Melchior's Dream and Other Tales
Page 16
CHAPTER II.
"The lady with the gay macaw."
LONGFELLOW.
My sisters are much like other fellows' sisters, excepting Lettice.That child is like no one but herself.
I used to tease the other girls for fun, but I teased Lettice onprinciple--to knock the nonsense out of her. She was only eight, andvery small, but, from the top row of her tight little curls to therosettes on her best shoes, she seemed to me a mass of affectation.
Strangers always liked Lettice. I believe she was born with a companyvoice in her mouth; and she would flit like a butterfly from onegrown-up person to another, chit-chattering, whilst some of us stoodpounding our knuckles in our pockets, and tying our legs into knots,as we wished the drawing-room carpet would open and let us throughinto the cellar to play at catacombs.
That was how Cocky came. Lettice's airs and graces bewitched the oldlady who called in the yellow chariot, and was so like a cockatooherself--a cockatoo in a citron velvet bonnet, with a bird of Paradisefeather. When that old lady put up her eye-glass, she would havefrightened a yard-dog; but Lettice stood on tip-toes and stroked thefeather, saying, "What a love-e-ly bird!" And next day cameCocky--perch and all complete--_for the little girl who loves birds_.Lettice was proud of Cocky, but Edward really loved him, and tooktrouble with him.
Edward is a good boy. My mother called him after the Black Prince.
He and I disgraced ourselves in the eyes of the Cockatoo lady, and itcost the family thirty thousand pounds, which we can ill afford tolose. It was unlucky that she came to luncheon the very day thatEdward and I had settled to dress up as Early Britons, in blue woad,and dine off earth-nuts in the shrubbery. As we slipped out at theside door, the yellow chariot drove up to the front. We had doormatson, as well as powder-blue, but the old lady was terribly shocked, anddrove straight away, and did not return. Nurse says she is my father'sgodmother, and has thirty thousand pounds, which she would havebequeathed to us if we had not offended her. I take the blameentirely, because I always made the others play as I pleased.
We used to play at all kinds of things--concerts, circuses,theatricals, and sometimes conjuring. Uncle Patrick had not been tosee us for a long time, when one day we heard that he was coming, andI made up my mind at once that I would have a perfectly newentertainment for him.
We like having entertainments for Uncle Patrick, because he is such avery good audience. He laughs, and cries, and claps, and thumps withhis crutch, and if things go badly, he amuses the rest.
Ever since I can remember anything, I remember an old print, called"The Happy Family," over our nursery fire-place, and how I used towonder at that immovable cat, with sparrows on her back, sittingbetween an owl and a magpie. And it was when I saw Edward sitting withBenjamin the cat, and two sparrows he had brought up by hand,struggling and laughing because Cocky would push itself, crest first,under his waistcoat, and come out at the top to kiss him--that an ideastruck me; and I resolved to have a Happy Family for Uncle Patrick,and to act Showman myself.
Edward can do anything with beasts. He was absolutely necessary asconfederate, but it was possible Lettice might want to show off withCocky, and I did not want a girl on the stage, so I said very littleto her. But I told Edward to have in the yard-dog, and practise him inbeing happy with the rest of the family pets. Fred, the farm-boy,promised to look out for an owl. Benjamin, the cat, could have gotmice enough; but he would have eaten them before Edward had had timeto teach him better, so I set a trap. I knew a village-boy with amagpie, ready tamed.
Bernard, the yard-dog, is a lumbering old fellow, with no tricks. Wehave tried. We took him out once, into a snow-drift, with a lanternround his neck, but he rescued nothing, and lost the lantern--and thenhe lost himself, for it was dark.
But he is very handsome and good, and I knew, if I put him in themiddle, he would let anything sit upon him. He would not feel it, ormind if he did. He takes no notice of Cocky.
Benjamin never quarrels with Cocky, but he dare not forget that Cockyis there. And Cocky sometimes looks at Benjamin's yellow eyes as if itwere thinking how very easily they would come out. But they are quitesufficiently happy together for a Happy Family.
The mice gave more trouble than all the rest, so I settled thatLettice should wind up the mechanical mouse, and run that on as thecurtain rose.
CHAPTER III.
"Memor esto majorum."
OLD MOTTO.
" . . . .
All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!"
LONGFELLOW.
Do you wish to avoid vexations? Then never have a Happy Family! Minewere countless.
Fred could not get me an owl. Lettice _did_ want to show off withCocky. I had my own way, but she looked sulky and spiteful. I got TomSmith's magpie; but I had to have him, too. However, my costume asShowman was gorgeous, and Edward kept our Happy Family well together.We arranged that Tom should put Mag on at the left wing, and then runround behind, and call Mag softly from the right. Then she would hopacross the stage to him, and show off well. Lettice was to let motherknow when the spectators might take their places, and to tell thegardener when to raise the curtain.
I really think one magpie must be "a sign of sorrow," as nurse says;but what made Bernard take it into his beautiful foolish head to givetrouble I cannot imagine. He wouldn't lie down, and when he did, itwas with a _grump_ of protest that seemed to forbode failure. However,he let Cocky scold him and pull his hair, which was a safety-valve forCocky. Benjamin dozed with dignity. He knew Cocky wasn't watching forhis yellow eyes.
I don't think Lettice meant mischief when she summoned the spectators,for time was up. But her warning the curtain to rise when it did wassimple malice and revenge.
I never can forget the catastrophe, but I do not clearly remember howTom Smith and I _began_ to quarrel. He was excessively impudent, andseemed to think we couldn't have had a Happy Family without him andhis chattering senseless magpie.
When I told him to remember he was speaking to a gentleman, he grinnedat me.
"A gentleman? Nay, my sakes! Ye're not civil enough by half. More likea new policeman, if ye weren't such a Guy Fawkes in that finery."
"Be off," said I, "and take your bird with you."
"What if I won't go?"
"I'll make you!"
"Ye darsen't touch me."
"Daren't I?"
"Ye darsen't."
"I dare."
"Try."
"_Are_ you going?"
"Noa."
I only pushed him. He struck first. He's bigger than me, but he's abigger coward, and I'd got him down in the middle of the stage, andhad given him something to bawl about, before I became conscious thatthe curtain was up. I only realised it then, because civil, stupidFred, arrived at the left wing, panting and gasping--
"Measter Bayard! Here's a young wood-owl for ye."
As he spoke, it escaped him, fluff and feathers flying in the effort,and squawking, plunging, and fluttering, made wildly for the darkestcorner of the stage, just as Lettice ran on the mechanical mouse infront.
Bernard rose, and shook off everything, and Cocky went into screaminghysterics; above which I now heard the thud of Uncle Patrick's crutch,and the peals upon peals of laughter with which our audience greetedmy long-planned spectacle of a Happy Family!
* * * * *
Our Irish uncle is not always nice. He teases and mocks, and has anuncertain temper. But one goes to him in trouble. I went next morningto pour out my woes, and defend myself, and complain of the others.
I spoke seriously about Lettice. It is not pleasant for a fellow tohave a sister who grows up peculiar, as I believe Lettice will. Onlythe Sunday before, I told her she would be just the sort of woman menhate, and she said she didn't care; and I said she ought to, for womenwere made for men, and the Bible says so; and she said grandmamma saidthat every soul was made for GOD and its own final go
od. Shewas in a high-falutin mood, and said she wished she had beenchristened Joan instead of Lettice, and that I would be a true Bayard;and that we could ride about the world together, dressed in armour,and fighting for the right. And she would say all through the list ofher favourite heroines, and asked me if I minded _their_ beingpeculiar, and I said of course not, why should you mind what women dowho don't belong to you? So she said she could not see that; and Isaid that was because girls can't see reason; and so we quarrelled,and I gave her a regular lecture, which I repeated to Uncle Patrick.
He listened quite quietly till my mother came in, and got fidgetty,and told me not to argue with my uncle. Then he said--
"Ah! let the boy talk, Geraldine, and let me hear what he has to sayfor himself. There's a sublime audacity about his notions, I tell ye.Upon me conscience, I believe he thinks his grandmother was createdfor his particular convenience."
That's how he mocks, and I suppose he meant my Irish grandmother. Hethinks there's nobody like her in the wide world, and my father saysshe is the handsomest and wittiest old lady in the British Isles. ButI did not mind. I said,
"Well, Uncle Patrick, you're a man, and I believe you agree with me,though you mock me."
"Agree with ye?" He started up, and pegged about the room. "Faith! ifthe life we live is like the globe we inhabit--if it revolves on itsown axis, _and you're that axis_--there's not a flaw in yourphilosophy; but IF--Now perish my impetuosity! I've frightened yourdear mother away. May I ask, by the bye, if _she_ has the good fortuneto please ye, since the Maker of all souls made her, for all eternity,with the particular object of mothering you in this brief patch oftime?"
He had stopped under the portrait--my godfather's portrait. All hisIrish rhodomontade went straight out of my head, and I ran to him.
"Uncle, you know I adore her! But there's one thing she won't do, and,oh, I wish you would! It's years since she told me never to ask, andI've been on honour, and I've never even asked nurse; but I don'tthink it's wrong to ask you. Who is that man behind you, who lookssuch a wonderfully fine fellow? My Godfather Bayard."
I had experienced a shock the night before, but nothing to the shockof seeing Uncle Patrick's face then, and hearing him sob out hiswords, instead of their flowing like a stream.
"Is it possible? Ye don't know? She can't speak of him yet? PoorGeraldine!"
He controlled himself, and turned to the picture, leaning on hiscrutch. I stood by him and gazed too, and I do not think, to save mylife, I could have helped asking--
"Who is he?"
"Your uncle. Our only brother. Oh, Bayard, Bayard!"
"Is he dead?"
He nodded, speechless; but somehow I could not forbear.
"What did he die of?"
"Of unselfishness. He died--for others."
"Then he _was_ a hero? That's what he looks like. I am glad he is mygodfather. Dear Uncle Pat, do tell me all about it."
"Not now--hereafter. Nephew, any man--with the heart of man and notof a mouse--is more likely than not to behave well at a pinch; but noman who is habitually selfish can be _sure_ that he will, when thechoice comes sharp between his own life and the lives of others. Theimpulse of a supreme moment only focusses the habits and customs of aman's soul. The supreme moment may never come, but habits and customsmould us from the cradle to the grave. His were early disciplined byour dear mother, and he bettered her teaching. Strong for the weak,wise for the foolish--tender for the hard--gracious for thesurly--good for the evil. Oh, my brother, without fear and withoutreproach! Speak across the grave, and tell your sister's son that viceand cowardice become alike impossible to a man who has never--cradledin selfishness, and made callous by custom--learned to pamper himselfat the expense of others!"
I waited a little before I asked--
"Were you with him when he died?"
"I was."
"Poor Uncle Patrick! What _did_ you do?"
He pegged away to the sofa, and threw himself on it.
"Played the fool. Broke an arm and a thigh, and damaged my spine,and--_lived_. Here rest the mortal remains."
And for the next ten minutes, he mocked himself, as he only can.
* * * * *
One does not like to be outdone by an uncle, even by such an uncle;but it is not very easy to learn to live like Godfather Bayard.
Sometimes I wish my grandmother had not brought up her sons to such avery high pitch, and sometimes I wish my mother had let that unluckyname become extinct in the family, or that I might adopt my nickname.One could live up to _Backyard_ easily enough. It seems to suit beinggrumpy and tyrannical, and seeing no further than one's own nose, sowell.
But I do try to learn unselfishness; though I sometimes think it wouldbe quite as easy for the owl to learn to respect the independence of amouse, or a cat to be forbearing with a sparrow!
I certainly get on better with the others than I used to do; and Ihave some hopes that even my father's godmother is not finallyestranged through my fault.
Uncle Patrick went to call on her whilst he was with us. She is veryfond of "that amusing Irishman with the crutch," as she calls him; andmy father says he'll swear Uncle Patrick entertained her mightilywith my unlucky entertainment, and that she was as pleased as Punchthat her cockatoo was in the thick of it.
I am afraid it is too true; and the idea made me so hot, that if I hadknown she was really coming to call on us again, I should certainlyhave kept out of the way. But when Uncle Patrick said, "If the yellowchariot rolls this way again, Bayard, ye need not be pursuing thesearchaeological revivals of yours in a too early English costume," Ithought it was only his chaff. But she did come.
I was pegging out the new gardens for the little ones. We were allthere, and when she turned her eye over us (just like a cockatoo), andsaid, in a company voice--
"What a happy little family!"
I could hardly keep my countenance, and I heard Edward choking inBenjamin's fur, where he had hidden his face.
But Lettice never moved a muscle. She clasped her hands, and put herhead on one side, and said--in _her_ company voice--"But you knowbrother Bayard _is_ so good to us now, and _that_ is why we are such AHAPPY FAMILY."
* * * * *
_The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized,complete, and uniform Edition published._
_It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol.,issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these willappear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Serieswill be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover wasspecially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing._
_The following is a list of the books included in the Series--_
1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES.
2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES.
3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY-TALES.
4. A FLAT-IRON FOR A FARTHING.
5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES.
6. SIX TO SIXTEEN.
7. LOB-LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES.
8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL.
9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS.
10. THE PEACE EGG--A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY--HINTS FOR PRIVATETHEATRICALS, &c.
11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER TALES.
12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES OF BEASTS AND MEN.
13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I
14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II.
15. JACKANAPES--DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOTE--THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.
16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS.
17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the Bloody Hand--WonderStories--Tales of the Khoja, and other translations.
18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs.Ewing's Letters.
* * * * *
S.P.C.K., NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON, W.C.