|
|
|
|
On the whole, it was, perhaps, rather remarkable that the affair of the bonfire did not put a period to the friendship of Evie and Jim. If nurse had complained to Miss Janet Hamilton, I have no sort of doubt the association would have been ended once and for all. But Miss Janet ruled Glengail with a rod of iron, and even nurse, with her general independence and rather too highly developed temper, did not care to appeal to her unless in cases of absolute extremity. Evie had her father’s permission to play with Jim, too; and she solemnly promised that the elements of fire and water should have no part in any future games. So, after consideration, nurse permitted the crime to be expiated by an hour’s sojourn in “the corner,” and the suppression of all jam at tea for a week. Had the tale reached Alison’s ears, doubtless the tawse would have come into play. But she and nurse were not on visiting terms; the latter being a “superior person,” and English, holding herself many degrees above plain Alison Beith, with her broad Scots tongue. In passing it may be remarked that Jim’s speech, despite his association with Alison and his education at the village school, was, owing to Miss Mercer, wonderfully correct. She never entirely lost the uneasy feeling that, after all, Jim might have been born to something higher up the social scale; and she carefully corrected his mode of expressing himself, and objected to words in the vernacular when need seemed to her to arise. So, though the soft little English accent which had been on his baby tongue had worn off, Jim spoke, as the village folk said, “like a gentleman.” In those years scarcely any one knew how close was the friendship which grew between Jim and Evie. Not that either concealed it. But Evie had no one who encouraged her to confidence: Aunt Janet’s axiom that “little girls should be see and not heard,” indeed did not leave a margin for confidences. Father was “so clever;” and Miss Hay “so sad;” while nurse, who scrupulously did her duty in the way of keeping her charge’s clothes and her charge’s person neat and clean, and ready for presentation in the drawing-room when required, did not trouble herself much as to Evie’s occupations so long as they did not lead to her “getting into mischief.” The tangible results of mischief—torn and damaged clothes, or late appearance at meals—invariably leading to “words,” Evie, on the whole, preferred to keep out of it—that is when she could see direct results ahead. So her occupations were seldom interfered with in holiday-time. And, even when lessons began again, once they were over for the day, and her preoccupied governess had taken her departure to tend her sick mother, Evie generally found she might do as she pleased. As for Miss Mercer and Alison, they considered that, within proper restrictions, kindness and condescension from the laird’s family to the village lad was suitable and becoming, and Miss Mercer looked with some approval at the books which the laird’s daughter lent to Jim. Alison’s verdict was that “they were vera weel, but she didna ken muckle aboot them hersel’.” But Miss Mercer had an idea they might help in the attainment of that clerkship on which she had set her mind as a suitable situation for the boy; not too great a rise for the wee laddie she had picked out of the ditch; and, on the other hand, an occupation not altogether unbecoming the offspring of the most respectable parents. Poor lady! she little grasped the tendency of the books that Jim was reading. He soon got through Evie’s books. Be it well understood, they were different both in quality and number from those with which the children of this generation are frequently overdone. They were books; and as such Jim respected them. But it cannot be said he was overpoweringly interested in the young persons who took walks with, and did their sewing under the auspices of, their “kind mammas,”—an occasional unkind mamma would have been a welcome variety—and who asked these estimable parents innumerable questions on topics of everyday interest, invariably receiving highly moral and instructive replies. Far be it from me to depreciate these excellent works by excellent authors; I only wish it to be understood that, though Evie had patiently accepted them as all she could require of literature, they left Jim’s soul unsatisfied. When all was said and done, he preferred his school history. His education at the village school had been limited, of course. In those days School Boards were not, and the sons and daughters of the poor had not the advantage of the selected draughts from the Pierian spring, which are now administered. But Jim had made the most of his “three R’s,” and especially the first one. He read his history intelligently, and enjoyed it; and he very nearly learned the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” which Miss Mercer gave him, by heart. There was fighting in both these volumes, and that was a joy to Jim. He might have stopped here but for Evie. “What is it the laird reads, Miss Evie?” he inquired one day when they had met by the side of the Gail Water as usual. “Father? Oh, I don’t know his books,” said Evie, shaking her head; “they’re so clever, you see.” “There are heaps and heaps of books in the room where he sits and reads, aren’t there?” “The library is full of books round and round,” said Evie. “Ah!” said Jim, and said no more; but he stood looking wistfully across the field at the grey old house, which contained such a room of rooms. Perhaps Evie would have thought no more of this short conversation, had it not been that the next day it rained—rained in a straight-down, uncompromising way, which made going out quite impossible. Evie had her doll, and her story-books, and her fancy-work, but she tired of all. A little sympathy from anybody about any one of these occupations would have helped her along; but there was no one to give it. Presently she rose, laid her doll in its cradle, put her crochet in her work-basket, and returned her books to their shelf. Another of Aunt Janet’s maxims was: “A place for everything, and everything in its place.” An excellent principle, indeed, on which to conduct a household; although, possibly, as regards Evie it might have been enforced with a little more patience and sympathy. Evie felt she was about to do a deed of daring as she walked along the broad corridor, softly pushed open a heavy oak door, and entering noiselessly, stood in the library. Her father was seated at a table, a large volume open before him, and in his hands a smaller book in which he seemed to be taking notes. Evie stood in silence, until she judged from his closing the note-book, and turning over the leaves of the great volume as if to seek a new place, that a favourable opportunity to speak had come. Another of the rules laid down for the guidance of her daily life was, “Never disturb your father when he is occupied.” “Please, father,” she said, “are there any books here I may read?” The laird looked up with a start. He was surprised to see her there, but not ill-pleased, the more especially as she came with such a request. “Books, my bairn?” he said, with a smile, and his eyes roamed round the book-lined walls. They were all precious in his sight, but some were too valuable to be touched by any one but himself and a few kindred souls. “Open the doors on your right, and see if there is anything there you care to read.” Evie obeyed, opened the glass doors, wheeled the carpeted steps quietly to the place, and mounting, began a course of examination. Her father went back to his work, and soon forgot her presence; while Evie dipped in and out of books, curiously and contentedly—for was it not a new experience?—till, looking at the old chime clock, she saw it was approaching teatime. Then, seizing the first favourable opportunity, she spoke again. “Please, father, are there any books I might lend to Jim?” Her father looked up. “Who is Jim?” “Miss Mercer’s Jim, in the village, father. I told you about him; he likes books.” The laird had only the dimmest idea at the moment who Miss Mercer’s Jim was, and had totally forgotten the previous occasion when he had been discussed; but he had a sympathy with any one who liked books. “Look on the two top shelves there,” he said, “and let me see what you choose.” And again he was lost. The next time he came to the surface Evie stood beside him with several volumes clasped to her breast. “Well,” he said, kindly, “is this your selection for moulding village youth?” Evie did not quite understand, but she laid the books beside him—a volume of Froissart’s “Chronicles,” Sir Thomas Malory’s “Morte d’Arthur,” Sir Walter Scott’s Poetical Works, and a book on “Military Tactics.” The laird smiled at the last. “Are these your choice?” he said. “On what principle did you go?” Evie wrinkled her brow. “I don’t think I know exactly what you mean, father,” she said. “You see, Jim likes fighting, and there seems a good deal of fight in these.” Which, indeed, was unanswerable. Then, thinking she had better make the most of an opportunity which might not occur again, she went on— “May I lend them to Jim? And may I lend him some more another time?” “If your friend Jim is careful of these, he may have some more when he has read them. You must show me what you take.” Then he added, “You are a good quiet bairn”—goodness and quietness being, in his eyes, probably synonymous. Evie quite flushed with pleasure at having achieved her object, and without breaking rules or getting into trouble while doing so—a result she did not always attain. Then, gathering up her small lending library, she departed cheerfully teawards. And so the old library found a new mission, and opened up the happy world of fancy and noble dreams to two young human beings. But, as for the clerkship, alas! Froissart and Malory hardly conduced to longings after commercial pursuits. Jim and Evie revelled in the “Morte d’Arthur,” and greedily absorbed the noble deeds, the brilliant bravery, and the romantic adventures of the Knights of the Round Table. They made practical use of them, too; for, if history lent itself to dramatic treatment, these stirring personal adventures were even more suited to the private theatricals they energetically performed to no audience in particular, unless an occasional passively interested cow or a squad of unnecessarily alarmed sheep counted. Jim was the better actor of the two; he threw himself into his part with whole-hearted energy, and for the time being Miss Mercer’s Jim was lost in “Sir Launcelot du Lake.” But Evie’s devotion to correct scenic effect and realism in properties and costume was beyond all praise. Although the occasion on which she impersonated “Guinevere” in an elegant paper crown, painted bright yellow, and a red flannel dressing-gown, surreptitiously removed from the night-nursery, nearly led to difficulties with the usually forbearing cow. Jim had to go to the rescue fiercely waving his sword—represented by a willow wand—above his head. Luckily the martial preparations took due effect, and the animal retired into the distance a humbler and a wiser cow. Evie alluded to it as a bull, but that is a matter of detail. It was on another occasion that Jim fell into the Gail Water when escaping from imaginary enemies on the other side, having first slain a round dozen with his trusty willow wand. The act of prowess is scarcely worthy of mention, being an ordinary occurrence; but the subsequent immersion led, later in the day, to some trouble with Alison, who applied the tawse with no uncertain hand to the person of the hero. However, there are drawbacks to every pursuit, and these did not in any way abate the ardour of Jim or Evie.
|
|
Site map / contact details Search this site |
