Do the work that's nearest, Though it's dull at whiles, Helping, when we meet them, Lame dogs over stiles. See in every hedgerow Marks of angels' feet; Epics in each pebble Underneath our feet.--C. KINGSLEY.
"Drawing? Well done, Cherie! That's a jolly little beggar; quitemasterly, as old Renville would say," exclaimed Gerald Underwood,looking at a charming water-colour of a little fisher-boy, which Mrs.Grinstead was just completing.
"'The Faithful Henchman,' it ought to be called," said Anna. "Thatlittle being has attached himself to Fergus Merrifield, and follows himand Adrian everywhere on what they are pleased to call their scientificexpeditions."
"The science of larks?"
"Oh dear, no. Fergus is wild after fossils, and has made Adrian thesame, and he really knows an immense deal. They are always after fossilsand stones when they are out of school."
"The precious darling!"
"Miss Mohun says Fergus is quite to be trusted not to take him intodangerous places."
"An unlooked-for blessing. Ha!" as he turned over his aunt's portfolio,"that's a stunner! You should work it up for the Academy."
"This kind of thing is better for the purpose," Mrs. Grinstead said.
"Throw away such work upon a twopenny halfpenny bazaar! Heavenforefend!"
"Don't be tiresome, Gerald," entreated Anna. "You are going to do allsorts of things for it, and we shall have no end of fun."
"For the sake of stopping the course of the current," returnedGerald, proceeding to demonstrate in true nineteenth-century style thehopelessness of subjecting education to what he was pleased to callclericalism. "You'll never reach the masses while you insist on using anApostle spoon."
"Masses are made up of atoms," replied his aunt.
"And we shall be lost if you don't help," added Anna.
"I would help readily enough if it were free dinners, or anything toequalize the existence of the classes, instead of feeding the artificialwants of the one at the expense of the toil and wretchedness of theother."
He proceeded to mention some of the miseries that he had learnt throughthe Oxford House--dilating on them with much enthusiasm--till presentlyhis uncle came in, and ere long a parlour-maid announced luncheon, justas there was a rush into the house. Adrian was caught by his sister,and submitted, without more than a "Bother!" to be made respectable, andonly communicating in spasmodic gasps facts about Merrifield and hockey.
"Where's Marshall?" asked Gerald at the first opportunity, on the maidleaving the room.
"Marshall could not stand it," said his aunt. "He can't exist withoutLondon, and doing the honours of a studio."
"Left you!"
"Most politely he informed me that this place does not agree with hishealth; and there did not seem sufficient scope for his services sincethe Reverend Underwood had become so much more independent. So we werethankful to dispose of him to Lord de Vigny."
"He was a great plague," interpolated Adrian, "always jawing about thehall-door."
"Are you really without a man-servant?" demanded Gerald.
"In the house. Lomax comes up from the stables to take some of the work.Some lemonade, Gerald?"
Gerald gazed round in search of unutterable requirements; but onlymet imploring eyes from aunt and sister, and restraining ones from hisuncle. He subsided and submitted to the lemonade, while Anna divertedattention by recurring rather nervously to the former subject.
"And I have got rid of Porter, she kept me in far too good order."
"As if Sibby did not," said Clement.
"Aye, and you too! But that comes naturally, and began in babyhood!"
"What have you done with the house at Brompton?"
"Martha is taking care of it--Mrs. Lightfoot, don't you know? One of ourold interminable little Lightfoots, who went to be a printer in London,married, and lost his wife; then in our break-up actually married Marthato take care of his children! Now he is dead, and I am thankful to haveher in the house."
"To frighten loafers with her awful squint."
"You forgive the rejection of 'The Inspector's Tour'? Indeed I think youexpected it."
"I wanted to see whether the young ladies would find it out."
"No compliment to our genius," said his aunt.
"I assure you, like Mrs. Bennet, 'there is plenty of that sort ofthing,'" said Anna. "Some of them were mystified, but Gillian andDolores Mohun were in ecstasies."
"Ecstasies from that cheerful name?"
"She is the New Zealand niece--Mr. Maurice Mohun's daughter. Theycarried it home to their seniors, and of course the verdict was 'toostrong for Rockquay atmosphere,'" said his aunt.
"So it did not even go to Uncle Lance," said Anna. "Shall you try the'Pursuivant'?"
"On the contrary, I shall put in the pepper and salt I regretted, andtry the 'Censor'."
"Indeed?" observed his uncle, in a tone of surprise.
"Oh," said Gerald coolly, "I have sent little things to the 'Censor'before, which they seem to regard in the light of pickles and laver."
The 'Censor' was an able paper on the side of philosophical politics,and success in that quarter was a feather in the young man's cap, thoughnot quite the kind of feather his elders might have desired.
"Journalism is a kind of native air to us," said Mrs. Grinstead, "butfrom 'Pur.'"
"'Pur' is the element of your dear old world, Cherie," said Gerald, "andhere am I come to do your bidding in its precincts, for a whole longvacation."
He spoke lightly, and with a pretty little graceful bow to his aunt, butthere was something in his eyes and smile that conveyed to her a dreadthat he meant that he only resigned himself for the time and lookedbeyond.
"Uncle Lance is coming," volunteered Adrian.
"Yes," said Geraldine. "Chorister that he was, and champion ofChurch teaching that he is, he makes the cause of Christian educationeverywhere his own, and is coming down to see what he can doinexpensively with native talent for concert, or masque, orsomething--'Robin Hood' perhaps."
"Ending in character with a rush on the audience?" said Gerald."Otherwise 'Robin Hood' is stale."
"Tennyson has spoilt that for public use," said Mrs. Grinstead. "But wasnot something else in hand?"
"Only rehearsed. It never came off," said Gerald.
"The most awful rot," said Adrian. "I would have nothing to do with it."
"In consequence it was a failure," laughed Gerald.
"It was 'The Tempest', wasn't it?" said Anna.
"Not really!" exclaimed Mrs. Grinstead.
"About as like as a wren to an eagle," said Gerald.
"We had it at the festival last winter. The authors adapted the plot,that was all."
"The authors being--
"The present company," said Gerald, "and Uncle Bill, with Uncle Lancesupplying or adapting music, for we were not original, I assure you."
"It was when Uncle Clem was ill," put in Anna, "and somehow I don'tthink we took in the accounts of it."
"No," said Gerald, "and nobody did it con amore, though we could not putit off. I should like to see it better done."
"Such rot!" exclaimed Adrian. "There's an old man, he was Uncle Lancewith the great white beard made out of Kit's white bear's skin, and helived in a desert island, where there was a shipwreck--very jolly if youcould see it, only you can't--and the savages--no, the wreckers all camedown."
"What, in a desert island?"
"It was not exactly desert. Gerald, I say, do let there be savages. Itwould be such a lark to have them all black, and then I'd act."
"What an inducement!"
"Then somebody turned out to be somebody's enemy, and the old chapfrightened them all with squibs and crackers and fog-horns, tillsomebody turned out to be somebody else's son, and married thedaughter."
"If you trace 'The Tempest' through that version you are clever," saidGerald.
"I told you it was awful rot," said Adrian.
"There's Merrifield! Excuse me, Cherie." And off
he went.
"The sentiments of the actors somewhat resembled Adrian's. It was toonew, and needed more learning and more pains, so they beg to revert to'Robin Hood'. However, I should like to see it well got up for once,if only by amateurs. Miranda has a capital song by Uncle Bill, made forFrancie's soprano. She cuts you all out, Anna."
"That she does, in looks and voice, but she could not act here inpublic. However, we will lay it before the Mouse-trap. Was it printed?"
"Lance had enough for the performers struck off. Francie could send someup."
"After all," said Cherie, "the desert island full of savages andwreckers is not more remarkable than the 'still-vex'd Bermoothes'getting between Argiers and Sicily."
"It _really was_ one of the Outer Hebrides," said Gerald, with theeagerness that belonged to authorship, "so that there could be anyamount of Scottish songs. Prospero is an old Highland chief, who hasbeen set adrift with his daughter--Francie Vanderkist to wit--andfloated up there, obtaining control over the local elves and brownies.Little Fely was a most dainty sprite."
"I am glad you did not make Ariel an electric telegraph," said his aunt.
"Tempting, but such profanity in the face of Vale Leston was forbidden,and so was the comic element, as bad for the teetotallers."
"But who were the wreckers?" asked Anna.
"Buccaneers, my dear, singing songs out of the 'Pirate'--schoolmaster,organist, and choir generally. They had captured Prospero's supplanter(he was a Highland chief in league with the Whigs) by the leg, while theexiled fellow was Jacobite, so as to have the songs dear to the femininemind. They get wrecked on the island, and are terrified by the elvesinto releasing Alonso, etc. Meantime Ferdinand carries logs, forgatherswith Miranda and Prospero--and ends--" He flourished his hands.
"And it wasn't acted!"
"No, we were getting it up before Christmas," said Gerald, "and then--"
He looked towards Clement, whose illness had then been at the crisis.
"Very inconsiderate of me," said Clement, smiling, "as the old womansaid when her husband did not die before the funeral cakes were stale.But could it not come off at the festival?"
"Now," said Gerald, "that the boy is gone, I may be allowed a glass ofbeer. Is that absurdity to last on here?"
"Adrian's mother would not let him come on any other terms," said Mrs.Grinstead.
"Did she also stipulate that he was never to see a horse? Quite as fatalto his father."
"You need not point the unreason, but consider how she has suffered."
"You go the way to make him indulge on the sly."
"True, perhaps," said Clement, "but I mean to take the matter up when Iknow the poor little fellow better."
Gerald gave a little shrug, a relic of his foreign ancestry, and Annaproposed a ride to Clipstone to tell Gillian Merrifield of the idea.
"Eh, the dogmatic damsel that came with you the year we had 'MidsummerNight's Dream'?"
"Yes, sister to Uncle Bernard's wife. Do you know Jasper Merrifield?Clever man. Always photographing."
So off they went, Gerald apparently in a resigned state of mind, andcame upon dogs and girls in an old quarry, where Mysie had dragged themto look for pretty stones and young ferns to make little rockeriesfor the sale of work. 'The Tempest' was propounded, and received withacclamation, though the Merrifields declared that they could not sing,and their father would not allow them to do so in public if they could!
Dolores looked on in a sort of silent scorn at a young man who couldtalk so eagerly about "a trumpery raree-show," especially for an objectthat she did not care about. None of them knew how far it was the prideof authorship and the desire of pastime. Only Jasper said when he heardtheir report--
"Underwood is a queer fellow! One never knows where to have him.Socialist one minute, old Tory the next."
"A dreamer?" asked Dolores.
"If you like to call him so. I believe he will dawdle and dream all hislife, and never do any good!"
"Perhaps he is waiting."
"I don't believe in waiting," said Jasper, wiping the dust off hisphotographic glasses. "Why, he has a lovely moor of his own, and doesnot know how to use it!"
"Conclusive," said Gillian.
CHAPTER X. -- NOBLESSE OBLIGE