -from the hearth and into the world from which her auntie would preserve -her—into the world whose doors books widely opened, Auntie Ailie's -magic key of sympathy, and the genius of herself. So Bell determined there -and then to coax her into the gentle arts of domesticity that ever had had -a fascination for herself. She went about it, oh, so cunningly! letting -Bud play at the making of beds and the dusting of the stair-rails and the -parlor beltings—the curly-wurly places, as she called them, full of -quirks and holes and corners that the unelect like Kate of Colonsay will -always treat perfunctorily in a general wipe that only drives the dirt the -farther in. Bud missed not the tiniest corner nor the deepest nook; -whatever she did, she did fastidiously, much to the joy of her aunt, who -was sure it was a sign she was meant by the Lord for a proper housewife. -But the child soon tired of making beds and dusting, as she did of -white-seam sewing; and when Bell deplored this falling off, Ailie said: -“You cannot expect everybody to have the same gifts as yourself. Now that -she has proved she's fit to clean a railing properly, she's not so much to -blame if she loses interest in it. The child's a genius, Bell, and to a -person of her temperament the thing that's easily done is apt to be -contemptuous; the glory's in the triumph over difficulties, in getting on—getting -on—getting on,” and Ailie's face grew warm with some internal fire. -</p> -<p> -At that speech Bell was silent. She thought it just another of Ailie's -haiverings; but Mr. Dyce, who heard, suddenly became grave. -</p> -<p> -“Do you think it's genius or precocity?” he asked. -</p> -<p> -“They're very much the same thing,” said Ailie. “If I could be the child I -was; if I could just remember—” She stopped herself and smiled. -“What vanity!” said she; “what conceit! If I could be the child I was, I -dare say I would be pretty commonplace, after all, and still have the same -old draigled pinnies; but I have a notion that Lennox was never meant to -make beds, dust stair-railings, or sit in a parlor listening, demure, to -gossip about the village pump and Sacrament Sunday bonnets. To do these -things are no discredit to the women who are meant to do them, and who do -them well; but we cannot all be patient Marthas. I know, because I've -honestly tried my best myself.” - </p> -<p> -“When you say that, you're laughing at me, I fear,” said Bell, a little -blamefully. -</p> -<p> -“I wasn't thinking of you,” said her sister, vexed. “And if I was, and had -been laughing, I would be laughing at the very things I love; it's only -the other things that make me solemn. Your way, Bell, was always clear -before you—there you were the lucky woman; with genius, as we have -it in the child, the way's perplexed and full of dangers.” - </p> -<p> -“Is she to be let drift her own way?” - </p> -<p> -“We got her ten years too late to prevent it,” said Miss Ailie, firmly, -and looked at her brother Dan for some assistance. He had Footles on his -lap, stroking his tousy back, and he listened with twinkling eyes to the -argument, humming the air of the day, that happened to be “Robin Tamson's -Smiddy, O!” - </p> -<p> -“You're both right and you're both wrong, as Mr. Cleland used to say if he -was taking a dram with folk that had an argument,” said the lawyer; “but -I'm not so clever as Colin Cleland, for I can't ring the bell and order in -the <i>media sententia</i>. This I'll say, that to my mind the child is -lucky if she's something short of genius. If I had had a son, my prayer -would always be that he should be off and on about the ordinary. It's -lonely on the mountain-top, and genius generally seems to go with a poor -stomach or a bad lung, and pays an awful price for every ecstasy!” - “Shakespeare!” suggested Miss Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“And Robert Burns!” cried Bell. “Except for the lass and the glass and the -randan—Poor, misguided laddie! he was like the folk he lived among. -And there was Walter Scott, the best and noblest man God ever gave to -Scotland; he was never on the mountain-top except it was to bring a lot of -people with him there.” - </p> -<p> -Mr. Dyce cleaned his glasses and chuckled. “H'm,” said he, “I admit there -are exceptions. But please pass me my slippers, Bell; I fall back on Colin -Cleland—you're both right and you're both wrong.” - </p> -<p> -Miss Bell was so put about at this that she went at once to the kitchen to -start her niece on a course of cookery. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XX -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>ATERIN!” she said, coming into the kitchen with a handful of paper -cuttings, and, hearing her, the maid's face blanched. -</p> -<p> -“I declare I never broke an article the day!” she cried, protestingly, -well accustomed to that formal address when there had been an accident -among her crockery. -</p> -<p> -“I wasn't charging you,” said her mistress. “Dear me! it must be an awful -thing, a guilty conscience! I was thinking to give you—and maybe -Lennox, if she would not mind—a lesson or two in cookery. It's a -needful thing in a house with anything of a family. You know what men -are!” - </p> -<p> -“Fine that!” said Kate. “They're always thinking what they'll put in their -intervals, the greedy deevils!—beg your pardon, but it's not a swear -in the Gaelic.” - </p> -<p> -“There's only one devil in any language, Kate,” said Miss Bell. “'How art -thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!' And I am glad to -think he is oftener on our foolish tongues than in our hearts. I have -always been going to give you a cookery-book.” - </p> -<p> -“A cookery-book!” cried the maid. “Many a time I saw one out in Colonsay; -for the minister's wife had one they called Meg Dods, that was borrowed -for every wedding. But it was never much use to us, for it started -everything with, 'Take a clean dish,' or 'Mince a remains of chicken,' and -neither of them was very handy out in the isle of Colonsay.” - </p> -<p> -Miss Bell laid out her cuttings on the dresser—a mighty pile of -recipes for soups and stews, puddings and cakes, sweetmeats, and cordial -wines that could be made deliciously from elder and mulberry, if -hereabouts we had such fruits to make them with. She had been gathering -these scraps for many years, for the household column was her favorite -part of the paper after she was done with the bits that showed how -Scotsmen up in London were at the head of everything or did some doughty -deed on the field of war. She hoarded her cuttings as a miser hoards his -notes, but never could find the rich Sultana cake that took nine eggs when -it was wanted, but only the plain one costing about one-and-six. Sometimes -Ailie would, in mischief, offer to look through the packet for recipes -rich and rare that had been mentioned; they were certainly there (for Bell -had read them gloatingly aloud when she cut them out), but Bell would -never let her do it, always saying, “Tuts! never mind; Dan likes this one -better, and the other may be very nice in print but it's too rich to be -wholesome, and it costs a bonny penny. You can read in the papers any day -there's nothing better for the health than simple dieting.” So it was that -Mr. Dyce had some monotony in his meals, but luckily was a man who never -minded that, liking simple, old friends best in his bill of fare as in his -boots and coats and personal acquaintances. Sometimes he would quiz her -about her favorite literature, pretending a gourmet's interest for her -first attempt at something beyond the ordinary, but never relished any the -less her unvarying famous kale and simple entremets, keeping his highest -praise for her remarkable breakfasts. “I don't know whether you're -improving or whether I am getting used to it,” he would say, “but that's -fish! if you please, Miss Bell.” - </p> -<p> -“Try another scone, Dan,” she would urge, to hide the confusion that his -praise created. “I'm sure you're hungry.” - </p> -<p> -“No, not hungry,” would he reply, “but, thank Providence, I'm greedy—pass -the plate.” - </p> -<p> -Bell was busy at her cookery lesson, making her cuttings fill the part of -the book that was still to buy, doing all she could to make Bud see how -noble was a proper crimpy paste, though her lesson was cunningly designed -to look like one for Kate alone. Her sleeves were rolled up, and the flour -was flying, when a rat-tat came to the door. They looked up from their -entrancing occupation, and there, in front, was the castle carriage! -</p> -<p> -Miss Bell made moan. “Mercy on us! That 'll be Lady Anne, and Ailie out, -and I cannot go to speak to anybody, for I'm such a ticket. Run to the -door, dear, and take her into the parlor, and keep her there till I am -ready. Don't forget to say 'My lady'—No, don't say 'My lady,' for -the Dyces are of old, and as good as their neighbors, but say 'Your -ladyship'—not too often, but only now and then, to let her see you -know it.” - </p> -<p> -Bud went to the door and let in Lady Anne, leading her composedly to the -parlor. -</p> -<p> -“Aunt Ailie's out,” she said, “and Aunt Bell is <i>such</i> a ticket. But -she's coming in a minute, your—your—your—” Bud paused -for a second, a little embarrassed. -</p> -<p> -“I forget which it was I was to say. It was either 'Your ladyship' or 'My -lady.' You're not <i>my</i> lady, really, and you're not your own, hardly, -seeing you're promised to Colonel George. Please tell me which is right, -Lady Anne.” - </p> -<p> -“Who told you it was Colonel George, my dear?” asked Lady Anne, sitting -down on the proffered chair and putting her arms around the child. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, it's just the clash of the parish,” said my little Scot, who once was -Yankee. “And everybody's so glad.” - </p> -<p> -“Are they, indeed?” said Lady Anne, blushing in her pleasure. “That is -exceedingly kind of them. I always thought our own people the nicest and -kindest in the world.” - </p> -<p> -“That's just it,” said Bud, cheerfully. “Everybody everywhere is just what -one is one's self—so Aunt Ailie says; and I s'pose it's because -you're—Oh, I was going to say something about you, but I'll let you -guess. What lovely weather! I hope your papa is well? And Mr. Jones?” - </p> -<p> -“Thank you; papa is very well, indeed,” said Lady Anne. “And Mr. Jones—” - She hung upon the name with some dubiety. -</p> -<p> -“The coachman, you know,” said Bud, placidly. “He's a perfectly lovely -man, so fat and smiley. He smiles so much his face is all in gathers. So -kind to his horses, too, and waves his whip at me every time he passes. -Once he gave me a ride on the dickey; it was gorgeous. Do you often get a -ride on the dickey, Lady Anne?” - </p> -<p> -“Never!” said Lady Anne, with a clever little sigh. “Many a time I have -wished I could get one, but they always kept me inside the carriage. I -don't seem to have had much luck all my life till—till—till -lately.” - </p> -<p> -“Did Mr. Jones never take you on his knee and tell you the story of the -Welsh giants?” - </p> -<p> -“No,” said Lady Anne, solemnly shaking her head. “Then you're too big now. -What a pity! Seems to me there isn't such a much in being a big L lady, -after all. I thought you'd have everything of the very best. You have no -idea what funny ideas we had in America about dukes and lords and ladies -in the old country. Why, I expected I'd be bound to hate them when I got -here, because they'd be so proud and haughty and tyrannical. But I don't -hate them one little bit; they don't do anybody any harm more'n if they -were knockabout artistes. I suppose the queen herself 'd not crowd a body -off the sidewalk if you met her there. She'd be just as apt to say, 'What -ho! little girl, pip! pip!' and smile, for Auntie Bell is always reading -in the newspapers snappy little parts, about the nice things the royal -family do, just the same as if they weren't royal a bit.” - </p> -<p> -“Yes, I sometimes see those touching domestic incidents,” said her -ladyship. “You mean such things as the prince helping the cripple boy to -find his crutch? They make me almost cry.” - </p> -<p> -“I wouldn't wet a lash, if I were you,” said Bud. “That's just the press; -like as not there's nothing behind it but the agent in advance.” - </p> -<p> -“Agent in advance?” said Lady Anne, perplexed. “Yes. He's bound to boom -the show somehow—so Jim Molyneux said, and he knew most things, did -Jim.” - </p> -<p> -“You wicked republican!” cried her ladyship, hugging the child the closer -to her. -</p> -<p> -“I'm not a republican,” protested Bud. “I'm truly Scotch, same as father -was and Auntie Bell is—that's good enough for me. I'd just <i>love</i> -to be a my lady myself, it must be so nice and—and fairy. Why, it's -about the only fairy thing left anywhere, I guess. -</p> -<p> -“There's nothing really to it; it's not being richer nor powerfuller nor -more tyrannical than anybody else, but it's—it's—it's—I -dunno 'zactly what it is, but it's something—it—it's romantic, -that's what it is, to be a king or a duke or a my lady. The fun of it is -all inside you, like poetry. I hope, my lady Anne, you 'preciate your -privileges! You must 'preciate your privileges always, Auntie Bell says, -and praise the Lord without ceasing, and have a thankful heart.” - </p> -<p> -“I assure you I do,” replied her ladyship. -</p> -<p> -“That's right,” said Bud, encouragingly. “It's simply splendid to be a -really lady with a big L without having to play it to yourself. I've been -one as Winifred Wallace quite often; with Auntie Ailie's fur jacket and -picture-hat on I'd sit and sit, and feel so composed and grand in the -rocker, and let on it was Mr. Jones's carriage, and bow sweetly to -Footles, who'd be a poor man passing to his work, and mighty proud to have -me notice him. I'd be sort of haughty but not 'bominable haughty, cause -Auntie Bell says there's nothing beats a humble and a contrite heart. But -then, you see, something would happen to spoil everything: Kate would -laugh, or Auntie Bell would pop in and cry: 'Mercy on me, child, -play-acting again! Put away that jacket instantly.' Then I'd know I was -only letting on to be a really lady; but with you it's different—all -the time you're It. Auntie Bell says so, and she knows everything.” - </p> -<p> -“It really looks as if she did,” said her ladyship, “for I've called to -see her to-day about a sailor.” - </p> -<p> -“A sailor!” Bud exclaimed, with wild surmise. “Yes. He wants to be captain -of my yacht, and he refers me to Miss Dyce, for all the world as if he -were a housemaid.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm <i>so</i> glad,” cried Bud, “for it was I who advised him to, and I'm—I'm -the referee.” - </p> -<p> -“You?” - </p> -<p> -“Yes; it was Kate's letter, and she—and we—and I said there -was a rumor you wanted a captain, and he should apply, saying if you -wanted to know just what a clean, good, brave sailor he was you should ask -Kate MacNeill or Miss Dyce, and I'm the Miss Dyce this time, and you're—why, -you're really visiting me!” - </p> -<p> -Lady Anne laughed. “Really, Miss Lennox,” she said, “you're a wonderful -diplomatist. I must get the Earl to put you in the service. I believe -there's a pretty decent salary goes to our representative in the United -States.” - </p> -<p> -“But don't laugh at me, Lady Anne,” pleaded Bud, earnestly. “I'm dre'ffle -set on having Charles off the cargo-boats, where he's thrown away. You -don't know how Kate loves him, and she hasn't seen him—not for years -and years. You know yourself what it is to be so far away from anybody you -love. He'd just fit your yacht like a glove—he's so educated, having -been on the yachts and with the gentry round the world. He's got -everything nice about him you'd look for in a sailor—big, brown -eyes, so beautiful there's only Gaelic words I don't know, but that sound -like somebody breaking glass, to describe how sweet they are. And the -whitest teeth! When he walks, he walks so straight and hits the ground so -hard you'd think he owned the land.” - </p> -<p> -“It seems to me,” said Lady Anne, “that you couldn't be more enthusiastic -about your protégé if you loved him yourself.” - </p> -<p> -“So I do,” said Bud, with the utmost frankness. -</p> -<p> -“But there's really nothing between us. He's meant for Kate. She's got -heaps of beaux, but he's her steady. I gave him up to her for good on -Hallowe'en, and she's so happy.” - </p> -<p> -Bell had thrown off her cooking-apron and cleaned her hands, and ran up -the stairs to see that her hair was trim, for, though she loved a lady for -the sake of Scotland's history, she someway felt in the presence of Lady -Anne the awe she had as a child for Barbara Mushet. That Ailie in such -company should be, on the other hand, so composed, and sometimes even -comical, was a marvel she never could get over. “I never feared the face -of earl or man,” she would say, “but I'm scared for a titled lady.” - </p> -<p> -When she came down to the parlor the visitor was rising to go. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Miss Dyce,” said she, “I'm so glad to see you, though my visit this -time's really to Miss Lennox. I wished to consult her about a captain for -my little yacht.” - </p> -<p> -“Miss Lennox!” exclaimed Miss Bell, shaking hands, and with a look of -apprehension at her amazing niece. -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” said Lady Anne; “she has recommended a man who seems in all -respects quite suitable, if he happens to know a little about sailing, and -I'm going to write to him to come and see me.” - </p> -<p> -At that, I must confess it, Lennox for once forgot her manners and darted -from the parlor to tell Kate the glorious news. -</p> -<p> -“Kate, you randy!” she cried, bursting into the kitchen, “I've fixed it up -for Charles; he's to be the captain.” - </p> -<p> -The servant danced on the floor in a speechless transport, and Bud danced, -too. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXI -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>OO slow, far too slow, passed the lengthening days. Kate was bedded by -nine to make them shorter by an hour or two, but what she took from the -foot of the day she tacked to the head of it, as Paddy in the story eked -his blanket, and she was up in the mornings long before Wanton Wully rang -the six-hours' bell. The elder Dyces—saving Ailie, who knew all -about it, hearing it from Bud in passionate whispers as they lay together -in one bed in the brightening moms of May—might think summer's -coming was what made the household glad, Kate sing like the laverock, and -Lennox so happy and so good, but it was the thought of Charles. “You've -surely taken a desperate fancy for Prince Charlie songs,” said Miss Bell -to Bud and the maid of Colonsay. “Is there not another ditty in the -ballant?” and they would glance at each other guiltily, but never let on. -</p> -<p> -“Come o'er the stream, Charlie, dear Charlie, brave Charlie, Come o'er the -stream, Charlie, and I'll be Maclean.” - </p> -<p> -Bud composed that one in a jiffy, sitting one day at the kitchen window, -and of all the noble Jacobite measures Kate liked it best, “it was so -clever, and so desperate like the thing!” Such a daft disease is love! To -the woman whose recollection of the mariner was got from olden Sabbath -walks 'tween churches in the windy isle, among the mossy tombs, and to -Bud, who had never seen him, but had made for herself a portrait blent of -the youth so gay and gallant Kate described, and of George Sibley Purser, -and of dark, ear-ringed men of the sea that in “The Tempest” cry, “Heigh, -my hearts! cheerily, cheerily, cheerily, my hearts! yare, yare,” the -prospect of his presence was a giddy joy. -</p> -<p> -And after all the rascal came without warning, to be for a day and a night -within sound of Kate's minstrelsy without her knowing it, for he lodged, -an ardent but uncertain man, on the other side of the garden wall, little -thinking himself the cause and object of these musical mornings. Bud found -him out—that clever one! who was surely come from America to set all -the Old World right—she found him at the launching of the <i>Wave</i>. -</p> -<p> -Lady Anne's yacht dozed like a hedgehog under leaves through the winter -months below the beeches on what we call the hard—on the bank of the -river under Jocka's house, where the water's brackish, and the launching -of her was always of the nature of a festival, for the Earl's men were -there, John Taggart's band, with “A Life on the Ocean Wave” between each -passage of the jar of old Tom Watson's home-made ale—not tipsy lads -but jovial, and even the children of the schools, for it happened on a -Saturday. -</p> -<p> -Bud and Footles went with each other and the rest of the bairns, unknown -to their people, for in adventures such as these the child delighted, and -was wisely never interdicted. -</p> -<p> -The man who directed the launch was a stranger in a foreign-looking, soft -slouch hat—Charles plain to identify in every feature, in the big, -brown, searching eyes that only Gaelic could do justice to, and his walk -so steeve and steady, his lovely beard, his tread on the hard as if he -owned the land, his voice on the deck as if he were the master of the sea. -She stood apart and watched him, fascinated, and could not leave even when -the work was done and the band was home-returning, charming the road round -the bay with “Peggy Baxter's Quickstep.” He saw her lingering, smiled on -her, and beckoned on her to cross the gangway that led to the yacht from -the little jetty. -</p> -<p> -“Well, wee lady,” said he, with one big hand on her head and another on -the dog, “is this the first of my crew at a quay-head jump? Sign on at -once and I'll make a sailor of you.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, please,” said she, looking up in his face, too anxious to enter into -his humor, “are you our Kate's Charles?” - </p> -<p> -“Kate!” said he, reflecting, with a hand in his beard, through which his -white teeth shone. “There's such a wheen of Kates here and there, and all -of them fine, fine gyurls! Still-and-on, if yours is like most of her name -that I'm acquaint with, I'm the very man for her; and my name, indeed, is -what you might be calling Charles. In fact”—in a burst of -confidence, seating himself on a water-breaker—“my Christian name is -Charles—Charlie, for short, among the gentry. You are not speaking, -by any chance, of one called Kate MacNeill?” he added, showing some red in -the tan of his countenance. -</p> -<p> -“Of course I am,” said Bud, reproachfully. “Oh, men! men! As if there -could be any other! I hope to goodness you love her same as you said you -did, and haven't been—been carrying on with any other Kates for a -diversion. I'm Lennox Dyce. Your Kate stays with me and Uncle Dan, and -Auntie Bell and Auntie Ailie, and this sweet little dog by the name of -Footles. She's so jolly! My, won't she be tickled to know you've come! And—and -how's the world, Captain Charles?” - </p> -<p> -“The world?” he said, aback, looking at her curiously as she seated -herself beside him on a hatch. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, the world, you know—the places you were in,” with a wave of -the hand that seemed to mean the universe. -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'Edinburgh, Leith, -Portobello, Musselburgh, <i>and</i> Dalkeith?' -</pre> -<p> -—No, that's Kate's favorite geography lesson, 'cause she can sing -it. I mean Rotterdam and Santander and Bilbao—all the lovely places -on the map where a letter takes four days and a twopence-ha'penny stamp, -and's mighty apt to smell of rope.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, them!” said he, with the warmth of recollection; “they're not so bad—in -fact, they're just A1. It's the like of there you see life and spend the -money.” - </p> -<p> -“Have you been in Italy?” asked Bud. “I'd love to see that old Italy— -for the sake of Romeo and Juliet, you know, and my dear, dear Portia.” - </p> -<p> -“<i>I</i> know,” said Charles. “Allow me! Perfect beauties, all fine, fine -gyurls; but I don't think very much of dagoes. I have slept in their -sailors' homes, and never hear Italy mentioned but I feel I want to -scratch myself.” - </p> -<p> -“Dagoes!” cried Bud; “that's what Jim called them. Have you been in -America?” - </p> -<p> -“Have I been in America? I should think I have,” said he, emphatically. -“The Lakes. It's yonder you get value—two dollars a day and -everywhere respected like a gentleman. Men's not mice out yonder in -America.” - </p> -<p> -“Then you maybe have been in Chicago?” cried Bud, her face filled with a -happy expectation as she pressed the dog in her arms till its fringe mixed -with her own wild curls. -</p> -<p> -“Chicago?” said the Captain. “Allow me! Many a time. You'll maybe not -believe it, but it was there I bought this hat.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh!” cried Bud, with the tears in her eyes, and speechless for a moment, -“I—I—could just hug that hat. Won't you please let me—let -me pat it?” - </p> -<p> -“Pat away,” said Captain Charles, laughing, and took it off with the sweep -of a cavalier that was in itself a compliment. “You know yon place—Chicago?'' -he asked, as she patted his headgear fondly and returned it to him. For a -little her mind was far away from the deck of Lady Anne's yacht, her eyes -on the ripple of the tide, her nostrils full, and her little bosom -heaving. -</p> -<p> -“You were there?” he asked again. -</p> -<p> -“Chicago's where I lived,” she said. “That was mother's place,” and into -his ear she poured a sudden flood of reminiscence—of her father and -mother, and the travelling days and lodging-houses, and Mr. and Mrs. -Molyneux, and the graves in the far-off cemetery. The very thought of them -all made her again American in accent and in phrase. He listened, -understanding, feeling the vexation of that far-sundering by the sea as -only a sailor can, and clapped her on the shoulder, and looking at him she -saw that in his eyes which made her love him more than ever. “Oh, my!” she -said, bravely, “here I'm talking away to you about myself and I'm no more -account than a rabbit under these present circumstances, Captain Charles, -and all the time you're just pining to know all about your Kate.” - </p> -<p> -The Captain tugged his beard and reddened again. “A fine, fine gyurl!” - said he. “I hope—I hope she's pretty well.” - </p> -<p> -“She's fine,” said Bud, nodding her head gravely. “You bet Kate can walk -now without taking hold. Why, there's never anything wrong with her -'cepting now and then the croodles, and they're not anything lingering.” - </p> -<p> -“There was a kind of a rumor that she was at times a trifle delicate,” - said Charles. “In fact, it was herself who told me, in her letters.” - </p> -<p> -Bud blushed. This was one of the few details of her correspondence on -which she and Kate had differed. It had been her idea that an invalidish -hint at intervals produced a nice and tender solicitude in the roving -sailor, and she had, at times, credited the maid with some of Mrs. -Molyneux's old complaints, a little modified and more romantic, though -Kate herself maintained that illness in a woman under eighty was looked -upon as anything but natural or interesting in Colonsay! -</p> -<p> -“It was nothing but—but love,” she said now, confronted with the -consequence of her imaginative cunning. “You know what love is, Captain -Charles! A powerfully weakening thing, though I don't think it would hurt -anybody if they wouldn't take it so much to heart.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm glad to hear it's only—only what you mention,” said Charles, -much relieved. “I thought it might be something inward, and that maybe she -was working too hard at her education.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, she's not taking her education so bad as all that,” Bud assured him. -“She isn't wasting to a shadow sitting up nights with a wet towel on her -head soaking in the poets and figuring sums. All she wanted was to be sort -of middling smart, but nothing gaudy.” - </p> -<p> -Captain Charles looked sideways keenly at the child as she sat beside him, -half afraid himself of the irony he had experienced among her countrymen, -but saw it was not here. Indeed, it never was in Lennox Dyce, for all her -days she had the sweet, engaging self-unconsciousness no training can -command: frankness, fearlessness, and respect for all her fellows—the -gifts that will never fail to make the proper friends. She talked so -composedly that he was compelled to frankness himself on a subject no -money could have made him speak about to any one a week ago. -</p> -<p> -“Between you and me and the mast,” said he, “I'm feared Kate has got far -too clever for the like of me, and that's the way I have not called on -her.” - </p> -<p> -“Then you'd best look pretty spry,” said Bud, pointing a monitory finger -at him, “for there's beaux all over the place that's wearing their Sunday -clothes week-days, and washing their faces night and morning, hankering to -tag on to her, and she'll maybe tire of standing out in the cold for you. -I wouldn't be skeered, Cap', if I was you; she's not too clever for -or'nary use; she's nicer than ever she was that time you used to walk with -her in Colonsay.” Bud was beginning to be alarmed at the misgivings to -which her own imaginings had given rise. -</p> -<p> -“If you saw her letters,” said Charles, gloomily. “Poetry and foreign -princes. One of them great at the dancing! He kissed her hand. He would -never have ventured a thing like that if she hadn't given him -encouragement.” - </p> -<p> -“Just diversion,” said Bud, consolingly. “She was only—she was only -putting by the time; and she often says she'll only marry for her own -conveniency, and the man for her is—well, <i>you</i> know, Captain -Charles.” “There was a Russian army officer,” proceeded the seaman, still -suffering a jealous doubt. -</p> -<p> -“But he's dead. He's deader 'n canned beans. Mr. Wanton gied him—gied -him the <i>baggonet</i>. There wasn't really anything in it, anyway. Kate -didn't care for him the tiniest bit, and I guess it was a great relief.” - </p> -<p> -“Then she's learning the piano,” said the Captain; “that's not like a -working-gyurl. And she talked in one of her letters about sitting on Uncle -Dan's knee.” Bud dropped the dog at her feet and burst into laughter; in -that instance she had certainly badly jumbled the identities. -</p> -<p> -“It's nothing to laugh at,” said the Captain, tugging his beard. “It's not -at all becoming in a decent gyurl; and it's not like the Kate I knew in -Colonsay.” Bud saw the time had come for a full confession. “Captain -Charles,” she said, when she recovered herself, “it—it wasn't Kate -said that at all; it was another girl called Winifred Wallace. You see, -Kate is always so busy doing useful things—<i>such</i> soup! and—and -a-washing every Monday, and taking her education, and the pens were all so -dev—so—so stupid, that she simply had to get some one to help -her write those letters; and that's why Winifred Wallace gave a hand and -messed things up a bit, I guess. Where the letters talked solemn sense -about the weather and the bad fishing and bits about Oronsay, and where -they told you to be sure and change your stockings when you came -down-stairs from the mast out the wet, and where they said you were the -very, very one she loved, that was Kate; but when there was a lot of dinky -talk about princes and Russian army officers and slabs of poetry, that was -just Winifred Wallace putting on lugs and showing off. No, it wasn't all -showing off; it was because she kind of loved you herself. You see, she -didn't have any beau of her own, Mr. Charles, and—and she thought it -wouldn't be depriving Kate of anything to pretend, for Kate said there was -no depravity in it.” - </p> -<p> -“Who's Winifred Wallace?” asked the surprised sailor. -</p> -<p> -“I'm all the Winifred Wallace there is,” said Bud, penitently. “It's my -poetry name—it's my other me. I can do a heap of things when I'm -Winifred I can't do when I'm plain Bud, or else I'd laugh at myself enough -to hurt, I'm so mad. Are you angry, Mr. Charles?” - </p> -<p> -“Och! just Charles to you,” said the sailor. “Never heed the honors. I'm -not angry a bit. Allow me! In fact, I'm glad to find the prince and the -piano and the poetry were all nonsense.” - </p> -<p> -“I thought that poetry pretty middling myself,” admitted Bud, but in a -hesitating way that made her look very guilty. -</p> -<p> -“The poetry,” said he, quickly, “was splendid. There was nothing wrong -with it that I could see; but I'm glad it wasn't Kate's—for she's a -fine, fine gyurl, and brought up most respectable.” - </p> -<p> -“Yes,” said Bud, “she's better 'n any poetry. You must feel gay because -you are going to marry her.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm not so sure of her marrying me. She maybe wouldn't have me.” - </p> -<p> -“But she can't help it!” cried Bud. “She's bound to, for the witch-lady -fixed it on Hallowe'en. Only, I hope you won't marry her for years and -years. Why, Auntie Bell'd go crazy if you took away our Kate; for good -girls ain't so easy to get nowadays as they used to be when they had three -pound ten in the half-year, and nailed their trunks down to the floor of a -new place when they got it, for fear they might be bounced. I'd be vexed I -helped do anything if you married her for a long while. Besides, you'd be -sorry yourself, for her education is not quite done; she's only up to -compound multiplication and the Tudor kings. You'd just be sick sorry.” - </p> -<p> -“Would I?” - </p> -<p> -“Course you would! That's love. Before one marries it's hunkydory—it's -fairy all the time—but after that it's the same old face at -breakfast, Mr. Cleland says, and simply putting up with each other. Oh, -love's a wonderful thing, Charles; it's the Great Thing; but sometimes I -say, 'Give me Uncle Dan!' Promise you'll not go marrying Kate right off.” - </p> -<p> -The sailor roared with laughter. “Lord!” said he, “if I wait too long I'll -be wanting to marry yourself, for you're a dangerous gyurl.” - </p> -<p> -“But I'm never going to marry,” said Bud. “I want to go right on loving -everybody, and don't yearn for any particular man tagging on to me.” - </p> -<p> -“I never heard so much about love in English all my life,” said Charles, -“though it's common enough, and quite respectable in Gaelic. Do you—do -you love myself?” - </p> -<p> -“Course I do!” said Bud, cuddling Footles. “Then,” said he, firmly, “the -sooner I sign on with Kate the better, for you're a dangerous gyurl.” - </p> -<p> -So they went down the road together, planning ways of early foregatherings -with Kate, and you may be sure Bud's way was cunningest. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN Kate that afternoon was told her hour was come, and that to-morrow -she must meet her destined mariner, she fell into a chair, threw her apron -over her head, and cried and laughed horribly turn about—the victim -of hysteria that was half from fear and half from a bliss too deep and -unexpected. -</p> -<p> -“Mercy on me!” she exclaimed. “Now he'll find out everything, and what a -stupid one I am. All my education's clean gone out of my head; I'm sure I -couldn't spell an article. I canna even mind the ninth commandment, let -alone the Reasons Annexed, and as for grammar, whether it's 'Give the book -to Bud and me,' or 'Give the book to Bud and I,' is more than I could tell -you if my very life depended on it. Oh, Lennox, now we're going to catch -it! Are you certain sure he said to-morrow?” - </p> -<p> -Bud gazed at her disdainfully and stamped her foot. “Stop that, Kate -MacNeill!” she commanded. “You mustn't act so silly. He's as skeered of -you as you can be of him. He'd have been here Friday before the morning -milk if he didn't think you'd be the sort to back him into a corner and -ask him questions about ancient Greece and Rome. Seems to me love makes -some folk idiotic; land's sake! I'm mighty glad it always leaves me calm -as a plate of pumpkin-pie.” - </p> -<p> -“Is—is—he looking tremendously genteel and wellput-on?” asked -the maid of Colonsay, with anxious lines on her forehead. “Is he—is -he as nice as I said he was?” - </p> -<p> -“He was everything you said—except the Gaelic. I knew he couldn't be -so bad as that sounded that you said about his eyes. I—I never saw a -more becoming man. If I had known just how noble he looked, I'd have sent -him stacks of poetry,” whereat Kate moaned again, rocked herself in her -chair most piteously, and swore she could never have the impudence to see -him till she had her new frock from the dressmaker's. -</p> -<p> -“He'll be thinking I'm refined and quite the lady,” she said, “and I'm -just the same plain Kate I was in Colonsay, and him a regular captain! It -was all your fault, with your fancy letters. Oh, Lennox Dyce, I think I -hate you, just—lend me your hanky; mine's all wet with greeting.” - </p> -<p> -“If you weren't so big and temper wasn't sinful, I'd shake you!” said Bud, -producing her handkerchief. “You were just on your last legs for a sailor, -and you'd never have put a hand on one if I didn't write these letters. -And now, when the sweetest sailor in the land is brought to your -door-step, you don't 'preciate your privileges and have a grateful heart, -but turn round and yelp at me. I tell you, Kate MacNeill, sailors are -mighty scarce and sassy in a little place like this, and none too easy -picked up, and 'stead of sitting there, with a smut on your nose and -tidemarks on your eyebrows, mourning, you'd best arise and shine, or -somebody with their wits about them 'll snap him up. I'd do it myself if -it wouldn't be not honorable to you.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, if I just had another week or two's geography!” said Kate, dolefully. -</p> -<p> -Bud had to laugh—she could not help herself; and the more she -laughed, the more tragic grew the servant's face. -</p> -<p> -“Seems to me,” said Bud, “that I've got to run this loving business all -along the line; you don't know the least thing about it after g-o, go. -Why, Kate, I'm telling you Charles is afraid of you more than you are of -him. He thought you'd be that educated you'd wear specs, and stand quite -stiff talking poetry all the time, and I had to tell him every dinky bit -in these letters were written by me.” - </p> -<p> -“Then that's worse!” cried the servant, more distressed than ever. “For -he'll think I canna write myself, and I can write like fury if you only -give me a decent pen and don't bother me.” - </p> -<p> -“No fears!” said Bud; “I made that all right. I said you were too busy -housekeeping, and I guess it's more a housekeeper than a school-marm -Charles needs. Anyhow, he's so much in love with you, he'd marry you if -you were a deaf-mute; he's plumb head over heels, and it's up to you, as a -sensible girl, not to conceal that you like him some yourself.” - </p> -<p> -“I'll not know what to say to him,” said Kate, “and he always was so -clever; half the time I couldna understand him if it wasn't for his eyes.” - </p> -<p> -“Well, he'll know what to say to you, I guess, if all the signs are right. -Charles is not so shy as all that—love-making is where he lives, and -he made goo-goo eyes at myself without an introduction. You'd fancy, to -hear you, he was a school inspector, and he's only just an or'nary lover -thinking of the happy days you used to have in Colonsay. If I was you I'd -not let on I was anything but what I really was; I'd be natural; yes, -that's what I'd be, for being natural's the deadliest thing below the -canopy to make folk love you. Don't pretend, but just be the same Kate -MacNeill to him you are to me. Just you listen to him, and now and then -look at him, and don't think of a darned thing—I mean don't think of -a blessed thing but how nice he is, and he'll be so pleased and so content -he'll not even ask you to spell cat.” - </p> -<p> -“Content!” cried Kate, with conviction. “Not him! Fine I ken him! He'll -want to kiss me, as sure as God's in heaven—beg your pardon.” - </p> -<p> -“I expect that's not a thing you should say to me,” said Bud, blushing -deeply. -</p> -<p> -“But I begged your pardon,” said the maid. -</p> -<p> -“I don't mean that about God in heaven, that's right—so He is, or -where would <i>we</i> be?—what I meant was about the kissing. I'm -old enough for love, but I'm not old enough for you to be talking to me -about kissing, I guess Auntie Ailie wouldn't like to have you talk to me -about a thing like that, and Auntie Bell, she'd be furious—it's too -advanced.” - </p> -<p> -“What time am I to see him?” asked Kate. -</p> -<p> -“In the morning. If you go out to the garden just after breakfast, and -whistle, he'll look over the wall.” - </p> -<p> -“The morning!” cried the maid, aghast. “I couldn't face him in the -morning. Who ever heard of such a thing? Now you have gone away and -spoiled everything! I could hardly have all my wits about me even if it -was only gloaming.” - </p> -<p> -Bud sighed despairingly. “Oh, you don't understand, Kate,” said she. “He -wanted it to be the evening, too, but I said you weren't a miserable pair -of owls, and the best time for anything is the morning. Uncle Dan says the -first half-hour in the morning is worth three hours at any other time of -the day, for when you've said your prayers, and had a good bath, and a -clean shave, and your boots new on—no slippers nor slithery -dressing-gowns—the peace of God and—and—and the -assurance of strength and righteousness descends upon you so that you—you—you -can tackle wild-cats. I feel so brash and brave myself in the morning I -could skip the hills like a goat. It's simply <i>got</i> to be the -morning, Kate MacNeill. That's when you look your very best, if you care -to take a little trouble, and don't simply just slouch through, and I'm -set on having you see him first time over the garden wall. That's the only -way to fix the thing up romantic, seeing we haven't any balcony. You'll go -out and stand against the blossom of the cherry-tree, and hold a basket of -flowers and parsley, and when he peeks over and sees you looming out the -picture, I tell you he'll be tickled to death. That's the way Shakespeare -'d fix it, and he knew.” - </p> -<p> -“I don't think much of Shakespeare,” said Kate. “Fancy yon Igoa!” - </p> -<p> -“Iago, you mean. Well, what about him?” - </p> -<p> -“The wickedness of him; such a lot of lies!” - </p> -<p> -“Pooh!” said Bud. “He was only for the effect. Of course there never -really was such a mean, wicked man as that Iago—there couldn't be—but -Shakespeare made him just so's you'd like the nice folk all the more by -thinking what they might have been if God had let Himself go.” - </p> -<p> -That night Kate was abed by eight. Vainly the town cried for her—the -cheerful passage of feet on the pavement, and a tinkler piper at the -Cross, and she knew how bright was the street, with the late-lit windows -of the shops, and how intoxicating was the atmosphere of Saturday in the -dark, but having said her Lord's Prayer in Gaelic, and “Now I lay me down -to sleep” in English, she covered her head with the blankets and thought -of the coming day with joy and apprehension, until she fell asleep. -</p> -<p> -In the morning Miss Bell had no sooner gone up to the making of beds, that -was her Sabbath care to save the servant-maid from too much sin, and Ailie -to her weekly reading with the invalid Duncan Gill, than Bud flew into the -kitchen to make Kate ready for her tryst. Never in this world were -breakfast dishes sooner cleaned and dried than by that eager pair; no -sooner were they done than Kate had her chest-lid up, and had dived, head -foremost, among her Sunday finery. -</p> -<p> -“What's that?” asked Bud. “You're not going to put on glad rags, are you?” - For out there came a blue gown, fondled tenderly. -</p> -<p> -“Of course I am,” said Kate. “It's either that or my print for it, and a -print wrapper would not be the thing at all to meet—meet the Captain -in; he'll be expecting me to be truly refined.” - </p> -<p> -“I think he'd like the wrapper better,” said Bud, gravely. “The blue -gown's very nice—but it's not Kate, somehow; do you know, I think -it's Auntie Ailie up to about the waist, and the banker's cook in the -lacey bits above that, and it don't make you refined a bit. It's not what -you put on that makes you refined, it's things you can't take off. You -have no idea how sweet you look in that print, Kate, with your cap and -apron. You look better in them than if you wore the latest yell of -fashion. I'd want to marry you myself if I was a captain and saw you -dressed like that; but if you had on your Sunday gown I'd—I'd bite -my lip and go home and ask advice from mother.” - </p> -<p> -Kate put past the blue gown, not very willingly, but she had learned by -now that in some things Bud had better judgment than herself. She washed -and dried her face till it shone like a polished apple, put on Bud's -choice of a cap and streamered apron, and was about to take a generous -dash of Florida Water when she found her hand restrained. -</p> -<p> -“I'd have no scent,” said Bud. “I like scent myself, some, and I just dote -on our Florida Water, but Auntie Ailie says the scent of clean water, sun, -and air, is the sweetest a body can have about one, and any other kind's -as rude as Keating's Powder.” - </p> -<p> -“He'll be expecting the Florida Water,” said Kate, “seeing that it was -himself that sent it.” - </p> -<p> -“It don't amount to a hill of beans,” said Bud; “you can wear our locket, -and that 'll please him.” Kate went with a palpitating heart through the -scullery, out into the garden, with a basket in her hand, a pleasing and -expansive figure. Bud would have liked to watch her, but a sense of -delicacy prevented, and she stood at the kitchen window looking resolutely -into the street. On his way down the stairs Mr. Dyce was humming the -Hundredth Psalm; outside the shops were shuttered, and the harmony of the -morning hymn came from the baker's open windows. A few folk passed in -their Sunday clothes, at a deliberate pace, to differentiate it from the -secular hurry of other days. Soon the church bell would ring for the -Sabbath-school, and Bud must be ready. Remembering it, a sense of some -impiety took possession of her—worldly trysts in back gardens on the -Sabbath were not what Aunt Bell would much approve of. Had they met yet? -How did Charles look? What did Kate say? -</p> -<p> -“Mercy on me!” cried the maid, bursting in through the scullery. “Did you -say I was to whistle?” - </p> -<p> -“Of course,” said Bud, and then looked horrified “Oh, Kate,” said she, in -a whisper, “I was so keen on the vain things of this wicked world I quite -forgot it was the Lord's Day; of course you can't go whistling on Sunday.” - </p> -<p> -“That's what I was just thinking to myself,” said the maid, not very -heartily. “But I thought I would ask you. It wouldn't need to be a time, -but—but of course it would be awful wicked—forbye Miss Dyce -would be sure to hear me, and she's that particular.” - </p> -<p> -“No, you can't whistle; you daren't,” said Bud. “It'd be dre'ffle wicked. -But how'd it do to throw a stone? Not a rock, you know, but a nice little -quiet wee white Sunday pebble? You might like as not be throwing it at -Rodger's cats, and that would be a work of necessity and mercy, for these -cruel cats are just death on birds.” - </p> -<p> -“But there's not a single cat there,” explained the maid. -</p> -<p> -“Never mind,” said Bud. “You can heave the pebble over the wall so that it -'ll be a warning to them not to come poaching in our garden; there's sure -to be some on the other side just about to get on the wall; and if Charles -happens to be there, can you help that?” and Kate retired again. -</p> -<p> -There was a pause, and then a sound of laughter. For ten minutes Bud -waited in an agony of curiosity, that was at last too much for her, and -she ventured to look out at the scullery window—to see Charles -chasing his adored one down the walk, between the bleaching-green and the -gooseberries. Kate was making for the sanctuary of her kitchen, her face -aflame and all her streamers flying, but was caught before she entered. -</p> -<p> -“I told you!” said she, as she came in panting. “We hadn't said twenty -words when he wanted to kiss me.” - </p> -<p> -“Why! was that the reason you ran?” asked Bud, astonished. -</p> -<p> -“Ye—yes,” said the maid. -</p> -<p> -“Seems to me it's not very encouraging to Charles, then.” - </p> -<p> -“Yes, but—but I wasn't running all my might,” said Kate. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXIII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>A-RAN-TA-RA! Ta-ran-ta-ra! -</p> -<p> -The world is coming for Lennox Dyce, the greedy, greedy world, youth's -first and worst beguiler, that promises so much, but at the best has only -bubbles to give, which borrow for a moment the splendor of the sin, then -burst in the hands that grasp them—the world that will have only our -bravest and most clever bairns, and takes them all from us one by one. I -have seen them go—scores of them, boys and girls, their foreheads -high, and the sun on their faces, and never one came back. Now and then -returned to the burgh, in the course of years, a man or woman who bore a -well-known name and could recall old stories, but they were not the same, -and even if they were not disillusioned, there was that in their flushed -prosperity which ill made up for the bright young spirits quelled. -</p> -<p> -Ta-ran-ta-ra! Ta-ran-ta-ra! -</p> -<p> -Yes, the world is coming, sure enough—on black and yellow wheels, -with a guard red-coated who bugles through the glen. It is coming behind -black horses, with thundering hoofs and foam-flecked harness, between bare -hills, by gurgling burms and lime-washed shepherd dwellings, or in the -shadow of the woods that simply stand where they are placed by God and -wait. It comes in a fur-collared coat—though it is autumn weather—and -in a tall silk hat, and looks amused at the harmless country it has come -to render discontent. -</p> -<p> -Ta-ran-ta-ra! Ta-ran-ta-ra! -</p> -<p> -Go back, world! go back, and leave the little lass among her dreams, with -hearts that love and cherish. Go back, with your false flowers and your -gems of paste. Go back, world, that for every ecstasy exacts a pang! -</p> -<p> -There were three passengers on the coach—the man with the fur collar -who sat on the box beside the driver, and the Misses Duff behind. I am -sorry now that once I thought to make you smile at the pigeon hens, for -to-day I'm in more Christian humor and my heart warms to them, seeing them -come safely home from their flight afar from their doo-cot, since they it -was who taught me first to make these symbols on the paper, and at their -worst they were but a little stupid, like the most of us at times, and -always with the best intent. They had been to Edinburgh; they had been -gone two weeks—their first adventure in a dozen years. Miss Jean was -happy, bringing back with her a new crochet pattern, a book of Views, a -tooth gold-filled (she was so proud and spoke of it so often that it is -not rude to mention it), and a glow of art she had got from an afternoon -tea in a picture-gallery full of works in oil. Amelia's spoils were a -phrase that lasted her for years—it was that Edinburgh was “redolent -of Robert Louis”—the boast that she had heard the great MacCaskill -preach, and got a lesson in the searing of harmless woods with heated -pokers. Such are the rewards of travel; I have come home myself with as -little for my time and money. -</p> -<p> -But between them they had brought back something else—something to -whisper about lest the man in front should hear, and two or three times to -look at as it by in an innocent roll beside the purse in Miss Amelia's -reticule. It might have been a serpent in its coils, so timidly they -glanced in at it, and snapped the bag shut with a kind of shudder. -</p> -<p> -“At least it's not a very large one,” whispered Miss Jean, with the old -excuse of the unhappy lass who did the deadly sin. -</p> -<p> -“No,” said her sister, “it may, indeed, be called quite—quite -diminutive. The other he showed us was so horribly large and—and -vulgar, the very look of it made me almost faint. But oh! I wish we could -have dispensed with the horrid necessity. After twe—after so many -years it looks like a confession of weakness. I hope there will be no -unpleasant talk about it.” - </p> -<p> -“But you may be sure there will, Amelia Duff,” said her sister. “They'll -cast up Barbara Mushet to us; she will always be the perfect teacher—” - </p> -<p> -“The paragon of all the virtues.” - </p> -<p> -“And it is such a gossiping place!” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed it is,” said Miss Amelia. “It is always redolent of—of -scandal.” - </p> -<p> -“I wish you had never thought of it,” said Miss Jean, with a sigh and a -vicious little shake of the reticule. “I am not blaming you, remember, -'Melia; if we are doing wrong the blame of it is equally between us, -except perhaps a little more for me, for I <i>did</i> think the big one -was better value for the money. And yet it made me grue, it looked so—so -dastardly.” - </p> -<p> -“Jean,” said her sister, solemnly, “if you had taken the big one I would -have marched out of the shop affronted. If it made you grue, it made me -shudder. Even with the small one, did you notice how the man looked at us? -I thought he felt ashamed to be selling such a thing; perhaps he has a -family. He said they were not very often asked for. I assure you I felt -very small, the way he said it.” - </p> -<p> -Once more they bent their douce-brown hats together over the reticule and -looked timidly in on the object of their shames and fears. “Well, there it -is, and it can't be helped,” said Miss Jean at last, despairingly. “Let us -hope and trust there will not be too frequent need for it, for, I assure -you, I have neither the strength nor inclination.” She snapped the bag -shut again, and, glancing up, saw the man with the fur collar looking over -his shoulder at them. -</p> -<p> -“Strikes me, ladies,” he said, “the stage-coach, as an easy mark for the -highwaymen who used to permeate these parts, must have been a pretty merry -proposition; they'd be apt to stub their toes on it if they came -sauntering up behind. John here”—with an inclination of his head -towards the driver—“tells me he's on schedule time, and I allow he's -making plenty fuss clicking his palate, but I feel I want to get out and -heave rocks at his cattle so's they'd get a better gait on 'em.” - </p> -<p> -Miss Jean was incapable of utterance; she was still too much afraid of a -stranger who, though gallantly helping them to the top of the coach at -Maryfield, could casually address herself and Miss Amelia as “dears,” - thrust cigars on the guard and driver, and call them John and George at -the very first encounter. -</p> -<p> -“We—we think this is fairly fast,” Miss Amelia ventured, surprised -at her own temerity. “It's nineteen miles in two hours, and if it's not so -fast as a railway train it lets you enjoy the scenery. It is very much -admired, our scenery, it's so—it's so characteristic.” - </p> -<p> -“Sure!” said the stranger, “it's pretty tidy scenery as scenery goes, and -scenery's my forte. But I'd have thought that John here'd have all this -part of Caledonia stem and wild so much by heart he'd want to rush it and -get to where the houses are; but most the time his horses go so slow they -step on their own feet at every stride.” - </p> -<p> -“Possibly the coach is a novelty to you,” suggested Miss Amelia, made -wondrous brave by two weeks' wild adventuring in Edinburgh. “I—I -take you for an American.” - </p> -<p> -“So did my wife, and she knew, for she belonged out mother's place,” said -the stranger, laughing. “You've guessed right, first time. No, the coach -is no novelty to me; I've been up against a few in various places. If I'm -short of patience and want more go just at present, it's because I'm full -of a good joke on an old friend I'm going to meet at the end of these -obsequies.” - </p> -<p> -“Obsequies?” repeated Miss Amelia, with surprise, and he laughed again. -</p> -<p> -“At the end of the trip,” he explained. “This particular friend is not -expecting me, because I hadn't a post-card, hate a letter, and don't seem -to have been within shout of a telegraph-office since I left Edinburgh -this morning.” - </p> -<p> -“We have just come from Edinburgh ourselves,” Miss Jean chimed in. -</p> -<p> -“So!” said the stranger, throwing his arm over the back of his seat to -enter more comfortably into the conversation. “It's picturesque. Pretty -peaceful, too. But it's liable to be a little shy of the Thespian muse. I -didn't know more than Cooper's cow about Edinburgh when I got there last -Sunday fortnight; but I've gone perusing around a bit since; and say, my! -she's fine and old! I wasn't half a day in the city when I found out that -when it came to the real legit. Queen Mary was the king-pin of the outfit -in Edinburgh. Before I came to this country I couldn't just place Mary; -sometimes she was Bloody and sometimes she was Bonnie, but I suppose I -must have mixed her up with some no-account English queen of the same -name.” - </p> -<p> -“Edinburgh,” said Miss Amelia, “is redolent of Mary Queen of Scots—and -Robert Louis.” - </p> -<p> -“It just is!” he said. “There's a little bedroom she had in the castle -yonder, no bigger than a Chicago bath-room. Why, there's hardly room for a -nightmare in it; a skittish nightmare 'd kick the transom out. There -doesn't seem to be a single dramatic line in the whole play that Mary -didn't have to herself. She was the entire cast, and the spot-light was on -her for the abduction scene, the child-widow scene, the murder, the -battle, and the last tag at Fotheringay. Three husbands and a lot of -flirtations that didn't come to anything, her portrait everywhere, and the -newspapers tracking her up like Old Sleuth from that day to this! I guess -Queen Lizzie put her feet in it when she killed Mary—for Mary's the -star-line in history, and Lizzie's mainly celebrated for spoiling a good -Prince Albert coat on Walter Raleigh.” - </p> -<p> -He spoke so fast, he used such curious words and idioms which the Misses -Duff had never heard before nor read in books, that they were sure again -he was a dreadful person. With a sudden thought of warnings to “Beware of -Pickpockets” she had seen in Edinburgh, Miss Amelia clutched so hard at -the chain of the reticule which held their purse as well as their mystery -that it broke, and the bag fell over the side of the coach and, bursting -open, scattered its contents on the road unobserved by the guard, whose -bugle at the moment was loudly flourishing for the special delectation of -a girl at work in a neighboring cornfield. -</p> -<p> -“Hold hard, John,” said the American, and before the coach had quite -stopped he was down on the highway recovering the little teacher's -property. -</p> -<p> -The serpent had unwound its coils; it lay revealed in all its hideousness—a -teacher's tawse! -</p> -<p> -At such a sad exposure its owners could have wept. They had never dreamed -a tawse could look so vulgar and forbidding as it looked when thus exposed -to the eye of man on the king's highway. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, thank you so much,” said Miss Jean. “It is so kind of you.” - </p> -<p> -“Exceedingly kind, courteous beyond measure—we are more than obliged -to you,” cooed Miss Amelia, with a face like a sunset as she rolled the -leather up with nervous fingers. -</p> -<p> -“Got children, ma'am,” asked the American, seriously, as the coach -proceeded on its way. -</p> -<p> -Miss Amelia Duff made the best joke of her life without meaning it. -“Twenty-seven,” said she, with an air of great gratitude, and the stranger -smiled. -</p> -<p> -“School-ma'am. Now that's good, that is; it puts me in mind of home, for I -appreciate school-ma'ams so heartily that about as soon as I got out of -the school myself I married one. I've never done throwing bouquets at -myself about it ever since, but I'm sorry for the mites she could have -been giving a good time to as well as their education, if it hadn't been -that she's so much mixed up with me. What made me ask about children was -that—that mediaeval animator. I haven't seen one for years and -years, not since old Deacon Springfield found me astray in his orchard one -night and hiking for a short-cut home. I thought they'd been abolished by -the treaty of Berlin.” - </p> -<p> -Miss Amelia thrust it hurriedly into the reticule. “We have never used one -all our life,” she said, “but now we fear we have to, and, as you see, -it's quite thin, it's quite a little one.” - </p> -<p> -“So it is,” said the stranger, solemnly. “It's thin, it's translucent, you -might say; but I guess the kiddies are pretty little, too, and won't be -able to make any allowance for the fact that you could have had a larger -size if you wanted. It may be light on the fingers and mighty heavy on the -feelings.” - </p> -<p> -“That's what you said,” whispered Miss Amelia to her sister. -</p> -<p> -“As moral suasion, belting don't cut ice,” went on the American. “It's -generally only a safety-valve for a wrothy, grown-up person with a temper -and a child that can't hit back.” - </p> -<p> -“That's what <i>you</i> said,” whispered Miss Jean to Miss Amelia, and -never did two people look more miserably guilty. -</p> -<p> -“What beats me,” said the stranger, “is that you should have got along -without it so far and think it necessary now.” - </p> -<p> -“Perhaps—perhaps we won't use it,” said Miss Jean. “Except as—as -a sort of symbol,” added her sister. “We would never have dreamed of it if -the children nowadays were not so different from what they used to be.” - </p> -<p> -“I guess folks been saying that quite awhile,” said the American. -“Children never were like what they used to be. I reckons old Mother -Nature spits on her hands and makes a fresh start with each baby, and -never turns out two alike. That's why it's fun to sit and watch 'em bloom. -Pretty delicate blooms, too! Don't bear much pawing; just give them a bit -of shelter when the weather's cold, a prop to lean against if they're -leggy and the wind's high, and see that the fertilizer is the proper -brand. Whether they're going to turn out like the picture on the packet or -just only weeds depends on the seedsman.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, you <i>don't</i> understand how rebellious they can be!” cried Miss -Amelia, with feeling. “And they haven't the old deference to their elders -that they used to have; they're growing bold and independent.” - </p> -<p> -“Depends on the elders, I suppose. Over here I think you folks think -children come into the world just to please grown-ups, and do what they're -told without any thinking. In America it's looked at the other way about: -the children are considerably more important than their elders, and the -notion don't do any harm to either, far as I can see. As for your rebels, -ma'am, I'd cherish 'em; rebellion's like a rash, it's better out than in.” - </p> -<p> -Ta-ran-ta-ra! The bugle broke upon their conversation; the coach emerged -from the wood and dashed downhill, and, wheeling through the arches, drew -up at the inn. -</p> -<p> -The American helped the ladies to alight, took off his hat, bade them -good-day, and turned to speak to his friend the driver, when a hand was -placed on his sleeve and a child with a dog at her feet looked up in his -face. -</p> -<p> -“Jim! Why, Jim Molyneux!” cried Bud. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXIV -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>OR only a day or two the world (in a fur-lined collar) dwelt among us, -but momentous was its advent to the household Molyneux came visiting. It -was as if a high tide had swept the dwelling, Bell remarked, when he was -gone. You might see no outward difference; the furniture might still be as -it was, and in the same position as Miss Bell had found it when her mother -died, but all the same there was an unseen, doleful wreckage. This unco -man Molyneux changed the vital thing, the atmosphere, and the house with -the brass knocker was never to be altogether just the same again. It is no -discovery of mine that what may seem the smallest trifles play tremendous -parts in destiny. -</p> -<p> -Even the town itself was someway altered for a little by the whim that -took the American actor to it. That he should be American, and actor, too, -foredoomed the greatness of his influence, since the combination stood for -much that was mysterious, half fearful, half sublime in our simple notions -of the larger world. To have been the first alone would have endowed him -with the charm of wonder and romance for most of us, who at the very sight -of the name America, even if it be only on a reaper or a can of beef, have -some sense of a mightiness that the roar of London cannot rouse. But to be -an actor, too! earning easy bread by mimicry and in enormous theatres -before folk that have made money—God knows how!—and prospered. -Sinful a little, we allow, for there are doubts if the play-actor, having -to paint his face and work late hours in gaslight, finally shall obtain -salvation—sinful, and yet—and yet so queer and clever a way of -making out a living! It is no wonder if we looked on Mr. Molyneux with -that regard which by cities is reserved for shahs of a hundred wives, and -royal vagabonds. Besides, consider how the way had been prepared for him -by Bud!—a child, but a child who had shown already how wonderful -must be the land that had swallowed up clever men like William Dyce and -the brother of P. &. A. MacGlashan. Had she not, by a single -object-lesson in the Pilgrim widow's warehouse, upset the local ways of -commerce, so that now, in all the shops, the people were constantly buying -things of which they had no earthly need, and the Pilgrim widow herself -was put to the weekly trouble of washing her windows, so wasting time that -might have been devoted to the mission? Had she not shown that titled -ladies were but human, after all, and would not bite you if you cracked a -joke politely with them? Had she not put an end to all the gallivanting of -the maid of Colonsay and given her an education that made her fit to court -a captain? And, finally, had she not by force of sheer example made dumb -and stammering bashfulness in her fellow-pupils at the Sunday-school look -stupid, and by her daily walk and conversation roused in them a new spirit -of inquiry and independence that pleased their parents not so badly, and -only the little twin teachers of the Pigeons' Seminary could mistake for -the kind of rebellion that calls for the application of the tawse? -</p> -<p> -Mr. Molyneux might have no idea of it, but he was a lion for those few -days of sequestration in what he thought the wilds. Miss Minto dressed her -windows specially for his critical eye, and on the tickets of her autumn -sales gave the name of “waist” to what had hitherto been a blouse or a -garibaldi. P. &. A. Mac-Glashan made the front of his shop like a -wharf with piles of empty packing-cases to indicate a-prosperous foreign -and colonial trade. One morning Wanton Wully rang the bell at half-past -five instead of six to prove how very wide-awake we were; and the band -paraded once with a new tune, “Off to Philadelphia,” to show that when it -came to gayety we were not, though small, so very far behind New York. -</p> -<p> -But Jim Molyneux, going up and down the street with Lennox and the dog for -cicerones, peered from under the rim of his hat, and summed all up to -himself in the words “Rube town” and “Cobwebopolis.” Bell took warmly to -him from the outset; so much was in his favor. For one thing he was -spick-and-span though not a jackanapes, with no long hair about him as she -had expected, and with an honest eye and a good complexion that simple -country ladies readily pass as the guarantee of a being clean within. She -forgave the disreputable part in him—the actor—since William -had been one and yet had taught his child her prayers, and she was willing -to overlook the American, seeing William's wife had suffered from the same -misfortune. But oh! the blow she got when she unpacked what he called his -grip and found the main thing wanting! -</p> -<p> -“Where's your Bible, Mr. Molyneux?” she asked, solemnly. “It's not in your -portmanteau!” - </p> -<p> -Again it was in his favor that he reddened, though the excuse he had to -make was feeble. -</p> -<p> -“Dear me!” she said, shaking her head with a sad sort of smile. “And you -to be so regularly travelling! If I was your wife I would take you in -hand! But perhaps in America there's no need for a lamp to the feet and a -light to the path.” - </p> -<p> -It was after their first supper, for which the patriot Bell had made a -haggis, that her brother, for Moly-neux's information, said was thought to -be composed of bagpipes boiled. Bud was gone to bed in the attic, and -Molyneux was telling how he simply <i>had</i> to come. -</p> -<p> -“It's my first time in Scotland,” said he; “and when 'The Iron Hand' lost -its clutch on old Edina's fancy, and the scenery was arrested, I wasn't so -sore about it as I might have been, since it gave me the opportunity of -coming up here to see girly-girly. I'll skiddoo from the gang for a day or -two, I said to the manager when we found ourselves side-tracked, and he -said that was all right, he'd wire me when he'd fixed a settlement, so I -skiddid, and worked my way here with the aid of the American language, and -a little Scotch—by absorption.” - </p> -<p> -“We have only one fault with your coming—that it was not sooner,” - said Mr. Dyce. -</p> -<p> -“And I'm pretty glad I came, if it was only to see what a credit Bud is to -a Scottish training. Chicago's the finest city on earth—in spots; -America's what our Fourth-of-July orators succinctly designate God's Own, -and since Joan of Arc there hasn't been any woman better or braver than -Mrs. Molyneux. But we weren't situated to give Bud a show like what she'd -get in a settled home. We did our best, but we didn't dwell, as you might -say, on Michigan Avenue, and Mrs. Molyneux's a dear, good girl, but she -isn't demonstratively domesticated. We suspected from what Bud's father -was, the healthiest place she could be was where he came from, and though -we skipped some sleep, both of us, to think of losing her, now that I'm -here and see her, I'm glad of it, for my wife and I are pretty much on the -drift most the time in England, as we were in the United States.” - </p> -<p> -“Yours is an exacting calling, Mr. Molyneux,” said Mr. Dyce. “It's very -much the same in all countries, I suppose?” - </p> -<p> -“It's not so bad as stone-breaking nor so much of a cinch as being a -statesman,” said Mr. Molyneux, cheerfully, “but a man's pretty old at it -before he gives up hope of breaking out into a very large gun. I've still -the idea myself that if I'm not likely to be a Booth or Henry Irving, I -could make a pile at management. With a millionaire at my back for a -mascot and one strong star, I fancy I could cut a pretty wide gash through -the English dramatic stage. You know our Mr. Emerson said, 'Hitch your -wagon to a star.' I guess if I got a good star bridled, I'd hitch a -private parlor-car and a steam-yacht onto her before she flicked an ear. -Who wants a wagon, anyway?” - </p> -<p> -“A wagon's fairly safe to travel in,” suggested Mr. Dyce, twinkling -through his glasses. -</p> -<p> -“So's a hearse,” said Mr. Molyneux, quickly. “Nobody that ever travelled -in a hearse ever complained of getting his funny-bone jolted or his -feelings jarred, but it's a mighty slow conveyance for live folks. That's -the only thing that seems to me to be wrong with this cute little British -kingdom; it's pretty and it's what the school-marm on the coach would call -redolent of the dear, dead days beyond recall, and it's plucky, but it -keeps the brakes on most the time and don't give its star a chance to -amble. I guess it's a fine crowded and friendly country to be bom rich in, -and a pretty peaceful and lonesome country to die poor in; but take a -tenpenny car ride out from Charing Cross and you're in Lullaby Land and -the birds are building nests and carolling in your whiskers. Life's short; -it only gives a man time to wear through one pair of eyes, two sets of -teeth, and a reputation, and I want to live every hour of it that I'm not -conspicuously dead.” - </p> -<p> -They were silent in the parlor of the old house that had for generations -sheltered very different ideals, and over the town went the call of the -wild geese. The room, low-roofed, small-windowed, papered in dull green, -curtained against the noises of the street, and furnished with the strong -mahogany of Grandma Buntain, dead for sixty years, had ever to those who -knew it best a soul of peace that is not, sometimes, found in a cathedral. -They felt in it a sanctuary safe from the fret and tempest, the alarm and -disillusions of the life out-bye. In the light of the shaded lamp hung -over the table, it showed itself to its inmates in the way our most -familiar surroundings will at certain crises—in an aspect fonder -than ever it had revealed before. To Bell, resenting the spirit of this -actor's gospel, it seemed as if the room cried out against the sacrilege; -even Ailie, sharing in her heart, if less ecstatically, the fervor for -life at its busiest this stranger showed, experienced some inharmony. To -Dan it was for a moment as if he heard a man sell cuckoo clocks by auction -with a tombstone for his rostrum. -</p> -<p> -“Mr. Molyneux,” said he, “you remind me, in what you say, of Maggie -White's husband. Before he died he kept the public-house, and on winter -nights when my old friend Colin Cleland and his cronies would be sitting -in the back room with a good light, a roaring fire, and an argument about -Effectual Calling, so lively that it stopped the effectual and profitable -call for Johnny's toddy, he would come in chittering as it were with cold, -and his coat collar up on his neck, to say: 'An awfu' nicht outside! As -dark as the inside o' a cow and as cauld as charity! They're lucky that -have fires to sit by.' And he would impress them so much with the -good-fortune of their situation at the time that they would order in -another round and put off their going all the longer, though the night -outside, in truth, was no way out of the ordinary. I feel like that about -this place I was born in, and its old fashions and its lack of hurry, when -I hear you—with none of Johnny White's stratagem—tell us, not -how dark and cold is the world outside, but what to me, at the age of -fifty-five, at any rate is just as unattractive. You'll excuse me if, in a -manner of speaking, I ring the bell for another round. Life's short, as -you say, but I don't think it makes it look any the longer to run through -the hours of it instead of leisurely daundering—if you happen to -know what daunder-ing is, Mr. Molyneux—and now and then resting on -the road-side with a friend and watching the others pass.” - </p> -<p> -“At fifty-five,” said Mr. Molyneux, agreeably, “I'll perhaps think so, -too, but I can only look at it from the point of view of thirty-two. We've -all got to move, at first, Mr. Dyce. That reminds me of a little talk I -had with Bud to-day. That child's growing, Mr. Dyce—grown a heap of -ways. She's hardly a child any longer.” - </p> -<p> -“Tuts! She's nothing else!” exclaimed Miss Bell, with some misgiving. -“When I was her age I was still at my sampler in Barbara Mushet's.” - </p> -<p> -“Anyhow, she's grown. And it seems to me she's about due for a little -fresh experience. I suppose you'll be thinking of sending her to one of -those Edinburgh schools to have the last coat of shellac put on her -education?” - </p> -<p> -“What put that in your head? Did she suggest it herself?” asked Mr. Dyce, -quickly, with his head to one side in his cross-examination manner. -</p> -<p> -“Well she did—but she didn't know it,” said Mr. Molyneux. “I guess -about the very last thing that child'd suggest to anybody would be that -she wanted to separate herself from folk she loves so much as you; but if -there's one weakness about her it is that she can't conceal what she -thinks, and I'd not been twenty minutes in her society before I found out -she had the go-fever pretty bad. I suspect a predisposition to that -complaint, and a good heart was all her father and mother left her, and -lolling around and dwelling on the past isn't apt to be her foible. Two or -three years in the boarding-school arena would put the cap-sheaf on the -making of that girl's character, and I know, for there's my wife, and she -had only a year and a half. If she'd had longer I guess she'd have had -more sense than marry me. Bud's got almost every mortal thing a body wants -here, I suppose—love in lumps, a warm, moist soil, and all the rest -of it, but she wants to be hardened off, and for hardening off a human -flower there's nothing better than a three-course college, where the -social breeze is cooler than it is at home.” - </p> -<p> -Miss Bell turned pale—the blow had come! Dan looked at her with a -little pity, for he knew she had long been fearfully expecting it. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed!” said she; “and I do not see the need for any such thing for a -long while yet. Do you, Ailie?” But Ailie had no answer, and that was -enough to show what she thought. -</p> -<p> -“I know how it feels at first to think of her going away from home,” - continued Mr. Molyneux, eager to be on with a business he had no great -heart for. “Bless you, I know how my wife felt about it: she cried like -the cherubim and seraphim; said it was snatching all the sunshine out of -her life; and when I said, 'Millicent Molyneux, what about hubby?' she -just said 'Scat! and threw a couple of agonized throes. Now Edinburgh's -not so very far away that you'd feel desolated if Bud went to a school -there.” - </p> -<p> -“An unhealthy hole, with haars and horrible east wind,” said Miss Bell. -</p> -<p> -“Well, it isn't the Pacific slope if it comes to climate,” admitted Mr. -Molyneux. -</p> -<p> -“No, but it's the most beautiful city in the wide world for all that,” - cried Miss Bell, with such spirit that it cleared the air and made her -sister and her brother smile, for Molyneux, without his knowing it, had -touched her in the very heart's core of her national pride. -</p> -<p> -“You're sure you are not mistaken, and that she would wish to go to -school?” asked Mr. Dyce. -</p> -<p> -“Do you doubt it yourself?” asked Molyneux, slyly. -</p> -<p> -“No,” said Mr. Dyce, “I know it well enough, but—but I don't believe -it,” and he smiled at his own paradox. -</p> -<p> -“I have her own words for it.” - </p> -<p> -“Then she'll go!” said the lawyer, firmly, as if a load was off his mind, -and, oddly, there were no objections from his sisters. “You're not to -imagine, Mr. Molyneux,” he went on, “that we have not thought of this -before. It has for months been never out of our minds, as might be seen -from the fact that we never mentioned it, being loath to take a step -that's going to make considerable difference here. It's not that we feared -we should die of ennui in her absence, for we're all philosophers and have -plenty to engage our minds as well as our activities, and though you might -think us rather rusty here, we get a good deal of fun with ourselves. -She'll go—oh yes, of course she'll go—Ailie went—and -she's no muckle the waur o't, as we say. I spent some time in the south -myself, and the only harm it seems to have done me was to make me think -too much, perhaps, of my native north. Taste's everything, Mr. Molyneux, -and you may retort if you please that I'm like the other Scotsman who -preferred his apples small and hard and sour. I think there's no divine -instruction, is there, Bell, about apples? and judgments regarding -different countries and different places in them is mostly a subjective -thing, like the estimate of beauty apart from its utility—” - </p> -<p> -“Oh! there you are at your metapheesics, Daa,” cried Miss Bell, “and it's -for me and Ailie to make ready the bairn for Edinburgh. She hasna got a -stitch that's fit to be put on.” - </p> -<p> -Molyneux stared at her; the tone displayed so little opposition to the -project; and seeing him so much surprised the three of them smiled. -</p> -<p> -“That's us!” said Mr. Dyce. “We're dour and difficult to decide on -anything involving change, and hide from ourselves as long as we can the -need for it, but once our mind's made up it's wonderful how we hurry.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXV -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>ELL liked the creature, as I say, not a little because she saw in him -whence came some part of Bud's jocosity and most of the daftlike language -(though kind of clever, too, she must allow) in which it was expressed. It -was a different kind of jocosity from Dan's, whose fun, she used to say, -partook of the nature of rowan jelly, being tart and sweet in such a -cunning combination that it tickled every palate and held some natural -virtue of the mountain tree. The fun of Molyneux had another flavor; it -put her in mind of allspice, being foreign, having heat as well as savor. -But in each of these droll men was the main thing, as she would aye -consider it—no distrust of the Creator's judgment, good intentions, -and ability, and a readiness to be laughed at as well as find laughter's -cause in others. She liked the man, but still-and-on was almost glad when -the telegram came from Edinburgh and he went back to join his company. It -was not any lack of hospitality made her feel relief, but the thought that -now Bud's going was determined on, there was so much to do in a house -where men would only be a bother. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Molyneux found himself so much at home among them he was loath to go, -expressing his contempt for a mode of transit to the railway that took two -hours to nineteen miles, but Bell, defensive even of her country's -coaches, told him he was haivering—that any greater speed than that -was simply tempting Providence. He praised the Lord there was no -Providence to be tempted inside Sandy Hook, and that he knew Beef Kings -who hurled themselves across the landscape at the rate of a mile a minute. -The fact inspired no admiration in Miss Bell; she wondered at the -misguided wretches scudding like that regardless of their lives, and them -with so much money. -</p> -<p> -Before he left he called at the Pigeons' Seminary to say good-bye to the -little teachers, and sipped tea, a British institution which he told them -was as deleterious as the High Ball of his native land. High Ball—what -was a High Ball? asked Miss Amelia, scenting a nice new phrase, but he -could only vaguely indicate that it was something made of rye and soda. -Then she understood—it was a teetotal drink men took in clubs, a -kind of barley-water. The tea gratified him less than the confidence of -the twins, who told him they had taken what he said about the—about -the shameful article so much to heart, that they had given it for a -razor-strop to one George Jordon. -</p> -<p> -“Bully for you!” cried Mr. Molyneux, delighted. “But I'd have liked that -tawse some myself, for my wife's mighty keen on curios. She's got a -sitting-room full of Navajo things—scalpin'-knives, tomahawks, and -other brutal bric-à -brac—and an early British strap would tickle her -to death.” - </p> -<p> -Well, he was gone—the coachman's horn had scarcely ceased to echo -beyond the arches when Miss Bell had thrown herself into the task of -preparing for Bud's change in life. -</p> -<p> -What school was she to go to in Edinburgh? Ailie knew; there was none -better than the one she had gone to herself. -</p> -<p> -When did it open? Ailie knew: in a fortnight. What, exactly, would she -need? Ailie knew that, too: she had in the escritoire a list of things -made up already. -</p> -<p> -“It seems to me,” said Miss Bell, suspiciously, “you're desperately well -informed on all that appertains to this sudden necessity. How long has it -been in your mind?” - </p> -<p> -“For a twelvemonth at least,” answered Ailie, boldly. “How long has it -been in your own?” - </p> -<p> -“H'm!” said Bell. “About as long, but I aye refused to harbor it; and—and -now that the thing's decided on, Ailie Dyce, I hope you're not going to -stand there arguing away about it all day long when there's so much to -do.” - </p> -<p> -Surely there was never another house so thronged, so bustling, so feverish -in anxiety as this one was for another fortnight. The upper and the lower -Dyce Academy took holiday; Kate's education stopped with a sudden gasp at -a dreadful hill called Popocatapetl, and she said she did not care a -button, since Captain Maclean (no longer Charles to any one except himself -and Bud in the more confidential moments) said the main things needed in a -sailor's wife were health, hope, and temper, and a few good-laying hens. -Miss Minto was engaged upon Bud's grandest garments running out and in -next door herself with inch-tapes over her shoulders and a mouthful of -pins, and banging up against the lawyer in his lobby to her great distress -of mind. And Bell had in the seamstress, 'Lizbeth Ann, to help her and -Ailie with the rest. Mercator sulked neglected on the wall of Mr. Dyce's -study, which was strewn with basting-threads and snippets of selvedge and -lining till it looked like a tailor's shop, and Bud and Footles played on -the floor of it with that content which neither youth nor dogs can find in -chambers trim and orderly. Even Kate was called in to help these hurried -operations—they called it the making of Bud's trousseau. In the -garden birds were calling, calling; far sweeter in the women's ears were -the snip-snip of scissors, the whir of the sewing-machine; needle-arms -went back and forth like fiddle-bows in an orchestra, and from webs of -cloth and linen came forth garments whose variety intoxicated her who was -to wear them. I'm thinking Daniel Dyce lived simply then, with rather -makeshift dinners, but I'm certain, knowing him well, he did not care, -since his share in the great adventure was to correspond with Edinburgh -and pave the way there for the young adventurer's invasion. -</p> -<p> -He would keek in at the door on them as he passed to his office, and Ailie -would cry, “Avaunt, man! here woman reigns!” “It's a pleasant change,” he -would say. “I would sooner have them rain than storm.” “You're as bad as -Geordie Jordon,” said Miss Bell, biting thread with that zest that always -makes me think her sex at some time must have lived on cotton—“you're -as bad as Geordie Jordon: you cannot see a key-hole but your eye begins to -water.” - </p> -<p> -If it had, indeed, been Bud's trousseau, the townfolk could not have -displayed more interest. Ladies came each day to see how things progressed -and recommend a heavier lining or another row of the insertion. Even Lady -Anne came one afternoon to see the trousseau, being interested, as she -slyly said, in such things for private reasons of her own, and dubious -about the rival claims of ivory or pure white. So she said, but she came, -no doubt, to assure Miss Lennox that her captain was a great success. -</p> -<p> -“I knew he'd be!” said Bud, complacently. “That man's so beautiful and -good he's fit for the kingdom of heaven.” - </p> -<p> -“So are you, you rogue,” said Lady Anne, gathering her in her arms, -without a bit of awkwardness, to the great astonishment of 'Lizbeth Ann, -who thought that titled folk were not a bit like that—perhaps had -not the proper sort of arms for it. “Yes, so are you, you rogue!” said -Lady Anne. -</p> -<p> -“No, I'm not,” said the child. “Leastways only sometimes. Most the time -I'm a born limb, but then again I'm nearly always trying to be better, and -that's what counts, I guess.” - </p> -<p> -“And you're going away to leave us,” said Lady Anne, whereon a strange -thing happened, for the joyous child, who was to get her heart's desire -and such lovely garments, burst into tears and ran from the room to hide -herself up-stairs in the attic bower, whose windows looked to a highway -that seemed hateful through her tears. Her ladyship went off distressed, -but Bell, as one rejoicing, said: -</p> -<p> -“I always told you, Ailie—William's heart!” - </p> -<p> -But Bud's tears were transient; she was soon back among the snippets where -Ailie briskly plied the sewing-machine and sang the kind of cheerful songs -that alone will go to the time of pedalling, and so give proof that the -age of mechanism is the merry age if we have the happy ear for music. And -Bud, though she tired so soon of hems, could help another way that busy -convocation, for she could sit tucked up in Uncle Dan's snoozing chair, -and read <i>Pickwick</i> to the women till the maid of Colonsay was in the -mood to take the Bardell body by the hair of the head and shake her for -her brazenness to the poor wee man. Or the child would dance as taught by -the lady of the Vaudeville, or start at Ailie's bidding (Bell a little -dubious) to declaim a bit of “Hamlet” or “Macbeth,” till 'Lizbeth Ann saw -ghosts and let her nerves get the better of her, and there was nothing for -it but a cheery cup of tea all round. Indeed, I must confess, a somewhat -common company! I could almost wish for the sake of my story they were -more genteel, and dined at half-past seven and talked in low, hushed tones -of Bach and Botticelli. -</p> -<p> -But oh! they were happy days—at least so far as all outward symptoms -went; it might, indeed, have been a real trousseau and not the garments -for the wedding of a maiden and the world. How often, in the later years, -did Winifred Wallace, reading to me her own applause in newspapers, stop -to sigh and tell me how she once was really happy—happy to the -inward core, feeling the dumb applause of four women in a country chamber -when the world was all before her and her heart was young? -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXVI -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>ORKING thus, furiously, at the task of love, which, in all it does for -the youth it cherishes, must ever be digging a grave for its own delight, -Bell could forget, for periods, that the days of Bud's presence in their -midst were numbered. Had she stopped her needle and shears a moment and -let her mind contemplate all the emptiness of a fortnight hence, and the -months and years thereafter, she would have broken down. Ailie, knowing -it, watched her anxiously, and kept the sewing briskly going as if they -wrought for a living in a factory, frightened to think of her sister's -desperate state when that last button, that the armies talk about, was in -its place. -</p> -<p> -But the days sped; one afternoon there was a final sweeping up of the -scraps in the temporary work-room, Bell searched her mind in vain to think -of anything further wanted, and, though there was still a week to go, -became appalled to find that the only thing of any moment to be done -'twixt now and Friday fortnight was to say good-bye. -</p> -<p> -No, stay! there was another thing to bring a little respite—the -girl's initials must be sewn upon her clothing. A trivial thing to -mention, you may think, but the very thought of it gave pleasure to the -sisters, till Bud herself, sent to Miss Minto's for a sample of the woven -letters, came back with only one—it was a W. -</p> -<p> -“Has the stupid body not got L's and D's?” asked Bell. “There's no use -here for W.” And Bud showed a countenance startled and ashamed. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Auntie!” she cried. “I asked for W's. I quite forgot my name was -Lennox Dyce, for in all I'm thinking of about the school and Edinburgh, I -am Winifred Wallace.” - </p> -<p> -It was all that was needed to bring about her aunt's prostration. “I'm far -from well,” said she, and took to her bed, her first confession of -weakness in all the years that Dan or Ailie could remember. What ailed her -she could not tell, and they sent, without acquainting her, for Dr. Brash. -Hearing he was coming, she protested that she could not see the man; that -she was far too ill to be troubled by any doctor; but Dr. Brash was not so -easily to be denied. -</p> -<p> -“H'm!” said he, examining her; “you're system's badly down.” - </p> -<p> -“I never knew I had one,” said the lady, smiling wanly, with a touch of -Dan's rowan-jelly humor. “Women had no system in my young days to go up or -down; if they had they were ashamed to mention it. Nowadays it seems as -fashionable as what Kate, since she got her education, calls the boil.” - </p> -<p> -“You have been worrying,” he went on, “a thing that's dreadfully -injudicious. H'm! worse than drink I say. Worry's the death of half my -patients; they never give my pills a chance. “And there was a twinkle in -his eyes which most of Dr. Brash's patients thought was far more -efficacious than his pills. -</p> -<p> -“What would I worry for?” said Miss Bell. “I'm sure I have every blessing: -goodness and mercy all my life.” - </p> -<p> -“Just so! Just so!” said Dr. Brash. “Goodness and—and, h'm!—mercy -sometimes take the form of a warning that it's time we kept to bed for a -week, and that's what I recommend you.” - </p> -<p> -“Mercy on me! Am I so far through as that?” she said, alarmed. “It's -something serious—I know by the cheerful face that you put on you. -Little did I think that I would drop off so soon. And just at the very -time when there's so much to do!” - </p> -<p> -“Pooh!” said Dr. Brash. “When you drop off, Miss Dyce, there'll be an -awful dunt, I'm telling you. God bless my soul, what do you think a -doctor's for but putting folk on their pins again! A week in bed—and—h'm!—a -bottle. Everything's in the bottle, mind you!” - </p> -<p> -“And there's the hands of the Almighty, too,” said Bell, who constantly -deplored the doctor was so poor a kirk attender, and not a bit in that -respect like the noble doctors in her sister's latest Scottish novels. -</p> -<p> -Dr. Brash went out of the room to find the rest of the household sorely -put about in the parlor: Lennox an object of woe, and praying hard to -herself with as much as she could remember of her uncle Dan's successful -supplication for herself when she had the pneumonia. To see the -cheerfulness of his countenance when he came in was like the sunburst on a -leaden sea. “Miss Bell's as sound as her namesake,” he assured them. -“There's been something on her mind”—with a flash of the eye, at -once arrested, towards Lennox—“and she has worked herself into a -state of nervous collapse. I've given her the best of tonics for her kind—the -dread of a week in bed—and I'll wager she'll be up by Saturday. The -main thing is to keep her cheerful, and I don't think that should be very -difficult.” - </p> -<p> -Bud there and then made up her mind that her own true love was Dr. Brash, -in spite of his nervous sisters and his funny waistcoats. Ailie said if -cheerfulness would do the thing she was ready for laughing-gas, and the -lawyer vowed he would rake the town for the very latest chronicles of its -never-ending fun. -</p> -<p> -But Bud was long before him on her mission of cheerfulness to the bedroom -of Auntie Bell. Did you ever see a douce Scotch lass who never in her life -had harbored the idea that her native hamlet was other than the finest -dwelling-place in all the world, and would be happy never to put a foot -outside it?—that was to be the rôle to-day. A sober little lass, -sitting in a wicker-chair whose faintest creak appeared to put her in an -agony—sitting incredibly long and still, and speaking Scotch when -spoken to, in the most careful undertone, with a particular kind of smile -that was her idea of judicious cheerfulness for a sick-room. -</p> -<p> -“Bairn!” cried her aunt at last, “if you sit much longer like that you'll -drive me crazy. What in the world's the matter with you?” - </p> -<p> -“Nothing, dear Auntie Bell,” said Bud, astonished. “You needn't tell me! -What was the doctor saying?” - </p> -<p> -“He said you were to be kept cheerful,” said Bud, “and I'm doing the best -I can—” - </p> -<p> -“Bless me, lass! do you think it's cheery to be sitting there with a face -like an old Geneva watch? I would sooner see you romping.” - </p> -<p> -But no, Bud could not romp that day, and when her uncle Dan came up he -found her reading aloud from Bell's favorite Gospel according to John—her -auntie's way of securing the cheerfulness required. He looked at the pair, -his hands in his pockets, his shoulders bent, and all the joviality with -which he had come carefully charged gave place for a little to a graver -sentiment. So had Ailie sat, a child, beside her mother on her death-bed, -and, reading John one day, found open some new vista in her mind that made -her there and then renounce her dearest visions, and thirl herself forever -to the home and him and Bell. -</p> -<p> -“Well, Dan,” said his sister, when the child was gone, “what have you -brought me? Is it the usual pound of grapes?”—for she was of the -kind whose most pious exercises never quench their sense of fun, and a -gift of grapes in our place is a doleful hint to folks bedridden; I think -they might as well bring in the stretching-board. -</p> -<p> -“A song-book would suit you better,” said the lawyer. “What do you think's -the matter with you? Worrying about that wean! Is this your Christian -resignation?” - </p> -<p> -“I am <i>not</i> worrying, Dan,” she protested. “At least, not very much, -and I never was the one to make much noise about my Christianity.” - </p> -<p> -“You need to be pretty noisy with it nowadays to make folk believe you -mean it.” - </p> -<p> -“What did Dr. Brash say down the stair?” she asked. “Does he—does he -think I'm going to die?” - </p> -<p> -“Lord bless me,” cried her brother, “this is not the way that women die. I -never heard of you having a broken heart. You're missing all the usual -preliminaries, and you haven't even practised being ill. No, no, Bell; it -'ll be many a day, I hope, before you're pushing up the daisies, as that -vagabond Wanton Wully puts it.” - </p> -<p> -Bell sighed. “You're very joco,” said she—“you're aye cheery, -whatever happens.” - </p> -<p> -“So long as it doesn't happen to myself—that's philosophy; at least -it's Captain Consequence's. And if I'm cheery to-day it's by the doctor's -orders. He says you're to be kept from fretting even if we have to hire -the band.” - </p> -<p> -“Then I doubt I'm far, far through!” said Bell. “I'm booked for a better -land.” And at that the lawyer gave a chirruping little laugh, and said: -</p> -<p> -“Are you sure it's not for Brisbane?” - </p> -<p> -“What do you mean?” she asked him, marvellously interested for one who -talked of dying. -</p> -<p> -“It's a new one,” he explained. “I had it to-day from her ladyship's -captain. He was once on a ship that sailed to Australia, and half-way out -a passenger took very ill. 'That one's booked for heaven, anyway,' Maclean -said to the purser. 'No,' said the purser, who was busy; 'he's booked for -Brisbane.' 'Then he would be a damned sight better in heaven,' said -Maclean. 'I have been twice in Brisbane, and I know.'” Bell did her best -to restrain a smile, but couldn't. “Oh, Dan!” said she, “you're an awful -man! You think there's nothing in this world to daunten anybody.” - </p> -<p> -“Not if they happen to be Dyces,” said he. “A high heart and a humble head—you -remember father's motto? And here you're dauntened because the young one's -going only one or two hundred miles away for her own advantage.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm not a bit dauntened,” said Miss Bell, with spirit. “It's not myself -I'm thinking of at all; it's her, poor thing! among strangers night and -day; damp sheets, maybe, and not a wiselike thing to eat. You would never -forgive yourself if she fell into a decline.” - </p> -<p> -“Ailie throve pretty well on their dieting,” he pointed out; “and if she's -going to fall into a decline, she's pretty long of starting.” - </p> -<p> -“But you mind they gave her sago pudding,” said Miss Bell; “and if there's -one thing Lennox cannot eat it's sago pudding. She says it is so slippy, -every spoonful disappears so sudden it gives her an awful start. She says -she might as well sup puddocks.” Dan smiled at the picture and forced -himself to silent patience. -</p> -<p> -“And they'll maybe let her sit up to all hours,” Bell proceeded. “You know -the way she fastens on a book at bedtime!” - </p> -<p> -“Well, well!” said he, emphatically. “If you're sure that things are to be -so bad as that, we'll not let her go at all,” and he slyly scanned her -countenance, to see, as he expected, that she was indignant at the very -thought of backing out, now that they had gone so far. -</p> -<p> -“You needn't start to talk nonsense,” said she; “of course she's going; -but oh, Dan! it's not the sheets, nor food, nor anything like that that -troubles me; it's the knowledge that she'll never be the same wee lass -again.” - </p> -<p> -“Tuts!” said Daniel Dyce, and cleaned some moisture from his spectacles. -“You're putting all the cheerful things I was going to say to you out of -my head. I'm off to business. Is there anything I can do for you? No? Then -remember, you're not to stir this week outside the blankets; these are the -orders of Dr. Brash. I have no doubt Ailie will do very well at the -housekeeping,” and he left her with a gleam of mischief in his eye. -</p> -<p> -The window of the bedroom was a little open; on one of the trees a -blackbird sang, and there came in the scent of apple-ringie and a tempting -splendor of sun. For twenty minutes the ailing body tried to content -herself with the thought of a household managed by Alison Dyce, and then -arose to see if Wully Oliver was not idling in the garden. She saw him -sitting on his barrow-trams, while Ailie walked among the dahlias and -chucked her favorites of them under their chins. -</p> -<p> -“William Oliver!” cried Miss Bell, indignantly, having thrown a Shetland -shawl about her; “is that all the work you can do in a day?” - </p> -<p> -He looked up at the window, and slowly put his pipe in his pocket. -</p> -<p> -“Well, m'em,” said he. “I dare say I could do more, but I never was much -of a hand for showing off.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXVII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN Miss Bell rose, as she did in a day or two, bantered into a speedy -convalescence by Ailie and Dan, it was to mark Bud's future holidays on -the calendar, and count the months in such a cunning way that she cheated -the year of a whole one by arguing to herself that the child would be gone -a fortnight before they really missed her, and as good as home again -whenever she started packing to return. And Edinburgh, when one was -reasonable and came to think of it, was not so very awful; the Miss Birds -were there, in the next street to the school where Bud was bound for, so -if anything should happen—a fire, for instance—fires were -desperately common just now in the newspapers, and ordinary common-sense -suggested a whole clothes-rope for the tying up of the young adventurer's -boxes; or if Bud should happen to be really hungry between her usual meals—a -common thing with growing bairns—the Birds were the very ones to -make her welcome. It was many a year since Bell had been in Edinburgh—she -had not been there since mother died; she was determined that if she had -the money, and was spared till Martinmas, she should make a jaunt of it -and see the shops: it was very doubtful if Miss Minto wasn't often -lamentably out of date with many of her fashions. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, you vain woman!” cried Ailie to her; “will nothing but the very -latest satisfy you?” - </p> -<p> -Bud was to be sure and write once every week, on any day but Saturday, for -if her letters came on Sunday they would be tempted to call at the -post-office for them, like Captain Consequence, instead of waiting till -the Monday morning. And if she had a cold, or any threatening of quinsy, -she was to fly for her very life to the horehound mixture, put a stocking -round her neck, and go to bed. Above all was she to mind and take her -porridge every morning, and to say her prayers. -</p> -<p> -“I'll take porridge to beat the band,” Bud promised, “even—even if I -have to shut my eyes all through.” - </p> -<p> -“In a cautious moderation,” recommended Uncle Dan. “I think myself oatmeal -is far too rich a diet for the blood. I have it from Captain Consequence -that there's nothing for breakfast like curried kidney and a chop to -follow. But I hope you'll understand that, apart from the carnal -appetites, the main thing is to scoop in all the prizes. I'll be -dreadfully disappointed if you come back disgraced, with anything less of -them than the full of a cart. That, I believe, is the only proof of a -Scottish liberal education. In Ailie's story-books it's all the good, -industrious, and deserving pupils who get everything. Of course, if you -take all the prizes somebody's sure to want—but, tuts! I would never -let that consideration vex me—it's their own lookout. If you don't -take prizes, either in the school or in the open competition of the world, -how are folk to know they should respect you?” - </p> -<p> -“You must have been a wonderfully successful student in your day,” said -Ailie, mischievously. “Where are all your medals?” - </p> -<p> -Dan laughed. “It's ill to say,” said he, “for the clever lads who won them -when I wasn't looking have been so modest ever since that they've clean -dropped out of sight. I never won anything myself in all my life that -called for competition—except the bottom of the class! When it came -to competitions, and I could see the other fellows' faces, I was always -far too tired or well disposed to them to give them a disappointment which -they seemingly couldn't stand so well as myself. But then I'm not like Bud -here. I hadn't a shrewd old uncle egging me on. So you must be keen on the -prizes, Bud. Of course, there's wisdom, too, but that comes later—there's -no hurry for it. Prizes, prizes—remember the prizes; the more you -win, the more, I suppose, I'll admire you.” - </p> -<p> -“And if I don't win any, Uncle Dan?” said Bud, slyly, knowing very well -the nature of his fun. -</p> -<p> -“Then, I suppose, I'll have to praise the Lord if you keep your health, -and just continue loving you,” said the lawyer. “I admit that if you're -anyway addicted to the prizes you'll be the first of your name that was -so. In that same school in Edinburgh, your auntie Ailie's quarterly -reports had always, 'Conduct—Good' and 'Mathematics—Fairly -moderate.' We half expected she was coming back an awful diffy; but if she -did, she made a secret of it. I forgave her the 'Fairly moderate' myself, -seeing she had learned one thing—how to sing. I hope you'll learn to -sing, Bud, in French or German or Italian—anything but Scotch. Our -old Scotch songs, I'm told, are not what's called artistic.” - </p> -<p> -“The sweetest in the world!” cried Auntie Bell. “I wonder to hear you -haivering.” - </p> -<p> -“I'm afraid you're not a judge of music,” said the brother. “Scotch songs -are very common—everybody knows them. There's no art in them, -there's only heart—a trifling kind of quality. If you happen to hear -me singing 'Annie Laurie' or 'Afton Water' after you come home, Bud, be -sure and check me. I want to be no discredit to you.” - </p> -<p> -“No, I sha'n't, Uncle Dan,” said the child. “I'll sing 'Mary Morison' and -'Ae Fond Kiss' and 'Jock o'Hazeldean' at you till you're fairly squealing -with delight. <i>I</i> know. Allow me! Why, you're only haivering.” - </p> -<p> -“Have mercy on the child, Dan,” said his sister. “Never you mind him, Bud, -he's only making fun of you.” - </p> -<p> -“I know,” said Bud; “but I'm not kicking.” - </p> -<p> -Kate—ah, poor Kate!—how sorry I should be for her, deserted by -her friend and tutor if she had not her own consoling captain. Kate would -be weeping silently every time the pipe was on in the scullery and she -thought how lonely her kitchen was to be when the child was gone. And she -had plans to make that painful exile less heart-rending: she was going to -write to her sister out in Colonsay, and tell her to be sure and send -fresh country eggs at intervals of every now and then, or maybe oftener in -the winter-time, to Lennox, for the genuine country egg was a thing it was -hopeless to expect in. Edinburgh, where there wasn't such a thing as sand -or grass or heather—only causeway stones. She could assure Lennox -that, as for marriage, there was not the slightest risk for years and -years, since there wasn't a house in the town to let that would be big -enough (and still not dear) to suit a captain. He was quite content to be -a plain intended, and hold on. And as for writing, she would take her pen -in hand quite often and send the latest news to Lennox, who must please -excuse haste and these d-d-desperate pens, and having the post to catch—not -that she would dream of catching the poor, wee, shauchly creature; it was -just a way of speaking. Would Lennox not be so dreadful homesick, missing -all the cheery things, and smothered up in books in yon place—Edinburgh? -</p> -<p> -“I expect I'll be dre'ffle homesick,” admitted Bud. “I'm sure you will, my -lassie,” said the maid. “I was so homesick myself when I came here at -first that my feet got almost splay with wanting to turn back to Colonsay. -But if I'm not so terribly good-looking, I'm awful brave, and soon got -over it. When you are homesick go down to the quay and look at the -steamboats or take a turn at our old friend Mr. Puckwuck.” Four days—three -days—two days—one day—tomorrow; that last day went so -fast it looked as if Wanton Wully had lost the place again and rang the -evening bell some hours before it was due. Bud could only sit by, -helpless, and marvel at the ingenuity that could be shown in packing what -looked enough to stock Miss Minto's shop into a couple of boxes. She aged -a twelvemonth between the hand-glass at the bottom and the bath-sheet on -the top. -</p> -<p> -“And in this corner,” said Miss Bell, on her knees, “you'll find your -Bible, the horehound mixture, and five-and-twenty threepenny bits for the -plate on Sundays—some of them sixpences.” - </p> -<p> -“Irish ones, apparently,” said Uncle Dan. -</p> -<p> -“Some of them sixpences, for the Foreign Mission days, and one shilling -for the day of the Highlands and Islands.” - </p> -<p> -“You're well provided for the kirk, at any rate,” said -</p> -<p> -Uncle Dan. “I'll have to put a little money for this wicked world in the -other corner.” And he did. -</p> -<p> -When the coach next day set out—No, no, I cannot tell you all, for I -hate to think of tears and would hurry over partings. It went in tearful -weather, rain drizzling on Bud and Auntie Ailie, who accompanied her. They -looked back on the hill-top and saw the gray slates glint under a gray -sky, and following them on the miry road poor Footles, faithful heart, who -did not understand. He paddled through the mud till a blast from the bugle -startled him, and he seemed to realize that this was some painful new -experience. And then he stood in the track of the disappearing wheels and -lifted up his voice, in lamentation. -</p> -<p> -The night came on, resuming her ancient empire—for she alone, and -not the day, did first possess, and finally shall possess unquestioned, -this space dusty with transient stars, and the light is Lord of another -universe where is no night, nay, nor terror thereof. From the western -clouds were the flame and gold withdrawn, and the winds sighed from the -mountains as vexed for passing days. The winds sighed from the mountains -and the mists came mustering to the glens; the sea crept out on long, -bird-haunted, wailing, and piping sands, naught to be seen of it, its -presence obvious only in the scent of wrack and the wash on the pebbled -beaches. Behind the town the woods lay black and haunted, and through -them, and far upward in the valley dripping in the rain, and clamorous -with hidden bums and secret wells, went the highway to the world, vacant -of aught visible, but never to be wholly vacant, since whoso passes on a -highway ever after leaves some wandering spirit there. Did the child, that -night, think of the highway that had carried her from home? In the -hoarsely crying city did she pause a moment to remember and retrace her -way to the little town that now lay faintly glowing in the light of its -own internal fires? -</p> -<p> -Thus Bell wondered, standing at her window looking into the solitary -street. Every mile of separating highway rose before her; she walked them -in the rain and dark; all the weary longing of the world came down on her -that mirk night in September, and, praying that discretion should preserve -and understanding keep her wanderer, she arrived at the soul's tranquility -and heard without misgiving the wild geese cry. -</p> -<p> -Her brother took the Books, and the three of them—master, mistress, -and maid—were one in the spirit of worship, longing, and hope. -Where, then, had gone Daniel Dyce, the lawyer, the gentle ironist, on -whose lips so often was kindly mockery, on whose tongue levity or its -pretence— -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“Never by passion quite possess'd, -And never quite benumbed by the world's sway”? -</pre> -<p> -It was Bell's nightly duty to turn the lamp out in the lobby and bolt the -outer door. She went this night reluctant to perform that office, but a -thought possessed her of a child from home, somewhere in the darkness -among strangers, and she had to call her brother. -</p> -<p> -“What is it?” said he. -</p> -<p> -“The door,” she said, ashamed of herself; “I cannot bolt it.” - </p> -<p> -He looked at her flushed face and her trembling hand and understood. “It's -only the door of a house,” said he; “<i>that</i> makes no difference,” and -ran the bolt into its staple. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXVIII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>OR all the regrets of increasing age there is one alleviation among many, -that days apart from those we love pass the quicker, even as our hurrying -years. Thus it is that separations are divested of more and more of their -terrors the nearer we are to that final parting which wipes out all and is -but the going to a great reunion. So the first fortnight, whereof Miss -Bell thought to cheat the almanac under the delusion that Bud's absence -would then scarcely be appreciated, was in truth the period when she -missed her most, and the girl was back for her Christmas holidays before -half of her threepenny bits for the plate were done. -</p> -<p> -It was worth a year of separation to see her come in at the door, rosy -from the frosty air, with sparkling eyes and the old, sweet, rippling -laugh, not—outside at least—an atom different from the girl -who had gone away; and it made up to Bud herself for many evenings -homesick on an Edinburgh pillow to smell again the old celestial Christmas -grocery and feel the warmth of her welcome. -</p> -<p> -Myself, I like to be important—not of such consequence to the world -as to have it crick its neck with having to look up at me, but now and -then important only to a few old friends; and Bud, likewise, could always -enjoy the upper seat, if the others of her company were never below the -salt. She basked in the flattery that Kate's deportment gave to her -dignity as a young lady educated at tremendous cost. -</p> -<p> -It was the daft days of her first coming over again; but this time she saw -all with older eyes—and, besides, the novelty of the little Scottish -town was ended. Wanton Wully's bell, pealing far beyond the burgh bounds—commanding, -like the very voice of God, to every ear of that community, no matter -whether it rang at mom or eve—gave her at once a crystal notion of -the smallness of the place, not only in its bounds of stone and mortar, -but in its interests, as compared with the city, where a thousand bells, -canorous on the Sabbath, failed, it was said, to reach the ears of more -than a fraction of the people. The bell, and John Taggart's band on -hogmanay, and the little shops with windows falling back already on timid -appeals, and the gray, high tenements pierced by narrow entries, and the -douce and decent humdrum folk—she saw them with a more exacting -vision, and Ailie laughed to hear them all summed up as “quaint.” - </p> -<p> -“I wondered when you would reach 'quaint,'” said Auntie Ailie; “it was due -some time ago, but this is a house where you never hear the word. Had you -remained at the Pige—at the Misses Duff's Seminary, Miss Amelia -would have had you sewing it on samplers, if samplers any longer were the -fashion.” - </p> -<p> -“Is it not a nice word, 'quaint'?” asked Bud, who, in four months among -critics less tolerant (and perhaps less wise) than the Dyces, had been -compelled to rid herself of many transatlantic terms and phrases. -</p> -<p> -“There's nothing wrong with 'quaint,' my dear,” said Miss Ailie; “it moves -in the most exclusive circles; if I noticed it particularly, it is because -it is the indication of a certain state of mind, and tells me where you -stand in your education more clearly than your first quarterly report. I -came home from school with 'quaint' myself; it not only seemed to save a -lot of trouble by being a word which could be applied to anything not -otherwise describable, but I cherished it because its use conferred on me -a kind of inward glow of satisfaction like—like—like Aunt -Bell's homemade ginger cordial. 'Quaint,' Bud, is the shibboleth of -boarding-school culture; when you can use the word in the proper place, -with a sense of superiority to the thing so designated, you are -practically a young lady and the polish is taking on.” - </p> -<p> -“They all say it in our school,” explained Bud, apologetically; “at least -all except The Macintosh—I couldn't think of her saying it, somehow. -</p> -<p> -“Who's The Macintosh?” asked Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“Why! was there no Macintosh in your time?” exclaimed Bud. “I thought she -went away back to the—to the Roman period. She's the funniest old -lady in the land, and comes twice a week to teach us dancing and -deportment. She's taught them to mostly all the nobility and gentry of -Scotland; she taught Lady Anne and all her brothers when they were in St. -Andrew's.” - </p> -<p> -“I never heard of her,” said Ailie; “she must be—be—be -decidedly quaint.” - </p> -<p> -“She's so quaint you'd think she'd be kept in a corner cupboard with a bag -of camphor at the back to scare the moths away. She's a little wee mite, -not any bigger than me—than I—and they say she's seventy years -old; but sometimes she doesn't look a day more than forty-five, if it -weren't for her cap and her two front teeth missing. She's got the -loveliest fluffy, silver hair—pure white, like Mrs. Molyneux's Aunt -Tabitha's Persian cat—cheeks like an apple, hands as young as yours, -and when she walks across a room she glides like this, so you'd think she -was a cutter yacht—” - </p> -<p> -Bud sailed across the parlor to represent the movement of The Macintosh -with an action that made her aunties laugh, and the dog gave one short -yelp of disapproval. -</p> -<p> -“That was the way that Grandma Buntain walked—it used to be -considered most genteel,” said Bell. “They trained girls up to it with a -back-board and a book on the top of the head; but it was out before my -time; we just walked any way in Barbara Mushet's seminary, where the main -things were tambouring and the catechism.” - </p> -<p> -“Miss Macintosh is a real lady,” Bud went on. “She's got genuine old -ancestors. They owned a Highland place called Kaims, and the lawyers have -almost lawyered it a' awa', she says, so now she's simply got to help make -a living teaching dancing and deportment. I declare I don't know what -deportment is no more than the child unborn, unless it's shutting the door -behind you, walking into a room as if your head and your legs were your -own, keeping your shoulders back, and being polite and kind to everybody, -and I thought folks 'd do all that without attending classes, unless they -were looney. Miss Macintosh says they are the <i>sine qua non</i> and -principal branches for a well-bred young lady in these low days of clingy -frocks and socialism; but the principal she just smiles and gives us -another big block of English history. Miss Macintosh doesn't let on, but I -know she simply can't stand English history, for she tells us, spells -between quadrilles, that there hasn't been any history anywhere since the -Union of the Parliaments, except the Rebellion of 1745. But she doesn't -call it a rebellion. She calls it 'yon affair.' <i>She's</i> Scotch! I -tell you, Auntie Bell, you'd love to meet her! I sit, and sit, and look at -her like—like a cat. She wears spectacles, just a little clouded, -only she doesn't call them spectacles; she says they are preserves, and -that her eyes are as good as anybody's. They're bright enough, I tell you, -for over seventy.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, I would like to see the creature!” exclaimed Miss Bell. “She must -be an original! I'm sometimes just a trifle tired of the same old folk -about me here—I know them all so well, and all they're like to do or -say, that there's nothing new or startling to be expected from them.” - </p> -<p> -“Would you like to see her?” said Bud, quickly; “then—then, some day -I'll tell her, and I'll bet she'll come. She dresses queer—like a -lady in the 'School for Scandal,' and wears long mittens like Miss Minto, -and when our music-master, Herr Laurent, is round she makes goo-goo eyes -at him fit to crack her glasses. 'Oh, Hair-r-r!' she says, sitting with -her mitts in her lap—'oh, Hair-r-r! Can you no' give the young -ladies wiselike Scotch songs instead o' that dreich Concone?' And -sometimes she'll hit him with a fan. He says she plays the piano to our -dancing the same as it was a spinet.” - </p> -<p> -“I declare it beats all!” said Miss Bell. “Does the decent old body speak -Scotch?” - </p> -<p> -“Sometimes. When she's making goo-goo eyes at the Herr, or angry, or -finding fault with us but doesn't want to hurt our feelings.” - </p> -<p> -“I can understand that,” said Miss Bell, with a patriot's fervor; “there's -nothing like the Scotch for any of them. I fall to it myself when I'm -sentimental; and so does your uncle Dan.” - </p> -<p> -“She says she's the last of the real Macintoshes—that all the rest -you see on Edinburgh signboards are only in-comers or poor de-degenerate -cadets; and I guess the way she says it, being a de-degenerate cadet -Mackintosh must be the meanest thing under the cope and canopy. Heaps of -those old ancestors of hers went out in the days of the clans, fighting -for any royalty that happened along. She's got all their hair in lockets, -and makes out that when they disappeared Scotland got a pretty hard knock. -I said to her once the same as Aunt Ailie says to you, Aunt Bell, 'English -and Scots, I s'pose we're all God's people, and it's a terribly open -little island to be quarrelling in, seeing all the Continent can hear us -quite plain,' but she didn't like it. She said it was easy seen I didn't -understand the dear old Highland mountains, where her -great-great-grandfather, Big John of the Axe, could collect five hundred -fighting-men if he wagged a fiery cross at them. 'I have Big John's blood -in me!' she said, quite white, and her head shaking so much her preserves -nearly fell off her nose. 'I've Big John's blood in me; and when I think -of things, <i>I hate the very name o' thae aboaminable English!</i>' 'Why, -you've never seen them, Miss Mackintosh,' I said—for I knew she'd -never had a foot outside Scotland. 'No,' said she, quite sharp, 'and I -don't want to, for they might be nice enough, and then I wad be bound to -like them.'” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, Bell!” cried Ailie, laughing, “Miss Mackintosh is surely your -doppelganger.” - </p> -<p> -“I don't know what a doppelganger is,” said Auntie -</p> -<p> -Bell; “but she's a real sensible body, and fine I would like to see her.” - </p> -<p> -“Then I'll have to fix it somehow,” said Bud, with emphasis. “P'r'aps -you'll meet her when you come to Edinburgh—” - </p> -<p> -“I'm not there yet, my dear.” - </p> -<p> -“Or she might be round this way by-and-by. She'd revel in this place; -she'd maybe not call it quaint, but she'd find it pretty careless about -being in the—in the modern rush she talks about, and that would make -her happier than a letter from home. I believe The Macintosh—” - </p> -<p> -“Miss Macintosh, my dear,” said Bell, reprovingly, and the girl reddened. -</p> -<p> -“I know,” said she. “It's mean to talk of her same as she was a -waterproof, and I often try not to, because I like her immensely; but it's -so common among the girls that I forget. I believe Miss Macintosh would -love this place and could stop in it forever.” - </p> -<p> -“Couldn't you?” asked Auntie Ailie, slyly. -</p> -<p> -Bud hesitated. “Well, I—I like it,” said she. “I just love to lie -awake nights and think about it, and I can hear the wind in the trees and -the tide come in, and the bell, and the wild geese; and family worship at -the Provost's on Sunday nights, and I can almost <i>be</i> here, I think -so powerfully about it; but—but—” She stopped short, for she -saw a look of pain in the face of her auntie Bell. -</p> -<p> -“But what?” said the latter, sharply. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, I'm a wicked, cruel, ungrateful girl, Auntie Bell; and I ought to -want to love this place so much, nobody could push me out of it. And I <i>do</i> -love it, but feel if I lived here always I'd not grow any more.” - </p> -<p> -“You're big enough,” said Auntie Bell. “You're as big as myself now.” - </p> -<p> -“I mean inside. Am I a prig, Aunt Ailie? I'd hate to be a prig! But I'd -hate as bad to tell a lie; and I feel I'd never learn half so much or do -half so much here as I'd do where thousands of folk were moving along in a -procession and I was with them, too. A place like this is like a -kindergarten—it's good enough as far's it goes, but it doesn't teach -the higher branches.” - </p> -<p> -Bell gazed at her in wonder and pity and blame, shaking her head. All this -was what she had anticipated. -</p> -<p> -“I know the feeling,” said Aunt Ailie, “for I have shared it myself; and -sometimes still it will come back to me, but in my better hours I think -I'm wiser and can be content. If there is growth in you, you will grow -anywhere. You were born in the noise of Chicago, Bud, and I suppose it's -hard to get it out of the ears. By-and-by I hope you'll find that we are -all of us most truly ourselves, not in the crowd, but when we are alone, -and that not the smallest hamlet in the world need be intellectually -narrow for any one with imagination, some books, and a cheerful -constitution. Do you understand that, Bud?” - </p> -<p> -Bud thought hard for a moment and then shook her head. “It sounds as if it -ought to be true,” said she, “and I dare say you think just now it is -true; but I simply <i>can't</i> believe it.” And all of them turned at the -sound of a chuckling laugh to find that Mr. Dyce had heard this frank -confession. -</p> -<p> -“That's the worst of you, Bud,” said he. “You will never let older folk do -your thinking for you.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXIX -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T is another mercy, too, that in our age we learn to make the best of -what aforetime might be ill to thole, as Bell made fine new garments out -of old ones faded by turning them outside in and adding frills and -flounces. Bud's absence early ceased to be deplorable, since it wakened -cheerful expectations not to be experienced had she stayed at home, gave -rise to countless fond contrivances for her happiness in exile, and two or -three times a year to periods of bliss, when her vacations gave the house -of Dyce the very flower of ecstasy. Her weekly letters of themselves were -almost compensation for her absence. On the days of their arrival Peter -the post would come blithely whistling with his M.C. step to the lawyer's -kitchen window before he went to the castle itself, defying all routine -and the laws of the postmaster-general, for he knew Miss Dyce would be -waiting feverishly, having likely dreamed the night before of happy things -that—dreams going by contraries, as we all of us know in Scotland—might -portend the most dreadful tidings. -</p> -<p> -Bud's envelope was always on the top of his budget. For the sake of it -alone (it sometimes seemed to Peter and those who got it) had the mail -come splashing through the night—the lawyer's big blue envelopes, as -it were, had got but a friendly lift through the courtesy of clerks in -Edinburgh, and the men on the railway train, and the lad who drove the gig -from Maryfield. What were big blue envelopes of the business world -compared with the modest little square of gray with Lennox Dyce's writing -on it? -</p> -<p> -“Here's the usual! Pretty thick to-day!” would Peter say, with a smack of -satisfaction on the window-sash. Ah, those happy Saturdays! Everybody knew -about them. “And how's hersel'?” the bell-ringer would ask in the -by-going, not altogether because his kindly interest led to an eye less -strict on his lazy moods in the garden. One Fair day, when Maggie White's -was irresistible, it rang so merrily with drovers, and he lost the place -again, he stopped the lawyer on the street to ask him what Miss Lennox -thought of all this argument about the Churches, seeing she was in the -thick of it in Edinburgh. -</p> -<p> -“Never you mind the argument, Will,” said Daniel Dyce, “you do your duty -by the auld kirk bell; and as for the Free folk's quarrelling, amang them -be't!” - </p> -<p> -“But can you tell me, Mr. D-D-Dyce,” said Wanton Wully, with as much -assurance as if he was prepared to pay by the Table of Fees, “what's the -difference between the U.F.'s and the Frees? I've looked at it from every -point, and I canna see it.” - </p> -<p> -“Come and ask me some day when you're sober,” said the lawyer, and Wanton -Wully snorted. -</p> -<p> -“If I was sober,” said he, “I wouldna want to ken—I wouldna give a -curse.” - </p> -<p> -Yet each time Bud came home she seemed, to the mind of her auntie Bell, a -little further off from them—a great deal older, a great deal less -dependent, making for womanhood in a manner that sometimes was astounding, -as when sober issues touched her, set her thinking, made her talk in fiery -ardors. Aunt Ailie gloried in that rapid growth; Aunt Bell lamented, and -spoke of brains overtaxed and fevered, and studies that were dangerous. -She made up her mind a score of times to go herself to Edinburgh and give -a warning to the teachers; but the weeks passed, and the months, and -by-and-by the years, till almost three were gone, and the Edinburgh part -of Lennox's education was drawing to a close, and the warning visit was -still to pay. -</p> -<p> -It was then, one Easter came. The Macintosh. -</p> -<p> -Bell and Ailie were out that afternoon for their daily walk in the woods -or along the shore, when Mr. Dyce returned from the sheriff's court alert -and buoyant, feeling much refreshed at the close of an encounter with a -lawyer who, he used to say, was better at debating than himself, having -more law-books in his possession and a louder voice. Letting himself in -with his pass-key, he entered the parlor, and was astonished to find a -stranger, who rose at his approach and revealed a figure singular though -not unpleasing. There was something ludicrous in her manner as she moved a -step or two from the chair in which she had been sitting. Small, and -silver-gray in the hair, with a cheek that burned—it must be with -embarrassment—between a rather sallow neck and sunken temples, and -wearing smoked spectacles with rims of tortoiseshell, she would have -attracted attention anywhere even if her dress had been less queer. Queer -it was, but in what manner Daniel Dyce was not the person to distinguish. -To him there was about it nothing definitely peculiar, except that the -woman wore a crinoline, a Paisley shawl of silken white, and such a bonnet -as he had not seen since Grandma Buntain's time. -</p> -<p> -“Be seated, ma'am,” said he. “I did not know I had the honor of a -visitor,” and he gave a second, keener glance that swept the baffling -figure from the flounced green poplin to the snow-white lappet of her -bonnet. A lady certainly—that was in the atmosphere, however odd -might be her dress. “Where, in the world has this one dropped from?” he -asked himself and waited an explanation. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Mr. Dyce!” said the lady, in a high, shrill voice that plainly told -she never came from south of the border, and with a certain trepidation in -her manner, “I'm feared I come at an inconvenient time to ye, and I maybe -should hae bided at your office; but they tell't me ye were out at what -they ca'd a Pleading Diet. I've come about my mairrage.” - </p> -<p> -“Your marriage!” said the lawyer, scarcely hiding his surprise. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, my mairrage!” she repeated, sharply, drawing the silken shawl about -her shoulders, bridling. “There's naething droll, I hope and trust, in a -maiden lady ca'in' on a writer for his help about her settlements!” “Not -at all—not at all, ma'am,” said Daniel Dyce. “I'm honored in your -confidence.” And he pushed his spectacles up on his brow that he might see -her less distinctly and have the less inclination to laugh at such an -eccentric figure. -</p> -<p> -She broke into a torrent of explanation. “Ye must excuse me, Mr. Dyce, if -I'm put about and gey confused, for it's little I'm acquent wi' lawyers. -A' my days I've heard o' naething but their quirks, for they maistly -rookit my grandfaither. And I cam' wi' the coach frae Maryfield, and my -heart's in a palpitation wi' sic brienging and bangin' ower heughs and -hills—” She placed a mittened hand on a much-laced stomacher and -sighed profoundly. -</p> -<p> -“Perhaps—perhaps a glass of wine—” began the lawyer, with his -eye on the bell-pull and a notion in his head that wine and a little -seed-cake someway went with crinolines and the age of the Paisley shawl. -</p> -<p> -“No, no!” she cried, extravagantly. “I never lip it; I'm—I'm in the -Band o' Hope.” - </p> -<p> -The lawyer started, and scanned her again through his glasses with a -genial, chuckling crow. “So's most maiden ladies, ma'am,” said he. “I'm -glad to congratulate you on your hopes being realized.” - </p> -<p> -“It remains to be seen,” said the visitor. “Gude kens what may be the -upshot. The maist deleeberate mairrage maun be aye a lottery, as my auntie -Grizel o' the Whinhill used to say; and I canna plead that mine's -deleeberate, for the man just took a violent fancy the very first nicht he -set his een on me, fell whummlin' at my feet, and wasna to be put aff wi' -'No' or 'Maybe.' We're a puir, weak sex, Mr. Dyce, and men's sae -domineerin'!” - </p> -<p> -She ogled him through her clouded glasses; her arch smile showed a blemish -of two front teeth a-missing. He gave a nod of sympathy, and she was off -again. “And to let ye ken the outs and ins o't, Mr. Dyce, there's a bit o' -land near Perth that's a' that's left o' a braw estate my forebears -squandered in the Darien. What I want to ken is, if I winna could hinder -him that's my <i>fiancé</i> frae dicin' or drinkin' 't awa' ance he got me -mairried to him? I wad be sair vexed at ony such calamity, for my family -hae aye been barons.” - </p> -<p> -“Ance a baron aye a baron,” said the lawyer, dropping into her own broad -Scots. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, Mr. Dyce, that's a' very fine; but baron or baroness, if there's sic -a thing, 's no great figure wantin' a bit o' grun to gang wi' the title; -and John Cleghorn—that's my intended's name—has been a gey -throughither chiel in his time by a' reports, and I doubt wi' men it's the -aulder the waur.” - </p> -<p> -“I hope in this case it 'll be the aulder the wiser, Miss—” said the -lawyer, and hung unheeded on the note of interrogation. -</p> -<p> -“I'll run nae risks if I can help it,” said the lady, emphatically; “and -I'll no' put my trust in the Edinburgh lawyers, either; they're a' tarred -wi' the a'e stick, or I sair misjudge them. But I'm veesitin' a cousin -ower by at Maryfield, and I'm tell't there's no' a man that's mair -dependable in a' the shire than yoursel', so I just cam' ower ains errand -for a consultation. Oh, that unco' coach! the warld's gane wud, Mr. Dyce, -wi' hurry and stramash, and Scotland's never been the same since—But -there! I'm awa' frae my story; if it's the Lord's will that I'm to marry -Johnny Cleghom, what comes o' Kaims? Will he be owner o't?” - </p> -<p> -“Certainly not, ma'am,” said Mr. Dyce, with a gravity well preserved -considering his inward feelings. “Even before the Married Women's Property -Act, his <i>jus mariti</i>, as we ca' it, gave him only his wife's -personal and movable estate. There is no such thing as <i>communio bonorum</i>—as -communion of goods—between husband and wife in Scotland.” - </p> -<p> -“And he canna sell Kaims on me?” - </p> -<p> -“No; it's yours and your assigns <i>ad perpetuam remanentiam</i>, being -feudal right.” - </p> -<p> -“I wish ye wad speak in honest English, like mysel', Mr. Dyce,” said the -lady, sharply. “I've forgotten a' my Laiten, and the very sound o't gars -my heid bizz. I doubt it's the lawyer's way o' gettin' round puir, -helpless bodies.” - </p> -<p> -“It's scarcely that,” said Mr. Dyce, laughing. “It's the only chance we -get to air auld Mr. Trayner, and it's thought to be imposin'. <i>Ad -perpetuam remanentiam</i> just means to remain forever.” - </p> -<p> -“I thocht that maybe John might hae the poo'er to treat Kaims as my -tocher.” - </p> -<p> -“Even if he had,” said Mr. Dyce, “a <i>dot</i>, or <i>dos</i>, or tocher, -in the honest law of Scotland, was never the price o' the husband's hand; -he could only use the fruits o't. He is not entitled to dispose of it, and -must restore it intact if unhappily the marriage should at any time be -dissolved.” - </p> -<p> -“Dissolved!” cried the lady. “Fegs! ye're in an awfu' hurry, and the ring -no' bought yet. Supposin' I was deein' first?” - </p> -<p> -“In that case I presume that you would have the succession settled on your -husband.” - </p> -<p> -“On Johnny Cleghom! Catch me! There's sic a thing as—as—as -bairns, Mr. Dyce,” and the lady simpered coyly, while the lawyer rose -hurriedly to fumble with some books and hide his confusion at such a wild -conjecture. He was relieved by the entrance of Bell and Ailie, who stood -amazed at the sight of the odd and unexpected visitor. -</p> -<p> -“My sisters,” said the lawyer, hastily. “Miss—Miss—I did not -catch the name.” - </p> -<p> -“Miss Macintosh,” said the stranger, nervously, and Bell cried out, -immediately, “I was perfectly assured of it! Lennox has often spoken of -you, and I'm so glad to see you. I did not know you were in the -neighborhood.” - </p> -<p> -Ailie was delighted with so picturesque a figure. She could scarcely keep -her eyes off the many-flounced, expansive gown of poplin, the stomacher, -the ponderous ear-rings, the great cameo brooch, the long lace mittens, -the Paisley shawl, the neat poke bonnet, and the fresh old face marred -only by the spectacles and the gap where the teeth were missing. -</p> -<p> -“I have just been consultin' Mr. Dyce on my comin' mairrage,” said The -Macintosh; and at this intelligence from a piece of such antiquity Miss -Bell's face betrayed so much astonishment that Dan and Ailie almost forgot -their good manners. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, if it's business—” said Bell, and rose to go; but The Macintosh -put a hand on her sleeve and stayed her. -</p> -<p> -“Ye needna fash to leave, Miss Dyce,” said she. “A' thing's settled. It -seems that Johnny Cleghom canna ca' a rig o' Kaims his ain when he -mairries me, and that was a' I cam' to see about. Oh, it's a mischancy -thing a mairrage, Miss Dyce; maist folk gang intill't heels-ower-hurdies, -but I'm in an awfu' swither, and havena a mither to guide me.” - </p> -<p> -“Keep me!” said Miss Bell, out of all patience at such maidenly -apprehensions; “ye're surely auld enough to ken your ain mind. I hope the -guidman's worthy.” - </p> -<p> -“He's no' that ill—as men-folk gang,” said The Macintosh, -resignedly. “He's as fat's creish, and has a craighlin' cough, the body, -and he's faur frae bonny, and he hasna a bawbee o' his ain, and, sirs! -what a reputation! But a man's a man, Miss Dyce, and time's aye fleein'.” - </p> -<p> -At such a list of disabilities in a husband, the Dyces lost all sense of -the proprieties and broke into laughter, in which the lady joined them, -shaking in her armchair. Bell was the first to recover with a guilty sense -that this was very bad for Daniel's business. She straightened her face, -and was about to make apologies, when Footles bounded in at the open door, -to throw himself at the feet of The Macintosh and wave a joyous tail. But -he was not content there! In spite of her resistance he must be in her -lap, and then, for the first time, Bell and Ailie noticed a familiar -cadence in the stranger's laugh. -</p> -<p> -Dan rose and clapped her on the back. “Well done, Bud!” said he. “Ye had -us a'; but Footles wasna to be swindled wi' an auld wife's goon,” and he -gently drew the spectacles from the laughing eyes of his naughty niece. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, you rogue!”, cried Auntie Ailie. -</p> -<p> -“You wretch!” cried Auntie Bell. “I might have known your cantrips. Where -in the world did you get these clothes?” - </p> -<p> -Bud sailed across the room like a cutter yacht and put her arms about her -aunt's neck. “Didn't you know me?” she asked. -</p> -<p> -“How could I know you, dressed up like that? And your teeth—you imp! -they're blackened; and your neck—you jad! it's painted; and—oh, -lassie, lassie! Awa', awa'! the deil's ower grit wi' ye!” - </p> -<p> -“Didn't <i>you</i> know me, Aunt Ailie?” asked Bud. -</p> -<p> -“Not in the least,” said Ailie, taking the droll old figure in her arms. -“Perhaps I might have known you if I didn't think it was to-morrow you -were coming.” - </p> -<p> -“It was to have been to-morrow; but the measles have broken out in school, -and I came a day earlier, and calculated I'd just hop in and surprise you -all. Didn't you guess, Uncle Dan?” - </p> -<p> -“Not at first,” said he. “I'll admit I was fairly deceived, but when you -talked about being in the Band of Hope I saw at a shot through The -Macintosh. I hope you liked my Latin, Bud.” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXX -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>OU surely did not come in these daftlike garments all the way from -Edinburgh?” asked her auntie Bell, when the wig had been removed and Bud's -youth was otherwise resumed. -</p> -<p> -“Not at all!” said Bud, sparkling with the success of her deception. “I -came almost enough of a finished young lady to do you credit, but when I -found there was nobody in the house except Kate, I felt I couldn't get a -better chance to introduce you to The Macintosh if I waited for a year. I -told you we'd been playing charades last winter at the school, and I got -Jim to send me some make-up, the wig, and this real cute old lady's dress. -They were all in my box to give you some fun sometime, and Kate helped me -hook things, though she was mighty scared to think how angry you might be, -Aunt Bell; and when I was ready for you she said she'd be sure to laugh -fit to burst, and then you'd see it was only me dressed up; and Footles he -barked, so he looked like giving the show away, so I sent them both out in -the garden and sat in a stage fright that almost shook my ear-rings off. I -tell you I felt mighty poorly sitting there wondering what on earth I was -to say; but by-and-by I got to be so much. The Macintosh I felt almost -sure enough her to have the rheumatism, and knew I could fix up gags to -keep the part going. I didn't expect Uncle Dan would be the first to come -in, or I wouldn't have felt so brave about it, he's so sharp and -suspicious—that's with being a lawyer, I s'pose, they're a' tarred -wi' the a'e stick Miss Macintosh says; and when he talked all that solemn -Latin stuff and looked like running up a bill for law advice that would -ruin me, I laughed inside enough to ache. Now <i>amn't</i> I just the very -wickedest girl, Uncle Dan?” - </p> -<p> -“A little less Scotch and a more plausible story would have made the -character perfect,” said her uncle. “Where did you get them both? Miss -Macintosh was surely not the only model?” - </p> -<p> -“Well, she's not so Scotch as I made out, except when she's very -sentimental, but I felt she'd have to be as Scotch as the mountain and the -flood to fit these clothes; and she's never talked about marrying anybody -herself, but she's making a match just now for a cousin of hers, and tells -us all about it. I was partly her, but not enough to be unkind or mean, -and partly her cousin, and a little bit of the Waverley Novels—in -fact, I was pure mosaic, like our dog. There wasn't enough real quaint -about Miss Macintosh for ordinary to make a front scene monologue go, but -she's fuller of hints than—than a dictionary, and once I started I -felt I 'could play half a dozen Macintoshes all different, so's you'd -actually think she was a surging crowd. You see, there's the Jacobite -Macintosh, and the 'aboaminable English' Macintosh, and the flirting -Macintosh who raps Herr Laurent with her fan, and the fortune-telling -Macintosh who reads palms and teacup leaves, and the dancing and -deportment Macintosh who knows all the first families in Scotland.” Bud -solemnly counted off the various Macintoshes on her finger-tips. -</p> -<p> -“We'll have every one of them when you come home next winter,” said Miss -Ailie. “I'd prefer it to the opera.” - </p> -<p> -“I can't deny but it's diverting,” said Miss Bell; “still it's dreadfully -like play-acting, and hardly the thing for a sober dwelling. Lassie, -lassie, away this instant and change yourself!” - </p> -<p> -If prizes and Italian songs had really been the proof that Bud had taken -on the polish, she would have disappointed Uncle Dan, but this art of hers -was enough to make full amends, it gave so much diversion. Character -roused and held her interest; she had a lightning eye for oddities of -speech and gesture. Most of a man's philosophy is in a favorite phrase, -his individuality is betrayed in the way he carries his hat along the -aisle on Sunday. Bud, each time that she came home from Edinburgh, -collected phrases as others do postage-stamps, and knew how every hat in -town was carried. Folk void of idiosyncrasy, having the natural self -restrained by watchfulness and fear, were the only ones whose company she -wearied of; all others she studied with delight, storing of each some -simulacrum in her memory. Had she reproduced them in a way to make them -look ridiculous she would have roused the Dyces' disapproval, but lacking -any sense of superiority she made no impersonation look ignoble—the -portraits in her gallery, like Raeburn's, borrowed a becoming curl or two -and toned down crimson noses. -</p> -<p> -But her favorite character was The Macintosh in one of the countless -phases that at last were all her own invention, and far removed from the -original. Each time she came home, the dancing-mistress they had never -really seen became a more familiar personage to the Dyces. “I declare,” - cried Bell, “I'm beginning to think of you always as a droll old body.” - “And how's the rheumatism?” Dan would ask; it was “The Macintosh said -this” or “The Macintosh said that” with Ailie, and even Kate would quote -the dancing-mistress with such earnestness that the town became familiar -with the name and character without suspecting they were otten merely -parts assumed by young Miss Lennox. -</p> -<p> -Bud carried the joke one night to daring lengths by going as Miss -Macintosh with Ailie to a dance, in a gown and pelerine of Grandma -Buntain's that had made tremendous conquests eighty years before. -</p> -<p> -Our dances at the inn are not like city routs: Petronella, La Tempête, and -the reel have still an honored place in them; we think the joy of life is -not meant wholly for the young and silly, and so the elderly attend them. -We sip claret-cup and tea in the alcove or “adjacent,” and gossip together -if our dancing days are done, or sit below the flags and heather, humming -“Merrily danced the quaker's wife,” with an approving eye on our bonny -daughters. Custom gives the Provost and his lady a place of honor in the -alcove behind the music; here is a petty court where the civic spirit pays -its devoirs, where the lockets are large and strong, and hair-chains much -abound, and mouths before the mellowing midnight hour are apt to be a -little mim. -</p> -<p> -Towards the alcove Ailie—Dan discreetly moving elsewhere—boldly -The Macintosh, whose ballooning silk brocade put even the haughtiest of -the other dames in shadow. She swam across the floor as if her hoops and -not her buckled shoon sustained her, as if she moved on air. -</p> -<p> -“Dod! here's a character!” said Dr. Brash, pulling down his waistcoat. -“Where have the Dyces gotten her?” - </p> -<p> -“The Ark is landed,” said the Provost's lady. “What a peculiar creature!” - </p> -<p> -Ailie gravely gave the necessary introductions, and soon the notable Miss -Macintosh of Kaims was the lion of the assembly. She flirted most -outrageously with the older beaux, sharing roguish smiles and taps of the -fan between them, and, compelling unaccustomed gallantries, set their -wives all laughing. They drank wine with her in the old style; she met -them glass for glass in water. -</p> -<p> -“And I'll gie ye a toast now,” she said, when her turn came—“Scotland's -Rights,” raising her glass of water with a dramatic gesture. -</p> -<p> -“Dod! the auld body's got an arm on her,” whispered Dr. Brash to Colin -Cleland, seeing revealed the pink, plump flesh between the short sleeves -and the top of the mittens. -</p> -<p> -They drank the sentiment—the excuse for the glass was good enough, -though in these prosaic days a bit mysterious. -</p> -<p> -“What are they?” asked the Provost. -</p> -<p> -“What are what?” said The Macintosh. -</p> -<p> -“Scotland's Rights.” - </p> -<p> -“I'll leave it to my frien' Mr. Dyce to tell ye,” she said, quickly, for -the lawyer had now joined the group. “It 'll aiblens cost ye 6s. 8d.,but -for that I dare say he can gie ye them in the Laiten. But—but I hope -we're a' frien's here?” she exclaimed, with a hurried glance round her -company. “I hope we have nane o' thae aboaminable English amang us. I -canna thole them! It has been a sair doon-come for Scotland since ever she -drew in wi' them.” For a space she dwelt on themes of rather antique -patriotism that made her audience smile, for in truth in this burgh town -we see no difference between Scotch and English; in our calculations there -are only the lucky folk, born, bred, and dwelling within the sound of Will -Oliver's bell, and the poor souls who have to live elsewhere, all equally -unfortunate, whether they be English, Irish, or Scots. -</p> -<p> -“But here I'm keepin' you gentlemen frae your dancin',” she said, -interrupting herself, and consternation fell on her company, for sets were -being formed for a quadrille, and her innuendo was unmistakable. She -looked from one to the other of them as if enjoying their discomfiture. -</p> -<p> -“I—I—I haven't danced myself for years,” said the Provost, -which was true. And Colin Cleland, sighing deeply in his prominent profile -and hiding his feet, protested quadrilles were beyond him. The younger men -quickly remembered other engagements and disappeared. “Will you do me the -honor?” said Dr. Brash. Good man! a gentle hero's heart was under that -wrinkled waistcoat. -</p> -<p> -“Oh!” said The Macintosh, rising to his arm, “you'll be sure and no' to -swing me aff my feet, for I'm but a frail and giddy creature.” - </p> -<p> -“It would be but paying you back,” said the doctor, bowing. “Miss -Macintosh has been swingin' us a' aff our feet since she entered the -room.” - </p> -<p> -She laughed behind her clouded glasses, tapped him lightly with her fan, -and swam into the opening movement of the figure. The word's abused, yet I -can but say she danced divinely, with such grace, lightness of foot, and -rhythm of the body that folk stared at her in admiration and incredulity; -her carriage, seen from behind, came perilously near betraying her, and -possibly her partner might have soon discovered who he had, even if she -had not made him a confession. -</p> -<p> -“Upon my word!” said he, in a pause between the figures—“upon my -word! you dance magnificently, Miss Macintosh. I must apologize for such a -stiff old partner as you've gotten.” - </p> -<p> -“I micht weel dance,” said she. “You ken I'm a dancin'-mistress?” Then she -whispered hurriedly in her natural voice to him. “I feel real bold, Dr. -Brash, to be dancing with you here when I haven't come out yet, and I feel -real mean to be deceiving you, who would dance with an old frump just -because you're sorry for her, and I <i>can't</i> do it one minute longer. -Don't you know me, really?” - </p> -<p> -“Good Lord!” said he, in an undertone, aghast. “Miss Lennox!” - </p> -<p> -“Only for you,” she whispered. “Please don't tell anybody else.” - </p> -<p> -“You beat all,” he told her. “I suppose I'm making myself ridiculous -dancing away here with—h'm!—auld lang syne, but faith I have -the advantage now of the others, and you mustn't let on when the thing -comes out that I did not know you from the outset. I have a crow to pick -with Miss Ailie about this—the rogue! But, young woman, it's an -actress you are!” - </p> -<p> -“Not yet, but it's an actress I mean to be,” she said, poussetting with -him. -</p> -<p> -“H'm!” said he, “there seems the natural gift for it; but once on a time I -made up my mind it was to be poetry.” - </p> -<p> -“I've got over poetry,” she said. “I found I was only one of that kind of -poets who always cut it up in fourteen-line lengths and begin with 'As -when.' No, it's to be the stage, Dr. Brash; I guess God's fixed it.” - “Whiles He is—h'm—injudicious,” said the doctor. “But what -about Aunt Bell?” - </p> -<p> -“There's no buts about it, though I admit I'm worried to think of Auntie -Bell. She considers acting is almost as bad as lying, and talks about the -theatre as Satan's abode. If it wasn't that she was from home to-night, I -daren't have been here. I wish—I wish I didn't love her so—almost—for -I feel I've got to vex her pretty bad.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed you have,” said Dr. Brash. “And you've spoiled my dancing, for -I've a great respect for that devoted little woman.” - </p> -<p> -Back in the alcove The Macintosh found more to surround her than ever, -though it was the penalty of her apparent age that they were readier to -joke than dance with her. Captain Consequence, wanting a wife with money, -if and when his mother should be taken from him, never lost a chance to -see how a pompous manner and his medals would affect strange ladies; he -was so marked in his attention and created such amusement to the company -that, pitying him, and fearful of her own deception, she proposed to tell -fortunes. The ladies brought her their emptied teacups; the men solemnly -laid their palms before her; she divined for all their past and future in -a practised way that astonished her uncle and aunt, who, afraid of some -awkward sally, had kept aloof at first from her levee, but now were the -most interested of her audience. -</p> -<p> -Over the leaves in Miss Minto's cup she frowned through her clouded -glasses. “There's lots o' money,” said she, “and a braw house, and a -muckle garden wi' bees and trees in't, and a wheen boy's speilin' the wa's—you -may be aye assured o' bien circumstances, Miss Minto.” - </p> -<p> -Miss Minto, warmly conscious of the lawyer at her back, could have wished -for a fortune less prosaic. -</p> -<p> -“Look again; is there no' a man to keep the laddies awa'?” suggested the -Provost, pawky body! -</p> -<p> -“I declare there is!” cried The Macintosh, taking the hint. “See; there! -he's under this tree, a' huddled up in an awfu' passion.” - </p> -<p> -“I can't make out his head,” said the Provost's lady. “Some men hae nane,” - retorted the spae-wife; “but what's to hinder ye imaginin' 't, like me?” - </p> -<p> -“Oh! if it's imagination,” said the Provost's lady, “I can hear him -swearin'. And now, what's my cup?” - </p> -<p> -“I see here,” said The Macintosh, “a kind o' island far at sea, and a ship -sailin' frae't this way, wi' flags to the mast-heid and a man on board.” - </p> -<p> -“I hope he's well, then,” said the Provost's lady, “for that's our James, -and he's coming from Barbadoes; we had a letter just last week. Indeed, -you're a perfect wizard!” She had forgotten that her darling James's -coming was the talk of the town for ten days back. -</p> -<p> -Colin Cleland, rubicund, good-natured, with his shyness gone, next -proffered his palm to read. His hand lay like a plaice, inelegant and -large, in hers, whose fresh young beauty might have roused suspicion in -observers less carried away in the general illusion. -</p> -<p> -“Ah, sir,” said she, with a sigh, “ye hae had your trials!” - </p> -<p> -“Mony a ane, ma'am,” said the jovial Colin. “I was ance a lawyer, for my -sins.” - </p> -<p> -“That's no' the kind o' trial I mean,” said The Macintosh. “Here's a wheen -o' auld tribulations.” - </p> -<p> -“Perhaps you're richt, ma'am,” he admitted. “I hae a sorry lot o' them -marked doon in auld diaries, but, Gude be thanked, I canna mind them -unless I look them up. They werena near sae mony as the rattlin' ploys -I've had.” - </p> -<p> -“Is there no' a wife for Mr. Cleland?” said the Provost—pawky, pawky -man! -</p> -<p> -“There was ance, I see, a girl, and she was the richt girl, too,” said The -Macintosh. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, but I was the wrang man,” said Colin Cleland, drawing his hand away, -and nobody laughed, for all but The Macintosh knew that story and made it -some excuse for foolish habits. -</p> -<p> -“I'm a bit of a warlock myself,” said Dr. Brash, beholding the spae-wife's -vexation at a <i>faux-pas</i> she only guessed herself guilty of. “I'll -read your loof, Miss Macintosh, if ye let me.” - </p> -<p> -They all insisted she should submit herself to the doctor's unusual art, -and taking her hand in his he drew the mitten off and pretended to scan -the lines. -</p> -<p> -“Travel—h'm—a serious illness—h'm—your life, in -youth, was quite adventurous, Miss Macintosh.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, I'm no' that auld yet,” she corrected him. “There's mony a chance at -fifty. Never mind my past, Dr. Brash, what about my future?” - </p> -<p> -He glanced up a moment and saw her aunt and uncle listening in amusement, -unaware as yet that he knew the secret, then scanned her palm again. -</p> -<p> -“The future—h'm! let me see. A long line of life; heart line healthy—h'm—the -best of your life's before you, though I cannot say it may be the happiest -part of it. Perhaps my—h'm—my skill a little fails here. You -have a strong will, Miss—Miss Macintosh, and I doubt in this world -you'll aye have your own way. And—h'm—an odd destiny surely's -before you—I see the line of fame, won—h'm—in a -multitude of characters; by the Lord Hairry, ma'am, you're to be—you're -to be an actress!” - </p> -<p> -The company laughed at such a prophecy for one so antiquated, and the -doctor's absurdity put an end to the spaeing of fortunes, but he had -effected his purpose. He had found the words that expressed the hope, half -entertained so far, of Ailie and the fear of her brother Dan. They learned -before they left that he had not spoken without his cue, yet it was a -little saddened they went home at midnight with their ward in masquerade. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXI -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ORTUNATELY Kate's marriage came to distract them for a while from the -thought of Bud's future. The essential house had been found that was -suitable for a captain, yet not too dearly rented—a piece of luck in -a community where dwellings are rarely vacant, and every tenant over -eighty years of age has the uneasy consciousness that half a dozen pairs -betrothed have already decided upon a different color of paint for his -windows, and have become resigned, with a not unpleasing melancholy, to -the thought that in the course of nature his time cannot be long. -</p> -<p> -The Captain—that once roving eagle-heart subdued by love for the -maid of Colonsay—so persistently discouraged any yachting trips -which took the <i>Wave</i> for more than a night or two from her moorings -that Lady Anne and her husband, knowing the heart themselves, recommended -immediate marriage; and Miss Bell, in consequence, was scouring the -country-side for Kate's successor in the kitchen, but hopeless of coming -on one who could cook good kale, have a cheery face, and be a strict -communicant. “I can get fine cooks that are wanting in the grace of God, -and pious girls who couldn't be trusted to bake a Christian scone,” she -said; “it's a choice between two evils.” - </p> -<p> -“Of two evils choose the third, then,” said Dan to his sister, flushed and -exhilarated by a search that, for elderly maiden ladies, makes up for an -older hunt. “The sport's agreeing with you.” - </p> -<p> -It was a great distress to Bud that the wedding should take place in the -house and not in church, as seemed most fitting. She felt a private -ceremony deprived her of a spectacle, with Miss Amelia Duff playing the -wedding march on the harmonium, and the audience filing up the aisle in -their Sunday clothes, the carriage of their hats revealing character. -</p> -<p> -“Why, you're simply going to make it look like a plain tea!” she -protested. “If it was my marriage, Kate, I'd have it as solemn and grand -as Harvest Sunday. A body doesn't get married to a man in brass buttons -every other day, and it's a chance for style.” - </p> -<p> -“We never have our weddings in the church,” said Kate. “Sometimes the -gentry do, but it's not considered nice; it's kind of Roman Catholic. -Forbye, in a church, where would you get the fun?” - </p> -<p> -If Bud hadn't realized that fun was the main thing at Scottish weddings, -she got hints of it in Kate's preparation. Croodles and hysterics took -possession of the bride: she was sure she would never get through the -ceremony with her life, or she would certainly do something silly that -would make the whole world laugh at her and dreadfully vex the Captain. -Even her wedding-dress, whose prospect had filled her dreams with -gladness, but deepened her depression when it came from the -manteau-maker's—she wept sad stains on the front width, and the -orange-blossom they rehearsed with might have been a wreath of the bitter -rue. Bud wanted her to try the dress on, but the bride was aghast at such -an unlucky proposition; so she tried it on herself, with sweet results, if -one did not look at the gathers in the back. They practised the ceremony -the night before, Kate's sister from Colonsay (who was to be her -bridesmaid) playing the part of a tall, brass-buttoned bridegroom. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, Kate!” cried Bud, pitifully, “you stand there like's you were a -soda-water bottle and the cork lost. My goodness! brisk up a bit; if it's -hard on you, just remember it isn't much of a joke for Charles. Don't you -know the eyes of the public are on you?” - </p> -<p> -“That's just it,” said poor Kate. “I wouldn't be frightened a bit if it -wasn't for that, for I'm so brave. What do you do with your hands?” - </p> -<p> -“You just keep hold of them. Mercy! don't let them hang like that; they're -yours; up till now he's got nothing to do with them. Now for the tears—where's -your handkerchief? That one's yards too big, and there isn't an edge of -lace to peek through, but it 'll do this time. It 'll all be right on the -night. Now the minister's speaking, and you're looking down at the carpet -and you're timid and fluttered and nervous, and thinking what an epoch -this is in your sinful life, and how you won't be Kate MacNeill any more -but Mrs. Charles Maclean, and the Lord knows if you will be happy with him—” - </p> -<p> -The bride blubbered and threw her apron over her head as usual. Bud was in -despair. -</p> -<p> -“Well, you are a silly!” she exclaimed. “All you want is a gentle tear or -two trickling down the side of your nose, enough to make your eyes blink -but not enough to soak your veil or leave streaks. And there you gush like -a water-spout, and damp your face so much the bridegroom 'll catch his -death of cold when he kisses you. Stop it, Kate MacNeill, it isn't -anybody's funeral. Why, weddings aren't so very fatal; lots of folk get -over them—leastways in America.” - </p> -<p> -“I can't help it!” protested the weeping maid. “I never could be -melancholy in moderation, and the way you speak you make me think it's -running a dreadful risk to marry anybody.” - </p> -<p> -“Well,” said Bud, “you needn't think of things so harrowing, I suppose. -Just squeeze your eyes together and bite your lip, and perhaps it 'll -start a tear; if it don't, it 'll look like as if you were bravely -struggling with emotion. And then there's the proud, glad smile as you -back out on Charles's arm—give her your arm, Minnie—the -trial's over, you know, and you've got on a lovely new plain ring, and all -the other girls are envious, and Charles Maclean and you are one till -death do you part. Oh, Kate, Kate! don't grin; that's not a smile, it's a—it's -a railroad track. Look!” Bud assumed a smile that spoke of gladness and -humility, confidence and a maiden's fears, a smile that appealed and -charmed. -</p> -<p> -“I couldn't smile like that to save my life,” said Kate, in a despair. “I -wish you had learned me that instead of the height of Popacatthekettle. Do -you think he'll be angry if I don't do them things properly?” - </p> -<p> -“Who? Charles! Why, Charles 'll be so mortally scared himself he wouldn't -notice if you made faces at him or were a different girl altogether. He'll -have a dull, dead booming in his ears, and wonder whether it's wedding-day -or apple-custard—all of them I've seen married looked like that. -It's not for Charles you should weep and smile; it's for the front of the -house, you know, it's for the people looking on.” - </p> -<p> -“Toots!” said Kate, relieved. “If it's only for them, I needn't bother. I -thought that maybe it was something truly refined that he would be -expecting. It's not—it's not the front of a house I'm marrying. Tell -me this and tell me no more—is there anything special I should do to -please my Charles?” - </p> -<p> -“I don't think I'd worry,” said Bud, on reflection. “I dare say it's -better not to think of anything dramatic. If I were you I'd just keep calm -as grass, and pray the Lord to give me a good, contented mind and hurry up -the clergyman.” - </p> -<p> -But yet was the maiden full of a consciousness of imperfection, since she -had seen that day the bride's-cake on view in the baker's window—an -edifice of art so splendid that she felt she could never be worthy of it. -“How do you think I'll look?” she asked. And Bud assured her she would -look magnificently lovely. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, I wish I did,” she sighed. “But I'm feared I'll not look so lovely as -I think I do.” - </p> -<p> -“No girl ever did,” said Bud. “That's impossible. But when Charles comes -to and sits up he'll think you're It; he'll think you perfect.” - </p> -<p> -“Indeed, I'm far from that,” said Kate. “I have just my health and napery -and a liking for the chap, and I wish I wasn't near so red.” - </p> -<p> -Bud was able to instruct her in the right deportment for a bride, but had -no experience in the management of husbands; for that Kate had to take -some hints from her mistress, who was under the delusion that her brother -Dan was the standard of his sex. -</p> -<p> -“They're curious creatures,” Bell confided. “You must have patience, ay, -and humor them. They'll trot at your heels like pussy for a -cheese-pudding, but they'll not be driven. If I had a man I would never -thwart him. If he was out of temper or unreasonable I would tell him he -was looking ill, and that would make him feared and humble. When a man -thinks he's ill, his trust must be in the Lord and in his womankind. -That's where we have the upper hand of them! First and last the thing's to -be agreeable. You'll find he'll never put anything in its proper place, -and that's a heartbreak, but it's not so bad as if he broke the dishes and -blackened your eyes, the way they do in the newspapers. There's one thing -that's the secret of a happy home—to live in the fear of God and -within your income; faith! you can't live very well without it.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, m'em! it's a desperate thing a wedding,” said the maid. “I never in -all my life had so much to think about before.” - </p> -<p> -There were stricken lads in these days! The more imminent became her utter -loss, the more desirable Kate became; but sentiment in country towns is an -accommodating thing, and all the old suitors—the whistlers in the -close and purveyors of conversation lozenges—found consolation in -the fun at the wedding, and danced their griefs away on the flags of the -Dyces' kitchen. -</p> -<p> -A noble wedding! All the cookery skill of Kate and her mistress was -expended on it, and discretion, for the sake of the incredulous, forbids -enumeration of the roasted hens. Chanticleers in the town crowed roupily -and ruefully for months thereafter. The bridegroom might have stepped over -the wall to the wedding chamber or walked to it in a hundred paces up the -lane; he rode instead in a carriage that made a stately and circuitous -approach round John Turner's corner, and wished the distance had been -twenty times as long. “It's not that I'm feared,” said he, “or that I've -rued the gyurl, but—but it's kind of sudden!”—a curious -estimate of a courtship that had started in the burial-ground of Colonsay -so many years before! -</p> -<p> -A noble wedding!—its revelry kept the town awake till morning; from -the open windows the night was filled with dancing times and songs and -laughter; boys cried “Fab, fab!” in the street, and a fairy lady—really -a lady all grown up, alas!—stood at a window and showered pence -among them. -</p> -<p> -Long before the wedding party ended, Bud went up to bed, but she lay for -hours awake in the camceil-room hearing the revelry of the kitchen. She -had said goodbye to the blissful pair whose wedding was the consequence of -her own daft pranks as letter-writer; she would miss the maid of Colonsay. -The knowledge that 'tis an uncertain world, a place of change and -partings, comes to us all sooner or later in one flash of apprehension and -of grief; for the first time Bud felt the irrevocable nature of the past, -and that her happy world under this roof was, someway, crumbling, and the -tears came to her eyes. -</p> -<p> -A hurried footstep sounded on the stairs, a rap came to the door, and the -bride came in, unbidrin the darkness, whispering Lennox's name. -</p> -<p> -Her only answer was a sob from the girl in bed. -</p> -<p> -“Miss Lennox!” said the bride, distressed, “what ails you? I've come up to -say good-bye; it wasn't a right good-bye at all with yon folk looking. Oh, -Lennox, Lennox! <i>ghaol mo chridhe!</i> my heart is sore to be leaving -you, for the two of us were so merry! Now I have a man, and a good man, -too; it was you that gave me him, but I have lost my loving friend.” She -threw herself on the bed, regardless of her finery, and the Celtic fount -of her swelled over in sobs and tears. -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T took two maids to fill Kate's place in the Dyces' household—one -for the plain boiling of potatoes and the other for her pious atmosphere, -as the lawyer argued, and a period of discomfort attended on what Bell -called their breaking in. No more kitchen nights for Lennox, now that she -was a finished young lady and her friend was gone; she must sit in the -parlor strumming canzonets on Grandma Buntain's Broadwood, taming her -heart of fire. It was as a voice from Heaven's lift there came one day a -letter from London in which Mrs. Molyneux invited her and one of her aunts -for an Easter holiday. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed and I'll be glad to be quit for a week or two of both of you,” - said Bell to her niece and Ailie. “Spring cleaning, with a couple of -stupid huzzies in the kitchen—not but what they're nice and willing -lassies—is like to be the sooner ended if we're left to it -ourselves.” - </p> -<p> -A radiant visage and lips in firm control betrayed how Lennox felt. She -had never been in London—its cry went pealing through her heart. -Ailie said nothing, but marvelled how blithely and blindly her sister -always set foot on the facile descent that led to her inevitable doom of -deprivation and regret. -</p> -<p> -“The Grand Tour!” said Uncle Dan; “it's the fitting termination to your -daft days, Lennox. Up by at the castle there's a chariot with imperials -that conveyed the Earl on his, the hammer-cloth most lamentably faded. I -often wonder if his lordship takes a sly seat in it at times when no one's -looking, and climbs the Alps or clatters through Italian towns again when -Jones the coachman is away at his tea. It's a thing I might do myself if I -had made the Tour and still had the shandrydan.” - </p> -<p> -“Won't you really need me?” Aunt Ailie asked her sister, and half hoped, -half feared spring cleaning should postpone the holiday, but Bell -maintained it should be now or never, more particularly as Lennox's dress -was new. -</p> -<p> -Oh, London, London! siren town! how it bewitched the girl! Its cab-horse -bells were fairy; its evening, as they entered, hung with a myriad magic -moons and stars. The far-stretching streets with their flaming jewel -windows, the temples in the upper dusk, and the solemn squares crowding -round country trees; the throngs of people, the odors of fruit-shops, the -passion of flowers, the mornings silvery gray, and the multitudinous -monuments rimed by years, thunder of hoofs in ways without end, and the -silence of mighty parks—Bud lay awake in the nights to think of -them. -</p> -<p> -Jim Molyneux had the siren by the throat: he loved her and shook a living -out of her hands. At first she had seemed to him too old, too calm, too -slow and stately as compared with his own Chicago, nor did she seem to -have a place for any stranger; now he had found she could be bullied, that -a loud voice, a bold front, and the aid of a good tailor could compel her -to disgorge respect and gold. He had become the manager of a suburban -theatre, where oranges were eaten in the stalls and the play was as often -as not “The Father's Curse”; but once a day he walked past Thespian -temples in the city, and, groaning at their mismanagement, planned an -early future for himself with classic fronts of marble and duchesses -advertising him each night by standing in rows on the pavement awaiting -their carriages. Far along Grove Lane, where he dwelt in a pea-green house -with nine French bean rows and some clumps of bulbs behind, one could -distinguish his coming by the smartness of his walk and the gleam of the -sunshine on his hat. He had one more secret of success—teetotalism. -“Scotch and soda,” he would say, “that's what ails the boys, and makes 'em -sleepier than Hank M'Cabe's old tomcat. Good boys, dear boys, they've -always got the long-lost-brother grip, but they're mighty prone to dope -assuagements for the all-gone feeling in the middle of the day. When -they've got cobwebs in their little brilliantined belfries, I'm full of -the songs of spring and merry old England's on the lee. See? I don't even -need to grab; all I've got to do is to look deserving and the stuff comes -crowding in; it always does to a man who looks like ready money and don't -lunch on cocktails and cloves.” - </p> -<p> -“Jim, boyette,” his wife would say, “I guess you'd better put ice or -something on your bump of self-esteem “—but she proudly wore the -jewels that were the rewards of his confidence and industry. -</p> -<p> -Bud and Ailie, when they thought of home in these days, thought of it as a -picture only, or as a chapter in a book covered in mouldy leather, with fs -for s's. In their prayers alone were Dan and Bell real personages; and the -far-off little town was no longer a woodcut, but an actual place blown -through by the scented airs of forest and sea. Bell wrote them of rains -and hails and misty weather; Grove Lane gardens breathed of daffodils, and -the city gleamed under a constant sun. They came back to the pea-green -house each day from rare adventuring, looking, in the words of Molyneux, -as if they were fresh come off the farm, and the best seats in half a -dozen theatres were at their disposal. “Too much of the playhouse -altogether!” Bell wrote once, remonstrating. “Have you heard that man in -the City Temple yet?” - </p> -<p> -In Molyneux's own theatre there was a break in the long succession of -melodrama and musical comedy. He privately rejoiced that, for two ladies -of such taste as Ailie and her niece, he could display a piece of the real -legitimate—“King John”—though Camberwell was not very likely -to make a week of Shakespeare profitable to his treasury. Ailie and Bud -were to go on Tuesday; and Bud sat up at night to read an acting copy of -“King John” till every character took flesh in her imagination, and the -little iron balcony behind the pea-green house became the battlemented -walls of Angiers, to whose postern came trumpeters of France. -</p> -<p> -They sat in the drawing-room, astonished at her speeches— -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'You men of Angiers, open wide your gates, -And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in; - -Who, by the hand of France, this day hath made -Much work for tears in many an English, mother.'” - </pre> -<p> -or— -</p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -'"I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine; -My name is Constance; I am Geffrey's wife; -Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost!'” - </pre> -<p> -“Bravo, Bud!” would Molyneux cry, delighted. “Why, if I was an -actor-manager, I'd pay you any salary you had the front to name. Ain't she -just great, Millicent? I tell you, Miss Ailie, she puts the blinkers on -Maude Adams, and sends Ellen 'way back in the standing room only. Girly, -all you've got to learn is how to move. You mustn't stand two minutes in -the same place on the stage, but cross 'most every cue.” - </p> -<p> -“I don't know,” said Bud, dubiously. “Why should folk have fidgets on a -stage? They don't always have them in real life. I'd want to stand like a -mountain—<i>you</i> know, Auntie Ailie, the old hills at home!—and -look so—so—so awful, the audience would shriek if I moved, the -same as if I was going to fall on them.” - </p> -<p> -“Is that how you feel?” asked Jim Molyneux, curiously surveying her. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, that's how I feel,” said Bud, “when I've got the zip of poetry in -me. I feel I'm all made up of burning words and eyes.” - </p> -<p> -“Child, you are very young!” said Mrs Molyneux. -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” said Bud, “I suppose that's it. By-and-by I'll maybe get to be like -other people.” - </p> -<p> -Jim Molyneux struck the table with his open hand. “By George!” he cried; -“I wouldn't hurry being like other people; that's what every gol-damed -idiot in England's trying, and you're right on the spot just now as you -stand. That's straight talk, nothing but! I allow I favor a bit of leg -movement on the stage—generally it's about the only life there is on -it—but a woman who can play with her head don't need to wear out -much shoe-leather. Girly—” He stopped a second, then burst out with -the question, “How'd you like a little part in this 'King John'?” - </p> -<p> -A flame went over the countenance of the girl, and then she grew -exceedingly pale. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “Oh Jim Molyneux, don't be so -cruel!” - </p> -<p> -“I mean it,” he said, “and I could fix it, for they've got an Arthur in -the cast who's ill and bound to break down in a day or two if she had an -understudy—and if I—Think you could play a boy's part? There -isn't much to learn in Arthur, but that little speech of yours in front of -Angiers makes me think you could make the part loom out enough to catch -the eye of the <i>cognoscenti.</i> You'd let her, wouldn't you, Miss -Ailie? It'd be great fun. She'd learn the lines in an hour or two, and a -couple of nights of looking on would put her up to all the business. Now -don't kick, Miss Ailie; say, Miss Ailie, have this little treat with us!” - </p> -<p> -Ailie's heart was leaping. Here was the crisis—she knew it—what -was she to do? She had long anticipated some such hour, had often wrestled -with the problem whether, when it came, the world should have her Bud -without a struggle for the claims of Bell and the simple cloistered life -of the Scottish home. While yet the crisis was in prospect only she could -come to no conclusion; her own wild hungers as a girl, recalled one night -in the light of kitchen candles, had never ceased to plead for freedom—for -freedom and the space that herself had years ago surrendered—now it -was the voice of the little elder sister, and the bell of Wanton Wully -ringing at evening humble people home. -</p> -<p> -“Just this once!” pleaded Mr. Molyneux, understanding her scruples. Bud's -face mutely pleaded. -</p> -<p> -Yes, “just this once!”—it was all very well, but Ailie knew the -dangers of beginnings. It would not even be, in this case, a beginning; -the beginning was years ago—before the mimicry on the first New -Year's morning, before the night of the dozen candles or the creation of -The Macintosh: the child had been carried onward like a feather in a -stream. -</p> -<p> -“I really don't mind much myself,” said Ailie at last, “but I fancy her -aunt Bell would scarcely like it.” - </p> -<p> -“Not if she knew I was going to do it,” said Lennox, quickly; “but when -the thing was over she'd be as pleased as Punch—at least she'd laugh -the way she did when we told her I was dressed as Grandma Buntain at the -ball.” - </p> -<p> -The sound of Will Oliver's curfew died low in Ailie's mind, the -countenance of Bell grew dim; she heard, instead, the clear young voice of -Bud among the scenery and sat with an enraptured audience. “If you are all -so anxious for it, then—” she said, and the deed was done! -</p> -<p> -She did not rue it when the night of Bud's performance came, and her niece -as the hapless young Bretagne welcomed the dauphin before the city gates; -she gloried in the natural poignancy that marked the painful scene with -Hubert come to torture, but she almost rued it when Molyneux, having -escorted them in an inexplicable silence home, broke out at last in -fervent praise of his discovery as soon as the girl had left them for her -bed. -</p> -<p> -“I've kept clutch of myself with considerable difficulty,” he said, “for I -didn't want to spoil girly's sleep or swell her head, but I want to tell -you, Millicent, and you, Miss Ailie, that <i>I've Found my Star!</i> Why, -say, she's out of sight! She was the only actor in all that company -to-night who didn't know she was in Camberwell; she was right in the -middle of mediaeval France from start to finish, and when she was picked -up dead at the end of the fourth act she was so stone-cold and stiff with -thinking it she scared the company. I suspect, Miss Ailie, that you're -going to lose that girl!” - </p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXIII -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T was a wet night in November. With a chuckle of horse's hoofs on shining -streets, Dan Dyce, with Bell and Ailie, drove from Molyneux's fine new -home to the temple of his former dreams—the proud Imperial. They sat -in silence in the darkness of the cab, and in silence drifted into the -entrance hall of the theatre to mingle with the pompous world -incongruously—with loud, vainglorious men, who bore to the eye of -Bell some spirit of abandonment and mockery, with women lovely by the gift -of God, or with dead-white faces, wax-red lips, and stealthy, sidelong -eyes. One there was who, passing before them, released a great fur cloak -from her shoulders with a sudden movement, and, as it slowly slipped down -her marble back, threatened an utter nakedness that made Bell gasp and -clutch at her sister's arm. -</p> -<p> -“Look!” said Ailie, eagerly. Before them was a portrait of a woman in the -dress of Desdemona. The face had some suggestion that at times it might be -childlike and serene, but had been caught in a moment of alarm and fire, -and the full black eyes held in their orbs some frightful apprehension, -the slightly parted lips expressed a soul's mute cry. -</p> -<p> -“What is it? Who is it?” asked Bell, pausing before the picture with a -stound of fear. -</p> -<p> -“It is Bud,” said Ailie, feeling proud and sorrowful—for why she -could not tell. “There is the name—'Winifred Wallace'.” - </p> -<p> -Bell wrung her hands in the shelter of her mantle and stood bewildered, -searching for the well-known lineaments. -</p> -<p> -“Let us go up,” said Dan, softly, with no heed for the jostling people, -forever self-possessed, sorrowful to guess at his sister's mind. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, yes; let us go up out of this crowd,” said Ailie, but the little -woman hung before the portrait fascinated. Round her washed the waves of -rustling garments like a surf on the shore at home; scents wafted; English -voices, almost foreign in their accent, fell upon her ear all unnoticed -since she faced the sudden revelation of what her brother's child, her -darling, had become. Seekers of pleasure, killers of wholesome cares, -froth of the idle world eddied around her chattering, laughing, glancing -curious or contemptuous at her gray, sweet face, her homely form, her -simple Sabbath garments; all her heart cried out in supplication for the -child that had too soon become a woman and wandered from the sanctuary of -home. -</p> -<p> -“We are blocking the way here, Bell. Let us go up,” again said Ailie, -gently taking her arm. -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” said her brother. “It's not a time for contemplation of the tombs; -it's not the kirkyard, Bell. You see there are many that are anxious to -get in.” - </p> -<p> -“Oh, Lennox, Lennox!” she exclaimed, indifferent to the strangers round -about her, “my brother's child! I wish—oh, I wish ye were at home! -God grant ye grace and wisdom—'then shalt thou walk in thy way -safely, and thy foot shall not stumble. When thou liest down thou shalt -not be afraid; yea, thou shalt lie down and thy sleep shall be sweet.'” - </p> -<p> -They went up to the box that Molyneux had kept for them, to find his wife -there nursing an enormous bouquet of flowers, all white as the driven -snow. “A gorgeous house!” she told them. “Everybody that's anybody, and in -the front push. Half a hundred critics, two real Count Vons, a lot of -benzine-brougham people who never miss a first night. There are their -wives, poor dears! shining same as they were Tiffany's windows. My! ain't -our Bud going to have a happy night!” - </p> -<p> -They sat and looked for a while in silence at the scene before them, so -pleasing to the mind that sought in crowds, in light and warmth and -gayety, its happiest associations, so wanting in the great eternal calm -and harmony that are out-of-doors in country places. Serpent eyes in -facets of gems on women's bosoms; heads made monstrous yet someway -beautiful and tempting by the barber's art; shoulders bare and bleached, -devoid of lustre; others blushing as if Eve's sudden apprehension had -survived the generations. Sleek, shaven faces, linen breastplates, -opera-glasses, flowers, fans, a murmur of voices, and the flame over all -of the enormous electrolier. -</p> -<p> -It was the first time Bell had seen a theatre. Her first thought was one -of blame and pity. “'He looked on the city and wept'!” said she. “Oh, -Ailie, that it were over and we were home!” - </p> -<p> -“All to see Miss Winifred Wallace!” said Mrs. Molyneux. “Think of that, -Miss Dyce—your darling niece, and she'll be so proud and happy!” - </p> -<p> -Bell sighed. “At least she had got her own way, and I am a foolish old -countrywoman who had different plans.” - </p> -<p> -Dan said nothing. Ailie waited, too, silent, in a feverish expectation, -and from the fiddles rose a sudden melody. It seemed the only wise and -sober thing in all that humming hive of gaudy insects passing, passing, -passing. It gave a voice to human longings for a nobler, better world; and -in it, too, were memory and tears. To the people in the box it seemed to -tell Bud's story—opening in calm, sweet passages, closing in the -roll of trumpet and the throb of drum. And then the lights went down and -the curtain rose upon the street in Venice. -</p> -<p> -The early scenes were dumb and vacant, wanting Bud's presence; there was -no play for them till she came slowly into the council chamber where sat -the senators, timidity and courage struggling in her port and visage. -</p> -<p> -“No, no; it is not Bud,” Bell whispered. “It is not our lassie; this one -is too tall and—and too deliberate. I fear she has not dared it at -the last, or that she has been found unsuitable.” - </p> -<p> -Ailie leaned forward, quivering, feeding her eyes. “It's no one else,” - said she. “Dear Bud, <i>our</i> Bud! Those two years' training may have -made her some-ways different, but she has not changed her smile. Oh, I am -so proud, and sure of her! Hus-s-sh!” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> -“'... I do perceive here a divided duty; -To you I am bound for life and education, -My life and education both do learn me -How to respect you; you are the lord of duty, -I am hitherto your daughter: but here's my husband.'” - </pre> -<p> -Desdemona's first speech broke the stillness that had fallen on the house; -her face was pale, they saw the rapid heaving of her bosom, they heard a -moment's tremor in her voice matured and wonderful, sweet as a silver -bell. To the box where she knew her friends were sitting she let her eyes -for a second wander as she spoke the opening lines that had so much of -double meaning—not Desdemona, but the loving and wilful child asking -forgiveness, yet tenacious of her purpose. -</p> -<p> -To Ailie came relief and happiness and pride; Dan held a watching brief -for his elder sister's prejudices and his own philosophy. Bell sat in -tears which Shakespeare did not influence. When next she saw the stage -with unblurred eyes Desdemona was leaving with the Moor. -</p> -<p> -“My dears,” said Mrs. Molyneux, “as Desdemona she's the Only One! and Jim -was right. It's worth a thousand times more trouble than he took with her. -He said all along she'd dazzle them, and I guess her fortune's made, and -it's going to be the making of this house, too. I feel so proud and happy -I'd kiss you right here, Mr. Dyce, if it wouldn't mess up my bouquet.” - </p> -<p> -“A black man!” said Bell, regretfully. “I know it is only paint, of -course, but—but I never met him; I do not even know his name.” - </p> -<p> -It seemed as if the play had nothing in it but the words and acts of -Desdemona. At each appearance she became more confident, charged the part -with deeper feeling, found new meaning in the time-worn words. Even Bell -began to lose her private judgment, forget that it was nothing but a -sinful play, and feel some pity for Othello; but, as the knavish coils -closed round her Desdemona, the strain became unbearable. -</p> -<p> -“Oh! I cannot stand it any longer,” she exclaimed, when the voice of -Lennox quavered in the song before her last good-night, and, saying so, -pushed back her seat into the shadows of the box, covering her ears with -her fingers. She saw no more; she heard no more till the audience rose to -its feet with thunders of applause that swelled and sank and swelled again -as if it would never end. Then she dared to look, and saw a trembling -Desdemona all alone before a curtain bowing. -</p> -<p> -“What is the matter? What is the matter? Why are they crying that way on -her?” she asked, dum-founded. -</p> -<p> -“Why, don't you see they're mad!” said Mrs. Molyneux. -</p> -<p> -“Oh, dear! and I thought she was doing splendidly.” - </p> -<p> -“Glad mad, I mean. She has carried them off their feet, and I'll bet Jim -Molyneux is standing on his hands behind that drop and waving his legs in -the air. Guess I needn't waste this bouquet on a girl who looks like the -morning hour in Covent Garden.” - </p> -<p> -Molyneux burst into the box in a gust of wild excitement. “Come round, -come round at once, she wants to see you,” he exclaimed, and led them -deviously behind the scenes to her dressing-room. -</p> -<p> -She stood at the door, softly crying; she looked at them—the grave -old uncle, Ailie who could understand, the little Auntie Bell—it was -into the arms of Bell she threw herself! -</p> -<p> -<br /><br /> -</p> -<hr /> -<p> -<a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> -</p> -<div style="height: 4em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> -<h2> -CHAPTER XXXIV -</h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE talk of the whole of London! The beauteous Lady Anne herself's not in -it with her!” said Will Oliver, scratching behind his ears. “Man, is it -no' just desperate? But I'll warrant ye there's money in it, for it's -yonder folk are willing to pay well for their diversion.” - </p> -<p> -“Are you sure,” said P. & A., “it's not another woman altogether? It -gives the name of Wallace in the paper.” - </p> -<p> -The bellman, sitting on a soap-box, slapped his thigh and said: “I'm -telling ye; I had it long ago from Kate MacNeill that her name on the -stage was going to be Wallace—Winifred Wallace—and there it is -in print. Tra—tragedienny, tragediennys are the head ones in the -trade; I've seen them in the shows—tr-r-r-emen-dous women!” - </p> -<p> -The Provost, who had just stepped in to P. & A.'s for his Sunday -sweeties, smiled tolerantly and passed his taddy-box. “Bud Dyce,” said he, -“is never likely to be round this way in a caravan to do the deid-drap -three times every night for front-seats sixpence. I doubt we have seen the -last of her unless we have the money and the clothes for London theatres.” - </p> -<p> -“It's really her, then?” said the grocer. -</p> -<p> -“You can take Wull's word for that,” said the Provost, “and I have just -been talking to her uncle. Her history's in the morning paper, and I'm the -civic head of a town renowned for genius.” - </p> -<p> -Wanton Wully went out to drift along the street in the light of the bright -shop windows before which bairns played “chaps me,” making choice of -treasures for their gaudiness alone, like most of us, who should know -better. He met George Jordon. “Geordie,” said he, “you'll have heard the -latest? You should be in London; yon's the place for oddity,” and George, -with misty comprehension, turned about for the road to London town. Out of -the inn came Colin Cleland, hurried, in his hand the business-looking -packet of tattered documents that were always his excuse for being there. -</p> -<p> -“Winifred Wallace—Great Tragedienny! It's a droll thing life, -according to the way you look at it. Stirring times in London, Mr. -Cleland! Changed her name to Wallace, having come of decent worthy, -people. <i>We</i> know, but we'll not let on.” - </p> -<p> -“Not a word!” said Colin Cleland, comically. “Perhaps she may get better -and the thing blow by. Are you under the impression that celebrity's a -thing to be ashamed of? I tell you she's a credit to us all.” - </p> -<p> -“Lord bless me! do you say so?” asked Wull Oliver. “If I was a tragedienny -I would be ashamed to show my face in the place again. We all expected -something better from the wee one—she was such a caution! It was -myself, as you might say, invented her; I gave her a start at devilment by -letting her ring the New Year bell. After that she always called me Mr. -Wanton, and kindly inquired at me about my legs. She was always quite the -leddy.” - </p> -<p> -Miss Minto's shop was busy: a boy was in with a very red face demanding -the remnants that by rights should have gone home with his mother's -jacket, and the Misses Duff were buying chiffon. -</p> -<p> -“This is startling news about young Lennox Dyce,” remarked Miss Minto. -“It's caused what you might call a stir. There's not a weekly paper to be -had for love or money.” - </p> -<p> -“She was always most peculiar,” said Miss Jean. “Bizarre,” cooed Miss -Amelia—it was her latest adjective. -</p> -<p> -“I was sure there was something special about in her since the very first -day I saw her,” said the mantua-maker. “Yon eye, Miss Duff! And what a -sweet and confident expression! I am so glad she has pleased them up in -London; you never can depend on them. I am thinking of a novel blouse to -mark in what I think will be a pleasing way the great occasion—the -Winifred Wallace Waist I'm calling it. You remember the clever Mr. -Molyneux.” - </p> -<p> -“I doubt we never understood her,” said Miss Jean. “But we make a feature -now of elocution.” - </p> -<p> -“Not that we wish to turn out great tragediennes,” said Miss Amelia. -“There's happiness in humbler vocations.” - </p> -<p> -“I dare say there is,” confessed Miss Minto. “I never thought of the stage -myself; my gift was always dress-making, and you wouldn't believe the -satisfaction that's in seeing a dress of mine on a woman who can do it -justice. We have all our own bit art, and that's a wonderful consolation. -But I'm <i>very</i> glad at that girl's progress, for the sake of Mr. Dyce—and, -of course, his sisters. Miss Ailie is transported, in the seventh heaven, -and even her sister seems quite pleased. 'You'll have a high head to-day,' -I said to her when she was passing from the coach this afternoon.” - </p> -<p> -“And what did she say to that?” inquired Miss Jean, with curiosity. -</p> -<p> -“You know Miss Dyce! She gave a smile and said, 'But a humble heart; it's -the Dyces' motto.'” - </p> -<p> -The doctor put his paper down, having read the great news over several -times with a singular satisfaction that surprised his sisters, who were -beat to see much glory in a state of life that meant your name on every -wall and the picture of your drawing-room every other week in 'Homely -Notes.' Drawing on his boots, he took a turn the length of the lawyer's -house. -</p> -<p> -“Faith! London has the luck of it,” he said, on entering. “I wish I was -there myself to see this wonderful Desdemona. I hope you liked your jaunt, -Miss Bell?” - </p> -<p> -“It wasn't bad,” said Bell, putting out the cards. “But, mercy on me, what -a silly way they have of baking bread in England!—-all crust -outside, though I grant it's sweet enough when you break into it.” “H'm!” - said Dr. Brash, “I've seen Scotch folk a bit like that. She has rung the -bell, I see; her name is made.” - </p> -<p> -“It is, they tell me,” answered Bell, “but I hope it will never change her -nature.” - </p> -<p> -“She had aye a genius,” said Mr. Dyce, cutting the pack for partners. -</p> -<p> -“She had something better,” said Miss Ailie, “she had love”; and on the -town broke forth the evening bell. -</p> -<h3> -THE END -</h3> -<div style="height: 6em;"> -<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> -</div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bud, by Neil Munro - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUD *** - -***** This file should be named 43731-h.htm or 43731-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/7/3/43731/ - -Produced by David Widger - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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